One of the world’s leading journalists and authors on film music gives Schmitt’s score pride of place in the first quarter century of motion pictures.

Jeanne de Balzac and Rolla Norman starred in the 1925 silent film Salammbô, with music composed by Florent Schmitt.

Among the most intriguing entries in the catalogue of Florent Schmitt’s compositions are the three suites he extracted from his score to the silent film Salammbô, which was premiered at the Paris Opéra in 1925.

The three suites, scored for full orchestra with additional choral parts featured in some of the numbers, were published by Durand as a group under the title Salammbô, Illustration de quelques pages de Gustave Flaubert, Op. 76.

To my ears, this is music that makes a tremendous impression on first hearing — and continues to deliver fresh rewards upon successive listening.  I’ve known and loved this score for more than 20 years, and it never grows old.

Recently, the noted film music specialist, journalist and author Doug Adams remarked on Twitter about the quality and inventiveness of Schmitt’s Salammbô score, which led me to ask Mr. Adams to share further insights on the score and the reasons why he considers it such an important exemplar of the film music genre.

Doug Adams

Mr. Adams, whose deep involvement in the study of film music includes publishing a comprehensive volume on Howard Shore’s scores to The Lord of the Rings trilogy (2010), was very generous in sharing his perspectives.

His insightful observations, presented below, provide both detail and context in understanding the importance of Schmitt’s singular contribution to the world of film music:

PLN:  How did you become acquainted with the score to the Salammbô film? 

DA:  The answer to that question really starts with silent films in general.  In the late summer of 2011, I produced a very short recording of an ‘orchestrion’ (an automated musical instrument) for Martin Scorsese’s film Hugo. It wasn’t much — you can hear it coming from a carousel during a scene with the Georges Méliès character.  

I already knew Howard Shore, the composer of Hugo’s score. Before this, he and I had worked on a book covering the music of the Lord of the Rings films, and we’d become good friends and collaborators in the process.

While working on Hugo, we found ourselves becoming increasingly interested in the music of the silent film period, so we decided to put together a series of articles for his website.

I dedicated a lot of time to assembling a timeline of film music that ran from approximately 1908 to 1933. In the process, I began uncovering an intriguing list of names, projects, and events that hinted at a large, undiscovered musical world.

PLN:  So, coming to the Schmitt score was actually part of a larger evolution?

DA:  Yes.  Before I knew it, those articles for Howard’s website led to another project with the Seattle Opera. They had a number of Puccini operas scheduled that season, so they asked me to write a piece for their souvenir booklet that examined his relationship with silent film music.

Puccini never composed for film, but his music was co-opted by theater musicians on a regular basis; he even filed a lawsuit or two to stop them.  However, Puccini also had a long-lasting correspondence with Thomas Edison and a love of modern technology. It was likely that Puccini was fond of cinemas, too – as long as they didn’t steal his music!

Once again, in researching the article, I added to my timeline. I learned that Joseph Carl Breil, the composer who worked on The Birth of a Nation, premiered a film-score-like opera at the Met Opera alongside Puccini’s Il trittico – and also that Puccini’s old college roommate, Pietro Mascagni, scored an early Italian film. 

My concept of this period began to shift in profound ways. I’d always felt that film music was an extension of Romantic period music — with a few modern dashes — but I figured that it primarily migrated from Europe to Hollywood just prior to World War II.

However, I began to see that the early days of film music didn’t just extend the Romantic period, they actually overlapped it. As it turns out, film music didn’t burst to life with Max Steiner’s King Kong — it was thriving for a good decade or two before that.

And those early days constituted an incredibly diverse period, because you had composers in America, France and Germany (and, to a lesser degree, Italy and Russia) basically kicking film’s tires and figuring out what it could do. Anything was game. 

First film score composer (nearly): Charles-Camille Saint-Saëns (1835-1921). Mikhail Ippolitov-Ivanov had him beat by about a month!

While a number of early film composers considered themselves specialists, the backbone of the developing field was made up of familiar names.

Saint-Saëns famously scored l’Assassinat du Duc de Guise in November 1908. (Many considered him the first big-name composer to work in film, though technically, Mikhail Ippolitov-Ivanov wrote for a Russian film that debuted a few weeks before l’Assassinat.)

There were others, too.  Victor Herbert tried film by scoring the unofficial follow-up to The Birth of a Nation – a picture called The Fall of a Nation.

Mascagni scored an amazing Italian film named Rapsodia Satanica by treating it as a voiceless verismo opera.

Hindemith scored a German mountain-climbing picture before moving on to more avant-garde pictures, some of which he appeared in as an actor.

Richard Strauss adapted his Rosenkavalier for film and added some new music in the process.

Satie’s last complete composition was for a film. And, of course, the great Florent Schmitt tried film as well. 

PLN:  How did that opportunity come along for Schmitt?

DA:  It’s quite interesting.  During the 1920s, the French had a strong desire to pair an illustrious film with a fine score, and to open the project at the Paris Opéra. It was a way of bridging the Old and New Worlds.

Grand Staircase of the Paris Opéra

Unsurprisingly, they had their eyes set on established concert hall composers. Film specialists such as Paul Fosse were fine, but they didn’t have the cachet.

And while Les Six and their circle had already been dabbling in film, they were seen as too rowdy and experimental.

So, in 1924 the composer Henri Rabaud was hired to score Raymond Bernard’s film Le Miracle des loups.

Rabaud was the former director of the Paris Opéra, and had recently led the Boston Symphony in the United States. He was worldly and articulate, but at the same time, rather conservative.

Reviews for his score to Le Miracle were good, but many in the artistic community felt that it was simply too old-fashioned, too dowdy; they felt that he hadn’t taken advantage of the new aesthetics of film. 

Florent Schmitt was known as a much more forward-looking composer than Rabaud. He wasn’t avant-garde, but he was certainly not a traditionalist. Therefore, when French filmmakers made their second attempt at bringing a top-notch film and score to the Opéra, they hired Schmitt for an adaptation of Gustave Flaubert’s novel Salammbô.

Blood and thunder: Gustave Flaubert’s novel Salammbô — the basis for the 1925 silent film.

Flaubert’s story was ripe for film — the plot included fierce battles, forbidden romance, striking landscapes, and a thrilling human sacrifice scene. 

In short, it was a perfect fit for Schmitt’s “orientalist” tendencies.

The film was directed by Pierre Marodon and produced by Louis Felix Hippolyte Aubert. (Aubert shared his name with composer Louis Aubert, one of Schmitt’s contemporaries, but they were not related.) 

Salammbô debuted at the Paris Opéra in October 1925. Predictably, Schmitt delivered a knockout work.

Written for chorus and orchestra, the score was packed with delicate French harmonies, colorful orchestrations, and a handful of recurring motifs that developed throughout the story.

It was modern; it was powerful; and, with its angular transitions and unusual harmonies, it was everything that Rabaud’s Le Miracle des loups was not.

However, there was still a problem: Marodon’s film was a bit of a wreck.

Schmitt did the best he could to salvage the project, but the result was a tremendously fine piece of music that felt like it was trying to goose a dreary film. Even Schmitt found the picture to be “rather incoherent.”

Critics wrote, “Cette partition marque une date.” (“This score represents a milestone.”) They called Schmitt’s work a “considerable victory.” But, by no fault of Schmitt’s, the score’s reputation was tarnished by the film’s failures.

The French desire to open a truly great film and score at l’Opéra wasn’t yet satisfied, so additional works were lined up — each of which had its own set of problems. La Croisière noire came next with music by André Petiot and Germaine Tailleferre (of Les Six), but it was mostly ignored.

Then there was Honegger’s Napoléon, which was the biggest disaster yet; he walked off the project before it was even completed.

Léon Moreau’s Madame Récamier; André Petiot’s Verdun, Visions d’histoire; and Henri Février and Marc Delmas’ La Merveilleusevie de Jeanne d’Arc all followed in short order. But by that point, sound film was becoming more and more popular and silent films — and their attendant scores — were being swept offstage.

PLN:  It sounds as if the whole Paris Opéra film initiative was a bit of a star-crossed adventure, and that Schmitt’s score became collateral damage …

DA:  Schmitt’s Salammbô was essentially forgotten with the rest of the Paris Opéra scores. It was, in my opinion, the finest score to come out of this unofficial initiative, but the lousy film, the subsequent glut of works, and the profound changes in cinematic technologies had relegated it to semi-obscurity. 

PLN:  What appeals to you about the score?   What do you find particularly memorable about it?

DA:  Salammbô is a sublimely balanced work. It uses recurring themes, but it’s not overly leitmotivic.

It’s exotic, but it almost never depends on stock devices such as faux-Middle Eastern scales or chains of augmented seconds.

It’s also aggressive and modern, but it takes the delicious, familiar French harmonies of the 1920s and uses them in unique and colorful ways. (The end of the sacrifice scene includes a searing pan-pentatonic cluster.)

In sum, there’s an incredible power to the writing, but it never sacrifices detail to scope. 

PLN:  Considering its date of composition, do you consider this score to be forward-looking or perhaps even revolutionary? 

DA:  Part of the reason that Rabaud’s Le Miracle des loups was dismissed by aesthetes was because it rarely moved beyond the tropes of the day:  Sunny, diatonic triads represented peace and plenty; chains of diminished chords represented turmoil.

Schmitt’s Salammbô was so much meatier. There had been very few film scores in France that used such chromatic harmonic language (and those that did, like Milhaud’s L’Inhumaine or Satie’s Entr’acte, tended to be more like chamber works). By contrast, this was a full-blooded score on the level of Maurice Ravel.

PLN:  How do you regard the music’s qualities compared to other silent film scores of the era? 

DA:  There were, of course, other international works that approached the quality of Schmitt’s work. Germany, in particular, saw some amazing scores by Gottfried Huppertz and Edmund Meisel in the same time period. But these works were much more ‘Teutonic’ in tone.

And in the United States, Mortimer Wilson composed a trio of scores for Douglas Fairbanks that established a new template for swashbuckling adventure scores. But his work was distinctly ‘American.’ 

Henri Rabaud (1873-1949)

In my opinion, the only other French score of the silent period that ever approached the quality of Schmitt’s Salammbô (in terms of big symphonic efforts) was Rabaud’s 1927 Le joueur d’échecs.

It’s true:  After Le Miracle des loups, Rabaud came back and gave film one more try. This time, he was much more successful. Frankly, were it not for Schmitt leading the way, I don’t think Rabaud would ever have written something so synchronized and colorful.

Unfortunately, Le joueur d’échecs was not composed for the Paris Opéra; had it been, they might finally have had the great project they’d long sought.

PLN:  Which film scores that came along later do you see as an outgrowth or a continuation of this style of music — even if this specific piece didn’t influence those later scores? 

DA:  The 1920s laid the groundwork for many of the great symphonic film scores that came in the following decades. That’s why this period is so important, despite the fact that it’s often just a footnote in history books.

Early film pulled many of its ideas from opera, ballet, songwriting, vaudeville, and Opéra comique traditions. By the 1920s, these ideas were becoming synthetized and re-focused as they’d never been before.

Max Steiner is often thought of as the father of the modern film score. He was brilliant — a genius — no doubt about it. But, he was largely following the established trends of the ’20s. That’s when film music as we know it was conceived, and Schmitt’s work was an important part of that. 

The trends of the ’20s continue to this day. I spent years studying Howard Shore’s scores to The Lord of the Rings films. Like Salammbô, they’re packed with leitmotifs, unusual orchestrations, choral texts, etc. The Lord of the Rings’ choral texts were written in English as well as J.R.R. Tolkien’s created languages for Elves, Dwarves, and ancient Men.

Salammbô’s choral texts were written in both French and a reheated version of Punic, the extinct Carthaginian language — though a quasi-Latin phonetic translation of the latter rendered its original meaning largely unintelligible.

Shore sounds nothing like Schmitt, but on a conceptual level, their work in film can be incredibly similar.

PLN:  Considering scores for “epic” films such as this one, which three or four do you consider the most important from a musical standpoint?  And does the score to Salammbô approach these others in terms of its worth? 

DA:  Part of the reason I find the scores of the silent period so fascinating is that this era represents one of the few ‘closed loops’ in film music’s history. That day is over, so we can, with some confidence, step back and assess what’s there.

I would definitely point to Salammbô as one of the greatest scores to come out of this period, despite the fact that the film itself was unsuccessful. But, in terms of music, it’s right up there with Mascagni’s Rapsodia Satanica, Mortimer Wilson’s The Thief of Bagdad, Edmund Meisel’s Battleship Potemkin, Gottfried Huppertz’ Metropolis, Shostakovich’s Novyy Vavilon, or any such essential works. 

It’s a little more difficult to assess the lasting contribution of modern works. Despite its debt to its ancestors, Steiner’s King Kong really did kick off a new age in film music — and in many ways, that’s the age we’re still in.

Symphonic film music has gone in and out of style many times over, but it’s always part of the landscape. When we turn the page again (and, frankly, I hope we don’t do it within my lifetime), it’ll be easier to cherry-pick the finest scores of the sound film period.

In the meantime, it’s a living art:  It’s fresh and compelling, but difficult to judge wholesale.

PLN:  Are there any other observations you’d like to share about the Salammbô score or any other music of Florent Schmitt that you might know? 

DA:  I think much of Florent Schmitt’s music is on the level of Ravel, but he wasn’t a tunesmith, per se. And that’s fine; there was no reason he should have been.

He was wise to capitalize on his strengths — color; exoticism; long, seamlessly flowing lines; unusual orchestral combinations; invisible meters that occasionally stiffened into devices of asymmetrical propulsion.

Unfortunately, his music was often unjustly ignored by those just looking for a catchy tune. There is no Boléro in his catalogue.

Today, orchestras are often too afraid to schedule works that aren’t guaranteed to pack concert halls — especially large, expensive works, such as Schmitt’s often were. But, there’s a treasure trove just waiting to be discovered.

I would love to see the score from his ballet La Tragédie de Salomé — which is, in many ways, a sister score to Salammbô — become a concert hall staple. 

PLN:  You are known for your analytical work with the Lord of the Rings film scores.  Please tell us about new projects you may be working on regarding writing about film music or related activities.

DA:  I still pop up here and there talking about the Rings scores. I was at the KKL [Kultur- und Kongresszentrum Luzern] in Switzerland in April, and will be in Salt Lake City and at Chicago’s Ravinia Festival later this summer.

At the same time, I’m beginning to work on analyzing some of the material in Howard Shore’s scores to the Hobbit films. I’ve been contributing liner notes to the album releases and helping with the DVD documentaries during the past few months — the latter of which is odd, since I’m not yet used to being an on-camera guy. (I’m doing my best to perfect my Dwarvish pronunciation!) 

The majority of my work during the past few years, however, has been dedicated to the study of film music’s first quarter-century. The timeline that I began assembling for Hugo has grown and is now a full book that we’re finishing up this summer.

It’s been an enormously rewarding project.  I can honestly say it’s entirely changed my view of this unique art. I’m hoping we can share the fruits of this labor soon.

For a leading film score specialist such as Doug Adams to hold Salammbô in such high esteem, is ample proof that Schmitt’s music is well-worth seeking out.

The three suites that the composer extracted from the full film score have been recorded just once, back in the early 1990s.  Fortunately for us, it’s an excellent interpretation, masterfully performed by l’Orchestre National d’Ile de France under the direction of Jacques Mercier.

Listeners can also get a taste of the music via hearing portions of the score that have been uploaded to YouTube, courtesy of Jean-Christian Bonnet’s excellent music channel:

• Suite #3:  The War Pact … At the Council of the Elders … The Massacre at the Pass … Hamilcar’s Procession
• Suite #3:  Mathô’s Death

See if you don’t agree that this is one of the most distinctive — and gripping — film scores ever penned.

Chromatic harp (cross-strung harp), manufactured by the Pleyel company in the late 1800s and early 1900s.

In the early years of the 20th Century, several French composers would pen some highly interesting compositions that have given harp players some great repertoire items in the ensuing decades.

The composers in question were Claude Debussy, André Caplet, Maurice Ravel … and Florent Schmitt.  And the instigation was the arrival of the chromatic harp on the musical scene.

Invented in the late 19th Century to accommodate increasing chromaticism in orchestral music, the chromatic harp (also known as a cross-strung harp) differed from the pedal harp in that it removed the impediments posed by the conventional double-action pedal system then in use.

The chromatic harp featured two sets of strings — one tuned to C major and the other tuned to F-sharp pentatonic (similar to a piano), making it possible for the harpist to play any note from either side of the instrument.  The two sets of strings crossed near the midpoint of the strings, enabling the player’s hands to reach both sets of strings at the point of greatest resonance.

The chromatic harp was brought out by the Parisian firm of Pleyel Wolff et Cie. (later to become famous for resurrecting the harpsichord in a super-robust version championed by Wanda Landowska — a model that paid very little heed to historical precedents).

The Pleyel chromatic harp gained an early foothold in Belgium and France, where it was taught at the leading music conservatories in both countries.

To further its acceptance, beginning in 1903 the Pleyel company commissioned leading composers of the day to write music for the instrument.

Debussy, Ravel, Caplet and Schmitt were happy to oblige, along with a number of other composers such as Alfredo Casella, Reynaldo Hahn, Joseph Jongen, Paul Le Flem and Jean Roger-Ducasse (plus a goodly number of now-forgotten names).

