Nocturnes and Nerves: Debussy’s Curious Afternoon in London

In a recent post, I gave J.C. Squire’s account of a performance of Claude Debussy’s Nocturnes conducted by him on 27 February 1909. This recalled the composer’s pallid face and dramatic reaction to a musical error. One mistake provoked fury - revealing the torment of artistic perfectionism amid ephemeral sound.

At the time London concertgoers were responding to an impressionist fascination, and were ready for his works, already cherished among Promenade favourites. Squire’s memory blended ancient landscape with modern symbolism, evoking contemplative piano pieces and the haunting beauty of Pelléas et Mélisande.

Legend and conductor Herny Wood recalled the event in his informative autobiography My Life of Music, originally published in 1938. Debussy’s 1909 Queen’s Hall concert featured the Nocturnes, but during Fêtes he lost his beat and tried to stop. The orchestra refused, performing flawlessly. The audience applauded warmly, prompting a repeat. Debussy was baffled, yet proud - leaving with admiration and a story to ponder.

Wood remembered:

In fact, nothing could have been happier for all of us; we liked him, and he liked us. So that when Newman suggested a return visit to Queen’s Hall on February 27, 1909, he was more than willing to come. We repeated L’ Aprés Midi because of the ovation it had received the previous year, but instead of La Mer we produced the three Nocturnes, Smallwood Metcalfe’s Eastbourne choir [1] undertaking the choral part in Sirénes.

Again, I had rehearsed the orchestra until there was practically nothing left for Debussy to do. The rehearsal went off smoothly enough but at the concert there was a peculiar accident. I do not remember ever witnessing anything quite like it. In the second of the Nocturnes (a movement called Fétes) the time changes a good deal. To the surprise of all of us, Debussy (who, quite candidly, was not a good conductor even of his own works) suddenly lost his head, and his beat! Realizing what he had done, he evidently felt the best thing was to stop and begin the movement over again. He tapped the desk and tapped again. Then the most extraordinary thing happened. The orchestra refused to stop. It really was an amazing situation. Here was a famous composer directing a work of his own and, having got into difficulties, was asking the orchestra to stop and was being met with refusal. They obviously did not intend to stop: they knew that the audience would think the fault was theirs. Moreover, the work (which they liked immensely) was going beautifully and they meant to give a first-rate performance of it; which they proceeded to do and succeeded in doing. I never knew them more unanimous. The audience by no means missed the fact that something had gone wrong because it was so evident that he had tried to stop the orchestra. At the end, in truly English fashion, they recorded their appreciation to such an extent that he was compelled to repeat the movement. This time nothing went wrong, and the ovation was even greater than before. Debussy was non-plussed and certainly did not understand the English mind; but I was proud of my orchestra that afternoon and had the satisfaction of seeing that he had been proud to conduct it. “They wouldn’t stop!” he told me in the artist’s room after-wards; I fancy he went back to 

Paris with something to think about.

Henry Wood, My Life of Music, 1938, p.228f

Notes

[1] A distinguished vocalist and teacher, Smallwood Metcalfe (1868-1918) trained under his uncle, William Smallwood and at the Royal College of Music. He made his London debut in The Marriage of Figaro at the Royalty Theatre (1892) and was later a featured soloist at the Queen’s Hall Promenade Concerts (1904–06). For fifteen years he directed a choir in Eastbourne, establishing the Smallwood Metcalfe Concerts, which led to his appointment by Sir Henry Wood as chorus-master for Queen’s Hall, Nottingham, and Wolverhampton. He subsequently founded the Smallwood Metcalfe Choir, noted for its unaccompanied performances and London subscription series.

Echoes of England, Music, and Mischief: Debussy’s 1909 Concert in London

J.C. Squire was a spirited figure in early 20th-century British literary circles - part poet, part critic, part cricket enthusiast. Born in Plymouth in 1884, he studied history at Cambridge and quickly made a name for himself with witty parodies and sharp reviews. He was a key player in the Georgian poetry movement, favouring traditional forms and lyrical style over the experimental trends of modernism. His own verse, often satirical or nostalgic, reflected a love of English countryside and classical themes.

Squire edited the influential London Mercury from 1919 to 1934, shaping literary tastes and championing emerging writers. He also wrote under the pseudonym Solomon Eagle, offering biting commentary in the New Statesman. Though his popularity waned as poetic fashions shifted, he remained a spirited voice in literary debates.

Outside the written page, Squire was known for his cricket team of literary ‘Invalids’ (made up of men who had been injured during the First World War) and his fondness for beer and banter. Knighted in 1933, he lived a colourful life that blended intellect with irreverence. J.C. Squire died in 1958. His collected poems were published posthumously in 1959, with an introduction by John Betjeman.

Sir John Squire’s The Honeysuckle and the Bee (1937) is a memoir disguised as a leisurely walk from London to Devonshire, where the journey meanders through memories rather than miles. Eschewing chronology, Squire lets recollections surface spontaneously – an inn conversation conjures Mussolini, a glimpse of Bath recalls Irish journalist and politician, T.P. O’Connor’s gossip, and a Cardiff tramp who ranks Keats alongside the English novelist Marie Corelli. The book is populated with a whimsical cast: Sibelius, Rupert Brooke, Schoenberg, beetles, and bar-room philosophers, all drifting in and out of the narrative like figures in a dream.

The charm lies not in structure but in tone - gracious, nostalgic, and distinctly English. Squire’s reflections evoke countryside lanes, hearty meals, and eccentric characters met along the way. When the final page turns, what lingers is not a timeline but a mood: of good talk, gentle landscapes, and the “rolling English road” that winds through memory as much as geography.

