Do you notice a mistake?
Thierry Escaich does not claim to belong to a particular school or aesthetic, whether contemporary or older. On the contrary, his works are imbued with references to a wide range of musical genres and styles, from Renaissance polyphony to French chanson, plainchant, Middle Eastern music, and jazz, as well as to great figures from the classical repertoire, including Claude Debussy, Béla Bartók, Johann Sebastian Bach, Ludwig van Beethoven, and William Byrd. These are less aesthetic affiliations than an inexhaustible reservoir of themes, languages, forms, writings — in a phrase, musical universes — that he evokes, associates, confronts, fuses, and transforms.1 Escaich refuses to resort to the simple act of quotation. Referring to the various motifs that pepper the score of Le dernier Évangile, he explains:
If they appear in the course of the oratorio as a function of the symbolic force they contain, they are from the outset integrated into my own thematic material, my own language, and in no way take on the aspect of quotations.2
For example, the descending chromatic bass — a well-known Baroque figure he employs repeatedly — becomes an element of his own compositional language.
Moreover, many of these quotations are imaginary. Although Gregorian antiphons abound in Escaich’s vocal and instrumental works, such as the sequence “victimae paschali laudes” in the Five Verses on the “Victimae paschali” or the last of the Trois instants fugitifs, some of the plainchant-like melodies are clearly pastiche. Examples are in the Fantaisie concertante, the second Évocation, the Scènes d’enfants au crépuscule, the Antiennes oubliées, and the first of his Trois motets. Moreover, the authentic historical themes he uses are almost always systematically distorted. One such instance is in the second movement of his Organ Concerto No. 1. Listeners may recognize the melodic profile of the Sanctus from the Requiem, but Escaich changes the original melody’s intervals.
While thematic borrowing is one of the main vectors of the process of reminiscence that Escaich uses, the use of ancient instruments and techniques represent another. Terra desolata, for example, is written for four solo singers and a Baroque ensemble. Ground V, Claude, and Jeux de doubles reveal prominent traces of pre-tonal modality. Baroque ornamental motifs appear in the Second Organ Concerto, the first Évocation, Ground VI, and Mecanic Song.
Moreover, while Escaich often uses music of the past to inspire his work, he is also interested in other kinds of music, including popular (for example, La Ronde) and non-European. What he borrows from these other traditions is their rhythmic freedom, scales, and ornamentation. The coexistence of these a priori irreconcilable worlds is also reflected in his use of unconventional instruments or unusual combinations of instruments, such as accordion (an instrument Escaich himself plays), euphonium in Ground I, and cello and tap dancing in Sopra la Folia.
Escaich’s continuous transformation of pre-existing materials, languages, and themes also applies to his own works: it is not uncommon for several versions of his pieces to exist, not only as transcriptions, but also as re-compositions. For example, Le Bal for saxophone quartet, premiered in 2003, is a reconfiguration of his Scènes de bal (2001) for string quartet. He also took certain thematic elements of Dixit Dominus from his Lamentations of the Prophet Jeremiah and Ad ultimas laudes. He derived Erinnerung (for string orchestra) from his string quartet Après l’aurore. And in his Claude, one can recognize the ostinato from the fourth movement of his Scènes de bal.
For Escaich, composition is ultimately a process of reappropriating a form of otherness, whether a distant object — a vestige of the past — or a foreign one, giving rise to a musical object that is both hybrid and unified. The image of stained glass, which Escaich invokes several times in his notes,3 perfectly conveys this dialectic between heterogeneity and homogeneity.
It should now be clear that what lies at the heart of Escaich’s compositional practice is the metamorphosis, development, dissolution, and elaboration of invented and borrowed themes.
