by Alex Ross
Stravinsky spent the war in neutral Switzerland, urging humanity to resist “the intolerable spirit of this colossal and obese Germania,” but otherwise immersing himself in musical business. The creator of the Rite was entering a period of experimentation, momentarily uncertain about what to do next. Never entirely secure in his reputation as the leader of the moderns, he glanced around to see what his rivals were doing. During a 1912 visit to Berlin, he attended one of the early performances of Pierrot lunaire, and came away impressed by the economy of Schoenberg’s instrumentation, the use of a pocket orchestra of two winds, two strings, and piano. Next to the Wagner-sized orchestra of the Rite, the Pierrot band was like a motorcar speeding alongside a locomotive. Stravinsky effectively imitated Schoenberg in the second and third of his Three Japanese Lyrics, written after the Berlin visit.
If Richard Taruskin is right, Stravinsky drew lessons from the reviews of the Rite, both in Paris and back home in Russia. Parisians appreciated not just the wildness of the music but also its precision and clarity. Innately sympathetic to Stravinsky’s anti-Romantic attitude, they applauded his prominent deployment of winds and brass and his relatively minimal use of strings. Jacques Rivière, in his review in the Nouvelle Revue Française, emphasized what the Rite was not—it lacked “sauce” and “atmosphere,” it rejected “Debussysm,” it refused to behave like a conventional “work of art.” In the small-scale Cubist-Oriental opera The Nightingale, which Stravinsky began in 1908 and finished in 1914, Rivière heard the beginnings of a new kind of unsentimental, abstract music in which “each object will be set out apart from the others and as if surrounded by white.”
Meanwhile, in St. Petersburg and Moscow, Russian critics and musicians dismissed the Rite as so much trendy noise. Taruskin suggests that the confluence of praise abroad and criticism at home essentially impelled Stravinsky to cut his ties to home and to become a Western European composer: “By imperceptible degrees, [he] came to resemble his hosts and exploiters.”
The process of “progressive abstraction,” as Taruskin calls it, governed Stravinsky’s next big project, Les Noces, or The Wedding. The idea of a dance spectacle about a boisterous rural Russian wedding had first surfaced back in 1912. By the time Stravinsky began sketching the music, in the summer of 1914, he had lost interest in the lavish resources of the Rite, and was thinking in terms of a more limited orchestra of sixty players. As the years went by, even that ensemble came to seem too extravagant. In its final incarnation, which appeared in 1923, Les Noces was scored for singers, chorus, percussion, and four pianos. The critic Émile Vuillermoz called the result “a machine to hit, a machine to lash, a machine to fabricate automatic resonances.” The sound of Les Noces is not inappropriate to the action: it suggests a harsh truth of pre-twentieth-century life, which was that most marriages were the result of a preconceived parental design, not of spontaneous romantic feeling.
The consummation of Stravinsky’s hard-edged, steel-tipped style was Symphonies of Wind Instruments (1920)—a nine-minute sequence of lamenting cries, meandering chants, and chordal blocks. It was conceived as a memorial for Debussy, who had died before the end of the war. The dedication is ironic, for Debussy had disliked Stravinsky’s first ventures in “objective” composition. Russians were losing their Russianness, Debussy had complained in 1915; Stravinsky was “leaning dangerously toward the Schoenberg side.” Later that month, Debussy sent his colleague some pointed praise: “Cher Stravinsky, you are a great artist! Be, with all your energy, a great Russian artist! It is a good thing to be from one’s country, to be attached to the earth like the humblest peasant!”
Stravinsky was determined to forsake his past. As Taruskin shows, Symphonies of Wind Instruments is based on the Russian Orthodox funeral service, whose solemn chant may signify that the composer is ritualistically burying his old Russian self alongside the body of Debussy. A string of catastrophic events—the demise of tsarist Russia, the onset of the Russian Revolution, the early death of his beloved brother Gury—meant that by 1918 the world of Stravinsky’s childhood had been effectively erased. The Ustyluh estate, where the polytonal chords of the Rite were hammered out, had passed into the hands of Polish farmers.