Squire writes here about a concert given by the Queen’s Hall Orchestra on 27 February 1909. The audience heard Beethoven’s Coriolan Overture, Siegfried’s Funeral March from Wagner’s Götterdämmerung and Brahms’s Violin Concerto, with Henri Marteau as the soloist. These were conducted by Henry Wood. Debussy conducted his own L’Après mid d’un Faune and the Three Nocturnes.

The author begins his description of the concert, by reminding the reader that he had been walking from Wells to Glastonbury, past the Tor…:

“The Tor with its monument can be seen all the way, and the expectation of that ancient place felt. But, as I cast my eye to east and west, and thought of the antiquity of the land, the pallid and urban, tense, and bearded face of Debussy came between me and the fields and hills; for I had once seen him. One thing leads to another. It was some day in the lost time before the war, and at the Queen’s Hall, that Debussy appeared to conduct a concert of his own works. The place was full, and somebody had taken me to a box whence the conductor’s face could be seen in profile. The year I do not know, nor whether it was after or before that first production of Pelléas et Mélisande at Covent Garden, [1] a perfect marriage of words and music which seems to memory to have been one monotony of pale arms under dark trees by old crumbling towers or in torchlit cavernous corridors, with wan voices lamenting over an existence in which the blind lead the blind from one dread enigma to another.

At any rate, L’Apres midi d’un Faune had for some years been familiar to the adherents of Sir Henry Wood, [2] joining that company of popular favourites, such as 1812, Finlandia, L’ Apprenti Sorcier, the Casse-Noisette Suite [3] and the tone-poems of Richard Strauss, which still stoutly hold the Promenade fort to-day. For some years, fascinated by what seemed the revolutionary extension of symbolism and impression from literature to music (for music crossed the Channel slowly then), young women, with mildly Socialist opinions and hair parted Madonna-wise, had been yearningly playing, in the candle-lit, brown-paper-walled drawing-rooms of Hampstead and Chelsea, those wistful. Mysterious piano pieces about cathedrals under the sea and rain falling on places that never were, full of the sound of elfin horns, muffled bells and little winds wandering about the whole tone scale. [4] At any rate, London was ready for him.

The place was packed, and the orchestra crowded in their serried tiers; amid a roar of applause Debussy stepped down to his desk, and the impression his face and mien made on me was unforgettable, there was such an intensity about him. He stood rigidly and his head was black and ivory, a wave of black hair falling over his right brow, his moustache and beard black, his face chiselled in ivory - deep sunken eyes with shadows under them, hollow shadowed cheeks, set mouth - a face bearing the marks of illness, of incessant labour, of passionate exactitude.

After a few bars of one of the “items ” (perhaps the first, but certainly one of those short pieces such as Nuages, Fétes and La Mer) [5] his face suddenly contorted, he flung his baton on the ground, and simultaneously spat out some expression, undoubtedly contumelious, but inaudible in detail and probably incomprehensible to the orchestra, who were English. There was a pause as heart-stopping as a scream; and then the audience rustled like reeds. An appalling mistake had been made. Somebody, let us say the tenth bassoon, had either missed a note, played the wrong note, or played the right note in the wrong place. If that unhappy instrumentalist is still alive I daresay he is the only man except myself who remembers the disaster.

But I remember also, when the baton had been resumed, the pale face composed, and the piece started all over again, thinking to myself, “How dreadful it must be to take things so seriously! And, my unhappy genius, who on earth in the audience would have noticed or minded such an error in such a shimmering tissue of sound any more than he would notice in a reproduction of a landscape by Monet if one pale pink spot had appeared in a corner instead of one pale green one.

Sir John Squire, The Honeysuckle and the Bee, Evergreen Books, 1940, p.212f

Notes
[1] The premiere of Debussy’s opera Pelléas et Mélisande at Covent Garden was given on 21 May 1909.
[2] Henry Wood had conducted the first performance of L’Apres midi d’un Faune on 20 August 1904 during a Promenade Concert at the Queen’s Hall.
[3] By Jean Sibelius, Paul Dukas and Pyotr Tchaikowsky, respectively.
[4] Patronisingly refers to Debussy’s Preludes published in 1910.
[5] Probably Squire meant to write Sirènes, the third movement of the Three Nocturnes. The mistake referred to in the text, occurred during Fétes.

It's not British but...Parisian Piano Music: Filigrane

The word “Filigrane” can be defined in several ways. Most relevant to the present debut recording by Adriana von Franqué is “a goldsmith’s work made of an elaborate mesh of gold or silver thread.” This would be seen as finely wrought and graceful. It analogously describes much of the content of this disc which features a collection of music composed in Paris in the late 19th and early 20th century.

This remarkable recital opens with Lili Boulanger’s beautiful D’un vieux Jardin from Trois morceux pour piano which were completed in 1914. The mood is impressionistic and reflective, perfectly evoking the wistfulness of an “old garden.” The influence of Gabriel Fauré and Claude Debussy is never far away, though Boulanger brings her delicate sensibility to this piece.

Simon Laks is a new name to me. Briefly, he was a Polish Jewish composer, born in Warsaw in 1901. His early efforts were first heard in Paris. During the Second World War, he was arrested by the Germans and sent to Auschwitz. There he became the camp orchestra’s conductor. He survived the war, continuing to compose until his death in 1983. His music is traditional, sometimes neo-classical, and often tinged with romanticism: he eschewed the avant-garde. The Ballade “Hommage à Chopin” (1949) is a nod towards Laks’s native country. Presented in two distinct parts, the opening section is slow, certainly suggesting Chopin in his quieter moods. The second part is bravura: here we move “abruptly and stormily into jazz-like realms, unexpectedly striking up a mazurka.” It is not a pastiche or parody of Chopin: it could not be considered a “lost” work by the master. That said, it does come across as a remarkable synthesis of the older composer’s pianism, seen through the eyes of a mid-twentieth century traditionalist.

