1968

INTRODUCTION

The Primitive Urge

There is a moment, just before the end of Elliott Carter’s A Symphony of Three Orchestras (1975), where things fall apart. Prior to it, we have experienced one of the composer’s high-velocity rides, the music wheeling and soaring around three large groups of instruments in thirteen minutes of virtuosity, colour, subtlety, and rhythmic and metrical complexity. The texture abruptly thins out to a lyrical solo violin, then there is a loud crash and everything stops. A vain effort to start up again is silenced by a second crash, more brutal than the first. A second, more tentative attempt. Another crash. Then nothing. Then another crash and the whole orchestra is back, brass heavy and pounding away, but it quickly exhausts itself. Another silence, another crash.

We have no idea what will happen next. Finally, following failed attempts by various instruments to activate simple repeating figures, the piece peters out. It’s an electrifying three minutes to which you feel all of Carter’s previous music had been leading, as multiple flights of fancy are brought, with a bang, down to earth.

All music is a synthesis of intellectual design and bodily urge. Some is almost entirely the former and some the latter, but both impulses are necessary to a degree. Throughout history, music has required this sort of balance. The human soul (for want of a better word) cannot make do with dancing alone: it will inevitably go off in search of more fantastic musical designs, more complex patterns, more rarefied sounds. But equally, when the intellect dominates for too long, we listen out for music we can tap our feet to, something we can go home humming, or just some good, loud bangs as at the end of A Symphony of Three Orchestras.

It is hard to be at all precise about the motivation for different types of music. There was a time in Europe – up to the Renaissance and even beyond – when most complex music was commissioned by the church and composed for the liturgy. Secular music was songs and dances. There, you might think, is our dichotomy on a plate. But immediately we run up against exceptions. For example, a secular song such as ‘Mon fin est ma commencement’ by Guillaume de Machaut (c. 1300–77) contains rhythmic and contrapuntal complexity in the service of the ingenious formal design described in its title: it is a double palindrome, so the song’s end is indeed its beginning. On the other hand, while the Missa L’homme armé by Guillaume Dufay (c. 1397–1474) lacks for nothing in complexity, this famous early-Renaissance Mass is based on a popular song of the day. Indeed, it is one of dozens of Mass settings which took this tune as their basis.

When composers have sought to make their music more authentic, they have generally done so by simplifying it – harmonically or rhythmically or texturally – or by making it less varied, by keeping a pattern going on and on. They have done it by making the pulse or beat of the music clearer so that it can be danced to. They have made the sound of their music more raw, less cooked, to use Claude Lévi-Strauss’s distinction. They have drawn on folk music or popular songs or dances in the hope of bringing a new atmosphere or colour or vigour to their work. They have aimed for the primitive.

In polite society we tend to avoid this word ‘primitive’. When discussing culture or international politics, the term always feels loaded and often pejorative. While in some areas of life – plumbing, for example – primitive is definitely not good, mostly its meaning is less cut and dried, and we are careful how we bandy the word about.

Once, the industrialised West spoke of ‘primitive peoples’. Then it was ‘backward nations’, then ‘under-developed nations’, then we settled on ‘developing nations’. I believe the current term is ‘less economically developed countries’. This was never simply a matter of trying not to give offence; it was also about accuracy. The countries variously labelled ‘backward’ and ‘under-developed’ were only ever those things in relation to modern technological economies. Even then, the assumption that it was better to be a thriving industrial nation than, say, a nomadic people was debatable. In poetry or painting – or, for that matter, farming – some of these ‘primitive’ peoples might have been able to teach the ‘developed’ countries a thing or two about imagination and technique, let alone sustainability. The term ‘less economically developed’ still assumes there is only one way forward, one sort of progress, but it is more accurate than the other descriptors.

The word ‘primitive’ really means first, and specifically it refers to the first age or the first time. By extension, it may be used to denote something or someone with primitive qualities. But what are those qualities? And what are artists hoping to gain when they admit ‘primitive’ influences to their work?