In addition to an extensive group of solo pieces composed for the chromatic harp, the key concertante pieces that resulted from the Pleyel commissions were these four:

• Debussy: Danses sacrée et profane for Chromatic Harp and String Quartet (1904)

• Schmitt: Andante et scherzo for Chromatic Harp and String Quartet, Op. 35 (1903-6)

• Ravel: Introduction et allegro for Chromatic Harp, Flute, Clarinet and String Quartet (1906)

• Caplet: Conte fantastique for Chromatic Harp and String Quartet (1908)

Despite its star-studded introduction and the attention lavished upon it by the composers of the day, the chromatic harp would prove to be a bit of a short-term wonder.  Its popularity never stretched much beyond Belgium and France, and within a few short years new improvements in the design of pedal harps reestablished their preeminence as the “instrument of choice” for symphony orchestras.

Happily, music composed for chromatic harp can be rearranged for pedal harp without much difficulty, which is exactly what has been done with the four works above — either by the composers themselves or by others.

Of the four compositions, it’s safe to say that Schmitt’s work is the least known.  Both the Ravel and Debussy works have been established staples in the recital hall for decades now.  And little wonder, either, since both of them are fresh, highly engaging pieces that never grow old.

The only recording of Florent Schmitt’s Andante et Scherzo, with Sandrine Chatron and the Elias String Quartet, also features music by Debussy and Caplet (Ambroisie label).

Caplet’s Conte fantastique (which, incidentally, was inspired by Edgar Allen Poe’s Masque of the Red Death just as Poe’s writings also inspired compositions by Schmitt and Debussy) isn’t as famous as the Debussy and Ravel works.  But it isn’t unknown, either.  In fact, the piece also exists in a version for harp and full orchestra, which has given it an added level of awareness as conductors like Felix Slatkin and Georges Prêtre have seen fit to record it.

By comparison, Schmitt’s Andante et Scherzo is a real rarity – and to my knowledge, it has been recorded just once, on a rather elusive CD recorded in Paris in 2004 by the music label Ambroisie.

Sandrine Chatron

Fortunately for us, it is a fine quality recording, performed by interpreters who know the music well and have an obvious affinity for it — the French harpist Sandrine Chatron and the Manchester, UK-based Elias String Quartet.

These same musicians have also performed the piece in recital in various European countries — most recently a series of concerts in Italy in December 2013.

In comparing the four concertante works — which range from 10 to 17 minutes in length — Schmitt’s 14-minute piece occupies a sort of middle ground between the pleasant, divertissement-like strains of the Debussy and Ravel compositions, and the contrasting “high drama” of the Caplet piece, related as that one is to Poe’s gripping storyline in The Masque of the Red Death.

Elias String Quartet

The Schmitt piece is in a tertiary form.  The composer brings out the harp’s expressive qualities in two rather pensive outer slow sections that feature the instrument’s undulating arpeggios contrasted with the extended and accented phrases of the strings.

The central portion of the piece is a sparkling and dazzling Scherzo, displaying great rhythmic freedom even as the listener thrills to the stunning pyrotechnics of the harp, with the strings participating equally in the musical romp.  It’s fetching and addictively rich — and no mere trifle, either.

Eventually the Adagio music returns, quoting the same leitmotivs as before, and the work ends quietly.

It’s quite the little adventure — and emotionally very satisfying.

Pauline Haas

Although I have found no other recording of this music besides the Chatron/Elias performance on Ambroisie, the Andante et Scherzo isn’t completely unknown; the piece shows up in recital now and again.  In addition to Sandrine Chatron, another harpist who has championed this music in performance is Pauline Haas, playing it most recently in Strasbourg, France in concert with the Ensemble Volutes.

Here’s one more interesting bit of information:  It appears that Schmitt had another trick up his sleeve regarding this composition.  According to documents on file at the Pleyel company, Schmitt also prepared a version of the Andante et Scherzo for harp with full orchestra.

How interesting to ever have the chance to hear that version in performance; knowing Schmitt’s extraordinary capabilities in writing for the orchestra, we can only imagine how colorful and engaging it would be …

A sonic “experience”: Florent Schmitt’s Psalm 47, composed in 1904.

There is little question that Florent Schmitt’s Psaume XLVII, Op. 38, composed in 1904,  is one of the most powerful compositions in the choral repertoire.

Indeed, the forces called for in this music — large chorus, large orchestra, soprano solo and organ — make it nearly unique in the French repertoire.  When it had its premiere in 1906, it hit the Parisian music world like a thunderbolt.

Audiences knew they were hearing something much more significant than just the first performance of a new work.  The French poet and essayist Léon-Paul Fargue echoed the sentiments of many when he wrote of the Psalm: “A great crater of music is opening up.” Ravel declared the music “striking and profound,” and others spoke of Schmitt as “the new Berlioz.”

The music director for the premiere was Désiré-Émile Inghelbrecht, the famous French conductor who would never tire of performing the Psalm.  Indeed, Maestro Inghelbrecht performed it last in 1964, nearly 60 years later.

That 1964 concert, along with four other live performances led by conductors such as Eugene Ormandy and Leon Botstein, have been captured for posterity and are listed in this post, including links to those performances.

[for additional background on the music and how it came to be composed, this article on the Florent Schmitt blog provides details.]

But what about commercially-released recordings of the Psalm?  There have been six of them released over the years … but the first one didn’t appear until nearly a half-century after the work was composed.

The first recording of Florent Schmitt’s Psaume XLVII, in the deluxe packaging of the American release on Angel Records.

It was a celebrated recording, made by the Paris Conservatoire Orchestra in the presence of the composer.  The star-studded cast of performers included the Elisabeth Brasseur Chorale along with Denise Duval, a well-loved soprano who would go on to portray several important Poulenc opera heroines in the 1950s and 1960s — and who is still active today (in her nineties) as a teacher and vocal coach.

Also featured on the inaugural recording was the great organist-composer Maurice Duruflé, along with the entire massed forces directed by conductor Georges Tzipine.

Twenty years would go by before the appearance of the next commercial recording.  And for many music lovers, it is this one that remains the touchstone recording.  In it, Jean Martinon directs the O.R.T.F. forces, supported by the ravishing soprano solo of Andréa Guiot and the powerful pipe organ of the Salle Wagram as played by the legendary Gaston Litaize.

In the views of some, the Martinon recording has never been surpassed, even though three additional recordings have appeared in recent years featuring the conductors Marek Janowski, Thierry Fischer and Yan-Pascal Tortelier.

Salle Wagram, Paris — the recording venue of Jean Martinon’s recording of Schmitt’s Psaume 47.

Speaking personally, I find the 2006 Tortelier recording, made in São Paulo, Brazil, equally as inspired as the Martinon.  But in truth, each of the six interpretations has its merits.

Indeed, we are lucky to have this many choices, because to undertake a recording of the Psalm takes a substantial financial commitment.

Listed below are details on each of the commercial recordings of Psaume XLVII, with one additional rendition included — Jean Fournet’s 1992 live concert recording that has been released commercially on the Japanese Fontec label.  It’s another idiomatic reading, led by a conductor who was perhaps somewhat underrated during his career.

Paris Conservatoire Orchestra; Chorale Elisabeth Brasseur; Denise Duval, soprano; Maurice Duruflé, organist; Georges Tessier, violinist; Georges Tzipine, conductor.  Recorded November 23-24, 1952 (in the presence of the composer), Palais de Chaillot (Paris) … Original LP release:  EMI/Columbia FCX 171 and Angel 35020 … CD reissue:  EMI 585204-2 (with works by Auric, Durey, Honegger, Milhaud, Poulenc, Roussel, Tailleferre)

L’Orchestre National et Chœurs de l’O.R.T.F.; Andrea Guiot, soprano; Gaston Litaize, organist; Jean Martinon, conductor.  Recorded October 13-14, 1972, Salle Wagram (Paris) … Original LP release:  EMI/Pathé Marconi C 069-12166 and EMI ASD 2892 Stereo/Quadraphonic … CD reissue:  EMI CDC 749748-2 (with works by Schmitt, Debussy) and 764368-2 (with works by Roussel)

L’Orchestre Philharmonique et Chœurs de Radio-France; Sharon Sweet, soprano; Jean-Louis Gil, organist, Guy Commentale, violinist; Marek Janowski, conductor.  Recorded  May 1989, Église de Notre-Dame du Travail (Paris) … Original CD release:  Erato 2292-45029-2  Stereo … CD reissue:  Apex 2564-62764-2 (with other works by Schmitt) and Erato 8573-85636-2 (with other works by Schmitt)

Tokyo Metropolitan Symphony Orchestra; Shinyu-kai Chorus; Shinobu Sato, soprano; Naomi Matsui, organist; Jean Fournet, conductor.  Recorded December 8, 1992 (live concert recording), Suntory Hall (Tokyo) … Original CD release:  Fontec FOCD 9249 (with works by Debussy, Rameau)

BBC National Orchestra and Chorus of Wales; Christine Buffle, soprano; Charles Humphries, organist; Leslie Hatfield, violinist; Thierry Fischer, conductor.  Recorded October 24-25, 2006, Brangwyn Hall, Guildhall (Swansea) … Original CD release:  Hyperion DCA 67599  Stereo  (with other works by Schmitt)

Orquesta Sinfónica e Coro do Estado de São Paulo; Susan Bullock, soprano; Cláudio Cruz, violinist; Yan-Pascal Tortelier, conductor.  Recorded July 5-9, 2010, Júlio Prestes Cultural Center (São Paulo) … Original CD release:  Chandos CHSA 5090  Super Audio  (with other works by Schmitt)

It is a measure of the worthiness of this music that every single one of the commercial recordings ever made of Schmitt’s Psalm 47 remains available today.

A life full of music: Felix Aprahamian (1914-2005).

Felix Aprahamian (1914-2005) is probably the closest thing to a renaissance man we’ve seen in the 20th Century — at least in the realm of music.

Born into an Armenian immigrant mercantile family in London in 1914, he spent his entire life in the service of music, despite having trained for a career in business.

In later years, Aprahamian would remark, “I failed matriculation because I discovered music.”

And he indulged those musical interests with a prodigious passion and flamboyance that left many people shaking their heads in disbelief.

Consider any aspect of organizing and promoting concerts … and it’s likely something Felix Aprahamian participated in during his long life.  He was concert director of the London Philharmonic Orchestra during the 1940s, and for nearly 40 years worked for United Music Publishers, which was the agent for the most important Parisian music publishing houses such as Durand, Mathot and Salabert.

Aprahamian also served as a music critic for the Sunday Times roughly contemporaneously with his tenure at UMP.  His music columns were popular with readers, and he was known for his literate (and humane) commentary.

He also contributed reviews of recordings to Gramophone magazine, and wrote program notes for concerts and recordings that were notable for their literacy and elegance.

Charles-Marie Widor, French organist and composer (1844-1937).

A proficient organist himself although largely self-taught, Aprahamian became assistant secretary of the U.K.’s Organ Music Society at the tender age of 17.  His love for the organ is what took him to France in 1933, where he met the great French organist-composer Charles-Marie Widor, then in his late eighties.

It was also in France that Aprahamian met Frederick Delius at his home in Grez-sur-Loing, which resulted in a lifelong passion for Delius’ music.  Aprahamian was an advisor to the Delius Trust from 1961 onwards, and later served as president of the Society.

[Among his greatest satisfactions was learning that Delius' compositions had been selected for broadcast over the public address systems for British mass transit stations as a deterrent to vandals!]

But it’s safe to contend that French music was Aprahamian’s greatest passion of all — and it was in his role as a concert organizer and promoter that he would bring many new French works to British audiences starting in the late 1930s, extending through the war years and beyond.

In 1938, Aprahamian organized the first complete performance in England of Olivier Messiaen’s La Nativité du Seigneur, played by the composer himself.  It was the first of many such concerts he would put together for the edification of British audiences.

His prodigious knowledge of French music led Aprahamian to organize the Concerts de Musique Française for the Free French in London during the war years.  Begun in 1942, he would present 104 concerts in all, performed at venues such as Wigmore Hall.

The late John Amis, music editor for The Guardian newspaper and a long-time acquaintance of Felix Aprahamian, recounted the importance of these efforts in his tribute to the impresario published at the time of Aprahamian’s death in 2005:

“His finest achievement was that he made British music lovers more familiar with French music.  Working with Toni Mayer, cultural attaché at the embassy in London, Felix organized over 100 concerts for the Free French during the Second World War.  Not just Debussy and Ravel, but also Fauré, Saint-Saëns, Roussel, Florent Schmitt — not forgetting Baroque masters such as Rameau and Couperin, through Berlioz to all of Les Six and on to Messiaen.  For the audiences, it was like an education that had previously been manquée.”

As for Aprahamian’s relationship with Florent Schmitt, it dates from the year 1937 when the two men met one another at the International Society for Contemporary Music (ISCM) Festival in Paris.  That initial acquaintance would turn into strong a friendship in the 1950s.  Aprahamian visited Schmitt at his residence in St. Cloud, and Schmitt would do the same during his trip to London in 1956 when his ballet La Tragédie de Salomé was being performed there.

Florent Schmitt (l.) and Ralph Vaughan-Williams (r.), photographed in London in 1956.

It was during the London trip that Aprahamian organized a meeting between Schmitt and the English composer Ralph Vaughan-Williams, whose friendship with Schmitt dated back to Vaughan-Williams’ stay in Paris before the First World War.  A photograph taken at the time shows the two elderly gentlemen in conversation; we can only speculate about the memories they might have been sharing from those halcyon days a half-century before.

Felix Aprahamian would also be present for the premiere performance of Schmitt’s last orchestral work, the Symphony No. 2, Opus 137, which was performed by Charles Munch and the O.R.T.F. Orchestra at the Strasbourg Music Festival on June 15, 1958.

In fact, a photo snapped at the conclusion of the concert shows Schmitt departing the concert hall on the arm of Felix Aprahamian.

Florent Schmitt and Felix Aprahamian at the world premiere performance of Schmitt’s Symphony No. 2 in Strasbourg, France in June 1958. Also pictured are composer-critic Gustave Samazeuilh, pianist Frank Mannheimer and musicologist Marc Pincherlé.

The photograph is emblematic of a friendship between the old master and the younger impresario that was bound by mutual admiration and respect.

Barely two months later, Schmitt would pass away, just shy of his 88th birthday.  Having been born sandwiched between Claude Debussy and Maurice Ravel, he had outlasted both by decades — as well as the musical style that had given them their fame.

Speaking of which … Felix Aprahamian never wavered in his devotion to the French musical style of the early- and mid-1900s.

In the remaining decades of his life, he would continue to promote the work of the many French musicians he had been privileged to know personally, ranging from composers like Florent Schmitt, Albert Roussel, Francis Poulenc, Charles Tournemire, Maurice Duruflé, Jean Langlais and Olivier Messiaen … to conductors such as Ernest Ansermet, Charles Munch and Roger Désormière … to performers like the pianist Monique Haas and the cellist Pierre Fournier.

In his later years, Felix Aprahamian was a veritable walking encyclopedia of classical music in the 20th century.  In lectures and meetings, he would regale his audiences with anecdotes about the composers and musicians he had come to know.

Continuing the legacy: Florent Schmitt’s grandson, Paul Schmitt, visits with Felix Aprahamian in the gardens of the impresario’s house in Muswell Hill, London, in September 1997. Aprahamian’s home was always open to all who shared his love for classical music and the arts. [Photo courtesy of David Eccott.]

Felix Aprahamian with his protégé, the organist David Liddle, at St. Paul’s Cathedral, London (2001). [Photo: Oscar Rook]

Recognition of Felix Aprahamian’s contributions to music manifested itself in numerous ways.  In 1994, on the occasion of his 80th birthday, Aprahamian was named an Honorary Member of the Royal Philharmonic Society.  The Nash Ensemble presented a concert in his honor to a sellout crowd at Wigmore Hall.  (Predictably, the program consisted of French music almost exclusively.)

As a person who never married, Felix Aprahamian lived in the same house in London’s Muswell Hill District from the age of five on.  It was described by many as a “shrine to music” containing one of the most complete private music libraries to be found anywhere — not to mention a grand piano and later a pipe organ.

The organist André Marchal dubbed the dwelling “La Montagne des Muses.”  Aprahamian’s own description was a bit different; he often referred to his home as “The House of Usher.”

Recalling Edgar Allen Poe’s famous story, this name took on a frightful new relevance when Aprahamian’s home almost did come crashing to the ground.  In a fruitless effort to find more usable space for his burgeoning collection of books and scores, he’d added shelves in the attic loft — which promptly caused giant cracks to appear in the structure.

Aprahamian’s home was always open to anyone serious about music, and he encouraged his visitors to consult the many books and scores in his library for their research.  David Liddle remembers “a house full of people, even on ordinary weekdays.”

Realizing this aspect of Aprahamian’s welcoming nature and openness makes it easy to understand why we have this 1998 video, posted on YouTube, of a busload of brass musicians stopping by Aprahamian’s house to serenade him and then escorting him to an outdoor musical event commemorating the birthday of British composer Peter Warlock.

