"The Rite of Spring" in concert

It’s hard to believe there was a time when orchestral music was provocative. Hell, it’s difficult even to imagine contemporary popular music—or Art in general—being shocking or controversial, but occasionally it is. Certainly, modern concepts would be unfamiliar and perhaps disturbing to a visitor from the past. And maybe I’m too jaded or ignorant to recognize the responses to mainstream culture in our society today, oversaturated and overexposed as it is—and yet nominally prudish and conservative. But forget my digressions and believe me when I tell you that there was a moment in time, just a century ago, when a ballet could cause a riot.  


A few weeks ago I took advantage of my position at the Philharmonic to attend a concert. Of course, for some people, the opportunity to attend an orchestral concert would not seem that much of a perk. But it just so happens that I work in a city with an unusually large population of people who support and appreciate this music, and I know they would jump at such a chance. Within this community, I work with a smaller subset—those with the time and money to attend live performances of this music. And then there are those lucky few of us who are grateful to have a job with an organization that performs those concerts. Despite the warning signs—mounting expenses and dwindling funds, aging and decreasing audiences, and maybe even a general lack of interest in “classical” music—the New York Philharmonic is still alive and well after 160 years, and perhaps more relevant, global, and beloved than ever. And just what did I hear them play? Merely one of the most controversial—yet popular—pieces of the last century, of course.

Igor Stravinsky’s Le sacre du printemps (“The Rite of Spring”) is the only piece of orchestral music I would consider my favorite. I am increasing my familiarity with other works, composers, and contemporary performers—both through my exposure to them at work, and my burgeoning classical record collection. There are other works I know and enjoy, but these 33 minutes stand apart; my greater acquaintance and engaged listening of “The Rite” have certainly contributed to this. But really, it comes back to the work itself—especially its raw and aggressive style, and the fascinating story of its 1913 premiere.

For anyone who’s ever heard of “The Rite of Spring” (though not necessarily listened to it), these two aspects are paramount and inseparable from the work—the former being inherent to the score, while the latter is a legendary testament to that score’s effect on an audience when performed. And yet, I’m sure there are people out there who actually hate “The Rite” for these very reasons—and not just for these qualities, but also for their dominance in the piece’s modern reputation. But really, how many orchestral works have a reputation? Yes, there are the overly familiar (the opening to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony), the mythical (Mozart’s Requiem Mass in D Minor), and those popularized in film scores (Wagner’s Die Walküre or “The Valkyrie”). But that such a reputation accompanies “The Rite” is a blessing and a curse: while it cannot escape this legacy, it keeps the work relevant and in the performance repertoire 100 years later. Now, perhaps this is not a fair assessment of “The Rite of Spring.” Hell, I’m no expert—yet. For now you’ll just have to bear with me as I convey my accumulated thoughts on the work and impressions from the concert I attended. Any musical analysis will be rudimentary and couched chiefly from the perspective of an untrained ear, though it is attached to an engaged and receptive listener.  

When I saw that “The Rite of Spring” would be featured in the new season last February, I immediately realized how epically awesome it would be to see it in concert four nights in a row. Actually, Tim (with score in hand) and I had seen the Philharmonic perform it the previous spring as part of their Stravinsky festival. We’re devoted fans of this work; particularly because of those very qualities I’ve identified—the nature of the music, and the accompanying story of its reception. In fact, we feel this story is so compelling that we’ve felt it should be turned into an illustrated children’s book. Though we were inspired to do produced this book years ago, my lack of ambition continually gets in the way, preventing anything more than casual brainstorming. But with the centennial of the premiere coming up in 2013, we need to have the book finished and in the hands of a publisher in the next eight months; needless to say, creating the book will be the easier of the two tasks. With a very unproductive year behind me and the fresh opportunity of a new year ahead, I hoped this concert would be just the push I needed to get the ball rolling on this project. Or, to switch metaphors in midstream, I can envision the burning desire I’ll need to see this project through this time. The spark actually came on the Tuesday before the concert. As I staggered into work that morning, what should I hear coming through the office monitor? “The Rite of Spring” in rehearsal, of course. This was just a teaser, though—but the prospect of hearing it in a performance got me through the week.

