I recently heard a radio broadcast of the 1957 recording of Pierre Boulez’s Le Marteau sans maître (made just two years after the premiere performance), featuring Boulez as the conductor, Severino Gazzelloni as the alto flute player and Jeanne Deroubaiz as the alto singer. This was the first recording I had heard of this piece many years ago during a time of impressionable adolescence, and it indeed made quite an impression on me at the time. Having been conditioned since then by later recordings of the piece made by Boulez, I was initially skeptical of the worth of this premiere recording of this seminal piece, since later recordings would obviously be superior in every possible way.
On the contrary, the 1957 recording was absolutely electric, in many ways revelatory, and completely renewed my initial zest for this masterpiece. Merely one engaging feature of this recording was its way of clarifying structural design, in particular the subtle and complex relationship between René Char’s often impenetrable surrealistic poetry and Boulez’s music. One of the many innovations of this piece is a technique that Boulez has called “center and absence,” a means of incorporating the structure of a poem into the structure of the music, while the former is absent (used also in the later Pli selon pli). This recording somehow clarified the significance of this technique in this piece, revealing how the words and the voice act as commentaries on what is essentially instrumental music structured from poetry. As a result, form became audible: The teleological progression over the course of the piece, in which the voice is gradually absorbed by the instruments, became an exhilarating phenomenon.
The recording offers much more. Boulez has gained ample attention, and rightly so, for his ear as a conductor. His recordings, particularly those of Debussy and Stravinsky, have received accolades for their precision of pitch, orchestral balance and textural clarity. What is often overlooked is the magnificence of Boulez’s ear as a composer, perhaps because this side of his work has been overshadowed by his conducting activities. The acuity of his ear is especially apparent in the opening movement of Le Marteau (“avant l’artisanat furieux”) composed for an unorthodox instrumental quartet comprising alto flute, vibraphone, guitar and viola. In the 1957 recording, the listener can hear a remarkably original, yet remarkably coherent fusion of these four disparate instruments: They occupy and traverse a unique polyphonic nexus organized around an alto tessitura. Ultimately, the musical ear necessary to maintain cohesion and logic with four such disparate instruments, to compose a clear polyphonic texture with a firm harmonic basis, must surely be extraordinary.
Much of what is special about this recording, I believe, is the timing and tempos; specifically, fidelity to the tempo markings in the first published version of the score. For example, the tempo of the opening movement approximated the indication in the first published version, a blistering 208 quarter notes per minute. One of several revisions in the subsequent 1964 edition is that the tempos of the “l’artisanat furieux” cycle were reduced; the tempo of the first movement was reduced drastically to 168 quarter notes per minute, and the other movements in this cycle reduced proportionately. Boulez seemingly drew lessons from repeated performances of this piece that demonstrated that some of his initial tempo markings were simply too fast. Paul Griffiths, in his usual eloquent and observing way, has remarked that a sense of ease and breadth, resulting partly from a gradual slowing of tempos, has been introduced in the four recordings of this piece that Boulez made in the four decades between 1957 and 1984 (Paul Griffiths, “Le marteau de son maître, or Boulez selon Boulez”). This may be attributed to lessons absorbed from performance experience or even a certain inevitable mellowness that results from advancing age.
Despite the probable need for this tempo reduction from a practical standpoint, the drawback is that slower tempos and a feeling of ease detract the music from the power of Char’s poetry. The three poems used in this piece are characterized by a peculiar mixture of brevity, violence and vagueness. Symbols in the poems are incorporated to suggest an imagery that, although deeply expressive, is often difficult to comprehend. Contemplate, for example, what is implied in the opening line of “l’artisanat furieux”: “The red caravan on the edge of the nail.” Additional symbols, such as a corpse, a horseshoe and a Peruvian knife, are invoked in the three remaining lines of the poem and abandoned. The relationship of all of these images to the whole can be perplexing, and few analyses of this piece successfully address this crucial matter.
Boulez’s exceptional ear has captured the expression of this verse and translated it into a musical imagery that is likewise violent and oftentimes vague, featuring stops, starts and pauses that seem to disrupt the musical continuity. This discontinuity can be especially apparent and problematic with slower tempos. What is astonishing about the 1957 recording is that the bumps in the musical road are not jarring or disruptive, but logical, effective and in line with the character of the poetry. The question becomes was it correct to modify the music to ease performance if it sacrifices the logic of the musical design (Boulez seems to believe so).
Additionally, this recording was made at a time when the piece was new and its performance practices still unfamiliar. Performance indications in the score are numerous, at times accompanying each and every note. Changes are multitudinous and can happen instantly. The performers in this recording, magnificent by any standard, must have suffered great apprehension when presented with their parts, and later when recording the piece in the composer’s presence. Surely, this recording must suffer from a variety of inaccuracies (I would need more hearings to affirm this). Decades later and with great advancements made in contemporary performance practice, the piece is no longer the fearmonger that is once was; the tension and anxiety that once resulted from performing it are no longer there, or no longer as severe, and the piece will most likely enter the standard repertoire as pieces that in their own day were regarded in this way.
This is not to lament the fact that the piece will become be a part of future musicians’ repertoire; it has certainly earned that privilege. However, the 1957 recording presents us with a unique opportunity to experience a certain anxiety in the early days of the piece’s history, an opportunity that could prove revelatory with many pieces now in the standard repertoire. (Regrettably, this recording is difficult to find; Amazon.com offers it on vinyl LP only, meaning that it has never been transferred to CD and is seemingly no longer in issue.) Much of the power of this piece stems from the demands it places on the performers through its detail and its inexorable insistence on ability. Yet it only reaffirmed for me that Pierre Boulez should be ranked as one of the (perhaps the) greatest composers of the second half of the twentieth century.