I was impressed by Adriana von Franqué shimmering performance of Noctuelles from Maurice Ravel’s suite Miroirs (1904/1905). It evokes the chaotic fluttering of moths during a warm night. It is characterised by complex and chromatic figurations that are at times scurrying, often delicate, and always challenging to play. The middle section is calm and chordal, thus creating its mood of repose. Noctuelles was dedicated to the poet and essayist Léon-Paul Fargue who was a member of the French avant-garde group, Les Apaches.

For me, the highlight of this recital is the sumptuous performance of Claude Debussy’s Estampes. The title refers to engravings printed from engraved copper or wooden plates. This was completed in 1903 and evokes a diverse range of cultures. The opening movement, Pagodes was inspired by Indonesian gamelans which Debussy had heard at the Paris World Conference Exhibition in 1889. The second number, La soirée dans Grenade, is another fine example of a Frenchman writing great Spanish-inspired music. It must be recalled that Debussy never got further into Spain than a day trip to San Sebastian. Here, he uses Arabic scales with guitar-like strumming to create a languid impression. The final Estampes is Jardins sous la pluie,” which sonically imagines a garden in Normandy during a rainstorm. Into this “toccata” the composer subtly introduces children’s songs. It has been described as the “musical equivalent…of a Pissarro or a Sisley.” In all three pieces, the pianist creates an imaginative and fulfilling interpretation.

Cesar Franck’s Prélude, Choral et Fugue, FWV 21 (1884) is solemn and sombre. The key of B minor seems to point up the grief-stricken impact of this work. On the other hand, there is nothing dull about the intensely rich chromatic harmony and delicious pianistic figurations. Originally conceived as a Prelude and Fugue, the Choral was added, mimicking the central sections of Bach’s keyboard toccatas. The entire work is based on a series of five motifs used through the three movements, with some returning in the final fugue. It is well-constructed, with internal self-referencing creating a satisfying cyclical structure that stretches classical forms. The performance here integrates the “floating soundscapes, chromatic lines and constant modulations” into a satisfying whole. This is especially prominent in von Franqué’s account of the Fugue. Overall, there is a good balance of contemplation and subdued passion.

The booklet states that Berlin-born pianist Adriana von Franqué is driven by “passion and curiosity.” She is “a winner of many prizes, including the “Jugend Musiziert” competition and was awarded the Butterfly Communications Piano Prize, the Classical Music Prize of the Rotary Club of Berlin, and second prize at the Elise Meyer Competition in Hamburg.” She has performed in Europe and North and South America. An important motivation for her is making classical music accessible and to this end she is involved with educational projects.

The liner notes are most helpful: they are written in a chatty, rather than analytical, manner in the form of a journey round Paris. The recording is well defined and clear. The overall impact of this delightful disc is well summed up in the advertising publicity: “The result is floating, atmospheric, finely crafted music that seems to incorporate the Tuileries Garden, the banks of the Seine, or the intricate lacework of the Eiffel Tower...”

Track Listing:
Lili Boulanger (1893-1918)
D’un vieux Jardin from Trois morceaux pour piano (1914)
Simon Laks (1901-83)
Ballade “Hommage à Chopin” (1949)
Maurice Ravel (1875-1937)
Noctuelles from Miroirs, M.43 (1904/05)
Claude Debussy (1862-1918)
Estampes (1903)
César Franck (1822-1890)
Prélude, Choral et Fugue, FWV 21 (1884)
Adriana von Franqué (piano)
rec. 17-19 July 2023, Festeburgkirche Frankfurt am Main, Germany
Genuin GEN 24867

With thanks to MusicWeb International where this review was first published. 

It's Not British but...Christopher Howell plays Claude Debussy's Préludes

Christopher Howell has wisely eschewed providing detailed analytical notes for the two Livres (Books) of Claude Debussy’s remarkable Préludes. Instead, he gives an interesting strategy for listening to them. This is based on approaching the entire cycle without reference to the “traditional” titles of each Prélude. This tactic is especially recommended to anyone who has not heard this music before. Howell proposes that the listener notes the impression made on them during an “innocent ear” hearing. For the titles are not really titles at all: these are not character pieces written to evoke a predefined landscape, character or weather feature.  In fact, the composer’s words or short phrase suggest “what the music might have expressed.”  In other words, the image was supplied after the each Prélude was completed, or at least drafted. It is understood that Debussy and his daughter ‘Chouchou’ discussed each number at the piano and debated the “literary or impressionistic” labels. Alas, once these “after-titles” are known, they colour subsequent hearings. Howell wonders if it might even be possible for those of us who know these Préludes well, to clear our minds and ask ourselves “what does the music suggest”.  As readers of this review will note, I am unable to do this. Fifty years is a long time to break a habit. 

Another important point is that Debussy did not insist that both sets of Préludes be played together, or even as a single book at a time. He considered that they were uneven and of varying quality. We may disagree with the maestro! Most recitalists will play selections or maybe select an entire Book for performance. It is only on CD that they are typically issued complete.  

So, each listener will have their own way of approaching this disc. Once a year, I sit down with the piano score and through listen to each book – with a tea break in-between. I guess other people will pick out their favourites. If they are Classic fM listeners, this may be the ubiquitous The Girl with the Flaxen Hair. Through-listening is fine, but I think the listener must keep an eye on the titles (notwithstanding Howell’s dictum) and have the odd time out.