For Aprahamian, happenings like that were par for the course:  All in a day’s work — or all in a day’s fun.

Sprinkled throughout the catalogue of Florent Schmitt’s compositions are a goodly number of shorter orchestral pieces. They range in their moods from contemplative to joyous to stormy.

One of these orchestral miniatures that I find particularly compelling is Rêves, Op. 65 (Dreams), a work that Schmitt began composing in 1913.  He prepared a piano version of the score in that year, and the orchestration was completed two years later.

The composer had just finished putting the final touches on the score when he was called up for World War I military service.  It was a period of time in Schmitt’s life that he would later characterize, in a letter to fellow composer Igor Stravinsky, as “two less-than-amusing years of militarism.”

Rêves is a short work, lasting under ten minutes in duration.  But despite its brevity, it is a concentrated, intense piece even in its quiet moments.

The Symbolist poet Léon-Paul Fargue (left), pictured with Maurice Ravel (near left) and other members of “Les Apaches.”

Indeed, the reveries in this music are not “sweet dreams” at all.  Rather, it’s more like a fitful, hallucinatory experience for the listener.

It helps for understanding to know that Schmitt took a poem written by the French symbolist poet Léon-Paul Fargue (1876-1947) as inspiration for this work.

Fargue was a fellow member of Les Apaches, a group of Parisian musicians, artists and writers that was a precursor to Les Six.  Fargue’s verses would serve as inspiration for other Schmitt compositions as well, such as the “Solitude” movement from the composer’s piano suite Crépuscules.

Fargue’s words that head the music score translate into English roughly as follows:

“Watch our days and our dreams passing;

Old accomplices show them to us, as we look at these pictures.

They distinguish the nocturnal screen;

They come forward with the suspended steps of those who love us, when mystery chimes on the threshold of feverish nights.”

I think the essayist and music critic Benoît Duteurtre puts it rather well when he describes how the music in Rêves unfolds “like a free commentary.”

Schmitt scored the work for his customary large orchestra, including full winds and brass, an entire battery of percussion instruments, plus celesta and two harps.

As in a feverish dream, the music swells and abates in successive waves — and is often quiet rather than loud.  The writing is dense in texture — and very rich in its changing sound colors.

In its near-suffocating mood and intensity, I find that Rêves shares similarities with Schmitt’s very next opus number, the Légende, Op. 66 for saxophone (or viola) and orchestra.  That work was completed in 1919, and if you compare the two pieces of music, I think you’ll hear same kind of intense, unsettled atmospherics.

Is it possible that World War I, and Schmitt’s experiences in it, informed the nature of these two works?  There are no explicit indications to that effect.  Moreover, Rêves was completed before Schmitt’s military service started (although the war had been going for some months by then).  And the Légende would not be composed until after the end of the war.

Still, it’s hard not to think that wartime circumstances contributed in some manner to the general flavor of both compositions.  Certainly, any “resolution” that we may hear at the end of either piece doesn’t come across as anything particularly definitive or cathartic.

Rêves received its first performance in November 1918 in Paris, in a combined Lamoureux/Colonne Orchestra concert under the direction of Camille Chevillard.  But the first recording of the piece wouldn’t come along until nearly 70 years later.

First recording: Leif Segerstam and the Rhineland-Pfalz State Philharmonic (1987).

To my knowledge, there have been just two commercial recordings ever released of Rêves.  The first one, made in 1987 by Leif Segerstam and Rheinland-Pfalz State Philharmonic Orchestra, originally appeared on Cybelia, a short-lived French record label with only limited distribution in the United States.

That performance was later reissued by NAXOS/Marco Polo, and it remains available today.

Second recording: David Robertson and the Monte-Carlo Philharmonic (1993).

The second recording was made in 1993 by David Robertson and L’Orchestre Philharmonique de Monte-Carlo, and was released on the Valois label.

Compared to the Segerstam interpretation, Robertson’s is a more broadly expansive reading — adding a full minute to the recording time.

I find that both interpretations serve the music quite well, even if my own personal preference goes to the slightly more taut Segerstam approach.

You can hear the Segerstam recording for yourself, as that one has been uploaded to YouTube.

Give it a listen.  See if you don’t agree that Schmitt has conjured up a highly effective hallucinatory dream-sequence — one that contains a healthy dose of ominous foreboding to go along with the magical atmosphere.

“For Verdi, music was an integral part of reality … a force behind history …”

In something of a change of pace for regular readers of the Florent Schmitt Blog, this post is on the topic of the Italian operatic composer Giuseppe Verdi (1813-1901).  Highly successful during his lifetime, his fame has hardly dimmed in the century following his death.

I think it’s fair to consider Verdi the single most influential voice in opera, despite the considerable influence other composers like Gluck and Wagner had on the medium as well.

In 2013, the bicentennial anniversary of Verdi’s birth, an important new work was published in Italy about Giuseppe Verdi.  The book’s full title is Ascoltando Verdi:  Scrigni di Musica, filosofia politica e vita (Listening to Verdi:  Shrines of Music, Political Philosophy and Life), and its author is Alberto Nones.

The book approaches the topic differently than the usual biographical and musicological volumes that are published about composers.  Instead, the book reveals the composer and the man through the 26 operas that Verdi created over his lengthy career.

The story behind each opera — incorporating the musical, artistic, philosophical, social and political aspects — is presented.  In doing so, we come to know the persona of Verdi in a surprisingly different and revealing way.  And since the trajectory of Verdi’s life paralleled the struggle for Italian unification and independence, the musical and the socio-political were inextricably combined.  It makes for a highly interesting adventure.

The author of Ascoltando Verdi is Alberto Nones.  Before you jump immediately to the conclusion that he and I are related, I wish to report that … we don’t really know for sure.  His family name is Trentino Italian, whereas my own heritage is French/Iberian Jewish.

What is important is that Alberto Nones is both a musician and a scholar.  After studying piano performance in conservatory, he went on to earn a Laurea degree in Philosophy from the University of Bologna … then a Master’s degree in Political Theory from the London School of Economics … then a Ph.D. in International Studies from the University of Trento … then becoming a visiting fellow at the University of Cambridge in the U.K. and being named a Fulbright Scholar as well as a 2009-10 Olin-Lehrman Postdoctoral Fellow at Princeton University.

… All of which means that he approaches the life and work of Verdi in a unique and special way.

Alberto Nones

Because Ascoltando Verdi has not been published in an English translation (yet), I wanted to ask Alberto Nones to share his perspectives on Verdi and what he discovered when researching and writing this book … for the benefit of the many non-Italian speakers who read the Florent Schmitt Blog and whose love for classical music extends well beyond Paris of the early-to-mid 20th century.

[Even better for me, Alberto Nones was kind enough to share his thoughts and perspectives in English!]

PLN:  How did you become interested in Giuseppe Verdi and his music?

AN:  I had known the music of Verdi since I was a small boy.  But my interest really grew in the process of writing my Ph.D. dissertation in political theory on the concept of “patriotism.”   

I developed the idea that one could look at the concept in a new way — that is, approaching patriotism not simply with reference to political theory, doctrines and treatises, but also with reference to music (that abstract but powerful art-form) and more specifically operas, which were even more influential at the time.   

It was the United States that gave me the opportunity to research this, by means of a post-doc at the James Madison Program of Princeton University. 

Even though the world thinks of Verdi as a musician only — an opera composer — he was more than that.  You could say that Verdi was one of the founding fathers of Italy.  He was highly prominent in the period from the 1840s to the 1860s during the time of the Risorgimento when music — and opera in particular — served the cause of motivating Italians in their struggle against foreign oppression and the fight for independence. 

PLN:  There have been numerous biographies about Verdi published over the years.  Your book is different from a standard biography.  What was the inspiration behind the book, and what special aspects of Verdi as a musician and as a person did you wish to emphasize?

AN:  Musicology is widely conceived as a sector discipline.  But to me, music is immersed in the world — breathing in it, and inextricably linked to many other human activities.  For this reason, I wanted to write a book on Verdi that was neither a volume aimed at musicologists nor just another biography.  Instead, I wanted to create one that looks at all of his operas in the context of the social, philosophical and political views represented in them.

PLN:  In doing your research for the book, were there aspects of Verdi’s character or musical output that surprised you, or that are not generally known or appreciated?

AN:  Most people familiar with classical music and opera know just a half-dozen or so of Verdi’s operas — ones like Traviata, Aida, Otello, Trovatore, Rigoletto, Falstaff and Nabucco.   

But Verdi composed 26 operas, plus various remakes.  Many of these are extraordinarily beautiful but hardly known — and should be rediscovered. 

And this aspect is important, too:  All of them are significant in the development of Verdi’s music and ideas, pointing to his trajectory in the expression of patriotism (which is not always celebratory).  Each of the operas reflects a moment in the development of the artistic and social atmosphere and spirit of the time — Italian and European (and hence, culturally speaking, universal).   

So the book doesn’t study just the “greatest hits.”  It presents all of the operas, recounting the story behind their composition, narrating each plot with its philosophical and socio-political reverberations, and describing how these factors inform the music — and even trying to convey a ‘sense’ of the music.

PLN:  In what ways did Verdi influence other composers of the day — in the field of opera and in the broader classical music realm?

AN:  First, it’s important to recognize that Verdi was THE Italian composer of the day, from the 1840s on.   

Why is this so?  Because Verdi realized, interpreted and projected — better than anyone else — what music’s role was.  Music was an integral part of reality, a force behind history.  This was what Verdi, and no one else in Italy in those days, was able to achieve. 

Giuseppina Strepponi (1815-1897): Verdi’s companion after the death of his wife.

Considering that the rest of Europe looked to Italy when it came to opera, it’s easy to understand how Verdi could then be a major influence on others during this time.  Allowing for important distinctions between the two, even Wagner was somewhat influenced by Verdi.

PLN:  Did Verdi have any special connection to the musical life of Paris, considering how important opera was there throughout the 19th Century?

AN:  Verdi did spend considerable time in Paris, and actually lived there at the beginning of his relationship with the soprano Giuseppina Strepponi, with whom he shared his life after the tragic death of his first wife and children. 

The premiere of Verdi’s opera Les vêpres siciliennes in Paris in 1855 was influential in France’s decision to support the independence and unification movements in the Italian peninsula.

But the relationship between Verdi and Paris goes well beyond this biographical occurrence. 

In 1855, when Piedmont’s prime minister, the Count of Cavour, was attempting to convince Emperor Napoleon III of France to side with the Italians in their struggle for independence from the Austrian Empire, Verdi composed an opera, in French, which was premiered at the Paris Opéra.

That opera was Les vêpres siciliennes (I Vespri Siciliani).  Its story was of the Sicilian rebellion against French oppression in Palermo in the 13th Century.  Verdi wanted the French of his day to identify with the Italians who had been oppressed by the French centuries before.   

He had a goal:  He wanted France to play a reverse role in history. 

Incredibly, he was able to achieve this ambitious goal, following the notable participation of Piedmont in the war which France, England and the Ottoman Empire had won against the Russians in the Crimean Peninsula in 1853-56.   

One could say that attendance at the Paris Opéra was “socially mandatory” among the political and cultural elites of Paris, and so Verdi was able to use his opera to “influence the influencers.”   

In the event, France was to sign an alliance with Piedmont and the Italian independence partisans soon after.  The French spilled their own blood for the liberation and unification of the Italian peninsula at the battles of Magenta and Solferino in 1859.

PLN:  Which French composers, if any, were influential on Verdi?

Giacomo Meyerbeer (1791-1864)

AN:  It’s quite clear that Verdi was influenced by Meyerbeer, the greatest French opera composer in the years before Bizet, Massenet and Saint-Saëns. 

The very notion of mammoth operatic musical tragedies based on historical events — often in five acts, no less — was a French thing (or more specifically, a Meyerbeer thing — although one shouldn’t forget Rossini’s Guillaume Tell or, even more importantly, his Mosè in Egitto, composed as early as 1818 and then revised for the Paris Opéra in 1827). 

But soon Verdi was to turn the tables:  He was offered the services of the two greatest French librettists of the time — Eugène Scribe and Charles Duveyrier.  Hector Berlioz, in his laudatory review of the five-act Vêpres siciliennes in La France Musicale, wrote of a “majesté souveraine de la musique.” 

Verdi had surpassed even Meyerbeer.

PLN:  Do you know of any particular influences that Verdi may have had on French musical style?

The evidence certainly points to some.  To mention one in particular, I consider Verdi’s Il Trovatore, which is based on the drama El Trovador by the Spanish writer Antonio Garcia Gutiérrez, the first Carmen.   

Carmen had its premiere in Paris in 1875, but Trovatore had been first performed in Paris more than 20 years earlier, in 1854. 

The similarities go beyond aspects in the setting.  The main characters in both operas are mezzo-sopranos, which was an unusual practice at that time.   

Camille du Locle (1832-1903): The French impresario, theatre director and librettist worked with both Verdi and Bizet.

Indeed, I hear some similarities in the musical style of Bizet’s Carmen and Verdi’s opera Don Carlos. 

In fact, Bizet began composing his masterpiece in 1873 on the request of Camille du Locle, the impresario who had been Verdi’s librettist for Don Carlos.  So the connections are really quite extensive.

PLN:  In your view, what is the enduring legacy of Verdi in terms of his impact on opera and on classical music in general?

AN:  I don’t necessarily look at simply musical style.  It think it is more that Verdi represents passion and history conjoined.  As long as human beings have feelings, emotions and passions, Verdi’s position and legacy will be secure.  Verdi and his music represent the heritage of us all.

PLN:  Your book is lengthy — more than 500 pages!  It’s also thoroughly sourced and footnoted.  How long did you work on researching and writing it?

I wrote the first draft of the book while I was doing a one-year post-doctoral program at Princeton University.  (It was actually too short a time — I needed more.) 

During those very intense 12 months, I also had to complete another book that was published by Princeton University Press — an English translation of a titanic work by Maurizio Viroli titled As If God Existed:  Religion and Liberty in the History of Italy.  I am afraid that you might suspect me to be a “frantic” worker!

PLN:  What sort of reception is Ascoltando Verdi having in Italian cultural circles and elsewhere?

AN:  Like many works of its kind, the book is finding its way.  I particularly enjoy presenting the book before audiences, because it also gives me the opportunity to play and comment on excerpts from the operas that are covered in the book — some of them unknown to most people.   

Of course, the subject matter is a narrow one that appeals to a certain type of reader with certain interests.  And unfortunately, like people elsewhere in the world, many Italians don’t read so many books nowadays! 

Still, I am gratified by the reception it receives from those who read it.  One reason for this, I think, is that my book is less “musicological” than other books on Verdi, such as the three-volume work by Julian Budden.  Instead, my own book is free of jargon and technical musical analysis — and hence appropriate for a broader audience.

I am also in the process of finding a publisher to release the book in English.  I’m pleased to report that those plans appear to be gathering momentum. 

Of course, I’d like to add that no book on Verdi — or any other composer for that matter — should take the place of the music, or even attempt to do so.  The music is what should always prevail.  Scholarly research and the printed word should only serve the purpose of understanding the music a little better.   

As the author of the Florent Schmitt Blog, I know you must understand this completely because your posts always come back to the music itself!

PLN:  Tell us about your own personal background as a musician.

AN:  I am a pianist, having graduated from conservatory with a degree in piano performance.  I have been active for years — both as a soloist and as an accompanist for singers and in chamber music.  I also worked as a répétiteur in the opera house for about eight years, but not currently. 

I’ve always tried to combine my activities as a scholar with having a life in music.  It’s wonderful to be able to balance time spent writing about political theory with the very different experience of studying and performing Frédéric Chopin’s Piano Sonata #2, to reference just one example!

PLN:  What’s happening now?  Do you have any major new projects in the works?

AN:  Currently, I’m teaching political philosophy at the University of Trento, and recently I taught a course on creativity and communication at the University of Teramo.   

I’m also active as a radio author with RAI, the Italian national TV and radio network.  My RAI work has given me the opportunity to write and broadcast cycles of programs on Verdi, Chopin and … The Doors.   

Yes, The Doors!  I like to approach music from a wide angle and the widest possible perspective.  I believe there are no divisions … no sects.  Just sounds — and all of them are worth hearing. 

The Doors were also the subject of a small book I wrote about the band, titled Ascoltando i Doors:  L’America, l’infinito e le porte della percezione [Listening to The Doors:  America the Infinite and the Doors of Perception] which was published this year.  It would be interesting if this book could be brought out in English as well.

Riccardo Zandonai (1883-1944): Alberto Nones’ next project.

My current project is researching and writing a book on the Italian composer Riccardo Zandonai, a Trentino native who lived from 1883 to 1944.  Being a rough contemporary of Florent Schmitt, I’m sure all of your Schmitt scholars, fans and devotees throughout the world will be very interested in this!

For those of you who can read Italian and who have a love for opera — or even just the socio-political currents of the 19th Century — Alberto Nones’ book should prove to be a worthwhile addition to your library.  The book is available from numerous international online booksellers, including Amazon.

There is also a two-part interview on Italian radio with Alberto Nones talking about his book that is uploaded on YouTube in two parts, here and here.

And for those of us, like me, whose Italian isn’t a second (or even a third) language, hopefully we’ll have the opportunity to read the book in its English translation before too long!

