The Exposition Universelle, which took place in the six months between 6 May and 6 November 1889 in Paris, was one of the major political, economic, and cultural events of the late nineteenth century in France. It attracted more than thirty million people to its wonders, and 61,722 exhibitors, as the government of France invited the world to come to Paris to show samples of its industrial products, natural resources, and cultural achievements. The Exposition was located at the Champ de Mars, on the banks of the Seine, right in the center of the French capital. A spectacle to end all spectacles, the 1889 Exposition Universelle was an event of superlatives: the highest iron tower (figure I.1), the latest technology, the most exotic people, a maximum number of historic reconstructions, and the most diverse music ever heard. Surrounding the Eiffel Tower, an impressive array of buildings showcased the industries and crafts from countries as diverse as Bolivia and China; exhibitions in the Palais des Beaux-Arts presented paintings and sculptures from France and abroad; the Galerie des Machines was a temple to industrial progress, “a masterpiece of modern mechanics” containing “all the wonders of human activity.” Artists from all over the world came to Paris to perform at this event, whether inside the Exposition Universelle like the dancers and musicians from Java, or in other Parisian locations but loosely connected to the World's Fair, like Buffalo Bill's Wild West show, which was hired to add to the international attractions in and around the Exposition Universelle.

But the fair was also designed to celebrate the centenary of the French Revolution of 1789. As a result, many a European monarch frowned upon the occasion. But while nations such as Britain, Italy, and Germany withheld official support, their governments encouraged private enterprise to represent their nations appropriately. For republics such as the United States, Argentina, and Brazil, however, the fair offered an perfect window to celebrate the republican ideal. But 1889 was also a crucial year for other reasons.

The performances from the Far East had captured the imagination of both the Parisian intelligentsia and the hundreds of thousands of visitors to the Exposition Coloniale alike. Avant-garde artistic currents such as Symbolism and Wagnerism served as a framework within which to engage with such alien music and performances, even if some of the fascination was based more on the visual splendor of these exotic representations that had come to life than on the music or dances themselves. In the Théâtre Annamite in particular, the glorious costumes and colorful decoration created a sense of occasion, supported by the performance character of the theatrical events. Indeed, both the Javanese and the Vietnamese stood out as offering self-contained shows from mysterious and far-away lands, with premières, processions, and program books, rather than being simply an orientalist entertainment in a café-concert of the kind that that had become fashionable in Paris in the 1880s, with its can-can dancers such as La Goulue and singers like Thérésa or Paulus, who performed to café patrons while they enjoyed their food and drink. And although customers at the Javanese pavilion savored Javanese culinary treats such as hot chocolate or beer, the contemporary reception downplayed this facet in favor of the enthralling artistic aspects of the dance and music. What both the kampong javanais and Théâtre Annamite shared was the cachet of the exceptional if not sensational, of an art never seen or heard before.

This was not the case with other exotic and picturesque entertainments at the Exposition Universelle. They had been encountered before. Indeed, images of the Orient featured prominently in European arts and literature of the long nineteenth century, whether paintings, opera, or song. Female dancers from the Middle East had performed in the cafés of the 1867 and 1878 Expositions Universelles, and “oriental” dancers—both authentic and fake—appeared in select Parisian cafés-concerts. And Africans formed part of ethnographic exhibitions at the Jardin d’Acclimatation, where they were displayed as elements of a savage landscape from afar. Furthermore, central Africa was on thousands of French minds after the exploits of France's national hero, Pierre Savorgnan de Brazza, in the early 1880s. The Middle East and Africa thus represented the more familiar face of French colonialism as it emerged and developed through the nineteenth century.

As we have seen, the centenary year of the French Revolution was set to become a year of civic commemorations for the Third Republic. From the beginning, the 1889 Exposition Universelle itself was marked as a triumphant republican celebration in the face of political adversity, both internally and externally, and was poised to become “the greatest pacifist monument of Europe.” Indeed, the commemorative and thus historic aspect of the Exposition was more pronounced than in any of the earlier French fairs, and among its many retrospective exhibits—in addition to the musical ones discussed above—were the centenary exhibition of French paintings, Charles Garnier's “History of Human Habitation,” and even a survey of erstwhile means, systems, and places of repression in France. In 1889, France was constructing not only her future as a progressive republican nation, but also a past to go with it.