On first hearing a new recording of the Préludes, I usually pick one example from each book to get a general impression of the playing. Firstly, I listen to the Sérénade interrompue from Book I and then Les tierces alternées from Book II. Despite what is said above about ignoring the titles, I cannot help picturing an old guitarist in some sequestered square in Spain. He muses on old love affairs, long forgotten dances, and is perhaps roused by a sly comment from a passing schoolboy. It has been suggested that this piece was a “sketch” for Iberia from Images. Does Howell hit the spot? The answer is Yes. It is the changes of mood that do it for me. And it does remind me of a sultry day in Spain, where alas I have not been for two years thanks to Covid.

Howell points out that the only Prélude that has a title with a purely technical description is Les tierces alternées. This is really a study rather than an evocation. Yet even here, there is a charm that offers interest.  Perhaps Debussy is looking back to the days of the 17^th century clavecinists? If the recitalist can convince me with a magical performance of this Prélude, then I am certain that the others are good beyond doubt. He does.

Howell impressed me with the entire cycle. A few examples of what caught my ear will suffice.  I do keep the images created by the composer’s titles in mind.

Voiles, with its whole tone and pentatonic scales and cool chords in thirds, perfectly creates images of boats at anchor in the Mediterranean sun.  Ce qu'a vu le vent d'ouest ("What the west wind saw") is the most demanding piece in Book 1. It gives a vision of a coast battered by storms and the sea’s fury. Remarkable use is made of tremolos, sonorous chords and demanding figurations. La Danse de Puck is summery, witty, sometimes mocking and often capricious. Just as it should be.  Does the pianist summon up the image of the Cathedral of Ys, the birthplace of Isolde, rising from the sea in La Cathédrale engloutie? He does: the plainsong, the ancient organum, the tolling bells and the swing of the tide all combine here to create a perfectly stated vision of an emerging and then submerging cathedral. One of many Spanish masterpieces by a Frenchman is La Puerta del Vino. Here the pianist is required to evoke images of a humid Spanish night, complete with an equally sultry dancer, close to the Alhambra Palace in Granada. This “habanera” requires considerable changes of mood and pace. Subtle adjustments to its dynamics are well played here. Ondine (or Undine) has always been one of my favourite Debussy’s Préludes.  The title refers to an elemental being associated with streams and water pools. Over the centuries, she has been transformed into a water nymph. This piece must capture the games and sports and even mischievousness of Ondine. Therefore, a good contrast of pianism is required to capture all the changes and chances of her moods.  The last Prélude from Book 2 that struck my ear was Feux d'artifice (Fireworks) which is a complex fusion of impressionism and sheer Lisztian virtuosity.  It is full of “glittering arpeggios, trills, [and] explosive chords” which are executed here with perfection. The night sky is truly lit up on Bastille Day. All these, and the other Préludes are played to my satisfaction and enjoyment.

Finally, as a bonus, Christopher Howell has included the fugitive “prélude” written as a donation to a charity for the war wounded. Pièce pour l'oeuvre du “Vêtement du blesse” is just under a minute and a half, yet it is a perfect example of the composer’s art. It is lovingly played here on this CD.

There are 94 versions of Livre 1, and for some reason only 79 of Livre II, in the current Arkiv Catalogue (accessed 4 September 2021). So, why another recording. I asked Christopher Howell, he told me: “Debussy’s Préludes in particular, have always been close to me, I was already playing them by the book-full while at university.” He sees it as a stimulating change to move momentarily away from his major projects of British music such as the cycles of Stanford’s and Mackenzie’s works that he is often associated with. He thinks that “it is good to show from time to time that my horizons extend a little further”.

I was impressed by this new recording of Claude Debussy’s masterpiece for piano. The performance met my expectations in every way, the recording is superb and the liner notes refreshing in their approach. It is a worthy addition to the many recordings of this wonderfully evocative piano music.

Track Listing:
Claude DEBUSSY (1862-1918)
Préludes Première Livre (1909-10)
Préludes Deuxième Livre (1912-13)
Pièce pour l'oeuvre du "Vêtement du blessé“ (1915)
Christopher Howell (piano)
Rec. 2018-2020 Studios of Griffa & Figli s.r.l., Milan, Italy.
Da Vinci Classics C00424

It’s not British, but…Le Tombeau de Claude Debussy (1920)

This remarkable disc does more than simply present Le Tombeau de Debussy (The Tomb of Debussy). It includes three spin offs from this project. Let me explain. Debussy died on 25 March 1918. Two years later, Henry Prunières (1886-1942), the director of the French journal La Revue Musicale commissioned a joint memorial volume for the composer. He approached the great and good of European music and asked for a specially written contribution. Ten composers responded with short works that balanced a celebration of Debussy’s musical achievement with each contributor’s individual style. A glance at the track listings shows a wide range of age and aesthetic. Paul Dukas (55 years old) was the senior contributor, whilst the Englishman Eugene Goossens was the youngest (27 years old). Most of them had made their names before the Great War, some were just about to become successful. 

Best recalled for his The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, Paul Dukas wrote several engaging works for the piano, including a notable Sonata. His music traverses a wide stylistic range with Romanticism, Modernism and Impressionism being apparent in his work. La Plainte, au loin, du Faune (Lament from afar, of the faun) evokes Debussy’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune. The music is dense and numinous, with some forthtelling of his pupil Olivier Messiaen’s “harmonic complexities.” Here, the Faun truly does lament his creator, Debussy.

Manuel de Falla’s elegiac Homenaje was written for guitar. This lugubrious piece exploits the habanera rhythm and includes nods towards Debussy’s Iberia. It is a masterclass in subtle chords, scale, arpeggios and dynamics for this instrument. The composer subsequently made versions for piano solo and orchestra.