Florent Schmitt with soprano Denise Duval at a reception given in Paris for the release of the premiere recording of Psaume XLVII (1953).

A living legend today — well into her nineties — the French soprano Denise Duval is a link to France’s glorious musical past.

History remembers her as the famous muse to Francis Poulenc, but Duval was also an important interpreter of the music of other significant French composers of the early- and mid-twentieth century — among them Claude Debussy, Maurice Ravel, Henri Büsser, Albert Roussel, Germaine Tailleferre, Darius Milhaud, Jacques Ibert … and Florent Schmitt.

Born in 1921, Denise Duval made her debut in Bordeaux in 1942, singing the role of Lola in Petro Mascagni’s Cavalleria rusticana.

She would soon make her mark in Paris, where, beginning with Madame Butterfly, she starred in productions at the Paris Opéra and the Opéra-Comique over a 20-year period that ended with her retirement in the mid-1960s at the age of 44.

The music critic Stephen Mudge has characterized Denise Duval as “the epitome of Parisian elegance” — and indeed, the photos of Mme. Duval during her years on the stage inevitably convey just such an image.

Likewise, her soprano voice was characteristic of the qualities many associate with the quintessential “French” style of singing — that is, a general fragility, precise intonation, and a noticeable lack of vibrato.

It’s not the type of singing one would associate with German opera or Central European lieder, but near-perfect for roles where emotion remains somewhat “in check” — and also for neo-classical or even “ironic” roles.

To say that the French conductor Francis Poulenc had an emotionally intimate if strictly platonic relationship with Denise Duval would not be an overstatement.  Poulenc first met Duval not at the opera house, but at the Folies-Bergère nightclub where she performed when she first arrived in Paris.

“Immediately, I was struck by her bright voice, her beauty, chic, and especially her hearty laughter,” Poulenc would say later.  “Instantly, I knew she would be the perfect interpreter [of my music].”

Francis Poulenc and his “feminine ideal,” the soprano Denise Duval.

It was a close professional and personal bond that would flourish during the last 15 years of Poulenc’s life and involve some of the composer’s most important works.

Denise Duval premiered the roles of Thérèse in Les mamelles de Tirésias (1947), Blanche de la Force in Dialogues des carmélites (1957), Elle in La Voix humaine (1959), and the Woman in La Dame de Monte-Carlo (1961).

Apart from the opera stage, Duval also gave recitals of Poulenc’s music, with the composer accompanying her on the piano.

It was with obvious affection that Poulenc referred to his friend and fellow musician as “my beloved doe” and “the nightingale of my tears.”

In later years, Duval would recall that Poulenc seemed more fascinated by her beauty and her acting above all else:  “Poulenc never spoke of my voice.  Instead, he would say, ‘Do you not think she is beautiful?'”

In a sense, Poulenc, who was not physically intimate with women during his life, may have been infatuated with the “idea” of feminine beauty as personified in Denise Duval.

One master class only: Denise Duval coaches students on Francis Poulenc’s La Voix humaine.

In the five decades since her retirement from the stage, Denise Duval has eschewed an active role in the music world — either in Paris or in Switzerland, where she lives today.  There was one notable exception:  Several years ago, portions of a single master class she gave on La Voix humaine were recorded.  This clip, courtesy of YouTube, provides a rare glimpse into Duval’s life on the stage, and of her relationship Francis Poulenc.

But we also have recordings, of course.  Throughout the 1950s, Denise Duval was a popular recording artist for Pathé-Marconi, the French recording arm of EMI.  Not surprisingly, those releases included the various Poulenc operas she created.

Denise Duval’s recording of Maurice Ravel’s comic opera L’Heure espagnole (1952).

And there were two other notable recordings made by Denise Duval in 1952:  Ravel’s 1909 comic opera L’Heure espagnole, in which she sings a riotously coquettish Concepción … and the world premiere recording of Florent Schmitt’s 1904 choral masterpiece Psaume XLVII, in which her evocation of the passion and mystery of the ecstatic middle section of the score may have been equaled in later recordings, but has never been bettered.

As the music critic Emile Vuillermoz wrote of Duval’s interpretation of the Psaume:

“We penetrate into the perfumed chamber of the Shulamite, who gives utterance to her soft, dove-like cooings.  A woman’s voice whispers, ‘He hath chosen in his inheritance the beauty of Jacob, whom he hath loved.’  And ecstatic murmurs accompany this recollection of divine goodness in a contemplative reverie through which pass all the perfumes of the East …”

Premiere recording: Florent Schmitt’s Psaume XLVII, with Denise Duval (1952).

Florent Schmitt was present during the recording session of the Psalm, which also featured an impressive roster of artists: the organist-composer Maurice Duruflé along with the Paris Conservatoire Orchestra and Chorus conducted by Georges Tzipine.

The polar opposite of Poulenc when it came to red-blooded romantic relationships with women, one can imagine how Schmitt was able to recognize wholly different dimensions in Denise Duval’s interpretation of the important soprano solo part in his Psalm.

Certainly, in the photos taken at a reception given at the time of the recording’s release in Paris, one can sense the keen admiration the older composer had for the soprano, his junior by 50 years.

Sixty years later and still in print: The premiere recording of Florent Schmitt’s Psalm 47, featuring the soprano Denise Duval.

Quite simply, it is a recording that remains interesting and important, more than 60 years after its release.

While it may be a surprise to discover that Denise Duval chose to remove herself completely from the music scene following her retirement from the stage at the relatively young age of 44 (the consequence of a medical ailment), a 2009 interview she gave to Stephen Mudge helps us understand her decision a bit better.

Asked by Mudge if Poulenc hadn’t discovered her, what music she would have sung instead, Duval replied:

“I wouldn’t have sung at all.  I wanted to act, and if [Jean] Cocteau hadn’t died, I would have given up singing and performed his plays.  I always detested singing.  I undertook a singing career — but I always detested it.”

It’s an honesty that may be rare to find in many artists … but it has always been a hallmark of Denise Duval.

The “Schmitten” ensemble was a National Finalist in the 2014 NZCT Chamber Music Contest in New Zealand, performing Florent Schmitt’s quartet Pour presque tous les temps. (Photo by Simon Darby, Wanaka Photography)

One of the most charming late works of Florent Schmitt is his quartet for flute, violin, cello and piano he titled Pour presque tous les temps, Opus 134 (“Quartet for Almost All the Time”).

Composed in 1956 for the Quatuor Instrumental de Paris, this four-movement work lasts barely 11 minutes, but is one of the most engaging pieces of music I’ve ever heard for this combination of instruments — not withstanding other laudable pieces written in the same vein by composers such as Jacques Ibert and Francis Poulenc.

In its freshness and vitality, it hardly seems the work of  a man who was in his mid-80s at the time of its composition.  It captivated me the very first time I heard it, and it never sounds “routine” — even after hearing it multiple times.

Unfortunately, Pour presque tous les temps has not been easily accessible to hear.  It’s been recorded only twice to my knowledge, and the earliest of the two recordings — a 2006 release on the Marcal label — appears to be out of print already.

Moreover, it’s a piece that is encountered in the concert hall all too rarely.

But now there’s good news:  This piece was one of the works performed at Chamber Music New Zealand’s 2014 NZCT Chamber Music Contest.

Not only that, the ensemble that performed the music was one of the finalists in a nationwide competition that included more than 500 secondary school ensembles participating in 2014 from all over the country.

The preliminary round was held in June, with just 14 groups selected to take part in a two-day National Finals event which was held in Christchurch in early August.

The Doric String Quartet, based in the U.K., adjudicated the National Finals round of the 2014 NZCT Chamber Music Contest in New Zealand. The Doric String Quartet’s own recordings include works of Schubert, Haydn, Schumann, Korngold and Walton.

Adjudicators for the 2014 National Finals round included members of the Doric String Quartet (Hélène Clément, John Myerscough, Alex Redington and Jonathan Stone).

Happily, an ensemble from Rangitoto College in Auckland calling itself “Schmitten” was one of the six National Finalists in the 2014 competition, performing Florent Schmitt’s Pour presque tous les temps.  The ensemble’s personnel includes flautist Jessica ‘Jisu’ Yun, violinist Seoyoung Lee, cellist Hyein Kim and pianist Rebecca Wan.

Even better, Schmitten’s award-winning performance of Pour presque tous les temps has now been uploaded on YouTube.

And a fine performance it is:  full of wonderful joie de vivre, along with being technically very tight and proficient.

“Smitten with Schmitten”: The judges were very impressed with the performance of Florent Schmitt’s Pour Presque tous les temps at the 2014 NZCT Chamber Music Contest.

I think it is particularly noteworthy that this ensemble chose to perform an unfamiliar work that has had very little exposure on recordings — thereby making it more of a challenge for these young players to come to know and to master the music.  (And having looked at the score, I find it similar to many other Schmitt manuscripts in posing its share of technical challenges for the performers.)

You can listen to the Schmitten ensemble’s performance of Pour presque tous les temps here.  In addition to being a very commendable and highly polished effort in its own right, it happens to be the only public performance of this music available on YouTube or any other audio or video sharing platform at this time.

So for those who are curious to hear this music but don’t wish to undertake the task of ordering the Ensemble Martinu/Cube Bohemia recording from Europe or attempting to track down the elusive Marcal recording, this the easiest way to encounter the music — and in a live video performance, too.

Nearly impossible to find at the moment … the elusive 2006 Marcal recording.

We owe a debt of gratitude to Chamber Music New Zealand for making this and the other 2014 award-winning performances available to us for viewing.  You may wish to visit Chamber Music New Zealand’s YouTube music channel and sample the other performances from the National Finals round, which include the following pieces of music in addition to the Schmitt:

• Brahms: Trio in E-Flat Major for Horn, Violin & Piano
• Chambers: Crossroads Songs
• Ravel: Piano Trio (first and second movements)
• Saint-Saëns: Piano Trio #2 in E Minor (first movement)
• Schubert: Piano Trio #1 in B-Flat Major (first movement)

The 2014 NZCT Chamber Music Contest attracted over 500 ensembles and more than 2,000 participants from all across New Zealand.

Seeing and hearing these fine young musicians perform, it’s clear that what many arts observers contend about the Far East and Oceania is absolutely true:  Classical music has a bright future there.

John McLaughlin Williams, American violinist and conductor.

One of the most interesting violin sonatas in the repertoire is Florent Schmitt’s Sonate libre en deux parties enchaînées, Op. 68, which was composed in 1918-19.  It was considered pathfinding in its day, and it remains strikingly original nearly a century after its composition.

As of today, there have been just three commercial recordings made of the Sonate libre — the latest one released mere months ago.  But this music has intrigued violinists over the years.

One musician who was taken by this work is the Grammy^®-winning violinist and conductor John McLaughlin Williams. No doubt, he is one of the few Americans who has studied and performed this music in recital.

Recently, I had the opportunity to ask Mr. Williams to share his perspectives on the sonata and its significance in the violin repertoire. His insights, presented below, are quite revealing.

PLN: Tell me how you came to know the music of Florent Schmitt, and the Sonate libre in particular?

JMW: Florent Schmitt’s music was introduced to me by Bradley Pfaller, a New York City-based pianist.  Brad was very knowledgeable about the repertoire of lesser-known composers like Schmitt, Joseph Jongen and Egon Kornauth.  Often, he would assemble like-minded musicians to read and play through unusual works.  One of the works we read together was Schmitt’s 1908 Piano Quintet — and I found it to be an amazing piece of music.   

As is always the case for me when discovering a new composer, I then sought to hear everything I could written by Schmitt. This being the days before CD recordings were in general circulation, there wasn’t very much available.  I did obtain the classic Jean Martinon recordings of La Tragédie de Salomé and Psalm 47 along with some Cybelia LPs, but I could find no recording of Sonate libre.  

However, the score to the sonata was easily obtainable. Perusing it convinced me that Schmitt had another great work in his canon. 

PLN: How would you characterize the music in the Sonate libre? What is it about the score that you find particularly interesting or inventive?

JMW: Schmitt’s mature style is newly in evidence in the Sonate libre — and by this I mean his individual blend of what some might consider certain tropes of Impressionism (parallel 7th and 9th chords, quartal voicings, etc.) alongside unabashed techniques of modernism (pointillism, expressionism, unusual scales, implications of chaos), and an unusually free approach to rhythm.

These seemingly disparate characteristics are unified by clear and memorable motives which, while not being employed in the strict developmental manner of the Austro-German composers, nevertheless have the result of being developmental in Schmitt’s own idiosyncratic and ingenious way.

Overall, it is a marvelous work — and certainly one of the greatest of 20th century violin sonatas.  It is also extraordinarily difficult.  But interestingly, it is not the straightforward execution of the notes that is most challenging; it’s the rhythmic aspect. 

The work has an improvisatory feel despite its being ruled by several easily discernible motives.  The pianist must be virtuosic, of course, but he must also be exceedingly musical, because this is first and foremost music of serious intent. 

For the violin, the biggest challenge is sostenuto. Though it must unleash torrents of notes from time to time, it is the bedrock legato that makes or breaks the piece.

PLN: Do you hear influences of other composers or particular musical styles in the Sonate libre? 

JMW: Certain influences are clear.  Florent Schmitt is a French composer, and when his body of work is viewed from the beginning to the end of his career, one can observe steady development from unusual phrase structures and harmonies that can be traced to Gabriel Fauré, through incorporation of “Ravelian” impressionist elements in the handful of Schmitt’s first mature works.   

And subsequently, his embrace of modernism in disjunct rhythms, and harmonies not based on triadic concepts — all of which gives his music an originality not bound to any “school.”  

There is also the matter of humoristic elements in the music, which he evidenced throughout his life. One is tempted to say that Schmitt knew his Chabrier!

PLN: Considering the date of its completion (1919), do you view the Sonate libre as forward-looking or pacesetting in certain ways?   

JMW:  The Sonate libre is unusual in its form.  Schmitt called it a sonata — and indeed there are aspects of traditional sonata form in the first movement, such as the initial thematic statement (there is an introduction) and a clear recapitulation.  

But there are also significant departures: There is no clearly stated second theme or delineated development — Schmitt choosing instead to follow the implications of his chosen motives, and in that way creating a non-traditional development.  There is also an epilogue.  

The second movement is a broad scherzo-with-trio, and this is another interesting (and modern) feature.  

The sonata itself is comprised of two movements of approximately equal length, rather than the customary three or four movements of contrasted tempi and forms.  Not only are the two movements of equal length, they share material. But this material is never treated the same way twice — and that lack of repetition is another modern feature.  

The pointillism of the scherzo, the literal splashing of color (akin to the brush technique of a Jackson Pollock painting), and the harmonic permutations of octatonic scales are indicative of a disjunct and disparate sound-world — one that is clearly forward-looking for its time.  

Finally, the work’s full title gives some clue to its content and procedures:  Sonate libre en deux parties enchaînées (free sonata in two linked parts). There is a subtitle: ad modem clementis aquæ (in the way of peaceful water).

Indeed, the flow of the sonata is super smooth despite its sometimes violent content.  And yet there seems to be an inevitability about it all that suggests the elemental nature of water.  

Along those lines is a notable episode found in the second movement’s trio section: It is the most evocative suggestion of the surface of water that I’ve ever heard. 

All in all, the Sonate libre shows that despite Schmitt being a French composer, his writing shows a number of very “un-French” characteristics that mark him as a highly individualistic and “modern” composer as well.

PLN: Where have you performed the Sonate libre?  

David Riley

JMW: I had the opportunity to perform the Sonate libre twice in 1995 with David Riley, who was a wonderful collaborator as pianist.  The performances were held in Kulas Hall at The Cleveland Institute of Music, and on both occasions the audience responded enthusiastically.   

I believe they knew they had heard and witnessed something quite special.

PLN: Besides the Sonate libre, are there other pieces of Schmitt that you have studied or performed?  

JMW: I have perused many other scores of Schmitt, but I haven’t had the opportunity to perform any of them.  At present, I am largely involved in conducting — and performing Schmitt requires a truly virtuosic orchestra.  There is no easy Schmitt!

PLN: As a violinist, you have performed a varied and interesting repertoire over the years, including works by composers like York Bowen, Sir Arnold Bax, Joseph Jongen, William Grant Still and Samuel Coleridge Taylor.  How have you discovered these works — and is there a “strategy” behind what you choose to perform?

JMW: These composers were revealed to me at different points in my studies and in my career. Realizing what “found treasures” they are became the inspiration of a performance “strategy”: I simply decided that there is too much that is great to repeat that which has been endlessly repeated — no matter how great such music may be.  

There is so much more in the world of classical music that is great. The concept of a “standard repertoire” is an ossified notion that does little good for audiences and performers alike.  I believe that promotion of such a concept actually does harm, in that it teaches audiences to limit their expectations.  

The situation isn’t helped when teachers insist on limiting their students’ repertoire to what is considered “standard” — in many cases stunting their natural curiosity. I was fortunate to have had teachers who allowed me to follow my proclivities (not that they could have stopped me!).  

For all of these reasons, I continue to insist that on any program I do, there will be something that is (still unfortunately) considered unusual. My goal is to make the unusual “usual”!

PLN: You have had an interesting career as a composer and conductor, plus a performer on the violin and piano.  What major musical activities are you involved in right now? 

