Mark Austin Like an unexploded WW1 bomb, The Rite of Spring electrifies the moment. Stravinsky’s music remains disturbing a century after the riots at its legendary premiere. Those who were present that evening in Paris - 29 May 1913 - experienced the high water mark of classical music’s course through modern European history.
How can one elucidate a legend without diminishing its vitality? Gillian Moore provides a stylish model in her short book exploring the cultural context, music and influence of Stravinsky’s most famous work. One of the darkest icons of modernity, the 30-minute ballet depicts a sacrificial ritual in which a young girl dances herself to death. Concert-goers in the west are now receptive to the violent music Stravinsky wrote, but probably less aware of the strongly Russian background to Весна священная. Stravinsky shared the desire of his earlier compatriots to “reconnect with a real or imagined Russianness”. This coincided neatly with a craze for Russian culture which swept Paris in the early twentieth century. Universally popular were the famous matryoshka nesting dolls, believed to be ancient Russian peasant art, but actually ‘invented’ in 1890 copying a Japanese design. Moore depicts the larger-than-life personalities whose proximity sparked the ballet into being. Stravinsky had previously collaborated with brilliant impresario Sergey Diaghilev on The Firebird and Petrushka. It’s astonishing to learn that Diaghilev had only approached the 28-year-old Stravinsky as his third choice for Firebird, the composer’s first major success. He soon spotted his error: “Mark him well. He is a man on the brink of celebrity.” Stravinsky was always happy to go along with Diaghilev’s flair for myth-making and shared the same instinct. Musicologist Richard Taruskin has observed that “Stravinsky spent the second half of his long life telling lies about the first half.” (Is this particularly unusual?) Stravinsky’s short account of a train journey from an artists’ collective at Talashkino may serve as an example of his talent for vivid imagery. He had missed his connection and instead bribed the conductor of a freight train to let him ride in a cattle car with a bull. “The bull was leashed by a single not-very-reassuring rope, and as he glowered and slavered I began to barricade myself behind my one small suitcase.” No devotee of opening night intrigue will want to miss Moore’s engaging account of the premiere. Her synthesis of sources is fascinating, not least because there were no smartphones on hand. It is uncertain whether the police were called, for instance, as some witnesses stated and others furiously denied, nor do we know exactly who was in the audience. It seems highly likely that Diaghilev carefully orchestrated the scandal in advance. The conductor Pierre Monteux had been told to continue the performance whatever happened; newspaper adverts for the premiere promised “a new sensation which will undoubtedly provoke heated discussions”. Despite reports of punches, duels, and noise such that the dancers couldn’t hear the orchestra, we also learn that there were five curtain calls and ovations for the orchestra and conductor. What role did the music play in provoking this riot? Moore offers a concise explanation of the novelty on display, and a listening guide which is helpful in aligning the plot of the dance with the sections of the music. The music moves far beyond the style of Firebird, which draws considerably on the language of Stravinsky’s great predecessor Rimsky-Korsakov. In brief, the choice Stravinsky made in the Rite was to piece together very short blocks of music, apparently without pattern, such that the listener is constantly challenged by interruptions and uneven pulses. The sketches of the work offer a striking visual reflection of this process. Stravinsky had invented a mechanical device to draw the five lines of a musical stave. This enabled him to jot down fragments in his plain notebook at any position and angle he wanted. When the score is performed, the listener who can find delight in this quasi-Cubist sound world will best appreciate what Debussy called the “beautiful nightmare” of the music. Moore’s descriptions of Nijinsky’s revolutionary choreography create a strong sense in the reader that the music was only partially responsible for the audience’s revolt. The work had been conceived as a total artwork in the Wagnerian mould (including scenery by painter Nicholas Roerich), and there can be no doubt that the dancing contributed strongly to the negative reaction. The critic Pierre Lalo was stupefied. “They shake their arms as if they were stumps and their legs as if they were made of wood. They never dance; all they do is jump, paw the ground, stamp and shake convulsively in place.” The nature of the original choreography (now lost) is probably the main revelation to be gleaned from this book for listeners who have previously been exhilarated (or puzzled) by concert performances. Moore interviewed several conductors for this book, including resident figures at Southbank Centre, where she is Director of Music. It would also have been interesting to hear the perspective of orchestral musicians on Stravinsky’s score. What is it like to face a silent hall and play the opening bassoon solo at the outer edge of the instrument’s range? Moore also avoids much interpretation of the work beyond the impact it has in live performance. Strangely she waits until the final page to allude to its political significance. A contemporary critic Jacques Rivière saw in the primitive ballet “the movements of man at a time when he did not yet exist as an individual”. The girl who dances herself to death does not have any conception of herself as a distinct personality, nor does the music suggest much empathy for her situation. It would have been productive to explore this dimension of the ballet in greater detail. A ballet premiere rarely shocks today, but the same cannot be said of society’s treatment of individuals.
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