The longest work in Le Tombeau de Debussy is Florent Schmitt’s À la mémoire de Claude Debussy: Et Pan, au fond des blés lunaires, s’accouda. The latter part of the title translates as (Pan leaned on his elbows deep in the Lunar wheat fields ...). There is stylistic variety here, with Romanticism, post Wagnerism and Impressionism contributing to this memorable piece. Clearly, Pan alludes to Debussy’s Faun.  The French critic Émile Vuillermoz (1878-1960) declared that this piece “is the only truly lyrical cry of farewell in the entire collection, the only sob that has not been too quickly stifled”. Schmitt later orchestrated this piece as the first number in his Mirages, op.70.

The only vocal work in this collection is Erik Satie’s À la mémoire de Claude Debussy. It is “in memory of an admiring and sweet friendship of thirty years”.  Alphonse Marie Louis de Lamartine’s (1790–1869) text, Que me font ces vallons (What are these valleys, these palaces, these cottages doing to me?) is a short, but deeply felt elegy. The song lasts for less than a minute.

In 1913 Gian Francesco Malipiero left Italy to work in Paris. He was fascinated by Debussy’s music. His Hommage à Claude Debussy: Lento, echoes the dead composer’s La Cathédrale engloutie (The Submerged Cathedral) with its archaic Gregorian chant “giving the impression of sovereign majesty and greatness”.

This is followed by the most modern sounding piece in the collection. The Fragment from Symphonies of Wind Instruments is less than a 1 ½ minutes long. This is a piano reduction of that work’s final choral. Naxos have included a complete recording of the orchestral version (23 woodwinds) as a part of this package. It is a composition that I have not (consciously) heard before.  The liner notes include an overview of the Symphonies: “Folk elements, abstract Cubist episodes and jazz-influenced dance rhythms all are merged into little less than ten minutes, presenting a fascinating kaleidoscope of ever-changing moods and colours.” The orchestral work was derided at its premiere in London on 10 June 1921. We have learned a lot since then!

The only Englishman represented in Le Tombeau was Eugene Goossens. His Hommage à Debussy, op.28 combines two sections: a dissonant Bergian prelude followed by a short impressionistic postlude. It is one of the loveliest pieces on this CD.

Béla Bartók’s Sostenuto, rubato features a unison melody supported by shimmering chords which balances impressionism with an indigenous cradle song. It was later included as the seventh piece in his Improvisations on Hungarian Peasant Songs, op. 20, BB 83.

One of the recurring features of Claude Debussy’s music are references to Greek mythology. Albert Roussel’s L’accueil des muses (The Acceptance of the Muses) is designed as a musical ascent of Mount Parnassus, the seat of Euterpe and her fellow goddesses. Much of this piece reflects grief, but towards the close there is a definite sense of optimism.

I have always struggled with Maurice Ravel’s Sonata for violin and cello. Compared to so much of his music, this is an acerbic piece that reflects his reaction to the First World War. The first movement of this work was included in the memorial volume. The other two were added in 1922. The liner notes explain that “the ultra-transparent writing for two melodic instruments corresponds with Debussy’s last works, and especially his late sonatas for violin and cello, where he gave up his trademark impressionistic multicoloured spectrum in favour of concentrated neo-Classical clarity.” The entire work is given a splendid performance here.

The pianist Tomer Lev was the driving force behind this realisation of Le Tombeau de Debussy. He has provided exceptionally detailed liner notes which not only provide context but brief overviews of the composers and an informed discussion about each piece. The usual biographies of the performers are included. The text is presented in English and French.

Of interest was the volume’s cover, which was an illustration by the Post-Impressionist painter Raoul Dufy (1877-1953). Part of this is printed on the front cover of the liner notes, with the full picture included in the text.

The sound quality on this Naxos disc is ideal. It allows listeners to appreciate the subtle sonorities of each piece.

Finally, it should be noted that Tomer Lev has rearranged the order of the pieces to that of the original score. In an essay he wrote for The Gramophone (December 2020) Lev stated that “Le Tombeau is, to all practical purposes, well-nigh unperformable. Having not been given any precise criteria to write to, the composers had let their imaginations run free, and composed for a dizzying variety of instrumentations.” What has resulted from Lev’s realisation is an often beautiful and always interesting piece of musical archaeology. For me, the obvious diversity becomes a major strength rather than a dilemma. 

Track Listing:
Paul DUKAS (1865-1935) La plainte, au loin, du faune...
Manuel de FALLA (1876-1946) Homenaje (version for piano)
Florent SCHMITT (1870-1958) À la mémoire de Claude Debussy: Et Pan, au fond des blés lunaires, s’accouda (No. 1 from Mirages, op. 70)
Erik SATIE (1866-1925) À la mémoire de Claude Debussy: En souvenir d’une admirative et douce amitié de trente ans: Que me font ces vallons
Gian Francesco MALIPIERO (1882-1973) Hommage à Claude Debussy: Lento
Igor STRAVINSKY (1882-1971) Fragment des symphonies d’instruments à vent à la mémoire de Claude Achille Debussy
Eugene GOOSSENS (1893-1962) Hommage à Debussy, op.28
Béla BARTÓK (1881-1945) Sostenuto, rubato (No. 7 from Improvisations on Hungarian Peasant Songs, op. 20, BB 83)
Albert ROUSSEL (1869-1937) L’accueil des muses ‘In memoriam Debussy’
Maurice RAVEL (1875-1937) Sonata for violin and cello (1922)
Igor STRAVINSKY Symphonies of wind instruments (1920/1947)
Manuel de FALLA (Homenaje (version for guitar) (1920)
Buchmann-Mehta Symphony Orchestra Tel Aviv University/Zeev Dorman
Tomer Lev (piano), Sharon Rostorf-Zamir (soprano), Janna Gandelman (violin), Dmitry Yablonsky (cello), Ruben Seroussi (guitar)
Rec. 20 November 2017 (de Falla), 30 January 2018 (Stravinsky), 5 April 2018 (Ravel), 20 March 2020 and 24 April 2020 (Le Tombeau de Claude Debussy) Clairmont Hall, Buchmann-Mehta School of Music, Tel Aviv University, Israel
NAXOS 8.573935.
With thanks to MusicWeb International where this review was first published.

