Poking Poulenc

Preceding the performance of Poulenc’s concerto for two pianos in Savannah GA, I addressed the audience with the following short introduction:

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen. I wanted to share with you a few thoughts, perhaps insights into this unique work which you are about to hear - the Concerto in d minor for two pianos by Francis Poulenc.

At the end of the 19th century the musical scene in Europe was dominated by the music of Wagner and Strauss. This rich, lush, self-indulgent, self-oriented music completely overwhelmed and overshadowed anything in its way. Composers such as Stravinsky, Ravel and Debussy had to look elsewhere for their sources of inspiration. They tried to break away and go as far as possible from this intoxicating, somewhat "dangerous" music. Stravinsky started to incorporate African rhythms into his compositions. Ravel looked to Persia and being fascinated by the new cultural possibilities wrote Scheherazade. Debussy went even further, off the coast of Indonesia to the island of Java and brought back the sounds of Gamelan music - an orchestra of bells. The search for new sounds - exoticism - was central especially to the French composers.

Francis Poulenc was born into this atmosphere in 1899. Absorbing these new waves and musical thoughts, he also raised an important question - whether music / art has to always represent something serious, above, high, elitist. Can music, at times, be just plain silly. This concerto is in d minor. The two most famous d minor concerti are those by Mozart and Brahms. Both are profound masterpieces with monumental as well as tragic substance. The piece which we are about to hear, although in the same key, is a complete antithesis to its predecessors. It might be looked at as a counter-reaction to everything that d minor represents. 

In his pursuit of sounds and silliness Poulenc also asked the orchestra to get out of its comfort zone and be something else. Right at the opening pages of this magnificent work, the strings are being asked to sound like drums. In the middle section of the first movement, the wood winds and brass will produce hallowing, wining sounds resembling some creepy creatures. At the end of the first movement, one of my favorite places in the concerto, the two pianos need to create a gamelan orchestra of high-pitch bells while the principal cellist will be transformed into a glass-harmonica. Good luck with that…

  

This is music that combines buffoonery with brilliance; elements of fear with elements of flirt. It will make you love as well as laugh. It is sophisticated and surprising. It is very moving music, as well as movie music. Ladies and gentlemen, you are right! Combining all these things together might end up sounding more like one big cacophony than a piece of music. Well, we thank you for coming. We wish you good luck, and hope that you will enjoy this evening’s performance."

Poulenc plays Poulenc

Knowing the story - a friend or foe

At a recent concert in Frederick, MD I decided to experiment with the importance of sharing the story of a piece with the audience. We are living in an era where we need to be told what to listen for and what to expect. We cannot decide that for ourselves. Furthermore, this is an age where knowing which coffee Beethoven was drinking while he wrote his late string quartets is of highest importance. It will help us "understand" these pieces. Perhaps the better question here is what was he smoking...

Program notes these days are full of dry trivia points as well as anecdotes and stories about the pieces, most of which are superfluous. What's entirely missing are the tools given to the listener so he can make an internal dialogue with the music - one soul to another.

One of the pieces in my program was from Maurice Ravel's stupendous cycle called "Miroirs" (Reflections). The story, which I told the audience, had one major (or minor) problem, which I was wondering if someone would address, including the present reader of this blog.

This extraordinary tone poem is the impressionistic realization of the famous Goethe song "Erlkönig" - the devastating story of a young boy who is riding with his father on a horse through a dark forest. The boy cries for help when he sees the evil spirit of the Erlkönig. The latter tries to seduce the boy and ultimately steal his soul.


In Ravel's hands this frightening poem turns into a sensuous impressionistic tapestry - a mother is putting her little boy to sleep. She is singing to him the sweetest, most relaxing Lullaby. The boy who is afraid of bad dreams tells the mother of a demon that comes to him in the dream and asks him to follow. The little boy is filled with fear that if he follows he shall never return.

The music caresses the story - it carries it through the boy's emotional upheavals while the mother is sitting by his bedside singing. The sweet dream gradually becomes dark and menacing. The music changes its color. I posed a question to the audience - "Was the boy taken by the demon at the end of this eight minute piece, or would he wake up?"

I played through the piece and received a very warm applause mixed with appreciation. After all, this somewhat modern composition could not have been "understood" had I not mentioned the story. Most of the audience also participated in the questionnaire and said that in their opinion the boy would wake up.

Wonderful! All is working according to my plan! Well, it is more according to the late Leonard Bernstein's plan that did a similar thing in one of his legendary Young People's Concerts.

I then revealed to the audience the major problem (or minor) that my story had: It was definitely NOT Ravel's story! Actually, I can guarantee it had absolutely nothing to do with what Ravel was thinking. Ravel gave this piece a name: "A boat on the Ocean".


Now, was I wrong? Everyone followed the music. They all were so happy. The music certainly supported my made-up story.
Ravel's name is definitely the right one for the piece, but I don't think I was wrong with my story. It worked.

Most pieces do not have names by the composer, simply a number - Sonata number 1, 2, 3 or Symphony no. 4, 5, 6...
In such cases one can really let his imagination soar and come up with what might even seem absurd. In this particular piece by Ravel the given name should not "explain" the piece, but rather open the mind to the infinite possibilities of one's individual dialogue with this beautiful music. Perhaps next time I will follow along with a story about another demon... that of "Loreley" the beautiful water-nymph who sing to the men so they will follow her into the deep ocean.

I will sing to my audience...


Alon Goldstein