Friday night came, and I waited until the applause died after Joshua Bell’s moving rendition of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto before sprinting from my office to the hall during intermission. After pushing against the flow of patrons fleeing Stravinsky’s masterpiece, I found an empty aisle seat. As the orchestra and audience seated themselves for the second half, I reflected on that night nearly one hundred years ago—the events of which will form the climax of the book. More specifically, I tried to imagine just what that Parisian audience expected when they went to see the new piece by the Russian ballet company, Ballets Russes. Though the answer will not directly appear in the final product, considering this subject will certainly influence my approach to the greater narrative. I only knew for sure what I expected—I could already hear the music in my head.

When I saw this same orchestra perform this piece a year-and-a-half ago, the most famous living Russian conductor, Valery Gergiev, had been wielding the baton (as he had for the entire Stravinsky Festival, in which “The Rite of Spring” was included.) Tim and I thoroughly enjoyed it, but we thought that while Gergiev was taming his wild hair he had also taken the edge off the piece. It seemed that a Russian had made beautiful a Russian work that is perhaps too-often associated with harsh, primal, and dissonant connotations. We admired the interpretation and performance, but still sought to hear those very qualities ourselves. On this evening, with the young Englishman Daniel Harding at the helm, I expected I might hear—and feel—those very impressions. And I was not disappointed. But some members of the French audience that night in May 1913 apparently were.

In previous seasons, Serge Diaghilev premiered two Stravinsky ballets in Paris with his company, “The Firebird” and “Petrushka,” and both had been well-received. At this time there was a mutual infatuation between Western and Eastern Europe: Russians were enamored with all things French, who were intrigued with Slavic culture. But certain Russian artists began to create distinctly Russian work in the later 19^th Century, among them Stravinsky’s mentor Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov.

At some point in 1910, Stravinsky dreamt the idea of a maiden dancing herself to death, and felt compelled to produce a score for a ballet based on this concept. He contacted Nicholas Roerich, an artist and anthropologist, as an expert in Russian folk history. Together, they created a narrative, placing Stravinsky’s idea in the context of pagan spring-time rites and rituals—including the sacrifice of a virgin. While Roerich would design the set and costumes, Stravinsky wrote the original score. How much he relied on Russian folk music is debatable, but it certainly seems that he strove to evoke a primal and raw sensibility through layered rhythms and unorthodox instrumentation. “I had only my ear to help me,” Stravinsky said about this process. “I heard, and I wrote what I heard. I am the vessel through which ‘The Rite’ passed.” A rather melodramatic description of his role, for sure—but who could say otherwise? But he was writing a ballet after all, and that would require equally dramatic choreography. Vaslav Nijinsky, a talented dancer who had appeared in the title role of “Petrushka,” brought the tribal rites, rituals, and games to life on stage.  This trio of acclaimed and forward-thinking collaborators—Stravinsky, Roerich, and Nijinsky—created a work daring in its originality, yet distinctly Russian and (pre)historical. However, their work (conducted at Diaghilev’s behest) was apparently so abrasive in its style and difficulty during rehearsals that they elicited a strong rebuke from the company’s very own ballet master:

“I think the whole thing has been done by four idiots: First, M. Stravinksy, who wrote the music. Second, M. Roerich, who designed the scenery and costumes. Third, M. Nijinsky, who composed the dances. Fourth, M. Diaghilev, who wasted money on it.”

Less intimately familiar with the collaborators, the Parisian audience could not be as specific with their rebukes—but they aired them nonetheless. Boos, jeers, insults, whistling and arguments interrupted the opening minutes of the ballet. What exactly had provoked them? What could have possibly been presented that was so controversial? Had they ventured accidentally into Le Moulin Rouge or a burlesque show, then their reaction might be understandable (though no more tolerable.) To begin with, “The Rite of Spring” opens with a lone bassoon crooning in the height of its tonal range. Soon, this is joined by other woodwinds, while onstage, ensembles of dancers adorned in traditional peasant clothing appeared with awkward posturing. Apparently, the choices of instrumentation and choreography irritated the ears and eyes of the spectators, while the costuming and overall style fanned the flames as the piece continued (without interruption, mind you.) This was not a typical ballet—this was in many ways, unacceptably new.

As all fans of “The Rite” surely do, I relish that opening phrase: it establishes the tone, conjures those first images in the mind, and announces the first (and maybe only) recognizable theme. It is the end of a thread that leads you to an intricately woven fabric: unpredictable and unique, fresh and engaging. The woodwind introduction, melodious and controlled, belies the rushing torrent that is to come.