It's Not British, but...In the Age of Debussy: Music for flute and piano

This remarkable CD of French flute and piano music presents original works and some arrangements. I listened to the CD in order, except that I grouped the two pieces by Debussy together. 

Lili Boulanger (1893-1918) has composed an interesting work that looks forward to the musical style of ‘Les Six’ as well as taking a backward glance towards Debussy. D’un matin de Printemps was originally conceived for violin and piano and dates from the spring of 1917. Arrangements for violin, cello and piano as well as the present version followed immediately afterwards. In the last weeks of her life, she transcribed it for full orchestra. This was her final musical offering before her early death. D’un matin de Printemps is a fresh and vibrant work that evokes the springtime in a manner that both Debussy and Francis Poulenc would have approved of.

It is unfortunate that Paul Dukas is recalled only for his The Sorcerer’s Apprentice (1897), brought to a vivid life of its own by Walt Disney in Fantasia (1940). Compared to other composers, Dukas’s catalogue is not huge, but includes an excellent Symphony, the opera Ariane et Barbe-bleue, the ballet La Peri and a superb piano sonata. His musical style straddles romanticism and modernism, and sometimes touches on impressionism. La Plainte, au loin, du Faune (1920) was written for inclusion in the dedicatory Tombeau de Claude Debussy. This volume was commissioned in 1920 by Henry Prunières, director of the Revue Musicale. It featured contributions from the great and good of contemporary European music. These included Albert Roussel, Maurice Ravel, Eugene Goossens, Manuel de Falla and Igor Stravinsky. Dukas’s number incorporates several quotations and allusions to Debussy’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune. The original version of La Plainte was for piano solo, but the present arrangement allows the flute to explore the ‘many decorative phrases in the [piano’s] higher register’. It works exceptionally well.

A few weeks ago, I reviewed a chamber ensemble arrangement of Claude Debussy’s Prélude à l'après-midi d'un faune (DACOCD 842). I noted there that several versions of this masterpiece had been created by various hands. These included the composer’s own arrangement for two pianos (1895), an arrangement for the ‘Pierrot Ensemble’ of flute, clarinet, violin and cello and the reworking by Carl-Oscar Østerlind and Kristoffer Hyldig for violin, cello, piano and clarinet.  The present version for flute and piano was made by the French composer and writer, Gustave Samazeuilh (1877-1967) in 1925. It is an enjoyable and effective transcription, but is it necessary? For me, the orchestral original is just sheer perfection.

My big discovery on this CD was Bilitis pour flute. This work has an involved history. In 1897, Debussy set three poems by Pierre Louÿs for female voice and piano. It was published as Les Chansons de Bilitis. During 1900-01 Debussy ‘expanded’ this into an instrumental piece with two flutes, two harps and celesta. It was designed to accompany a narrator reading 12 poems from Louÿs’s collection. Three of these were arrangements of the original songs. It is understood that this score was lost. In 1914, Debussy recalled elements of this music in his Six Épigraphes antiques written for piano duo. The present recording is a transcription for flute and piano of these Épigraphes. In 1939 an orchestral arrangement was devised by Ernest Ansermet.

The listener should bear in mind the pastiche nature of the songs, the titles and the music. Pierre Louÿs managed to fool classicists into believing that he had discovered poems by the Greek poet Bilitis, a friend of Sappho, in a lost tomb in Cyprus. The music has an artificially developed archaic feeling, created by ecclesiastical modes, whole-tone scales and arabesques. The entire score is timeless in its impact. I never tire of hearing this music in any version. This arrangement for flute and piano is particularly satisfying.

André Caplet (1878-1925) was a French composer and conductor. For better or worse he is now recalled only for his orchestrations of some of Debussy’s works including Children’s Corner, the ever popular ‘Clair de lune’ from the Suite bergamasque and The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian. Several of his many original pieces have appeared on record in recent years. The 2 Petites pièces for flute and piano were written in 1897 whilst Caplet was studying at the Paris Conservatoire.  The ‘Reverie’ and ‘Petite Valse’ look to Fauré for their inspiration and charm but also present some wayward harmonies and modulations on their own account.

I am not sure why Gabriel Fauré’s Sonate pour violon No. 1[in A major] op. 13 (1875-76) has been ‘arranged’ for flute. It does not appear to have been sanctioned by the composer. This large and impressive work is presented in four movements. This Sonata is usually credited as the composer’s earliest success and is characterised by a romantic mood, vibrancy and passion. Highlights here are the thoughtful ‘andante’ and the vivacious ‘scherzo.’ Although I am happy with this reworking for flute and piano, I think that I will stick with the original incarnation. That said, the wind instrument certainly cut the mustard with the ebullient ‘Scherzo’. Finally, it is not stated in the liner notes who made this arrangement.

Ransom Wilson (flute) and François Dumont (piano) give splendid performances of all this music. The sound quality is well balanced throughout. The programme notes by Roger Nichols are ideal. They give each work concise, but wholly relevant, details. There are the usual biographies of the two soloists. The cover painting, La Rue Saint-Lazare, temps lumineux (1893) by Camille Pissarro (1830-1903) sums up the ethos of this disc. 

