A few years ago, I had my first encounter with the piano music of Olivier Messiaen.
I was at the time (and am to this day) a lover of earlier twentieth century French music, namely Debussy and Ravel (often called the Impressionists, although I hesitate to use this term as it was originally coined by their critics and was rejected by Debussy!)
The conversation in my lesson to decide what I should play next went something like this...
"We must always have something French on your programme-"
'Yes!' I thought, eagerly anticipating Jeux d'eau or Miroirs or Debussy Pour le Piano...
"Hmmm... how about something that is a bit different?"
'Could be a lesser played Debussy Prelude? Or maybe a movement of the second book of Images?' I wondered.
"Let's do some Messiaen! Have you played any of the Préludes?"
Messiaen? I had to admit that I had not. I might be doing my younger self a disservice but I am not sure that I was even aware that he had written for the piano.
Em... that's not exactly what I meant when I said that I loved French music...
I held some vague ideas about Messiaen as an atonal and overly-intellectual composer who only wrote for the organ and perhaps occasionally choral music. I didn't want to play something atonal and academic. I wanted to play something beautiful.
Though slightly baffled by this suggestion, I agreed to learn the last of his eight Préludes (published 1929), for the sake of being open-minded.
The piece felt like it was written in a foreign language and the harmonic landscape was completely alien to me. It was rhythmically challenging and I decided probably impossible to memorise. It couldn't have sounded further from Debussy's 'Reflets' (Reflets dans l'eau from Images Book 1) which I knew and loved already.
However, there was something unusual which had captured my attention. Messiaen's written notes on the score above each movement included precise instructions regarding which colours were characterised in each.
For the eighth Prélude, the instructions are as follows:
"The small storm which opens and concludes the piece alternates veins of orange, and green with black stains. The central development section is more luminous. The second theme, very melodious, and wrapped in sinuous arpeggios, is blue-orange in its first occurrence, and green-orange in its second one. Violet, orange and purple dominate the entire piece."
This led me to reading into Messiaen a bit. I discovered, perhaps unsurprisingly, that he had synesthesia (it is not unheard of for composers to see specific colours when they hear particular harmonies and it can bring a very interesting perspective to composition). I found this video of him giving a seminar on Debussy at the Paris Conservatoire.
Watching this back there are a few things that strike me. Firstly, the warmth of his approach and his rapport with the students. He clearly was a charismatic and engaging teacher and eloquent communicator.
Then, the huge respect that he clearly held for Debussy. In fact, at 0:56 he makes a reference to the composer's 'Reflets dans l'eau.' I think that made me curious. How could the music of someone so deeply entrenched in the French musical landscape, and with a deep love of Debussy even conceive of music that sounded like Messiaen's?
Near the end of the video, with a wry smile, he suggests to the students some of the colours that he hears.
They laugh.
"They are always wary about the colours," he says.
As I got into learning the piece, I had to admit that there was something about the music which was very compelling. The rhythmic and melodic gestures seemed to me to sound spoken, like precise imitiations of speech. Harmonically it seemed to be in a world of it's own. And yet, it sounded so human, and not at all academic as I had feared. It had rhythmic energy and an exciting emotional arc, and melodies which were, I had to admit, beautiful.
It would be a couple of years before I braved my next piece of Messiaen, but a new window had been opened for me which I had no plans of closing.
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