Debussy suffered much in his final years, both in body and in mind. He was afflicted with rectal cancer and could sometimes hardly move on account of the pain. Germany’s conduct during the war angered him no end; in his 1915 letter to Stravinsky he declared that “Austro-Boche miasmas are spreading through art,” and proposed a counterattack in terms borrowed from the new art of chemical warfare: “It will be necessary to kill this microbe of false grandeur, of organized ugliness.” The last two phrases presumably signify Strauss and Schoenberg. A certain icy fury possesses Debussy’s ultravirtuosic Études for piano, and also in his explicitly war-themed two-piano piece En blanc et en noir. Then came a remarkable turn. Abandoning his former opposition to the use of canonical classical forms, Debussy set to work on a cycle of six sonatas for diverse instruments, and lived to finish three—one for violin, one for cello, and one for flute, viola, and harp. They were couched in a taut, songful style, perfumed with the palmy air of the French Baroque. New beauty should fill the air, Debussy told Stravinsky, when the cannons fall silent.
On March 23, 1918, the day before Palm Sunday, the Germans opened a two-pronged campaign of terror against Paris. Gotha planes launched an audacious daytime air raid, killing several people in a church. Krupp’s latest masterpiece, the Paris Gun, began firing on the city from seventy-five miles away. Paris was awash in noise—shells booming in the air every fifteen or twenty minutes; policemen beating warning signals on drums; church bells ringing and trumpets pealing as the planes approached; recruits chanting in the streets, schoolchildren singing “La Marseillaise,” people defiantly shouting “Vive la France!” from windows. The death of Achille-Claude Debussy, on the following Monday, was hardly noticed.
Les Six and Le Jazz
In an absorbing study of war’s effect on twentieth-century music, the composer Wolfgang-Andreas Schultz observes that feelings of “hyper-alertness, distance, and emotional coldness” often overcome the survivors of horrifying events. Just as the traumatized mind erects barriers against the influx of violent sensations, so do artists take refuge in unsentimental poses, in order to protect the self against further damage. Stravinsky’s assumption of a “hard” aesthetic after 1914 exemplified a deeper shift that was taking place in the European mind—a turning away from the luxurious, mystical, maximalist tendencies of turn-of-the-century art. This was one aspect of the postwar reality. Another was the rise of popular music and mass technologies—cinema, the phonograph, radio, jazz, and Broadway theater.
Paris audiences got a foretaste of the Roaring Twenties in the spring of 1917, during one of the bloodiest periods of the war, when the Allies launched the ill-considered Nivelle offensive and the Germans responded with a lethal defensive strategy named Operation Alberich (after the master dwarf in the Ring). On May 18, six years to the day after the death of Gustav Mahler, the Ballets Russes again shocked the city by presenting an uproarious, circus-like production titled Parade. A scintillating array of personalities participated: Erik Satie wrote the music, Jean Cocteau created the libretto, Pablo Picasso designed the sets and costumes, Léonide Massine choreographed, Guillaume Apollinaire wrote the program notes (inventing the word “surrealism” in the process), and Diaghilev provided the scandal. As Francis Steegmuller recounts, the great impresario had conceived a brief passion for the Russian Revolution, and at a previous Ballets Russes evening he had unfurled a red flag behind the stage. Because the Bolsheviks were at that time pushing for a Russian withdrawal from the war effort, French patriots took umbrage at Diaghilev’s revolutionary symbolism and showed up at Parade shouting, “Boches!”
The plot of Parade, such as it is, deals with relevance: how can an older art form, such as classical music or ballet, still draw an audience in the age of pop music, the cinema, and the gramophone? At a P
aris fair, the managers of a traveling theater are deploying various music-hall performers—acrobats, a Chinese magician, a Little American Girl—in order to entice passersby. But the side acts prove so entertaining that the audience refuses to go inside. Low culture thus becomes the main attraction. Cocteau made some notes to Satie in which he described the pseudo-American aesthetic he had in mind:
The Titanic—“Nearer My God To Thee”—elevators—the sirens of Boulogne—submarine cables—ship-to-shore cables—Brest—tar—varnish—steamship apparatus—the New York Herald—dynamos—airplanes—short circuits—palatial cinemas—the sheriff’s daughter—Walt Whitman—the silence of stampedes—cowboys with leather and goatskin chaps—the telegraph operator from Los Angeles who marries the detective at the end…
Satie’s score defines a new art of musical collage: jaunty tunes don’t quite get off the ground, rhythms intertwine and overlap and stop and start, sped-up whole-tone passages sound like Warner Brothers cartoon music yet to come, bitter chorales and broken fugues honor the fading past. The “American Girl” episode contains a kooky paraphrase of Irving Berlin’s “That Mysterious Rag,” with one passage marked “outside and aching.”