In these opening moments, thinking about the expectations of my infamous antecedents, I try to imagine hearing this work for the very first time. Rather than anticipating the next bar and movement, I try to remember what it was like to be completely clueless of what would come. And this is especially apt for a piece that does not resemble other orchestral works; the repetition of thematic elements and discernable patterns is not as apparent as expected. I envied those “Rite virgins” beside me, for they would have been pulled and twisted like the ballet’s sacrificial maiden until spiraling into an ecstatic demise—or very nearly so. Perhaps I should have conducted a few interviews to gather first impressions. But, of course, our modern ears exist in a far, far different acoustic context than those Belle Époque listeners. There is no possible comparison. And in the end, the best I can do is recall the first time I heard “The Rite of Spring,” which, oddly, was the first time we all heard it.

Remember Fantasia? No, not Fantasia 2000, with the flying whales and all that crap. I mean the good Fantasia, the real Fantasia. You know, the one with Mickey and Leopold-freakin’-Stokowski, those dancing mushrooms and hippos, and that scary-ass devil in Mussorgsky’s “Night at Bald Mountain.” Yes, that one. Well, if you recall, it also featured selections from “The Rite of Spring” accompanying vignettes about the formation of the Earth—culminating with the Age of Dinosaurs. Even though Chernabog frightened me, I loved the dinosaurs—as any five-year-old boy would. (For the record, I still do.) 

When I hear “The Rite of Spring” today, even though I’m well-versed in its background, I still envision those scenes. They’re embedded in my mind, and it’s hard to shake those first impressions and associations. Surely, you feel the same way about music and movies and books you were exposed to at an early age—much as you would associate certain works of art and entertainment with particular moments, people, or feelings in your later (more conscious) life. But returning to the film … When I later realized what I had listened to years ago was this sophisticated Stravinsky piece, I thought the film's take to be rather comical and immature: cartoons and classical music—how could it not be?  But really, Disney’s dinosaurs suggest the same primordial beginnings as the Ballet Russes production, though perhaps the Parisian audience would have objected just the same. And what did they expect? Well, it just so happens, that I attended a ballet later that weekend and got fairly good idea.

My sister has been learning dance and ballet for the last 4 years, and every year my family goes to her annual recital, where we suffer through interminable dance routines until the three minutes she is onstage. This year, however, she would also be involved with “The Nutcracker.” She was incredibly excited about the entire process, from auditions through the final curtain. But even though she would appear only for a few minutes as a toy soldier (and later as an angel in the Land of Sweets), we would at least be entertained by a full production of a classic ballet. And this is perhaps what audiences of Stravinsky’s time would have expected. “The Nutcracker” premiered in St. Petersburg in 1892, when Stravinsky was ten. He may or may not have seen it; but we do know that he did attend Tchaikovsky’s “Sleeping Beauty” in 1890 at the Mariinsky Theatre, where his father was a singer (and often appeared in operas by Tchaikovsky and Rimsky-Korsakov.) These great Russian composers certainly inspired his career, and represented the height of success he sought for himself. And when given the opportunity twenty years later, with “The Firebird,” he came through brilliantly, receiving critical and popular acclaim. Perhaps they assumed that this was a proper ballet for the Twentieth Century: new and ambitious, but not overly so; one that advanced orchestral music while retaining beautiful sets, costumes, and dancing—the true focal point of a ballet. Perhaps they only anticipated a small step forward—something new and as Russian as “Petrushka,” yet pleasantly familiar as “The Firebird.” With “The Rite of Spring,” however, they only got two of the three, but a real taste of the future.
                     
Finally, let’s conclude with what started me on this post: the live performance. Just as after the last time, I immediately thought that this is the only way I ever want to hear “The Rite of Spring” (although, that applies to pretty much any song.) During a live performance, certain aspects of the piece grabbed my attention, primarily, the rhythm. Stravinsky hits you with rhythm, rhythm, and more rhythm. Though melodic woodwinds evoke primitive pipes, the entire orchestra eventually becomes involved in a series of complex and calibrated rhythmic sections. Repeated rhythms are not just carried by the bass instruments or percussion as you’d expect (although both groups feature prominently): violin and viola strings are frequently plucked or struck with haste and urgency. It all provides a base for the choreography, and the rhythmic energy drives the story forward and ever harder. However, the ground-oriented, pounding dances of the pagans on stage proved particularly objectionable. “Modern dance” we might call it—not a tutu or pointe shoe to be seen, let alone a leg or shapely figure. But since there was no ballet that evening, I must rely on historical accounts and latter-day revivals captured on film.