Some artists have felt that embracing folkloric influences, for instance, helps to anchor their work in human experience, in reality. But it is also true that artists have simply adopted what they have taken to be a primitive ethos, simplifying their work, roughing it up, painting with broader strokes, dancing with heavier feet, singing and playing with more insistent rhythms. The Oxford English Dictionary gives, as equivalents of ‘primitive’, ‘simple, rude or rough’, and it is in these senses that I will mostly use the word in this book, because the book’s principal subject is why skilled, trained, sophisticated musicians should want their music to sound or to be primitive. Why did Carter wish to derail his symphony? Why did he replace the rhythmic flexibility of the first part of his piece with loud bangs and simple repetition?

The English musicologist and composer Wilfrid Mellers (1914–2008) distinguished between ‘corporeal rhythm’ and ‘spiritual rhythm’. For him, the former comes from or is related to the body – it is rhythm we can feel, that we tap our feet to, that we are tempted to dance to – while the latter is a rhythm of the mind, rhythm that we count. In making this distinction, Mellers was doubtless drawing on the American composer and instrument inventor Harry Partch (1901–74), who had spoken of ‘corporeal music’ and ‘abstract music’.

Partch was being more specific than Mellers, for what he meant by ‘corporeal music’ was a performance that involved the whole body, that made no distinction, for instance, between sound and movement, music and theatre, musicians and dancers, and that was capable of embracing the everyday. In many of his pieces, Partch included a speaking voice (generally his own) reciting texts either from literary sources such as James Joyce or Lewis Carroll, or, more strikingly, from the world around him. In Barstow (1941–67), for example, we hear words collected from graffiti inscribed by Depression-era hobos, alternately spoken and chanted in a folk-like (at least, non-classical) manner. These voices, in tandem with the sounds of self-invented percussion instruments, now plunking, now scurrying, mark out Partch’s Barstow as an example of what Daniel Albright called ‘the modernist urge to restore corporeality to art’.

Albright was correct that this was a ‘modernist urge’, but it was also about balance. Mellers’s distinction between ‘corporeal’ and ‘spiritual’ rhythm defines a dichotomy that is an important aspect of this balance. There is some music that is almost entirely ‘corporeal’ – ‘drum and bass’, for instance. Other music is, to all intents and purposes, wholly ‘spiritual’ – one thinks of The Art of Fugue, which some people believe Bach intended as music for the eyes and mind, not music to be played or heard. But most music combines elements of both, and this is certainly the case with most Western art music: a balance between the rhythm of the mind and of the body, between music of revelation and incarnation. So basic is this balance that, as Mellers wrote, it was the subject of ‘the first artistically significant opera’, Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo (1606).

Mellers made his assertion in Caliban Reborn, a book published in 1967 and, in some ways, with its subtitle ‘renewal in twentieth century music’, the inspiration for this book. Mellers believed, and I believe, that when music is too long out of balance – specifically, when the balance has shifted too much towards the intellect, the spiritual, the revelatory – there will be composers who want to drag it in the opposite direction in order to renew it. It has happened again and again in classical music, but it has also happened in jazz and in pop. Faced with burgeoning sophistication, musicians have been drawn to what they feel is primitive, ‘simple, rude or rough’, drawn to Partch’s idea of ‘corporeal music’ and Mellers’s of ‘corporeal rhythm’, drawn to the body and to the earth.

1

Trying to Be Coarse

Thou earth, thou! speak.

Prospero to Caliban, The Tempest,

Act 1, Scene 2, William Shakespeare

Nicolai Andreyevich Rimsky-Korsakov (1844–1908) was a suave, rather conservative composer. His music unfolds with well-proportioned inevitability, the melodic lines gracefully shaped, harmony rich and telling; above all, his orchestration is sumptuous. As a colourist, he was, at the start of the twentieth century, in a league of his own. Strauss and Mahler might have been bolder, Debussy more experimental, but no one knew more about the alchemy of the orchestra than Rimsky-Korsakov, and no one combined instrumental timbres with greater refinement.