On the contrary, the 1957 recording was absolutely electric, in many ways revelatory, and completely renewed my initial zest for this masterpiece. Merely one engaging feature of this recording was its way of clarifying structural design, in particular the subtle and complex relationship between René Char’s often impenetrable surrealistic poetry and Boulez’s music. One of the many innovations of this piece is a technique that Boulez has called “center and absence,” a means of incorporating the structure of a poem into the structure of the music, while the former is absent (used also in the later Pli selon pli). This recording somehow clarified the significance of this technique in this piece, revealing how the words and the voice act as commentaries on what is essentially instrumental music structured from poetry. As a result, form became audible: The teleological progression over the course of the piece, in which the voice is gradually absorbed by the instruments, became an exhilarating phenomenon.
The recording offers much more. Boulez has gained ample attention, and rightly so, for his ear as a conductor. His recordings, particularly those of Debussy and Stravinsky, have received accolades for their precision of pitch, orchestral balance and textural clarity. What is often overlooked is the magnificence of Boulez’s ear as a composer, perhaps because this side of his work has been overshadowed by his conducting activities. The acuity of his ear is especially apparent in the opening movement of Le Marteau (“avant l’artisanat furieux”) composed for an unorthodox instrumental quartet comprising alto flute, vibraphone, guitar and viola. In the 1957 recording, the listener can hear a remarkably original, yet remarkably coherent fusion of these four disparate instruments: They occupy and traverse a unique polyphonic nexus organized around an alto tessitura. Ultimately, the musical ear necessary to maintain cohesion and logic with four such disparate instruments, to compose a clear polyphonic texture with a firm harmonic basis, must surely be extraordinary.
Much of what is special about this recording, I believe, is the timing and tempos; specifically, fidelity to the tempo markings in the first published version of the score. For example, the tempo of the opening movement approximated the indication in the first published version, a blistering 208 quarter notes per minute. One of several revisions in the subsequent 1964 edition is that the tempos of the “l’artisanat furieux” cycle were reduced; the tempo of the first movement was reduced drastically to 168 quarter notes per minute, and the other movements in this cycle reduced proportionately. Boulez seemingly drew lessons from repeated performances of this piece that demonstrated that some of his initial tempo markings were simply too fast. Paul Griffiths, in his usual eloquent and observing way, has remarked that a sense of ease and breadth, resulting partly from a gradual slowing of tempos, has been introduced in the four recordings of this piece that Boulez made in the four decades between 1957 and 1984 (Paul Griffiths, “Le marteau de son maître, or Boulez selon Boulez”). This may be attributed to lessons absorbed from performance experience or even a certain inevitable mellowness that results from advancing age.
Despite the probable need for this tempo reduction from a practical standpoint, the drawback is that slower tempos and a feeling of ease detract the music from the power of Char’s poetry. The three poems used in this piece are characterized by a peculiar mixture of brevity, violence and vagueness. Symbols in the poems are incorporated to suggest an imagery that, although deeply expressive, is often difficult to comprehend. Contemplate, for example, what is implied in the opening line of “l’artisanat furieux”: “The red caravan on the edge of the nail.” Additional symbols, such as a corpse, a horseshoe and a Peruvian knife, are invoked in the three remaining lines of the poem and abandoned. The relationship of all of these images to the whole can be perplexing, and few analyses of this piece successfully address this crucial matter.
Boulez’s exceptional ear has captured the expression of this verse and translated it into a musical imagery that is likewise violent and oftentimes vague, featuring stops, starts and pauses that seem to disrupt the musical continuity. This discontinuity can be especially apparent and problematic with slower tempos. What is astonishing about the 1957 recording is that the bumps in the musical road are not jarring or disruptive, but logical, effective and in line with the character of the poetry. The question becomes was it correct to modify the music to ease performance if it sacrifices the logic of the musical design (Boulez seems to believe so).
Additionally, this recording was made at a time when the piece was new and its performance practices still unfamiliar. Performance indications in the score are numerous, at times accompanying each and every note. Changes are multitudinous and can happen instantly. The performers in this recording, magnificent by any standard, must have suffered great apprehension when presented with their parts, and later when recording the piece in the composer’s presence. Surely, this recording must suffer from a variety of inaccuracies (I would need more hearings to affirm this). Decades later and with great advancements made in contemporary performance practice, the piece is no longer the fearmonger that is once was; the tension and anxiety that once resulted from performing it are no longer there, or no longer as severe, and the piece will most likely enter the standard repertoire as pieces that in their own day were regarded in this way.
This is not to lament the fact that the piece will become be a part of future musicians’ repertoire; it has certainly earned that privilege. However, the 1957 recording presents us with a unique opportunity to experience a certain anxiety in the early days of the piece’s history, an opportunity that could prove revelatory with many pieces now in the standard repertoire. (Regrettably, this recording is difficult to find; Amazon.com offers it on vinyl LP only, meaning that it has never been transferred to CD and is seemingly no longer in issue.) Much of the power of this piece stems from the demands it places on the performers through its detail and its inexorable insistence on ability. Yet it only reaffirmed for me that Pierre Boulez should be ranked as one of the (perhaps the) greatest composers of the second half of the twentieth century.
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