I enjoyed this all the music on this innovative CD. The three ‘arrangements’ are interesting experiments, that will be of interest to aficionados of Fauré’s and Debussy’s music. I felt that Bilitis pour flûte was a major addition to the repertoire. On the other hand, I will stick with the originals of Gabriel Fauré’s Sonate pour violon No. 1 and Claude Debussy’s voluptuous Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune.

Track Listing:
Lili BOULANGER (1893-1918) D’un matin de printemps (1917/18)
Claude DEBUSSY (1862-1918) Bilitis pour flûte (1914)
Paul DUKAS (1865-1935) La Plainte, au loin, du Faune...(1920)
Claude DEBUSSY Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune L86a (1894) 8.52 Transcription for flute by Gustave SAMAZEUILH (1877-1967)
André CAPLET (1878-1925) 2 petites pièces (1897)
Gabriel FAURÉ (1845-1924) Sonate pour violon No. 1 op. 13 (1875)
Ransom Wilson (flute), François Dumont (piano)
Rec. Wyastone Leys, Monmouth, UK. 21-23 March 2019
NIMBUS NI 6407
With thanks to MusicWeb International where this review was first published.

It's not British, but....Ansermet, Debussy and Ravel - 1947/8 recordings

My first introduction to Claude Debussy’s music was the Decca Eclipse recording (ECS 515) of La Mer, the March Écossaise, the Nocturnes and the orchestral arrangement of Claire de lune. This version of La Mer had been recorded by L’Orchestre de la Suisse Romande conducted by Ernest Ansermet in Geneva during 1951. It was first issued on Decca LXT 2632. (There was some confusion in The Gramophone magazine about the version used for the Decca Eclipse release, so I hope I have got the antecedent correct!)

I recall playing the work repeatedly marvelling at the strange (to me) sounds and ‘sensuous beauty’ of the score. At the time, I did not know that Ansermet had made an earlier recording, released on 78 rpm discs (AK1606-8) of La Mer with the same orchestra in 1948. In fact, he  made four recordings in total of this work: 1948, 1951, 1957 and 1964.

La Mer was subtitled ‘Three Symphonic Sketches’ and was composed between 1903-5. The titles of the movements are ‘De l'aube à midi sur la mer’, ‘Jeux de vagues’ and ‘Dialogue du vent et de la mer’. Despite these colourful titles there is no specific programme, save to present the moods of the sea and skies throughout the day.

Often regarded as a masterpiece of impressionism, it is in fact a symphonic work where the movements are related by common themes and ideas. It is essential that La Mer is played from end to end and not excerpted into separate movements.  In this recording, Ernest Ansermet discloses the poetic nature of the music, as well as creating a performance full of colour, light and sensitivity. This is not an exclusive quality to Ansermet, but there is a definite magic here that is often lacking in more modern versions.

The CD opens with an idiomatic performance of Ravel’s ‘Alborada del gracioso’ which is an orchestration by the composer of the fourth piece in the piano suite Miroirs (1904-05). It displays all the excitement of Spain, seen through the eyes of a Parisian. Although all five pieces of Miroirs were orchestrated by Ravel or others, I understand that the ‘Alborada’ is the only one to have been recorded by Ansermet.

La Valse is a strange work. It was first conceived by Ravel in the dark days of the First World War and was completed by 1920. To my ear, it is an often disturbing and sometimes even macabre ‘take’ on the birth, decay and destruction of ‘The Waltz’, with a clear allusion to the political situation at the time. Although the composer denied this interpretation, it is hard to agree with him that this work does not at times reveal a ‘dance of death.’

Ernest Ansermet’s 1947 Kingsway Hall recording of La Valse is always in kept in check: he does not allow himself to get carried away by the sheer exuberance of the piece. Clearly the sound quality is a little less perfect than the later 1963 version released by Decca (SXL 6065) yet the maxim that Ansermet stayed true to his interpretations holds good here.

Ansermet made three recordings of Ravel’s Shéhérazade for soprano and orchestra: 1948, 1954 and 1963. The first two featured the remarkable Belgian soprano Suzanne Danco; the last the mezzo-soprano Régine Crespin.  Danco was renowned for her lightness of touch, her perfect diction and was regarded as a model interpreter of French music,

The present version was recorded on 28 May 1948 in Paris with Danco accompanied by the Orchestre de la Société des Concerts du Conservatoire.  Sometimes criticised for the lack of warmth in her voice, this crystal-clear performance allows the listener to hear every syllable. It displays a perfect sensitivity to the words by Tristan Klingsor inspired by The Thousand and One Nights. Alas, the text/translation of these songs is not given in the liner notes.

I was amazed at the quality of the transfer from 78s of Debussy’s charming but uncharacteristic Petite Suite originally composed between 1886-89 as a piano duet. In 1907 it was arranged for orchestra by composer, organist and conductor, Henri Büsser. The movements are ‘En Bateau’, ‘Cortege’, ‘Menuet’ and ‘Ballet.’ Ansermet presents a truly idyllic performance of ‘En Bateau’, which is my favourite movement. ‘Cortege’ seems a little ‘light’ and hardly suggests a funeral procession. After the elegant ‘Menuet’, the Suite closes with a sprightly ‘Ballet.’ Ansermet’s 70-year-old reading sounds new-minted. It is a pleasure to listen to this delightful piece of early Debussy, and Busser’s sparkling arrangement of it.  