When I was a student in the 1970s, Rimsky-Korsakov’s Principles of Orchestration was a set text, and I have it still, its green spine faded to turquoise and cracked through overuse. Musical style had moved on since Rimsky-Korsakov’s day, but if a young composer wanted to know how to combine certain instruments to produce a diaphanous shimmer, Rimsky had the answer. And if it was a big sound you were after, with the full orchestra blazing away, Rimsky and his rarefied ear could advise you in which registers to write your various instruments for maximum effect. There was nothing this composer did not know about instrumental nuance, so it comes as a shock to find him writing, on 7 June 1904, to his colleague Aleksandr Glazunov, ‘I am trying to be coarse.’

Rimsky was describing something that had been felt by artists for centuries, and that continues to be felt. Too much refinement can obscure the emotional thrust of a work of art; dazzled by its surface, we fail to attend to the real content of a painting or poem or piece of music. So the artist goes in search of vulgar means, partly because they are more direct and partly because rougher modes of expression are more likely to engage the audience in a physical manner. This is what Stravinsky meant when he referred to Schoenberg’s Pierrot lunaire (1912) as ‘the solar plexus as well as the mind of early twentieth century music’. But the other aspect of this is the artist’s desire to make work that will be recognised as authentic.

The reason for Rimsky’s attempt at vulgarity in 1904 was his latest opera, The Legend of the Invisible City of Kitezh and the Maiden Fevroniya, a tale of marauding Tartars slaughtering Russians on the banks of the Volga. However much the notion of coarseness might have gone against his polished grain, Rimsky obviously believed that this story and these people required some musical roughing up – not only the Tartars, as he explained to Glazunov, but the Russians too.

Coarseness is probably in the eye or ear of the beholder, and anyway it is a moot point how successful Rimsky was in his project. When the Tartars arrive, they gate-crash the wedding of Prince Vsevolod to the innocent, forest-dwelling Fevroniya, trampling the radiant A major hymn with chromatic harmonies and additive rhythms. The interlude in the middle of Act Three depicts a battle with side drums and cymbal clashes; the drunken Grishka’s vision of the Devil finds him repeating terse, jagged fragments of melody, while the orchestra is all downward slithering strings and high trilling winds.

Is this coarse? Not to our modern ears. Indeed, one wonders how coarse Rimsky’s contemporaries found it. Perhaps the composer’s heart simply wasn’t in it. But if Rimsky was not the ideal man for this job, there were plenty of others who were happy to take it on, because what Rimsky was feeling when he wrote to Glazunov was something like peer pressure. ‘Trying to be coarse’ was a national pastime among Russian artists in the decade and a half before the Revolution, as poets, painters and composers were all drawn to what became known as ‘Scythianism’.

The historical Scythians had been a nomadic, horse-riding warrior tribe from somewhere around the central Eurasian steppes, some time between the eighth and fourth centuries BCE. Herodotus mentions them, writing his history in the fifth century BCE, but while he describes their predilection for making drinking vessels of their enemies’ skulls, even he is unsure where the Scythians first came from. There is a reference to them in Saint Paul’s Epistle to the Colossians, where they are a byword for outlandishness. In a sense, though, the precise geographic origin of the Scythians is of less importance than their foreignness, rootlessness and aggressive nature. Rimsky’s Tartars invading the city of Kitezh were latter-day Scythians.

Scythianism in art amounted to an attempt, on the part of musicians, writers and painters, to make their work authentic, raw and real. It was above all nationalistic, because for these artists authenticity meant being Russian and not European. In identifying themselves with the legend of the Scythian tribe, they were underlining their otherness as Russians, their outsider status in relation to the rest of Europe.

Later, Scythianism became a corollary of the revolutionary ideas afoot throughout Europe and especially in Russia itself. Even as Rimsky composed his opera in December 1904, strikes had broken out in the Putilov machinery factory in Saint Petersburg, escalating rather quickly until nearly 100,000 fellow workers were on strike throughout the city. These were the protests that culminated in the Bloody Sunday massacre before the Tsar’s Winter Palace on 22 January 1905, when the soldiers of the Imperial Guard fired on an unarmed crowd whose members hoped to present a petition to Nicholas II. Yet while it is tempting to make connections between rough art and revolutionary politics, it would be wrong to think of the artistic movement primarily as revolutionary. Even Leo Tolstoy’s donning of peasant garb, although anarcho-Christian in inspiration and non-violent in temperament, might be considered part of this general movement.