JMW:  Years after I “officially” stopped being a full-time violinist, I have made my first violin solo recording. It contains the complete violin sonatas (plus smaller pieces) of Karl Weigl, a composer who lived from 1881 to 1949.  A protégé of Mahler and a fine composer in his own right, Weigl’s legacy was nearly destroyed by the National Socialists.   

There is also a Vittorio Giannini orchestral project in the offing. 

PLN: Do you have future plans to perform the Sonate libre or any other music by Florent Schmitt? 

JMW: Sadly, there are no concrete plans right now.  While I wish I could report specific plans and a firm date to perform the sonata or other Schmitt works, what I can say is that his music is constantly with me, and I remain alert to any opportunities to program it.  In fact, I hope I’ll have some additional news to share about that in the near future.

Fortunately for us, we can hear John McLaughlin Williams’ and David Riley’s performance of Schmitt’s Sonate libre via this SoundCloud link.  To my ears, the interpretation is every bit as effective as any of the three commercial recordings ever made of this strikingly original work — particularly in its “immediacy” as a live performance.

Here’s hoping Mr. Williams will be able to return to the recital hall soon to perform this piece or other Florent Schmitt works.

The Bachtrack website has just completed uploading its global database of programs for the upcoming concert season.

Although it isn’t an exhaustive listing of every orchestral group, the site covers nearly all of the major orchestras and other ensembles around the world, making it a good “one-stop” resource for information about what’s happening on the concert calendar.

The 2014/15 concert season features four key compositions by Florent Schmitt which will be performed by three top-notch orchestras in Berlin, Buffalo and Cleveland:

February 21, 2015

Schmitt: Le Palais hanté, Op. 49 (The Haunted Palace) (1904)

Dukas: L’Apprenti sorcier (The Sorcerer’s Apprentice)

Dvorak: Cello Concerto in B Minor, Op. 104

Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra, JoAnn Falletta, conductor

Amit Peled, cello

_________________________________________

March 1, 2015

Schmitt: Psaume XLVII, Op. 38  (Psalm 47) (1904)

Ravel: Shéhérazade

Scriabin: Symphony #4, Op. 54 (Le poème de l’extase)

Berlin Radio Symphony Orchestra & Chorus. Marek Janowski, conductor

Jacquelyn Wagner, soprano

_________________________________________

March 7, 2015

Schmitt: Antoine et Cléopâtre:  Suites #1 & #2, Op. 69 (Antony & Cleopatra)  (1920)

Gershwin: Piano Concerto in F Major

Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra, JoAnn Falletta, conductor

Alain Lefèvre, pianist

_________________________________________

April 16, 2015

Schmitt: La Tragédie de Salomé, Op. 50 (The Tragedy of Salome)  (1907/10)

Ravel: Le Tombeau de Couperin + Boléro

Saint-Saëns: Cello Concerto No. 1 in A Minor, Op. 33

Cleveland Orchestra, Lionel Bringuier, conductor

Gautier Capuçon, cellist

More information on these four concerts can be found here on the Bachtrack site, or on the web pages of the three orchestras (links are above).

One of Florent Schmitt’s most famous and popular compositions is his monumental choral work Psaume XLVII, Opus 38.  Composed in 1904, it is one of the most striking choral works of the 20th Century — or of any era in classical music.

Music lovers who know this work know how important the organ is in Schmitt’s Psalm, which also features a soprano solo in addition to the large mixed chorus and large orchestra.

I saw Psalm 47 performed at the National Cathedral in Washington, DC in 2001, where the massive pipe organ in that space filled the hall and shook the rafters. It was truly a sonic “experience.”

On recordings, one can get the same sense of this in the 1973 Jean Martinon/ORTF performance on EMI, which benefits from the powerful pipe organ of the Salle Wagram in Paris. That recording features the legendary Gaston Litaize on the organ, and he does marvelous things with the part.

This highly effective recording has been uploaded to YouTube.

Another successful treatment of the organ part in Psaume XLVII is on the 1952 premiere recording of the work, made at the Palais de Chaillot by Georges Tzipine, the Chorale Elisabeth Brasseur and the Paris Conservatoire Orchestra.  The equally impressive organ soloist on this recording was Maurice Duruflé, who is perhaps better known as the composer of the Requiem and a number of highly effective solo organ works.

Having composed such an impressive organ part in the Psalm, one might assume that Florent Schmitt would have penned other music for the organ.  However, a look through the composer’s catalogue of 138 opus numbers reveals only a few entries.

In fact, there are just two works for solo organ, composed decades apart from one another in 1899 and 1946.

The earlier of the two works is an organ prelude, which Schmitt titled Prière.  As his Opus 11, the piece was written when the composer was not yet 30 years old.

It is a meditation — quiet and contemplative — that bears little resemblance to the musical style the composer would adopt just a few short years later.

Listening to the Prière, I hear influences of Schmitt’s teacher and mentor Gabriel Fauré.  But in its plaintive sounds I am also reminded of the organ works of Sigfrid Karg-Elert, the German/English composer who lived from 1877 to 1933.

[Considering that Karg-Elert was Schmitt's junior by seven years, one could speculate on who may have been influencing whom.]

The Prière received its premiere recording only this year, in a Reference Recordings recital of French organ music by the American organist Jan Kraybill performing on the new Casavant organ at the Kauffman Center for the Performing Arts in Kansas City, Missouri, USA.

Commenting on the music, Ms. Kraybill singles out the prominent string and flute ranks that are notated in the score, which are beautifully rendered on the recording. With the ability to hear this music after a century of silence, Schmitt’s miniature may finally get its due.  In its atmospherics and in its brevity (barely three minutes long), it seems the perfect piece to perform during Communion at a Roman Catholic or Anglican Mass.

First recording of Florent Schmitt’s organ prelude Prière, Op. 11: Jan Kraybill.

Nearly 50 years later, Schmitt would pen his only other work for solo organ. Again, it was music for a sacred setting — but quite different in that is a wedding march.

The Marche nuptiale, Opus 108 dates from 1946 and was first performed that same year at the Eglise St-François-Xavier in Paris.  The score was published by Durand in 1951.

From the very opening measures, one realizes that this 10-minute composition is no ordinary wedding march. Fanfares provide a stentorian introduction, which is followed in quick succession by a procession-like passage and boldly rhythmic “episodes” that alternate between melodic, quiet sections and boldly exuberant, almost bombastic phrases … ultimately leading to fanfare flourish at the end of the work.

Along the way, we are treated to the trademark changing rhythms for which the composer was so notorious, along with thrilling passages and fascinating chord progressions.

Without a doubt, this is one of the most interesting and inventive scores for a wedding march ever composed. It is musically quite meaty, but I can’t imagine any young brides and bridesmaids wishing to attempt to process down the aisle to this music (much as I would love to convince my own daughters to take up the challenge when their big days come)!

To my knowledge, there has been only one recording made of the Marche nuptiale — but it’s a magnificent performance.  Performed by organist Bernhard Leonardy on the Cavaillé-Coll organ at St-Sulpice Cathedral in Paris, this 2001 recording also features other unusual organ fare composed by Fernand de la Tombelle, Henri Letocart, Henri Büsser, Henry d’Ollone and Eugène Reuchsel.

Beyond these two solo organ pieces, the only other Florent Schmitt compositions that call for organ are two sacred choral pieces from 1952 and 1953 that include ad libitum organ parts (the Laudate Dominum Pueri, Opus 126 and Oremus pro Pontifice, Opus 127).

… Plus one more — the very last piece written by the composer — his Mass, Opus 138 for four-part choir and organ.  It was composed in 1958 in Schmitt’s 88th year, just a few months before his death.

To my knowledge, the Mass has never been commercially recorded, although I once heard an aircheck performance of this music, courtesy of the French National Broadcasting System in North America.

In sum, Florent Schmitt may not have composed much music for the organ. But what we do have is interesting, finely crafted material that represents a worthy contribution to the repertoire.

While he may be far better known for his lush orchestral scores, French composer Florent Schmitt also explored the emotional range of solo instrumental and chamber ensembles.

In addition to a vast trove of music written for solo and duo-pianists, much of which was composed relatively early in his career, in later years Schmitt would turn his attention to woodwind and brass instruments.

Among the fruits of those endeavors were the quartet for four saxophones (1941), a quartet for four flutes (1944), a quartet for three trombones and tuba (1946) … and a sextet for six clarinets (or five clarinets and double bass).

Florent Schmitt (c.), photographed in 1953 at the time he composed the Clarinet Sextet. Also pictured is the composer Louis Aubert (l.) and the photographer Boris Lipnitzki (r.).

The Clarinet Sextet, Op. 128 is one of Schmitt’s late-career creations, written in 1953 when the composer was 83 years old.  It was composed for the Sextuor de Clarinettes de Paris (also known as the Sextuor de Clarinettes de la Garde Républicaine) and its six members:  Georges Delville, Jean Dubois, Albert Gilot, Jean Lixi, Gustave Plaquet and Gaston Urbain.

These performers premiered the work on February 14, 1953 at the Salle de Caen. In the years since, it is acknowledged as a significant work in the repertoire for clarinet ensembles; indeed, there are been only a few works written expressly for this combination of instruments.

Schmitt’s score calls for the use of all instruments within the clarinet family:

• E-flat clarinet
• Two B flat or A clarinets
• Basset horn
• Bass clarinet
• Double bass clarinet (interchangeable with a string bass)

The four movements of the 10-minute work are based on classic forms. But each of the movements is characterized by ever-changing rhythms (a Schmitt trademark) as well as an inventive exploration of the various timbres and sonorous effects possible when writing for such a combination of instruments.

The result is a highly original piece, characterized by the bold utilization of rhythm and sometimes-dissonant harmonies — though still remaining firmly within the realm of tonality.

The four movements — none of which exceeds four minutes in length — are as follows:

I.  Assez vite: A sonata-like movement consisting of an exposition, development and recapitulation. As the clarinets engage in dialog with one another, the music exhibits a masterful counterpoint along with showcasing the contrasting sonorities of the various instruments.

II.  Animé: A “divertissement in miniature” — chirpy, lively and amusing, yet also with tenderness and finesse in places.  It’s here and gone in under 90 seconds.

III. Très calme: Yet another one of the composer’s slow movements that reflect the spirit of Schmitt’s teacher and mentor, Gabriel Fauré.  Opening with a quiet hymn-like fervor, the six voices join in tremulously in places.  At nearly four minutes in length, it is the most extensive movement of the Sextet.

IV.  Animé final: The last movement is a sprightly dance in 5/8 time — suggestive of a Bacchanal, with the instruments tightly wound together. The theme eventually disappears and a coda leads to a wild flourish to end the work.

Whenever I listen to the Clarinet Sextet, I am always struck by the colorful and exotic sonorities that Schmitt is able to extract from the instruments. In places, it sounds as lush as any orchestral composition; clearly, Schmitt knew his woodwinds!

First recording: Sextuor de Clarinettes de Paris (1953).

Unfortunately, the Clarinet Sextet is not well-represented in recordings.  The Sextuor de Clarinettes de Paris made the first recording of the music in the mid-1950s, released by London Records in the United States as one of several 10″ “LP recordings devoted to French classical music composed for clarinet and saxophone ensembles (and referred to collectively as the “Selmer Collection”).

Long out-of-print, that recording is regarded as “definitive” by many clarinet aficionados.  It commanded stratospheric prices on the used record market until a CD reissue was finally released a few years back.

Among several recent recordings, there is a very good performance of the Sextet, released in 2002 on the German label ARTS MUSIC.  That performance features five fine young clarinetists:  Thilo Fahrner, Kiyo Hayakawa, Julia Hutfless, Heiko Hinz and Johannes Pieper, along with string bass player Jochen Bardong who performs in lieu of the double bass clarinet.

Winsome winds: A 2002 recording of 20th century clarinet works including Florent Schmitt’s Sextet.

The ARTS MUSIC recording also features original works for clarinet or clarinet ensemble by Alban Berg, Edison Denissov, Béla Kovács, Bohuslav Martinu, Olivier Messiaen and Francis Poulenc.

As Dieter Klöcker, producer of the ARTS MUSIC recording, has stated:

“The output of compositions [for the clarinet] experienced a ‘boom’ around the turn of the 19th century. Since then, the number of works for clarinet gradually decreased.  In the 20th century, not many composers can be found, but the high quality of the pieces indicates that the fascination of this instrument to composers remains unbroken.”

Clearly, Florent Schmitt belongs in that company of composers who have produced memorable works that successfully and beautifully exploit the wide-ranging sonorities of the clarinet.

Fernand Oubradous (1903-1986), the French bassoonist, teacher and conductor for whom Florent Schmitt’s score Á Tour d’anches was dedicated.

In his later career, the French composer Florent Schmitt would devote more of his energies to composing works for chamber wind ensemble.

Among those works are his quartets for saxophones, flutes, trombones and tuba, and a sextet for clarinets.

But Schmitt also composed two highly engaging chamber pieces for diverse winds: Á Tour d’anches, Opus 97 dating from 1939-43, and Chants alizés, Opus 125, composed in the early 1950s.

In focusing on chamber wind groups, Schmitt was following the same path as several other French composers — Jacques Ibert, Georges Auric, Francis Poulenc and Jean Françaix among them — who saw the potential for writing scores that exploited the interesting and contrasting sonorities of various wind instruments.

Á Tour d’anches (translated into English, it means “Reeds in Turn”) is scored for oboe, clarinet, bassoon and piano.  The French music critic Pierre Barbier contends that the piece is a tribute to the 18th century spirit of Rameau, brought forward into the 20th century in the same manner as Maurice Ravel did with his Le Tombeau de Couperin.

Within the span of less than 16 minutes, the composer serves up a variety of contrasting moods. The piece begins with a short first movement, where the instruments are all lithe and quicksilver.  Indeed, they’re described by the musicologist Caroline Wright as “chasing each other through the texture until disappearing into the distance.”

The second movement is in a waltz tempo. But this is no ordinary waltz, as it’s punctuated by unpredictable rhythms.  Begun by the clarinet declaiming a sentimental melody reminiscent of Emmanuel Chabrier or Erik Satie — or Ibert of the Divertissement – the other instruments soon join in.  The discourse becomes ever more animated, leading to an abrupt finish.  It’s a waltz, certainly … but the whole enterprise seems a bit “off.”

The third movement is the centerpiece of the suite — a fervent nocturne and sarabande remindful not only of Claude Debussy but also of Schmitt’s mentor, Gabriel Fauré. The movement opens with an oboe solo that then becomes interwoven with the other wind instruments.  Florid piano writing helps bring the movement to a powerful climax before subsiding into quietude.  The emotional arc of this movement, which is as lengthy as the entire rest of the suite, is powerfully effective.

The finale returns to the spirit and humor of the first two movements.  In this case, it’s a musical portrait of Quasimodo, the Hunchback of Notre-Dame.  One can clearly picture Victor Hugo’s character as he moves purposefully among the bells in the cathedral’s tower.  It’s all over with in under two minutes.

Á Tour d’anches was composed by Schmitt over a four year-period from 1939 to 1943.  The score was dedicated to the French bassoonist, teacher and conductor Fernand Oubradous, who was among the players who premiered the piece in Paris in 1947.

Precision and passion: The Prague Winds’ impressive performance of Á Tour d’anches.

We are fortunate in that Á Tour d’anches has received a fair number of fine recordings over the years.  Among my personal favorites is one by members of the Prague Wind Quintet, recorded in 2000 on the Praga label.

Another fine rendition is by the Berlin Solisten-Ensemble, recorded in 2008 by NAXOS.

The 1994 recording by In Modo Camerale has been uploaded to YouTube.

The four movements of the suite have also been uploaded to YouTube, taken from a 1994 recording by the Czech ensemble In Modo Camerale, released on the Panton label:

• I.  A courre
• II.  Sur un rythme prévu
• III. Nocturne-sarabande
• IV.  Quasimodo

To my mind, this is a score that brings forth the diverse sounds of these wind instruments in a wonderfully winsome way.

Give it a listen.  See if you don’t agree.

Cellist Henri Demarquette, conductor Jacques Mercier and the Lorraine National Orchestra share in the honors.

First recordings: Jacques Mercier and l’Orchestre National de Lorraine.

From the very moment Timpani’s world premiere recording of two orchestral works by Florent Schmitt appeared earlier this year, it was clear that this was no ordinary release.

The recording features the ballet Le Petit elfe Ferme-l’oeil, composed in 1923 and presented by the Paris Opéra Ballet.  It’s coupled with the Introït, récit et congé, a piece composed in 1948 for the cellist André Navarra and premiered in 1951 by Navarra and conductor Paul Paray.

The world premiere recording features Jacques Mercier conducting the Lorraine National Orchestra.  They are joined by Henri Demarquette performing in the cello work.

And the accolades have been coming in fast.  The recording has won several awards, capped by receiving the prestigious Diapason d’Or award in November.  The Schmitt recording was described by the judges as “a phantasmagoria of dreams, driven by an exuberant orchestra reborn under the baton of Jacques Mercier:  Pure delight!”

The Diapason d’Or award is particularly impressive due to the fact that just one other orchestral recording was included among this year’s prize-winners.  What’s more, the recording was named “Best in Show” among all of the 20+ award-winning recordings of 2014.