For the record, Ernest Ansermet was born in Vevey, Switzerland on 11 November 1883. As a young man he was equally competent in mathematics as he was music. In fact, he became lecturer in maths at the University of Lausanne. His first position as conductor was at the Casino in Montreux. He personally knew Debussy and Ravel and discussed their music with them. In 1915 Ansermet took up the post of conductor for the Diaghilev Ballet. At this time, he became familiar with Igor Stravinsky’s music, which he championed throughout his career. He was Stravinsky’s own favourite interpreter of his music. In 1918, Ansermet formed his own orchestra, L’Orchestre de la Suisse Romande in Geneva. He conducted this orchestra until shortly before his death on 20 February 1969.

The re-mastering of this disc impressed me. It is difficult to believe that all these recordings are 70-odd years old. The liner notes present an overview of Ernest Ansermet, his relationship with the recording studio and a discussion of the present ‘Ravel and Debussy 78s’.

From a personal point of view, I will always turn to Ansermet’s 1951 recording of La Mer, as that was the one I first discovered. For a slightly more up-to-date version, I turn to Jean Martinon’s account dating from the early 1970s. Bearing in mind that there are 170 versions of La Mer in the catalogue, it is not possible to hear them all (unless one is a Debussy specialist).

So, what of this present disc? It is wonderful to hear Ansermet’s ‘take’ on these five works. Enthusiasts of this maestro will demand these re-mastering’s which are released on Decca for the first time. It has been a pleasure them. 

Track Listing:

Maurice RAVEL (1875-1937)

Alborada del gracioso (1904-5)

La Valse (1919-20)

Shéhérazade for soprano and orchestra (1904)

Claude DEBUSSY (1862-1918)

La Mer (1903-5)

Petite Suite (1889) arr. Henri BÜSSER

Suzanne Danco (soprano), L’Orchestre de la Suisse Romande/Ernest Ansermet (Alborada, La Mer); Orchestre de la Société des Concerts du Conservatoire/Ernest Ansermet (La Valse, Shéhérazade, Petite Suite)

Rec. Radio Studio, Geneva, 4 February 1947 (Alborada, La Mer); Kingsway Hall, London, UK, 6 October 1947 (La Valse); La Maison de la Mutualité, Paris, 28 May 1948 (Shéhérazade), 1 June 1948 (Petite Suite).

DECCA 482 5007

With thanks to MusicWeb International where this review was first published. 

Sir Henry Wood: Orchestration of Debussy’ ‘La cathédrale engloutie’

Pierre-Jean Chaffrey 

I recently posted about Harriet Cohen’s fine recording of Claude Debussy’s ‘Clair de Lune’ from the Suite Bergamasque and ‘La cathédrale engloutie’ from Book 1 of the ‘Preludes’. As part of my exploration preparing that post I came across Sir Henry Wood’s orchestration of the latter. I knew that he had made many transcriptions of music for orchestra, however I had not realised Debussy was amongst them.

‘La cathédrale engloutie’, in its original piano version, was first heard in London on 2 June 1910 (maybe a follow up post is required here). With the composer’s blessing it was orchestrated by the Frenchman Henri Büsser (1872-1973) in 1917. However, this arrangement was not heard in the United Kingdom until 1927. In 1930 Leopold Stokowski made his well-known orchestration of this ‘prelude’.

Henry Wood, then, wrote the ‘pioneering transcription’ of this work. It was produced for the 1919 season of Promenade Concerts and was duly heard on 6 September 1919.  It is assumed by Lewis Foreman in his liner notes for the Lyrita (SRCD216) recording of this arrangement that it was ‘a memorial piece for Debussy who had died in 1918.’  The work was not heard again at a Proms concert until 26 July 2012.

I am in two minds about this arrangement. On the one hand I believe that Sir Henry makes a bold effort with this music. He manages to create diverse moods of ‘profoundly calm (in a gentle sonorous mist)’ with which the piece opens, the monastic chanting and the surging of the waves. He makes use of two harps, gong, tubular bells and pedal notes on the organ to create just the ‘right’ atmosphere. His realisation of the two climaxes is remarkable for their power and imposing structure. It is certainly a warhorse that is guaranteed to get the ‘Prom-ers’ applauding.

Yet, on the other hand, as the composer Christopher Gunning has pointed out in his ‘blog’ (27/7/12) there is a ‘special skill’ in orchestrating Debussy’s piano music. He suggests that Sir Henry did not successfully translate the ‘exquisite pianistic colours and extensive use of the sustaining pedal’. He is correct: it does not quite come across. I agree with him that it is ‘over-orchestrated.’ The mystic feel of the original piano piece is missing. However, I do not quite go as far as Gunning who suggests that this orchestration is ‘pretty awful’ and ‘almost laughable.’

The London Evening Standard was equally condemnatory of the 2012 Proms performance: the reviewer writes that “La Cathédrale Engloutie’ had the misfortune to fall into the hands of Henry Wood, who decked it out in technicolour garb. Quite how the fastidious Debussy would have reacted to this lurid concoction will never be known, as only the year before he had gone to the great cathedral in the sky.’ It is a fair point.

However, the Daily Telegraph music critic seemed more amenable to this arrangement: he quietly suggests that is ‘another small discovery, and also a nod towards Prom history’. Yet as this comment was written before the 2012 performance, I do wonder if the reviewer had actually heard the piece.

The most glowing comment on ‘La cathédrale engloutie’ is from MusicWeb International’s Rob Barnett, who writes that ‘it is good to hear Wood, the magician of instrumentation, handling this piece with kid gloves and magically intensifying the impressionistic textures.’ For me this is taking the praise a little too far.

I suggest listening to both the piano version played by François-Joël Thiollier  (skip the advert after 2 secs)  and Sir Henry Wood’s transcription back to back and see what you think?