More typical, though, was the artistic embrace of the natural world. The overture to The Invisible City of Kitezh is designated a ‘hymn to the wilderness’, and at their first meeting Fevroniya tells Prince Vsevolod that the forest is her church. The coarseness that Rimsky sought in his music was part of his attempt to portray nature – not only the ‘red in tooth and claw’ side of nature in the wild, but also, and in particular, the barbarous nature of humankind.

The symbolist poet Aleksandr Blok (1880–1921) is a good example of an artist with Scythian aspirations. Much of Blok’s symbolism involved the mention of colours, his work producing a vaguely synaesthetic effect on the reader in that these colours lodge in the mind as one reads, even if one does not know the meanings the poet ascribed to each. In one of Blok’s later poems, actually entitled ‘The Scythians’, he describes the Tartar hoards and their merciless attitude to Europeans (after all, the Tartars have ‘nothing to lose’). But it was in his long poem ‘The Twelve’ that Blok best demonstrated Scythianism in his verse. Written early in 1918, the poem would seem to be an early example of revolutionary art, but in fact it is far more interesting than that would allow. For one thing, Blok’s poem is shot through with a heightened mysticism that unexpectedly reveals itself to be pseudo-Christian.

A dozen Bolshevik soldiers tramp through the snowy night-time streets of Petrograd in the aftermath of the October Revolution. It is in many ways a nightmare scene, told in a jangle of dissonant voices. The colour symbolism here is particularly stark, limited to the black of the night and the white of the snow – especially the latter – with regular splashes of red, most vividly in the form of blood. But in ‘The Twelve’, Blok’s Scythian attitude most clearly reveals itself in the loutish behaviour of the soldiers – there is a gleeful quality to their vengeful rampage, particularly to their killing of a prostitute called Kat’ka – and in the hyper-colloquial diction employed by the poet, and nicely preserved in Maria Carlson’s English translation:

But where is Kat’ka? ‘She’s dead, she’s dead!

She’s been shot right through the head!’

Glad now, Kat’ka? ‘What, not a peep …

Then lie there, carrion, on the snow!’

The poem is almost an early ‘cut-up’ of street cries, songs and slogans, with passages from the Orthodox liturgy, its rough-hewn style on the page amplified in contemporary performances by the poet’s wife, Liubov Mendeleyeva, who would declaim the poem while lurching about the stage, gesticulating like the ham actor she apparently was.

Contemporary reports of these performances are not kind to Liubov. But then ‘The Twelve’ itself pleased almost no one. Ramping up the mysticism, Blok hints that the twelve soldiers are a revolutionary version of Christ’s apostles. At the end of the poem, indeed, they see ahead of them a vision of a Christ-like figure leading them through the snow. Largely as a result of this, the poem was heavily criticised by actual revolutionaries, who regarded the Christian imagery as anti-revolutionary; Christians, on the other hand, found it blasphemous.

So Scythianism was rough, blunt and fervid, yet also symbolic; looking backwards in order to go forwards, it fashioned modern art out of a peasant past. But its avowed nationalism was about to become international, for in some ways Scythianism reached its apogee in the work of another mystic, Nicholas Roerich (1874–1947), and particularly his collaboration with the composer Igor Stravinsky.

Roerich’s early and lasting fascination with archaeology and his later interest in some of the more apocalyptic imagery of Christianity (and other religions) came together in his paintings, both in subject matter and style. Though his images from the early twentieth century are brightly, even garishly, coloured, they are far from modernist in nature, mostly depicting scenes from Russian peasant life. Still, so far, so Scythian. But his work as a designer for Sergei Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes would bring things to a head.

In Diaghilev’s company, designers were hugely important, virtually auteurs, and this was the role Roerich played in the Ballets Russes’ most famous creation, The Rite of Spring (1913). Its composer, Stravinsky, claimed that the image of a virgin’s sacrificial dance had come to him in a dream, and this may well have been true (though Stravinsky was an inveterate self-mythologiser). What is beyond doubt is that the detailed scenario of The Rite was down to Roerich, and since the score of The Rite is ballet music in the strictest sense – music designed to tell a story – not only its mood of studied barbarism but also its very structure came from Roerich’s imagination at least as much