This past, however, was contested between various political groups, whether Boulangistes, légitimistes, moderates, or radicals. No other event in the history of modern France was as significant as the Revolution, whether it was vilified as the nadir of the nation's history or celebrated as its grandest era. But even in the case of those for whom the Revolution was a moment of glory, its historic location was disputed: for the moderate republicans, the liberalist year of 1789 represented the point in time to celebrate; for the radical republicans, 1792 was the key year because it was then that France became a republic; and for the socialists, 1793 was the year of regicide and the start of the Terror. The organization of the centenary celebrations proper thus turned into a disagreement over the specific commemoration dates. In the end, the moderate government won out over some of the more radical deputies and declared five dates as commemorative days for 1889, emphasizing the priority of 1789, yet aligning it subtly with the events of 1792: 5 May 1789 (the reopening of the Estates General); 20 June 1789 (the Tennis Court Oath); 14 July 1789 (the storming of the Bastille); 4 August 1789 (the abolition of privileges); and 21 September 1792 (the declaration of the Republic).

The organizers of the official concerts of French music for the Exposition Universelle seemed mainly preoccupied with reappropriating the French musical past for the Third Republic, with respect both to compositions and to forms of music making. The leaders of Parisian cultural and political institutions, however, looked to new works as well as old to assert France's cultural glory. Indeed, the Théâtre de l’Opéra-Comique brought out a major French première with Jules Massenet's Esclarmonde on 15 May, right at the beginning of the Exposition. This was to be the only opera première for the duration of the Fair, and thus it was all the more significant. But the Opéra-Comique also offered a series of widely advertised performances of late-eighteenth-century opéras comiques as a form of generic archaeology, as well as their regular performances of “classics” such as François-Adrien Boieldieu's La Dame blanche (1825) or Ferdinand Hérold's Le Pré aux clercs (1832). Furthermore, the hundredth performance of Edouard Lalo's Le Roi d’Ys, the previous year's major première, took place on 24 May 1889, and on 13 September there was the 400th performance at the Opéra-Comique of Georges Bizet's Carmen (1875).

In contrast to this artistic success story, the Théâtre de l’Opéra struggled for months under the embattled leadership of Eugène Ritt and Pierre Gailhard until they could finally present, on 26 June 1889, the première of Ambroise Thomas's ballet La Tempête. The rehearsals for Camille Saint-Saëns's new opera Ascanio, which was originally supposed to be the Opéra's great Exposition triumph to match the Massenet première of the Opéra-Comique, encountered mishap after mishap, and the work was not performed until almost a year later, on 21 March 1890. Thus, throughout the duration of the Exposition Universelle, the Académie Nationale de Musique did not offer a première of a new French opera, and to fill the house it had to rely instead on a ballet by the almost eighty-year-old doyen of French music and on repertoire performances of such operas as Charles Gounod's Faust (1859) and Roméo et Juliette (1867), Giacomo Meyerbeer's L’Africaine (1865) and Les Huguenots (1836), or Fromental Halévy's La Juive (1835).

The musical world of the twentieth century is a divided world. None of the dreams and expectations of enthusiastic minds at the beginning of the twentieth century has been fulfilled. In our new society an old nucleus has persisted, with its own customs and imagination stemming directly from concepts rooted in the nineteenth century.

Worldwide social revolutions, a series of unbelievable and radical scientific discoveries, entirely new views concerning almost every field of life, and different generations of composers and performers, scholars and technicians have not succeeded in preventing the official music world from revolving, and continuing to revolve, around a very definite period of the past with a span of scarcely two hundred years.

This historical heritage is in itself a strange amalgam of a number of brilliant masterpieces alongside musical follies as numerous as they are popular, of – broadly speaking – an exceptionally high level of performance, and of related musical theory developed to a similar degree. This is coupled, on the other hand, to a most rudimentary musical aesthetic, characterised by entirely bourgeois, romantic concepts which continue to rule our democratised musical life as a mere imitation of what was once – in the nineteenth century – a living and authentic intellectual movement.

The contemporary creative artist can hardly function in such a musical practice. The public at large that fills our concert halls has become both anonymous and amorphous. It has no need of nor does it make demands upon creative contemporaries. The small and select social groups that determined European artistic life until far into the eighteenth century are no longer; the so essential interaction between creator and receiver has therefore disappeared. Through the lack of any collective stimulus, only the most vital of individuals are able to maintain contact with contemporary art. The enjoyment of music has become a strictly individual matter, just like composition. The disinclination to regard oneself as a revolutionary is typical of many modern composers. Stravinsky, in his conversations with Robert Craft, claimed that he could not imagine that his music could sound strange to the public.

Every period and every style has its own sound; it arises automatically, according to the manner of writing in fashion. Conversely, the composer may consciously seek those instrumental or vocal resources best suited to the realisation of his tonal ideal. In a continuous interaction between these two quantities, the classical orchestra expanded to become its romantic equivalent. A first notable change was a gradual increase in the number of instruments. Each individual group became larger, with three to four players to a part, and new colours were introduced: the piccolo, cor anglais, bass clarinet, double bassoon, saxophone, Wagner tuba, celesta and a certain amount of percussion all made their entry. The clarity of the classical orchestra was replaced by a more flaccid sound, nonetheless accompanied by an unprecedented increase in the range of timbre. The art of orchestration became a study in its own right, and manuals on the theory of instrumentation appeared, the best of which offered refined thought on the handling of this enormous orchestral machine. Precisely because the romantics wished to attach a subjective-emotional value to timbre, great craftsmanship was required to master these new resources, even though the superficial observer may sometimes be inclined to assume the opposite.