Though a frenetic energy permeates the piece, it is after all a ballet of separate scenes intent on telling a story. Thus, Stravinsky varies the tone and mood appropriately. But he not only relies on different instruments, melodies, and rhythms; alterations to the tempo and dynamics were more effective than I’d realized. Great pauses, he reminds us, can speak as loudly as soaring crescendos. The opening section lures you in as it creates a halcyon, pastoral scene of a simpler, seemingly more peaceful bygone era. But only minutes later do dances and games run rampant, while brooding elders orchestrate and command a ritual sacrifice. These dramatic elements are effective on their own, but they were designed to accompany live human dancers. Yes, we can imagine the story as suggested by both the notes in the program and those played, but we don’t actually see the helpless girl who, once chosen, must inevitably fulfill her destiny and spin herself to death for the benefit her people. But for our benefit, that image seized Stravinsky one night in his sleep, and he felt just as compelled as she to seek fulfillment.

In lieu of a ballet to watch, I had the live orchestra before me. This allows you the opportunity to really see what you hear. I noticed many more details than I can extract from a recording, just because the musicians were creating the music right before me. I knew where the piece would go, but it still had to come together—fifty-plus talented people had to cooperate to make that possible. My eyes and ears followed the runs of notes being played as they crossed the orchestra. I noticed how frequently the strings (at the front of the orchestra and easy to observe) plucked their strings rather than used their bow. The violins more often provided a rhythmic undercurrent than the melodies typically attributed to them—which Stravinsky instead gave to obscure woodwind instruments like the bassoon, bass clarinet, and E♭ clarinet. Perhaps they better evoked the primal, earthy tone he was after, and such instrumentation choices were really the only way to convey what he heard in his mind. And what he heard came out often as fragments and phrases, rather than anything melodic or lyrical. Hence, the horns interject with a sudden crescendo, or the timpani abruptly rolls like thunder. But more often, he manages to create sophisticated syncopation between different groups of instruments, or else builds layers of repeated rhythms like some modern-day electronic band. In both these cases, the live performance demonstrates and emphasizes how carefully constructed the “dissonant” or “cacophonous” elements of “The Rite of Spring” really are. Though it may all sound wild and random and raw, it’s really nothing of the sort—and it takes a special kind of genius to pull this off.      

But of course, the visual focus is the conductor—who, for this piece in particular, was rather entertaining. Though we may have had no dancers, we did have Mr. Daniel Harding. Conducting is truly a physical action, and “The Rite” seems especially demanding. And that it’s done in a tuxedo night after night is also rather impressive. Mr. Harding gestures were as aggressive as the music they dictated. He brought the rhythms to life, at times directing the emphasis downward as would have Nijinsky’s dancers. Viewing him while simultaneously hearing the music, I began to wonder if Mr. Harding was leading the orchestra or reacting to it—they were in sync for sure, but it almost seemed the reverse of what one would have assumed. And though the music is not continuously up-tempo, I did at one moment wonder if Mr. Harding had control or whether the music was surging ahead under its own momentum. But like a piccolo trill, this was just a fleeting moment, and Mr. Harding soon reassured me that he had the reins well in hand as he carried the piece towards its climactic conclusion. My ear sought the very end: as the dancer collapses, there is a tense pause, before the orchestra crashes with its last notes and she is raised up by the grateful tribe. It did not disappoint.

I strongly urge you find a recording of “The Rite of Spring,” if you cannot attend a live performance somewhere. It is well worth the 30 minutes to listen to the most infamous and influential (funny how that works) orchestral piece of the Twentieth Century. Or else check out some clips of the ballet on YouTube. And while I’ve given you some background information, this has also been a useful opportunity to begin to organize and synthesize the information for my book. Though I freely admit that I’m no expert, and what I’ve said here comes from my rough musical knowledge* and preliminary research, just check back in a month—that will all be different.







*I completely forgot to mention Stravinsky’s rapidly varying time signatures! Not that I understand what that means …