Beyond the awards, the critical accolades for the Schmitt recording have been well-nigh universal.  It has received highly positive reviews in the world’s leading classical music publications such as the American Record Guide, BBC Music Magazine, Classica, Diapason, Fanfare, Gramophone, and MusicWeb International.

Here is a sampling of what several of the critics have written about the music and the recording:

Gil French in American Record Guide:

Jacques Mercier

“Here’s just the album for the person who ‘has everything’ and who loves the great symphonic ballets written by Ravel, Dukas and Stravinsky …

The superb Lorraine Orchestra is in full rapture as Mercier captures the long arching form of each section, infusing them with buoyant dancing rhythms and lyricism.  Textures are clear yet opulent, from treble winds and warm French horns to shimmering and bell-like percussion and a rich bass drum.  Above all, whether in quiet or vigorous passages, the pacing always has life.  Orchestral solos are peerless, as is the engineering …

The harmonies and texture of the Introït, récit et congé are very reminiscent of Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloë … Demarquette plays a rich, expressive cello, and Mercier integrates the work’s many tempo shifts into an integral structure … This will leave you wishing that Ravel had written for cello and orchestra, too.”

Paul A. Snook in Fanfare:

“Even though [Schmitt] made use of the harmonic and textural devices of his French contemporaries … delicacy and nuance were only a couple of his intermittent concerns as he meticulously constructed his enormous orchestral machines, full of tidal surges, anticipatory dread and continuously unresolved climaxes … Schmitt’s heart — even in his works for small ensembles — was always drawn to the spectacle and excess of a theatrical ambience as seen in his mastery of the “symphonic ballet” …

Production and performance values measure up to the high standards established time and again in recent years by France’s now-premier label, Timpani, which can be accurately regarded as the French equivalent of Chandos in all respects.  No Schmitt groupie can survive without this disk.”

Stephen Greenbank in MusicWeb International:

“[In Le Petit elfe,] the score calls for a panoply of instruments including harps, contrabassoon, piano and a full range of percussion with bells, xylophone and celesta.  Jacques Mercier and the Orchestre National de Lorraine deliver a sterling performance of this orchestral fresco …

Vigorous passion: French cellist Henri Demarquette.

[The Introït] opens with a scintillating whirlwind of orchestral dazzle, ushering in a plangent theme on the cello which is very much rhapsodic in character.  Then the instrument plays a more angular section against a background of orchestral fireworks.  This is followed by a short elegiac and wistful section which precedes a coda, ending the piece with wit, verve and panache.  The cello has centre-stage throughout, and what better advocate for this delightful music than the French cellist Henri Demarquette who plays with such fervour, insight and technical command …

Hats off to Timpani; they’ve done it again.”

If the critical acclaim for this recording and the music contained on it has piqued your interest, you can listen to a download of the Introït here, courtesy of YouTube.  Of course, to experience the music in full-fidelity sound — and to listen to the ballet — you’ll need to purchase the CD or a high-resolution download.

Trust me, it will be well-worth the investment!

The cover story in the Ralph Vaughan Williams Society Journal, published in October 2014, focuses on the half-century friendship between the French composer Florent Schmitt and his English counterpart.

The two composers were near contemporaries of one another — Schmitt was older by two years — and they died within mere days of each other in 1958.

The article, authored by Dr. Robin Barber, describes the milieu in which the two composers operated in Paris before World War I.  Vaughan Williams had come to France from England for additional musical study.

Because he was fluent in the French language — thanks to having a French governess and teacher as a child — Vaughan Williams moved easily among the ranks of French musicians and artists, and was particularly close to Maurice Ravel.

It was likely through Ravel that Schmitt and Vaughan Williams became acquainted in about 1908, and the two established an immediate rapport.

At the time, Schmitt was working with another English composer, Frederick Delius, to prepare piano reduction scores of four of Delius’ operas.  While that association had begun as a business relationship, likewise it developed into a friendship what would last until the end of Delius’ life in 1934.

[With Delius ensconced at his garden estate in Grez-sur-Loing outside Paris, it was easy for Schmitt to maintain close personal ties, even during the composer’s many years of declining health.]

Reflecting the close friendship that developed with Vaughan Williams, Schmitt would dedicate one of the movements from his piano suite Crépuscules, Op. 56 (Twilights, published in 1913), and the two composers also spent time together on trips to London in the years leading up to the war.

Dr. Barber’s article does a fine job describing key milestones involving both composers in Paris and London in those halcyon days, while also providing readers a concise overview of Schmitt’s life and composing career.

Most helpfully, he provides insights into the final meeting between the two composers, which occurred in London in 1956, facilitated by the impresario and music critic Felix Aprahamian.

Of the photo that graces the October 2014 front cover of the Society Journal, reproduced above, Dr. Barber describes it thus:

“What a lovely picture it is — the dapper Frenchman in his immaculately pressed suit and bow tie, and Vaughan Williams slumped in characteristic pose wearing his best crumpled tweeds!”

Robin Barber

Dr. Barber approached me during the course of researching and sourcing his article, and I was pleased to be able to help him on certain questions and confirmation of facts.

Shortly after the article appeared, I had the opportunity to visit with Dr. Barber again, at which time I asked him to share more observations about what he’d learned in his research about the relationship between Schmitt and Vaughan Williams.  Here is a summary of those comments:

PLN:  How did you first discover the music of Florent Schmitt?  

RB:  Actually, it was through your website and blog on Schmitt that I discovered his music.  I actually knew nothing of his music before this.

PLN:  In that case, how did the idea of writing an article on this particular topic come to you?

RB:  The article was inspired by seeing a photograph of the two octogenarian composers seated together, which had been reproduced in a book on Vaughan Williams.  I was curious to know about Florent Schmitt.  When I searched the Internet I found your blog site, which was invaluable.   

Then, when you were able to furnish me an excellent copy of the original photograph and its source, I felt this would be a basis for an interesting and I hope unique article.

PLN:  What were the most surprising things you learned about either composer during your research for this article?

Igor Stravinsky (l.), photographed with Florent Schmitt about the same time as Ralph Vaughan Williams’ arrival in Paris (1908).

Probably the most surprising things were that Schmitt was such a fine composer, and a friend or associate of some of the greatest 20^th century composers (Ravel, Stravinsky and others).  He was an incredibly important figure in modern French music.  

His “sound” is sophisticated and highly original — and I think it is now making a comeback.    

The most surprising thing about RVW was his long acquaintance with Schmitt — a full five decades. 

PLN:  Do you have any other observations to share about the relationship between Schmitt and Vaughan Williams?

RB:  I think there is more to learn about their relationship.  In particular, there are letters between the two composers which are out there.  I hope my article may help bring some of them to light.

PLN:  How long have you been associated with the Ralph Vaughan Williams Society? 

RB:  I co-founded the Society with two other individuals in 1994, and I served as its vice chairman and a trustee for a dozen years.  In addition, I have written over a dozen articles, as well as CD and concert reviews, over the 20 years or so that the RVW Society Journal has been published.

PLN:  Tell us a little about your professional and personal background — and how music figures into it.

RB:  My professional life has been as a doctor in the U.K. and in Australia, as a general physician.  I am now retired.  I have no formal musical training although I can read music at a basic level and play the piano.  

I have listened to, been fascinated by, and collected classical music since I was in my late teens.  In my opinion, music is the greatest and purest art form — and for me a great source of inspiration, sanctuary and pleasure.  

These days, I tend to listen most to late 19^th and early 20^th century music:  Bruckner, Mahler, Ravel, Shostakovich, and of course the English composers who flourished during that time. 

PLN:  What noteworthy things are happening with the Ralph Vaughan Williams Society at the moment?  Are there any special activities or events being planned?

RB:  There are always interesting activities happening such as concerts and social gatherings.  These are noted on the Society’s website, and are definitely an important part of what makes it a worthwhile and vibrant organization for our members.

PLN:  How can people learn more about the Society, it objectives, and its work on behalf of Vaughan Williams the composer? 

RB:  The Society maintains an excellent website which explains our objectives and how to join.  We attract members from all over the world.

Indeed, the Ralph Vaughan Williams Society is a model of how the life and artistry of a great composer can be celebrated and promoted.  Within the first decade of its founding in 1994, the Society had enrolled its 1,000th member.  Since that time, its online presence has helped it attract many more members from overseas.

The society also counts among its members many of Great Britain’s leading classical music performers.

An example of the many varied musical programs with which the Ralph Vaughan Williams Society is involved.

The Society has been instrumental in bringing about performances of two complete cycles of Vaughan Williams’ nine symphonies, as well as several important festivals featuring world premieres of the composer’s lesser-known operas.

The Society has also helped bring about premiere performances of other Vaughan Williams compositions such as the Cambridge Mass, Willow Wood and The Garden of Proserpine.

Other endeavors include publication of the Society Journal three times per year, along with producing recordings on its own label, Albion Records.

Those interested in exploring more about this vibrant and highly active organization and how to become a member, can visit the Society’s website at www.rvwsociety.com.

Vincent Larderet (Photo ©Fabrice Rault)

To say that Vincent Larderet is one of the most accomplished of the younger generation of classical pianists would be an understatement.

As a Steinway Artist, Mr. Larderet has attracted international recognition by virtue of the exceptional intensity of his performances and commercial recordings, praised by critics not only in his native France but also in Continental Europe, England, the United States, Asia and elsewhere.

He has won prizes in several international piano competitions such as the Maria Canals Competition in Barcelona, Spain, the AMA-Calabria Competition in Italy and the Brest Piano Competition in France.

The list of Larderet’s recital venues and the orchestras with which he has performed worldwide is extensive, and including a wide array of international music festivals.

[For more details on Vincent Larderet’s noteworthy accomplishments, you can read a more detailed biographical synopsis here.]

Mr. Larderet’s repertoire is broad and inventive, ranging from Domenico Scarlatti to Pierre Boulez.  In addition to acknowledged masters of the keyboard like Beethoven, he has a passion for the piano music of composers like Karol Szymanowski, Alexander Scriabin, Manuel De Falla … and Florent Schmitt.

In fact, in 2011 NAXOS released Vincent Larderet’s recording of three major solo piano works by Florent Schmitt — a recording that was highly praised at the time of its release and went on to win a number of awards.

Recently, I had the opportunity to ask Mr. Larderet about his perspectives on the music of Florent Schmitt, and the insights he provided are quite interesting.  (His observations below are translated from French into English.)

PLN:  How and when did you become acquainted with the music of Florent Schmitt?

VL:  I discovered the music of Florent Schmitt during my adolescence.  The first work I came to know was La Tragédie de Salomé, in the beautiful rendition of Jean Martinon conducting the ORTF Orchestra, released by EMI in 1973 along with the Psaume XLVII.   

Early Inspiration: Jean Martinon’s recording of Florent Schmitt’s La Tragédie de Salomé.

From there, I expanded my interests to all the other works I could find by the composer.  Alas, there were few recordings at the time — but some very fine ones were Ombres and the Piano Quintet. 

In more recent years, there has been a great renaissance for Schmitt, but primarily in the international market.  Indeed, here in France he is still misunderstood and needlessly punished for being considered a “Collaborateur” during the war years of 1940-44 [a supporter of the Vichy French government].

PLN:  What attracted you to Schmitt’s music?  Are there stylistic elements that you find particularly unique or compelling? 

VL:  I have a predilection for Schmitt’s post-impressionistic works such as Ombres, but I also appreciate his other periods. 

What impressed me immediately about Schmitt’s music was its individuality.  Despite its inevitable influences, Schmitt’s music is like no other composer’s.  In this regard, Schmitt is similar to Karol Szymanowski [Polish composer who lived from 1882 to 1937], whose works and musical language also went through several distinct stylistic periods. 

In my view, Schmitt’s music remains unclassifiable.  Indeed, his music has been described in many different ways:  impressionism, expressionism, Fauvism (Salomé), neo-romanticism (Psaume XLVII) and neo-classicism. 

Despite the differences, there is always a sensuality that runs throughout Schmitt’s music that seems to me very important — sensual sounds and colors.   

More specifically to my own instrument, I consider Schmitt’s piano writing to be very original as well as highly interesting.  Because of its polyphonic nature and its complexity, it is particularly difficult to play.  It requires very big hands to navigate all of the notes and phrases!

PLN:  How would you characterize Florent Schmitt’s place in the musical and artistic milieu of Paris during the decades when he was most active?

VL:  It’s clear that Schmitt held an important position in Parisian musical life.  Of course, one reason is because of the richness of his catalogue which totaled 138 numbered compositions.   

But Schmitt was also an innovator.  Along with Ravel, Koechlin and Fauré, Schmitt was a founder of the Société musicale indépendante.   

Les Apaches, pictured in Georges d’Espagnat’s painting of 1910. Florent Schmitt is at far left … Maurice Ravel standing at the piano on the right.

He was also a member of Les Apaches, which included, among others, Roussel and Ravel.  A great symbol of the cultural effervescence of La Belle Époque, this group of musicians, artists and writers would meet regularly until the outbreak of World War I.   

Schmitt was also highly esteemed by his fellow composers.  As just one example, Igor Stravinsky declared Schmitt’s composition La Tragédie de Salomé (which had been dedicated to him) to be “one of the masterpieces of modern music.” 

Finally, as the music critic for the Parisian newspaper Le Temps, Schmitt defended the innovative trends in musical expression of composers like Schoenberg, Stravinsky, Honegger and Villa-Lobos.

PLN:  You recorded an album of Schmitt solo piano works in 2011, released by NAXOS.  Tell us how you came to select the repertoire on that recording, which includes two suites (Ombres and Mirages) as well as La Tragédie de Salomé.

VL:  When I was offered the opportunity to record a disk of piano music devoted to Schmitt, it was obvious to me that I should include two important post-impressionist works:  Ombres and Mirages. 

Both of these works call for a sort of “transcendental virtuosity.”  It is particularly evident in the first movement of Ombres, “J’entends dans le lointain …” (“I hear in the distance …”) — a piece that has been compared to Ravel’s Gaspard de la nuit. 

Maurice Ravel’s Gaspard de la nuit was the precursor to Florent Schmitt’s Ombres.

Comte de Lautreamont (Isidore-Lucien Ducasse), the Uruguayan-born French author, wrote just two works before dying at the age of 24 during the Prussian seige of Paris (1870). The words from one of them, his violent, nihilistic novel Les Chants de Maldoror, were the inspiration for the first movement of Florent Schmitt’s Ombres: “I hear in the distance drawn-out cries of the most poignant grief …”

Knowing the propensity of Schmitt to create alternative versions of some of his works, I asked the Parisian music publisher Durand if there was a piano version of La Tragédie de Salomé. 

Indeed there was — and it was one prepared by Schmitt himself!   

To my surprise, no other pianist had ever shown interest in recording this absolutely brilliant piano version of the music, so this became its world premiere recording. 

La Tragédie de Salomé is one of the most difficult piano works I have ever performed — on par with Beethoven’s Hammerklavier Sonata and Ravel’s Gaspard de la nuit.

PLN:  Regarding La Tragédie de Salomé, it’s certainly interesting to hear music that was originally scored for a vast symphony orchestra performed on the piano.  In your opinion, how successful was Schmitt in capturing the drama and excitement of the ballet in his solo piano version?

VL:  The piano version of Salomé was published in 1913, one year following the revised version for orchestra.  It has exceptional impact because it is extremely authentic — and it clearly gives the illusion of being a work originally composed for the piano.   

It is quite an accomplishment to achieve good pianistic execution while at the same time capturing the orchestral flavor with Fauvist colors.  And there is also the percussive side, such as in the final Danse de l’effroi which anticipates Stravinsky’s Le sacre du printemps. 

Furthermore, it is important to note that Schmitt did not “overload” the already highly complex musical notation just to achieve more of a pianistic quality.  His version of Salomé for piano is every bit as authentic as is Ravel’s version of his own La Valse for piano. 

What we know is that Schmitt was an experienced pianist — more so than Ravel — and he knew exactly how to make the piano sound most effective. 

In any case, I consider neither the Ravel La Valse nor the Schmitt Salomé to be a transcription or reduction.  Instead, they are different versions of these works – and thus deserve to hold a place of their own in the piano repertoire.

PLN:  It seems that a number of French composers like Ravel and Schmitt were particularly keen on preparing piano versions of their orchestral works.  Why did these composers prepare them?  What makes them worthy of study and performance today?

VL:  In the case of Ravel and Schmitt, the piano and the orchestra were “alter egos” in either direction:  The piano was equal to the orchestra, and the orchestra inspired the piano writing. 

What we find is that the works have equal impact whether presented on the piano or by the orchestra — be it, for instance, Ravel’s Valses nobles et sentimentales, Le Tombeau de Couperin, Une barque sur l’Océan and Alborada del gracioso or La Valse … Schmitt’s Mirages or Salomé … or other works. 

One may prefer the orchestral version or the piano version, but there is no denying that each version has its own uniqueness and authenticity! 

Regarding Ravel, I recently recorded an entire SACD-CD program on the German-based ARS Produktion label called “Orchestral and Virtuoso Piano.”  I wanted to draw attention to the orchestral character and virtuosic style of Ravel’s piano compositions.  