Francis Poulenc recalled the elation he felt as a teenager on attending Parade: “For the first time—it has happened often enough since, God knows—the music hall was invading Art with a capital A.” Poulenc typified a new breed of twentieth-century composer whose consciousness was shaped not by the aesthetic of the fin de siècle but by the hard-hitting styles of the early modernist period. This young man had studied the Rite, Schoenberg’s Six Little Pieces for Piano, Bartók’s Allegro barbaro, and the works of Debussy and Ravel. He had also soaked up French popular songs, folk songs, music-hall numbers, sweet operetta airs, children’s songs, and the stylish melodies of Maurice Chevalier.
Poulenc was one of a number of young composers who stormed onto the scene after the war, enacting a generational turnover in French music. Others were Darius Milhaud, Arthur Honegger, Louis Durey, Germaine Tailleferre, and Georges Auric. In 1920, they were dubbed Les Six. Satie was their godfather, or, more accurately, their funny uncle.
Cocteau appointed himself spokesman of the group and supplied a manifesto in his 1918 pamphlet The Cock and the Harlequin. The first order of business was to get rid of Wagner and Debussy. “The nightingale sings badly,” Cocteau sneered, playing off the line “The nightingale will sing” in Verlaine’s “En Sourdine,” which Debussy had twice set to music. Stravinsky, who four years earlier had failed to respond to Cocteau’s proposal for a ballet about David and Goliath, also came in for criticism; the Rite was a masterpiece, yes, but one that exhibited symptoms of “theatrical mysticism” and other Wagnerian diseases. “Enough of nuages, waves, aquariums, ondines, and nocturnal perfumes,” Cocteau intoned, pointedly slipping in titles of pieces by Debussy and the no longer cutting-edge Ravel. “We need music on the earth, MUSIC FOR EVERY DAY. Enough of hammocks, garlands, gondolas! I want someone to make me music that I can live in like a house.” For all his glib generalities, Cocteau succeeded in articulating the spirit of the moment: after the long night of war, composers were done with what Nietzsche called, in his critique of Wagner, the “lie of the great style.”
Paris in the twenties displayed a contradiction. On the one hand, it embraced all the fads of the roaring decade—music hall, American jazz, sport and leisure culture, machine noises, technologies of gramophone and radio, musical corollaries to Cubism, Futurism, Dadaism, Simultaneism, and Surrealism. Yet beneath the ultramodern surface a nineteenth-century support structure for artistic activity persisted. Composers still made their names in the Paris salons, which survived the general postwar decline of European aristocracy, partly because so many wealthy old families had succeeded in marrying new industrial money.
The chief hosts and hostesses of Paris, such as the Comte de Beaumont, the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Noailles, the Duchesse de Clermont-Tonnerre, and the American-born Princesse de Polignac, were eager, even anxious, to present new “looks” each season. The virtue of salon culture was that it illuminated connections among the arts; young composers could exchange ideas with like-minded painters, poets, playwrights, and jacks-of-all-trades like Cocteau. The disadvantage was that all this bracing activity happened at considerable distance from “real life.” The members of Les Six were writing “MUSIC FOR EVERY DAY” that everyday people had little opportunity to hear.
The first great vogue was le jazz. Paris had taken a fancy to African-American music as early as 1900, when Sousa’s band played the cakewalk during its first European tour and Arthur Pryor showed off his trombone glisses. Debussy responded with “Golliwog’s Cakewalk,” from the suite Children’s Corner (1906–8), where rag rhythm was interlaced with a wry citation of the initial motif of Tristan und Isolde. In 1917 and 1918, American troops came to Paris, bringing with them syncopated bands such as Louis Mitchell’s Jazz Kings and James Reese Europe’s 369th Infantry Hell Fighters. In August 1918 the Comte de Beaumont hosted a jazz night at his town house; African-American soldier-musicians played the latest dance tunes while Poulenc presented his prankishly charming Rapsodie nègre, full of pseudo-African mumbo jumbo on the order of “Banana lou ito kous kous / pota la ma Honoloulou.”
