Who Are You, Mr. Pucklitz?

Johann Daniel Pucklitz (1705–1774), a native of Gdańsk, musician, and composer, remains a figure shrouded in mystery. We know little about him beyond fragmentary information regarding his Gdańsk origins in a musically-inclined family and his artistic activities, which suggest he was a well-established innovator within his community. Later in life, he held the position of cupbearer at the Artus Court. The most enigmatic fact, however, is the survival of dozens of his compositions preserved in the Gdańsk Library of the Polish Academy of Sciences.

How did it happen that, in an era when Johann Balthasar Christian Freislich held a near-monopoly on composition in the city and fiercely guarded this lucrative privilege, Pucklitz was able to compose and present over sixty new works over several decades? Many of these were performed as part of a new format of public concerts permitted by the city council, despite complaints from Freislich. Most, however, were presented in liturgical settings in one of Gdańsk’s churches (St. Elizabeth’s? St. John’s? We do not know). Was Freislich complicit? Could Pucklitz have been his student? We can only speculate. It is a fact, though, that autograph scores by a member of the city chapel at St. Mary’s Church were passed on to the musical archives of St. John’s Church.

We also do not know where or with whom Pucklitz studied instrumental performance (on what instruments?) or composition. His works provide few clues and suggest he may have been largely self-taught, or perhaps his artistic personality was so independent that, even with formal training (under Freislich? Telemann?), he forged a unique musical language. I have had the opportunity to perform ten of his liturgical works, ranging from short cantatas to a grand oratorio. From the very first piece I encountered—the alto cantata Ist jemand in Christo for Christmas and New Year—it was clear that Pucklitz possessed an extraordinary musical imagination and an unorthodox approach to form and color. Though rooted in the baroque and galant styles, his music stands apart from his contemporaries in Gdańsk (Freislich, du Grain, later Mohrheim) and across Europe.

Indeed, Pucklitz employed conventional liturgical forms—arias, recitatives (secco and accompagnato), choruses, ariosos—but their execution, melodic lines, instrumentation, and articulation were unlike anything else of the time. A French reviewer aptly described him as a “baroque Ravel” due to his remarkable sensitivity to timbre. Every element in his music serves the purpose of enhancing emotional expression through sound color. He went beyond standard associations (trumpets and timpani = glory; traverso flutes = intimacy), using unconventional combinations (harpsichord, traverso, and double bass instead of cello), challenging norms (giving violas lead roles over violins), and incorporating exotic instruments (glass harmonica, David’s harp, cymbelstern). Even within vocal parts, he demanded exceptional skill and attentiveness from soloists and choirs alike.

This obsession with color extended to his harmonic language. He juxtaposed simple, even naive, harmonic gestures with dizzying passages of dense modulation far beyond the major-minor system. While some transitions might seem erratic or technically naive, their cumulative effect is powerful and intentional. One memorable example is the aforementioned New Year cantata: it begins with a slow French sarabande in C major representing the passing old year, dissolving as musicians one by one fall silent. Then, within three bars and three chords, the music modulates into a jubilant Italian gigue in the highly unusual key of C-sharp major with the text “The new has come.” The musical means are simple, the effect astonishing—and the execution demands virtuosity (especially from the violinist navigating that tonality).

In his chorale settings, Pucklitz’s sophisticated harmony “colors” the text in ways reminiscent of Bach, though approached differently. Intriguingly, similar harmonic complexity appears in works by other Gdańsk composers (Gronau, Gleimann), perhaps reflecting a local stylistic trait. It’s worth emphasizing that all his solo and instrumental parts require advanced technical and musical skill—as though the composer didn’t care whether his ideas were easy to perform, only that they were executed with integrity.

This speaks volumes about the musical life of 18th-century Gdańsk. Pucklitz’s works were not only performed but well received and repeated. One wonders what those first performances were like. I hope that our own performances will at least partially reflect the ideas and emotions that inspired him.

In Oratorio Secondo, Pucklitz’s attention to musical dramaturgy and text is striking. The anonymous libretto (possibly by the Gdańsk poet Wasberg, who collaborated with Pucklitz elsewhere) presents two contrasting visions of life.

Part I explores humanity’s dark side: drama, sin, folly, and melancholy. A rowdy chorus of sinners sings: “Come, let us show everyone how to party, and mock those who won’t join us,” before lamenting their damnation in hellfire. This cynical hedonism is introduced by a long motet about surrendering life and death to God’s will and a secular-style symphonic overture in three parts—almost operatic, in a city where opera was forbidden. First, a pleasant instrumental piece fit for the Artus Court, followed by a 10-minute choral motet offering our fate to God, and then the bass soloist coldly declares: “It is our destiny to die.” What follows is a half-hour dramatization of characters refusing to accept this truth, spiraling into hell, ultimately concluding with a shocking chorale verse: their torments will end only when (sic!) God ceases to exist. With that daring thought, we break for intermission.

Part II changes everything. While death remains a theme, it is portrayed as a natural, even welcome, part of life. There is no overture, but another motet affirms trust in divine providence. Mirroring the first part, Pucklitz crafts a philosophical response to the earlier despair. Ironically, the second part, depicting pious Christian life, is more musically intricate. Through instruments like the glass harmonica (symbolizing death), a trumpet playing a polonaise rhythm (God’s glory), David’s harp, and the cymbelstern (here representing the Parousia), he illuminates joy and trust with extraordinary artistry.

Just as Part I began with secular dance music, the oratorio ends with a celestial dance: In dulci jubilo, one of the oldest Christian hymns. Before that, a final “earthly” polonaise closes the emotional arc. With subtle brilliance, Pucklitz jolts us out of earthly expectations, hinting that salvation may arrive in a wholly unexpected form. I know no other baroque oratorio that addresses ultimate truths so unorthodoxly.

These are just a few reflections on Pucklitz’s masterwork. Each of its thirty-plus sections could warrant its own essay. For now, let us immerse ourselves in the emotions and ideas of Gdańsk’s 18th-century artists. Their world was complex and intellectually demanding, but also deeply rewarding and inspiring.

Even after nearly 300 years, this music, which once moved our ancestors, can still resonate deeply today. We still face the same existential dilemmas and questions. Perhaps that’s why it feels so relevant and moving. Let us abandon comparisons and expectations, and allow Pucklitz’s musical thought to draw us into the eternal metaphysical dialogue: to be or to have; to trust in God or oneself; to indulge or to seek soulful joy; to fear death or await it with hope.

May these evenings at the Gdańsk Shakespeare Theatre spark such reflections in all of us.