Ravel described La Valse as a “choreographic poem for orchestra.”  The Pavane pour une infante défunte was written for solo piano in 1899 and orchestrated by Ravel in 1910.  Contemporaries such as Vlado Perlemuter also confirm that Ravel underscored the orchestral nature of the piano score in Gaspard de la nuit.   

Ravel also created his own suite for piano based on Daphnis et Chloé (a choreographic work for chorus and orchestra) — published in 1912 just as he did the two orchestral suites from the complete score.  My recording is the world premiere of this piano suite.  

[I’d emphasize that it has nothing to do with the reduction for piano and chorus published by Durand in 1910.  Instead, the work was unquestionably intended to be performed in concert — and therefore is not merely a transcription.]

Incidentally, we can also see a similar approach taken by Stravinsky in several movements from his ballet Petrouchka.  In this case, Stravinsky produced a virtuoso suite in three movements for solo piano that is exceptionally forceful and dramatic.   

In some other cases, preparing a piano version was designed to be a convenient way to perform or rehearse a composition before the orchestral version appeared — particularly for the choreographic works.  We need to distinguish these kinds of compositions as a “reduction,” designed with a practical or functional goal in mind. 

Why would composers have bothered to rewrite their own works for another instrument?  One reason may be because the piano version can actually influence and inspire the orchestral version, and vice versa. 

Claude-Achille Debussy. Florent Schmitt (b. 1870) was born in between Debussy (b. 1862) and Maurice Ravel (b. 1875) — but would outlive both by decades.

Now, this was not the same with a composer like Claude Debussy.  Indeed, Debussy’s works weren’t created by the composer in both piano and orchestral versions. 

I once had an opportunity to join my pianist colleague Michel Dalberto in performing La Mer in a transcription for two pianos prepared by the composer André Caplet.  It is interesting and fascinating music … but it is merely a transcription.

PLN:  Tell us more about the success of your NAXOS recording featuring Schmitt’s solo piano music.  How has it been received by critics and the general music public?

VL:  I was pleasantly surprised at the critical success of this recording.  It won the renowned CHOC Award from Classica and achieved other distinctions, including being nominated for the 2012 International Classical Music Awards.  (I’m also pleased to say that my recent Ravel CD has been nominated for the 2015 International Classical Music Awards.)

PLN:  Have you ever had the opportunity to perform Schmitt’s piano music in recital?

VL:  Yes, I have played the works recorded by NAXOS in concert as well.  The reception has been positive — especially for La Tragédie de Salomé, which always impresses audiences.  It seems like the public is pleasantly surprised to discover that the quality of music they don’t know is better than they expected it to be. 

When it comes to appreciating less familiar music, the public needs to hear an explanation:  understanding the historical context, the musical language of the composer, and so forth.  In some of the concerts where I’ve performed Schmitt’s music, I have spoken of these things to the audience, which helps in their comprehension and appreciation. 

Today, with all of the recordings dedicated to Schmitt’s compositions now out on labels such as NAXOS, Chandos and Timpani, I hope that even more music lovers will come to know and love this music.  

PLN:  What other works by Schmitt have you studied?  Are there any scores that you find particularly worthy of performance and recording?

VL:  There are so many works of Schmitt that I like.  His piano music alone would require about 10 CDs to record!   

But in particular, I love the Sonate libre en deux parties enchaînées, the Symphonie Concertante and the Piano Quintet.  All three are particularly noteworthy creations that I hope to have the opportunity to perform — or even record — in the future. 

Daniel Kawka

My next recording is of Ravel’s two piano concertos (the Piano Concerto in G and the Piano Concerto for the Left Hand).  They will be recorded by ARS Produktion and released in May or June of 2015, with the OSE Symphony Orchestra [Orchestre Symphonique nouvelle génération] directed by Daniel Kawka, who is a great conductor. 

I’m pleased to report that this new recording will also contain a major world premiere by Florent Schmitt as well — but I won’t say anything more to keep the suspense going until then! 

I have had the opportunity to perform in the United States, and I hope to be back there again soon.  Perhaps the release of this new recording will be a good opportunity for that to happen.

PLN:  Are there any other points you’d like to make about Florent Schmitt and his music?

VL:  One additional point is this:  I find the continuing controversy here in France about Schmitt’s political views to be ridiculous, bordering on the obscene.  Certainly, the music of Schmitt never showed any political inclinations.  One should not confuse between the creative output and the moral or political judgments of a man. 

It is very curious that many Collaborateurs during World War II were more involved in those activities than Schmitt, and yet they do not experience any sort of criticism or censorship.  An example is the pianist Alfred Cortot, who was highly active in the Vichy regime.  Yet today we speak of Cortot’s legendary performances, not his political viewpoints or activities. 

My position is this:  Instead of engaging in virulent polemics, we are artists in the service of art.  We are not investigating judges — nor should we be.   

Coming from a family that was active in the Resistance has allowed me to talk frankly about this state of things.  I am committed to freedom of expression; censorship in art for political reasons should never be tolerated.  We must “turn the page,” and in this sense the Schmitt renaissance is warranted and welcome — whether some in France choose to follow or not.

Speaking as someone who has thoroughly enjoyed Vincent Larderet’s NAXOS recording of Florent Schmitt’s music for solo piano, I hope he will return to North America soon — and I’m even more hopeful that the music of Schmitt will appear on some of his concert and recital programs when he is here.

Florent Schmitt, photographed outside his home in 1937, the year he composed the Suite sans esprit de suite. ©Boris Lipnitzki/Roger-Viollet

In the last two decades of his long life and extensive musical career, the composer Florent Schmitt would devote much of his energies to creating instrumental music and pieces for voice and choir.

Indeed, by and large Schmitt’s later-career output eschewed the full orchestra — with a number of notable exceptions, among them the Introït, récit et congé for cello and orchestra (1949) and the Symphony No. 2, Schmitt’s penultimate composition, dating from 1957.

In addition, there are also a number of orchestral suites from this period.  One, Scènes de la vie moyenne (Scenes from the Middle Ages) (1950) has yet to receive its first recording.

Another is the Suite sans esprit de suite, Op. 89.  Written for piano and orchestrated by the composer immediately thereafter, this work received its orchestral premiere in January 1938 by the Colonne Concerts Orchestra in Paris.

Conductor of the premiere performance: Paul Paray, who led more world premieres of Florent Schmitt’s orchestral works than any other conductor.

Both of these suites were fortunate to have their premieres entrusted to the capable hands of Paul Paray (1886-1979), the celebrated French director who premiered more of Florent Schmitt’s orchestral works than any other conductor.

The Suite sans esprit de suite (roughly translated, it means “suite that isn’t in the spirit of a suite”) carries one of Schmitt’s humorous titles that also connotes a double meaning — in this case, the idea that the movements lack coherence to one another.

No matter the title, the piece is an engaging work that can be enjoyed on many levels.  And in my view, the movements do share a common trait:  each is suggestive of different dance styles, and the spirit of the dance imbues the entire composition.

In the evocative names of the five movements of the Suite, one can clearly sense the composer hearkening back to the earlier days of his great travels.  (Actually, Schmitt would continue to travel the world in the remaining two decades of his life; the musicologist Dr. Jerry Rife has noted that Schmitt’s final passport, issued in 1956 two years before the composer’s death, contains more than 40 visa stamps!)

Hyperion’s recording, featuring Thierry Fischer and the BBC National Orchestra of Wales.

The five movements of the Suite are as follows:

• Majeza
• Charmilles (Bowers)
• Pécorée de Calabre (Calabrian Peasant Girl)
• Thrène (Threnody)
• Bronx

… in which we can recognize regions of Spain, France, Southern Italy, Greece, and the New World.

In fact, Schmitt had traveled to each of these places.

Majeza opens the suite in showy fashion as a kind of curtain-raiser.  The title refers to a dance style popular in aristocratic circles in 18th Century Madrid … but music critic Frédéric Decaunes has written that it is also remindful of a bossa nova.  It’s an interesting observation considering that in 1938, the bossa nova was still two decades away from breaking out beyond the borders of Brazil.

Gabriel Faure was Florent Schmitt’s most influential teacher at the Paris Conservatoire. Schmitt also studied with Jules Massenet, Théodore Dubois, Albert Lavignac and Théodore Gédalge.

The second movement, Charmilles, is also dancelike but in a wholly different way:  It is a dreamy and tender barcarolle.  To my ears, it is similar in character to Fauré’s Pelléas et Mélisande – and wholly appropriate, too, in that Fauré had been Schmitt’s great teacher and mentor.

The province of Calabria in Southern Italy is the setting for the sassy middle movement, Pécorée de Calabre.  This is Schmitt’s own take on the gossiping, chattering peasant women in the town square that was so effectively realized in Mussorgsky’s Limoges – Le Marché movement in Pictures at an Exhibition as orchestrated by Maurice Ravel.  Jaunty, obstreperous rhythms and chirping woodwinds — they’re all here in Schmitt’s own tonal picture.

The Greece of Thrène is not the one inspired by a modern travelogue, but rather by ancient times and the lamentation for the dead.  Schmitt’s vision is beautifully realized in the form of a sarabande via delicate, ethereal orchestration, adding “tuneful percussion” such as the celesta for extra effect.

The final movement, Bronx, is a short, exuberant outburst.  More sassy than jazzy, we are reminded that Schmitt had visited New York City during his single journey to North America in the early 1930s.

… And it does sound like a foreigner’s take on New York City:  It’s hardly “authentic,” but it’s an honest reaction to the gritty, overwhelming presence of America’s largest city.

To me, Bronx comes across much like Ferde Grofé’s final movement from his 1955 Hudson River Suite: a brief, primal shout — and an exclamation mark to end the work in a big way.

To my knowledge, the Suite sans esprit de suite has never been recorded in its original piano version, but it has received two recordings in its orchestral garb.  Fortunately for us, both of them are quality performances.

First recording: James Lockhart directing the Rhenish State Philharmonic Orchestra (Cybelia label).

The first recording was made by Cybelia in the late 1980s and features the Rhenish State Philharmonic Orchestra under the direction of James Lockhart.  Long out of print, the performance is a fine interpretation that deserves to be reissued.

The more recent one features Thierry Fischer conducting the BBC National Orchestra of Wales — recorded in 2006 and available on the Hyperion label.  Likewise an effective and attractive interpretation, this recording has been uploaded to YouTube and can be heard here.

Thierry Fischer

The Suite sans esprit de suite reminds us that, even as his career moved into its late period, Florent Schmitt had lost none of his powers of orchestration:  All of his masterful skills are on brilliant display here.

Moreover, the music proves that Schmitt’s ability to conjure up the “spirit of the dance” in its varied manifestations remained as effective and engaging as ever.

Igor Stravinsky (l.), photographed with Florent Schmitt in about 1910.

Throughout his long life and composing career, Florent Schmitt would forge many personal friendships with his counterparts.  He was at the center of musical life in Paris, maintaining particularly close relationships with Maurice Ravel, Albert Roussel, Gabriel Pierné, Paul Dukas, Gabriel Fauré, Guillaume Lekeu and numerous other French composers.

He also had decades-long friendships with composers from other lands — Frederick Delius, Ralph Vaughan Williams, Heitor Villa-Lobos, Alfredo Casella and George Enescu, to name just some.

But it was Schmitt’s relationship with Igor Stravinsky that may have been the most rewarding one of all — at least in the early decades of the 20th century.

Stravinsky, who was born in 1882, was Schmitt’s junior by a dozen years, so when the Russian composer came to Paris in 1910, the friendship that developed between the two of them was a relationship between an established celebrity and a musician whose fame was still emerging.

At the time, Stravinsky’s compositional style still displayed the influence of his teacher, Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov — not only in the orchestration but also in the musical language and the music’s inspiration from Russian folklore and themes.

Clearly, Schmitt recognized the raw talent of Stravinsky, who was still in his twenties when he arrived on the scene in Paris.  Stravinsky’s first big-scale work in France was the ballet L’Oiseau de feu (The Firebird), which turned out to be a showstopper not only in the original 1910 stage version, but also in the orchestral suite Stravinsky extracted for concert performances.

This was followed in short order by the ballet Petrouchka (1911), another brilliantly conceived (and sumptuously orchestrated) ballet.

It didn’t hurt that both of these ballets were produced by the impresario Serge Diaghilev, whose Ballets Russes dance troupe was the toast of Paris during this time.

Florent Schmitt dedicated his ballet La Tragédie de Salomé to Igor Stravinsky.

There is little doubt that Stravinsky was influenced by what he was hearing in Paris as much as what he brought with him from Russia.

Among the noteworthy French scores that were being premiered around the time of his arrival were Schmitt’s powerful choral work Psalm XLVII, scored for soprano, organ, chorus and orchestra (premiered in 1906), and his ballet La Tragédie de Salomé (premiered in 1907).

Several years later, Schmitt revised the Salomé score, shortening its length by half while substantially augmenting the orchestration.

It was this version of the score that Schmitt dedicated to Igor Stravinsky.  In a letter of gratitude, Stravinsky wrote to Schmitt:

“When will your fine Salomé be published so that I can spend many happy hours playing it from beginning to end à la folie?  I must confess that it has been a long time since a work has given me such pleasure … I am proud that you dedicated it to me.”

In the view of musicologists and critics such as Andrew Porter and Jerry Rife, certain aspects of Schmitt’s ballet influenced Stravinsky’s scores that were to come — particularly the music’s bold and sometimes violent ostinatos, its bitonality, as well as the jagged rhythms in the concluding Danse de l’effroi (Dance of Fright) section of Schmitt’s ballet.

The French conductor Stéphane Denève, speaking to the audience before a 2011 concert with the Toronto Symphony Orchestra where he performed the Schmitt score, declared, “Without La Tragédie de Salomé, Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring would not have been the same!”

Clues to a close friendship: This photo of Igor Stravinsky was found among Florent Schmitt’s personal papers bequeathed to France’s Bibliothèque National at the time of his death, along with an accompanying letter sent by Stravinsky to Schmitt. In the letter, dated 1911, Stravinsky wrote, “I send you my nude body, which is not to be seen elsewhere …”

The admiration was mutual.  Schmitt was so taken with Stravinsky’s score to The Firebird that he renamed his home in St. Cloud Villa Oiseau de feu.

Several years following the premieres of Petrouchka and Salomé came one of the most notorious premieres in the annals of classical music:  the first performance of Stravinsky’s ballet Le Sacre du printemps (The Rite of Spring), depicting scenes from pagan Russia.

The reaction of the Parisian audiences to this groundbreaking piece of music is the stuff of legend.

We have Stravinsky’s own first-hand account of what happened at the premiere.  Two of them, in fact — which have been recounted in Thomas Forrest Kelly’s book First Nights: Five Musical Premieres.

In Stravinsky’s autobiography, published approximately 20 years following the June 1913 premiere, the composer had written:

“As for the actual performance, I am not in a position to judge as I left the auditorium in the first bars of the prelude, which had at once evoked derisive laughter. 

I was disgusted.  These demonstrations, at first isolated, soon became general, provoking counter-demonstrations and very quickly developing into a terrific uproar.  During the whole performance I was at Nijinsky’s side in the wings [Vaslav Nijinsky had prepared the choreography for the production].  He was standing on a chair, screaming …  

Serge Diaghilev (l.) and Igor Stravinsky

Naturally the poor dancers could hear nothing by reason of the row in the auditorium and the sound of their own dance steps. 

I had to hold Nijinsky by his clothes, for he was furious, and ready to dash on to the stage at any moment and create a scandal.  Diaghilev kept ordering the electricians to turn the lights on or off, hoping in that way to put a stop to the noise.”

In a later commentary (1962), Stravinsky spoke specifically of how Florent Schmitt came to his defense during the first performance of Le Sacre:

“Mild protests against the music could be heard from the very beginning of the performance.  Then, when the curtain opened on the group of knock-kneed and long-braided Lolitas jumping up and down, the storm broke.  Cries of  ‘Ta guile !’ [loose translation:  STFU] came from behind me.  I heard Florent Schmitt shout, ‘Taisez-vous, garces du siezième !’ [Down with the bitches of the 16th arrondissement]; the ‘garces’ of the 16th arrondissement of Paris were, of course, the most elegant ladies of the city.   

The uproar continued, however, and a few minutes later I left the hall in a rage … I have never again been that angry.  The music was so familiar to me; I loved it, and I could not understand why people who had not yet heard it wanted to protest in advance.”

Pierre Monteux, conductor of the premiere performance. (1937 photograph)

It is important to recognize that the premiere performance of Le Sacre du Printemps wasn’t an unmitigated disaster.  In fact, the end of the ballet brought equal amounts of applause to counteract the shouting.  There were multiple curtain calls, including one for the beleaguered pit orchestra and its conductor, Pierre Monteux.

Writing an extensive article about the music in the pages of La France on June 4, 1913, Florent Schmitt made these observations about the music and the production:

“In showing us Le Sacre du printemps, the Theatre des Champs-Elysées could not have a more impressive way of demonstrating its reason for existence:  A free theatre, it prides itself on being a home to the freest art there is — the music of Igor Stravinsky, aggravated by the choreography of Vaslav Nijinski and the settings of Nicolas Roerich. 

Costume designs by Nicolas Roerich for Stravinsky’s ballet Le Sacre du printemps (1913).