There is no need to belabor the point that le jazz was condescending toward its African-American sources. Cocteau and Poulenc were enjoying a one-night stand with a dark-skinned form, and they had no intention of striking up a conversation with it the following day. Baroque pastiches, Cubist geometries, or the music of machines could just as well express modern, urban, non-Teutonic values, which is why the craze quickly ran its course, at least among Paris composers. Yet they did learn significant lessons from jazz, even if their music only faintly resembled the real thing.
Among Les Six, the most alert practitioner of le jazz was Darius Milhaud, an ebullient man with a wide-open mind who wrote a memoir with the unlikely title My Happy Life. Milhaud had spent the last years of World War I on a diplomatic mission to Brazil, where he made regular excursions into the teeming nightlife of Rio de Janeiro and received a crucial education in how “art” and “pop” motifs could be reconciled. In these same years the young Brazilian composer Heitor Villa-Lobos was merging rhythmic ideas from Stravinsky with complex patterns that he had detected in Afro-Brazilian music. In neoprimitivist scores such as Amazonas and Uirapuru, Villa-Lobos wrote percussion parts of riotous intensity; Milhaud, likewise, used no fewer than nineteen percussion instruments in his brightly colored ballet Man and His Desire. He also produced two dazzling fantasies on Brazilian motifs, Saudades do Brasil and Le Boeuf sur le toit.
Because Latin American musicians had originated many of the tricky rhythms that figured in early jazz, Milhaud made an easy transition to jazz-based writing. When he returned to Paris, in 1919, he maintained the habit of ending his week with a night on the town. He would invite fellow composers and like-minded artists to his home for Saturday dinner, then lead them out into the wilderness of the modern city—“the steam-driven merry-go-rounds, the mysterious booths, the Daughter of Mars, the shooting-galleries, the games of chance, the menageries, the din of the mechanical organs with their perforated rolls seeming to grind out simultaneously and implacably all the blaring tunes from the music halls and revues.”
When the Saturday-evening crowd grew too large to handle, Milhaud moved his soiree to a wine store on rue Duphot, in a room named Bar Gaya. The pianist Jean Wiéner, who had been working in nightclubs, set the tone by playing jazz-like music with an African-American saxophonist named Vance Lowry. Soon the audience got too big again, and the club settled on rue Boissy d’Anglas, where it took the name Le Boeuf sur le Toit, in honor of Milhaud’s Brazilian showpiece. Virgil Thomson described it as “a not unamusing place frequented by English upper-class bohemians, wealthy Americans, French aristocrats, lesbian novelists from Roumania, Spanish princes, fashionable pederasts, modern literary & musical figures, pale and precious young men, an
d distinguished diplomats towing bright-eyed youths.” Everyone from Picasso to Maurice Chevalier joined the hilarity. Cocteau sometimes sat in on drums.
In early 1923, Milhaud made his first trip to America. Paul Whiteman’s plush orchestral jazz was at that time the sensation of American high society, but Milhaud avoided it; like Bartók in the Carpathian Mountains, he sought the genuine article. At a Harlem joint called the Capitol Palace, where the stride pianists Willie “The Lion” Smith and James P. Johnson were in residence and the young Duke Ellington would shortly be indoctrinated into the Harlem elite, Milhaud was stunned by the unadulterated power of the blues. Of the singers who were in town in this period, the great Bessie Smith best fits the description in the composer’s memoirs: “Against the beat of the drums the melodic lines crisscrossed in a breathless pattern of broken and twisted rhythms. A Negress whose grating voice seemed to come from the depths of the centuries sang in front of the various tables. With despairing pathos and dramatic feeling she sang over and over again, to the point of exhaustion, the same refrain, to which the constantly changing melodic pattern of the orchestra wove a kaleidoscopic background.”
The language is revealing: it could describe the Rite. Indeed, Milhaud is replicating, consciously or not, a phrase from Cocteau’s 1918 description of the ballet: “Little melodies arrive from the depths of the centuries.” Also revealing is the fact that Milhaud did not record the singer’s name.