And so we approach the years around 1900. The mastery of orchestral colour was passed on to modern composers, but the style changed, and insights into orchestration changed with it. On the one hand a reaction to romantic excess arose, manifest in a renewed preference for lucid, chamber music-like scoring, while on the other hand the expressionists – the direct offspring of German-romantic subjectivism – developed a completely different style of composition. Both groups sought to liberate timbre as a colouristic means and relate it to structure, an aim which can be attained with both large and small orchestras. The result in both groups was that the sound that had previously blended now became divided. For romantic orchestration was entirely based on a tonal concept that automatically produced a high degree of blend. The disintegration of tonality likewise resulted in the division of the sound. Characteristic differences included the following: with or without polyphonic tendencies the romantic-tonal style remained embedded in a homogeneous triadic structure; it was this verticality which brought about the typical system of instrumental doubling that formed the basis of romantic orchestration.

It is remarkable how poorly informed those active in musical life generally are about even the most elementary technical matters concerning contemporary music. Such a lack of knowledge would probably not be tolerated in any other profession. Since even specialised literature hardly offers solace, the present book aims to underline certain technical aspects of contemporary musical language. It has been written from the point of view of the composer rather than that of the theoretician, an approach which has its advantages and disadvantages, as one can easily imagine.

This book is intended for various categories of readers. First and foremost it is addressed to the music student of today, for whom some knowledge of contemporary music may now be considered normal. Subsequently, it is written for all musicians engaged in one way or another in new music: performers, teachers and others who in practice often face certain problems that can be solved through a deeper investigation of the structure of the musical language. But the well-informed musical amateur too may consult many chapters to his advantage.

To make matters as concrete as possible, much use is made of easily accessible scores; thus compositions are discussed that may regularly be heard in the concert hall or through recordings. Electronic music has been left out of consideration. Not only are scores scarce, but a technical approach to the subject is hardly meaningful unless the reader is at home in the world of the electronic studio.

The above-mentioned paucity of technical literature has obliged the writer to organise the content in his own way. It proved necessary, even with regard to terminology, to devise names and definitions for certain concepts. This, together with the hitherto unknown diversity of individual styles and techniques, will safeguard the reader from generalising about what is discussed, a path that would merely lead to new academicism. The specific purpose of this book is to encourage everyone to become better acquainted with living music.

Preface to the Second Edition

A period of more than seven years lies between the preparation of the first edition and this second one, a considerable length of time in view of the rapidly changing contemporary music scene.

The twentieth century brought great development in the field of rhythm, in the following two ways:

• 1. The structure and development of rhythm in general became richer and more diversified;

• 2. Interest in percussion increased, while other instrumental groups were also assigned important rhythmic functions.

In Stravinsky's The Soldier's Tale melodic and percussive instruments are on an equal footing. Works featuring extensive percussion parts include Stravinsky's The Wedding, Bartók's Sonata for two pianos and percussion, Edgard Varèse's Ionisation, fragments from Milhaud's Les Choéphores, and Carl Orff 's Antigone. External influences may also be noted: not only the rhythms of Eastern music, but also those of indigenous folk music (Bartók) and jazz (Milhaud's La Création du Monde, Stravinsky's Ebony Concerto and Ragtime, Krenek's Johnny spielt auf, and Ravel's Sonata for violin and piano) made their mark on contemporary composition. A preference for irregular rhythmic structures emerged, whether spontaneously invented or rationally developed. In the latter case in particular, it is generally true to say that rhythm gained independence. Important structural principles, applied in the past particularly to melody and harmony, were now transplanted to rhythm (rhythmic canons, for example). On the other hand, melodic-harmonic structures were sometimes determined by rhythmic factors. An old and familiar example of this is The Rite of Spring, in which ‘percussive chords’ serve to highlight rhythmic figures, to which end they are complexly constructed:

This brings us to a matter of importance. Not without reason, indeed, did Stravinsky choose strong and complex chords. If we try to render the same rhythm with major triads, the effect proves much weaker; by placing the triads in a higher register, the result already improves. It appears, therefore, that rhythm is determined by other musical elements than duration and dynamics alone. Another example: if we play a melody in a tempo dictated exactly by the metronome, but first very high with short and strong staccato notes, and then low, soft and legato, the first version will seem slower than the second. Again, the duration of the notes is influenced by several elements: not only the notated, metronomic length, but the musical length too, that which is organically incorporated into the whole and to which we react. In a piece of music, innumerable subtle forces react to one another.