With Le Sacre du printemps, a suite of tableaux of pagan Russia, we come to the high point not only of the Russian season, but of Russian art — perhaps even of art itself.  In fact, no musician, no director, no decorator, treating ancient traditions so scornfully, has ever ventured so far in the realm of sound, movement and color, or expressed the inexpressible in such brilliant discoveries … 

Igor Stravinsky’s music, by its frenetic agitation; by the senseless whirl of its hallucinating rhythms; by its aggregations of harmonies beyond any convention or analysis, of an aggressive hardness that no one — not even Richard Strauss — had dared until now; by the obsessive insistence of its themes, their savor and their strangeness; by seeking the most paradoxical sonorities, daring combinations of timbres, systematic use of extreme instrumental ranges; by its tropical orchestrations, iridescent and of unbelievable sumptuousness — in sum, by an excess of an unheard-of luxuriance of refinement and preciosity — the music of Igor Stravinsky achieves this unexpected-yet-intentional result:  It gives us the impression of the darkest barbarity. 

We must actually see in Le Sacre du printemps the arrival of a new music, already felt in Petrouchka — and yet so distant from Petrouchka.  The latter work, like L’Oiseau de feu, already made a great impression by its novelty and its strangeness.  But this is surpassed in Le Sacre; the force and speed of Stravinsky’s evolution are disconcerting.  

The author, at age 31, of three such different masterpieces … Igor Stravinsky is, I believe, the Messiah we have waited for since Wagner, and for whom Mussorgsky and Claude Debussy, as well as Richard Strauss and Arnold Schönberg, prepared the way.”

Florent Schmitt goes on to characterize the reaction of the opening night audience in his own colorful language:

“Igor Stravinsky’s genius could not have received a more striking confirmation than the incomprehension of the crowd and its vicious hostility.   

This group of what is called “worldly people” — the world of Doctor Moreau, unable to see, hear and feel for themselves — these overgrown children who are overcome with gravity at the beastly and academic clownings of low boulevard theatre, could find nothing but brutal infantile laughter at these splendors, so immeasurably distant from their own weak understanding. 

In this disturbing and sublime music they discerned only cacophony; in these primitive geometric gestures, so moving in their gaucherie, they saw puppet farces.  Bringing everything down to their own mediocre, vain level, they will not admit — they cannot tolerate — that an artist should be creative without being concerned for them …  

With an implacable and infallible logic, human stupidity never loses its rights.”

Listening to Le Sacre today, more a century since its premiere, it is music that still sounds surprisingly modern.  Contemplating this music makes it easier to understand the words of conductor Esa-Pekka Salonen when he claims, “Today, the future of classical music has a lot to do with Debussy, Ravel and Stravinsky, and less to do with Schönberg, Berg and Webern.”

Florent Schmitt outside his home in St. Cloud, which he named Villa Oiseau de feu after Stravinsky’s ballet. (1937 photograph, ©Boris Lipnitzki/Roger-Viollet)

From the vantage point of history, we can also see that the premiere of Le Sacre du printemps represented the high point in the relationship between Schmitt and Stravinsky.

At the conclusion of World War I and moving into the 1920s, Stravinsky would begin to migrate away pretty definitively from the style of composition inherent in his three big ballet scores — and from the Russian inspiration behind them.

Following the disappointing reception of his opera Mavra in 1922, Stravinsky declared that his “Russian” period had come to an end.  From that point forward, his music would take on a far more “internationalist” bent, as well as adopt characteristics of neo-classicism, expressionism, serialism and other modern movements in classical music.

Schmitt did not look particularly favorably on some of Stravinsky’s newer works, and those views found their way into Schmitt’s concert reviews as a music critic for Paris’ Le Temps daily newspaper beginning in the late 1920s.  No doubt, Stravinsky took note of those writings.

In his own compositions, Schmitt stayed more true to the musical ethos of the early 20th century.  While many of his scores from the 1930s and later bear unmistakable modernisms, in their overall flavor and feel they remain more rooted in the earlier era.

One can sense this clearly in Schmitt’s final ballet, Oriane et le Prince d’Amour.  Composed in 1933, this work exhibits a sound-world that is much closer to Stravinky’s L’Oiseau than to Le Sacre.

In 1934, an event that likely caused the definitive breach between the two composers occurred.  With the death of the composer Paul Dukas, the post of president of France’s Academie des Beaux Arts became vacant.  Stravinsky, who had recently taken French citizenship, applied for the position.

Florent Schmitt had also put his name forward … and Schmitt won the in the balloting.

Following this development, Stravinsky’s opinions about Schmitt’s music took a decided turn to the negative.  He was growing less fond of France as well, and by 1939, would leave the country for America.

It turned out to be another fortuitous move for Stravinsky, whose fortunes would reach new heights in the remaining three decades of his life — his fame as a composer and a celebrity far eclipsing Schmitt’s.  (Stravinsky even received a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.)

Composer Florent Schmitt (age 87) with Igor Stravinsky (age 75) and Vera de Bosset Sudeikine Stravinsky at a social gathering at the American Embassy in Paris (October 1957). A much-younger Henri Dutilleux is in the background, between both men.

But with the advance of the years — and with both composers leading productive musical lives well into their late 80s — a certain mellowness was bound to occur.  One piece of evidence is Stravinsky’s 1962 recollection of the premiere performance of Le Sacre and acknowledging how Schmitt had come to his defense (as recounted above).

In the final year of Schmitt’s life the two composers met one last time, at an American Embassy function in Paris in October 1957.  A photograph from that event shows the two old gentlemen together, along with Stravinsky’s second wife.

The costumes for the 1913 production of Florent Schmitt’s ballet La Tragédie de Salomé were designed by Serge Sudeikine, the first husband of Vera Stravinsky.

There’s an interesting connection in this, too.  Mme. Vera Stravinsky’s first marriage had been to Serge Sudeikine, the artist who had designed the sets and costumes for the Ballets Russes’ 1913 production of Florent Schmitt’s ballet La Tragédie de Salomé.

Sometimes history — and the arts — do come full circle.

Marek Janowski

On Sunday afternoon, March 1, 2015, the Berlin Radio Symphony Orchestra and Chorus, joined by American soprano Jacquelyn Wagner, performed Florent Schmitt’s monumental Psalm 47, Op. 38. The concert was presented in Philharmonie Hall, famed for its sonic splendor.

The musical forces were led by Marek Janowski, artistic director of the Rundfunk-Sinfonieorchester Berlin, who has been a passionate advocate for this music for decades.

In fact, Maestro Janowski has made one of the relatively few commercial recordings of this music, in a performance featuring soprano Sharon Sweet and the ONF orchestra and chorus (released in 1989 on the Erato label).

Eric Butruille, a faithful reader of the Florent Schmitt Blog, traveled from Lyon, France to attend the Berlin concert, which also featured Le Poem de l’extase by Alexander Scriabin and the Shéherézade song cycle by Maurice Ravel.

I asked M. Butruille to share his observations about the live performance of Psalm 47 for the benefit of those of us who weren’t able to travel to Berlin for the concert. His responses to my questions are presented below:

PLN: What were your overall impressions of the Berlin performance of Psaume XLVII?

EB: Today’s concert, led in an exemplary manner by Marek Janowski, was an amazingly emotional musical experience. Indeed, it was a rare glimpse of musical perfection, in which the quality of the music performed is at the same top level of musical execution as the concert hall’s acoustics.  That is such a rare combination of occurrences in the concert experience!

PLN: How did the audience respond to the music?

EB: The only frustration pertaining to this concert was the size of the audience: Many of the side balconies were empty.  Perhaps it was the “Sunday afternoon concert” effect — or perhaps the ignorance of audiences about the beauties of Schmitt’s music and the other works on the program (Scriabin plus some lesser-known Ravel).

Jacquelyn Wagner

It was difficult to tell if many people in the audience knew the Psalm previously; likely it was a new discovery for most of them. 

But at the end of the work, the audience reaction was very positive, cheering the maestro and the orchestra as much as the chorus and the wonderful soprano soloist, Jacquelyn Wagner.

PLN: Can you share any specific observations about the soprano soloist and the choir in how they performed the music?

EB: Never before — live or in recordings — have I heard such a fine balance between the chorus and the soloist in this music.  The sound was almost dreamlike: surreal, like an angel floating on waves of divine sounds.

Jacquelyn Wagner’s warm and mysterious tone was perfect in the soprano solo.  The 75-member chorus was rhythmically very tight, with very good pronunciation and a very secure pitch (which, in the final section of the Psalm in particular, can be tricky for the sopranos).

The mastery of the nuances, from ppp to fff, and the balance with the orchestra was just amazing — probably with the help of the exceptional acoustics of the Pharharmonie Hall.

PLN: The score of this piece includes an important part for organ, which is sometimes a bit of a disappointment in concert performances.  How about in this Berlin performance?

The Berlin Radio Symphony Orchestra and Chorus in Philharmonie Hall

EB: In the score the organ, except for a brief modulating section, never has a solo part that would flatter the intrinsic qualities of the instrument.  So, even though the Philharmonie’s organ cannot compare with the great French church organs (at La Trinité or St-Etienne-du-Mont, for instance), this did not detract from the overall effect.

Indeed, it contributed perfectly to the overall “grand sound” of the orchestra.

PLN: How does the Berlin performance compare with any other live concert performances you may have heard of this music? 

EB: Up until now, I had attended only one other live performance of the Psalm: a Radio-France concert back in 1999 with Jeffrey Tate conducting and Inva Mula as the soprano soloist. The acoustics of the Radio-France Auditorium in that 1999 concert cannot, of course, compare with those of the marvelous Berlin Philharmonie Hall.

Beyond that, if my memory serves, the performance, as interpreted by Jeffrey Tate, was less convincing as well: very slow (sluggish) tempi, which put Mme. Mula in terrible vocal danger.  She managed to keep the vocal line going, but not without some tension.

More happily, the orchestra and chorus were fine, in my memory.  But clearly, the Berlin performance was superior on nearly every count.

PLN: Marek Janowski has recorded the Psalm in addition to performing it in concert. In what ways, if any, is his interpretation different between then and now?

Passionate advocacy for this music: Marek Janowski’s 1989 Erato recording.

EB: It has been a while since I’ve heard that recording, and I’d have to listen to it again to make definitive comparisons.  But if memory serves, there were some problems with intonation in the soprano part.

In today’s concert, I felt that Maestro Janowski was in complete control of all the complexities and subtleties in Schmitt’s incredible score, and managed to obtain exactly what he wanted.

PLN: Tell us a bit about your personal background, and how you became interested in classical music.

EB: I was involved in music from the age of 7 or so (learning the piano). Even at a young age, I always had an enormous curiosity towards the classical repertoire. Thankfully, I was able to fulfill this curiosity by listening to a lot of music, with a later predilection for opera.

I have never performed as a professional musician, even though I was involved with choral singing for a number of years with concert choirs in the USA and in France.  Later, my career evolved in the professional opera world, but on the administrative side.

It has been a longtime dream of mine to be able to sing Psaume XLVII at least once in my life — but to this day it is still a dream!

PLN: How did you first become acquainted with Psalm 47 in particular?

The 1979 Baccalaureat recording (EMI)

EB: I discovered the Psaume while preparing the music option of the national Baccalaureat in 1979. Every year, the baccalaureate candidates have to present six musical works: the background, the composer, a succinct analysis, etc. Three of them are the candidate’s own choice, and the other three are mandatory.

That year, the Psaume was one of the three assigned pieces.  During the study period, I listened to the piece many, many times, and fell deeply in love with it. And I have never missed an opportunity to hear it live.

Except that … those opportunities have presented themselves just twice — once at Radio-France in 1999, and then this 2015 Berlin performance. As soon as I saw the concert date listed in one of your Florent Schmitt blog posts, I hastened to get a ticket, having no idea where I’d be and what I’d be doing — or whether I could even be able to attend the concert six months later. But it turned out all for the best!

PLN: Do you consider Psalm 47 to be one of the more important choral works ever composed?  In what ways?

A sonic “experience”: Florent Schmitt’s Psalm 47.

EB: Indeed I do!  One reason is that few other choral works have managed to build such a perfect bridge between modern musical language (and orchestration) and the foundation of the choral tradition (more precisely the Bachian and Germanic traditions).

In Psaume XLVII there are some amazing choral effects as well — and quite advanced for their time (1904). These include the rippling waves just after the solo soprano, and the rhythmic violence which presages Stravinsky, to cite just two examples.

PLN: You traveled from Lyon in France to Berlin in Germany just to hear this concert.  Based on how the concert went, are you glad you made the journey?

EB: Yes! I’d travel many kilometers to hear this piece live — and this concert fulfilled my fondest expectations.  It was the most exhilarating emotion I’ve experienced at a concert in a long time — in short, one of the best concerts of my life.  Thinking about it now still gives me goose-bumps.

PLN: To those who may not be familiar with the music of Florent Schmitt, what compositions in addition to Psalm 47 would you recommend that they explore?

EB: La Tragédie de Salomé, of course, for the incredible orchestration.  Dionysiaques also, for its rhythmic exploration and complexity, and generally for the incredible way that Schmitt composed for a concert band.  The Suite sans esprit de suite is also wonderful for its fantasy and humor.

PLN: Any additional thoughts you like to share about Florent Schmitt and his music?

EB: It is gratifying to see that today, after decades of neglect, Schmitt’s music has gained recognition — at least on recordings.  But his absence from the concert stage is absolutely unacceptable. We must urge conductors and programmers to explore his catalogue.

At the very least, the Psaume and Salomé should be part of the repertoire of any serious, professional orchestra and chorus.

Speaking as someone who has also traveled many miles to see and hear the magnificence of Psalm 47 in concert, I can well understand the passion that Eric Butruille feels for this music. We are grateful that he was willing to share that passion with us.

While the French composer Florent Schmitt wrote vast quantities of music for solo and duo-pianists, the concertante pieces he composed for piano and orchestra are few.

In fact, there are just two of them.

One is the Symphonie Concertante, a daringly modern work Schmitt composed in 1931 on commission from Serge Koussevitzky and the Boston Symphony Orchestra to commemorate its 50^th anniversary season.  Florent Schmitt himself was the pianist when the work was performed in Boston.

The only other piano concertante work in Schmitt’s catalog is Ombres, subtitled J’entend dans la lointain … (I hear in the distance …).

It’s a piece that was composed originally for solo piano – the first movement of a three-part piano suite Schmitt created between the years of 1912 and 1917.

Ombres is considered by many musicians to be Schmitt’s most complex, demanding work for solo piano.  As an example, the Canadian pianist Leslie De’Ath has written the following:

“This ambitious score shows Schmitt at the height of his impressionistic style, outdoing Debussy and even Ravel in the complexity of the texture, harmony and configuration.”

Hearing this music, one can easily see why Schmitt’s score has been compared to Ravel’s Gaspard de la nuit.  Together, these works represent the apex of French pianistic writing.

Comte de Lautréamont (Isidore-Lucien Ducasse), the Uruguayan-born French author, wrote just two works before dying at the age of 24 during the Prussian seige of Paris (1870). The words from one of them were the inspiration for the first movement of Florent Schmitt’s Ombres: “I hear in the distance drawn-out cries of the most poignant grief.”

The first piece of the Ombres set, J’entend dans la lointain …, draws inspiration from a passage in Comte de Lautréamont’s 1869 violent, nihilistic novel Les Chants de Maldoror.

Hearing the music in any of its three solo piano recordings to date (Werner Bärtschi, Laurent Wagschal and Vincent Larderet), it becomes clear immediately that this is music that is emotionally wrenching.

About 15 years after composing the piano suite, the composer returned to the score, taking the first movement to create a version for piano and orchestra.

That version was premiered in 1930, just before Schmitt began work on the Symphonie Concertante.  The premiere performance featured the famous French pianist Jacques Février, along with the conductor/composer Gabriel Pierné directing the Colonne Concerts Orchestra.

Master orchestrator that Schmitt was, it’s always been tantalizing to imagine what he had done with this music.  And now we’re about to find out.

In February 2015, pianist Vincent Larderet, one of the three pianists who have recorded the Ombres piano suite, returned to the microphones to record the 1930 piano-and-orchestra version of J’entend dans la lointain …, joined by conductor Daniel Kawka leading the OSE Symphonic Orchestra (Orchestre Symphonique nouvelle génération).

Daniel Kawka

The recording, which also includes two very appropriate disk-mates, the Ravel piano concerti, was made in the resplendent acoustics of the Salle Messiaen in Genoble, France.  It is slated for release in September 2015 on the German ARS Produktion label.

To my mind, Mr. Larderet is the perfect choice for this premiere recording.  Not only is he well-familiar with the original solo piano version of the work (his recording of it for NAXOS has won numerous awards), he is also a seasoned artist who has attracted international recognition by virtue of the exceptional intensity of his performances and commercial recordings.

Mr. Larderet has great respect for the music of Florent Schmitt.  He characterizes the composer’s writing for piano as possessing a “transcendental virtuosity” — qualities which are particularly evident in Ombres.

I am sure I’m not the only person looking forward to hearing this world premiere recording with great anticipation.  It’s sure to be revealed as yet another highly interesting and consequential Schmitt composition.