It is no coincidence, then, that Escaich pursues the Beethovenian idea of organic form.4 Many of his works feature two or more antagonistic themes. These can allude to either different musical universes (e.g., the traditional children’s song “À la claire fontaine” and the Dies irae in Scènes d’enfants au crepuscule), or to antithetical qualities (legato vs. staccato, long vs. short values, strings vs. woodwinds). The first movement of Lettres mêlées illustrates this process. The first theme, “Implacable,” is made up of a series of notes, B, R, A, H, M, S (B-flat, D, A, B-natural, F, E), stated in staccato octaves on the piano with forte dynamics. As its dominance gradually weakens, fragments of a legato second theme, characterized by dotted rhythms and Brahmsian pianistic writing, burst in like a memory, suddenly disrupting the linearity of the present time.
The tension between contradictory musical elements and, often, their superimposition or gradual fusion, are two of Escaich’s favorite formal motivations. The elements themselves are never fixed in a definitive form; subject to perpetual evolution, they appear under multiple and changing aspects. It is therefore easy to see why one of the forms Escaich favors is the theme and variations (similar to the chaconne during the Baroque period), with either a ground (an unyielding bass with variations) or a double [an ornamented form of the melody over an unchanged harmony], both of which entail a process of rewriting. However, Escaich does not necessarily give the theme in extenso and in its “original” form at the beginning of a piece. There is, in fact, typically neither an original nor a finished form in his work. Phrases are progressively constructed or deconstructed, from motif to phrase and phrase to motif. Examples of this process include the first of the Trois instants fugitifs, the first movement of the Organ Concerto No. 1, the Variations-Études, and the first Évocation. This way of forging and dissolving themes, of subjecting them to slow transformations, likely stems from the improvisation techniques Escaich uses as an organist. One cannot separate his improvisational practices from his composition; these two facets of musical creation seem to be mutually nourishing for him, not least because both share the aforementioned commonalities. There is a clear relationship between Escaich’s improvisation and composition, between the organist’s craft and that of the composer.
From another angle, the term “character” that Escaich uses — in connection with Miroir d’ombres, Magic Circus, Les Litanies de l’ombre, First Symphony, Nocturne, Vertiges de la croix, and many others — perfectly captures the life his themes take on as they struggle, enter into relationships and associate with other elements, evolve, become, and die. To speak of a “character” in this context is also to confer dramatic and symbolic significance on his music, in both vocal and dramatic works. The opera, Claude, is a notable example, but so are a number of his instrumental works, which frequently have evocative titles or make references to paintings. Vertiges de la croix reflects Escaich’s contemplation of Peter Paul Rubens’s famous The Descent from the Cross, while Organ Concerto No. 3 has the subtitle “Quatre visages du temps,” which seems to be inspired by the work of the French composer Henri Dutilleux. Moreover, Escaich’s tight collaboration with contemporary writers and his settings of poems from the nineteenth through twenty-first centuries confirm his affinity for narrative and poetic forms. Examples of such collaboration include Robert Badinter in Claude, Alain Suied for the Trois motets, Nathalie Nabert in Le dernier Évangile, Laurent Gaudé in Cris, and Henri Michaux in Les Nuits hallucinées. A Escaich’s appreciation for cinema, having composed and improvised music for silent films, also confirms his interest in narrative. Indeed, it is surprising that Escaich has only written one opera. His practice of vocal writing, the associations he makes between images, texts, and music, and his understanding of musical meaning, would seem to have destined him to venture more comprehensively into music drama.
With the exception of the variation forms already mentioned, fixed forms derived from the Classical or Baroque periods are relatively rare in Escaich’s music, where process prevails over structure and teleological dynamism over stasis. His avoidance of older forms does not mean that he eschews repetition. On both small and large scales, repetition, though not systematic, is one of the most salient traits in his work. Elements at the beginning of a piece frequently reappear at the end — whether of a movement, a multi-part work, or an individual piece — giving the impression of a return of a distinctive kind. Such is the case with La Barque solaire, Ground IV, the Organ Concerto No. 3, and many other pieces.
Another essential formal characteristic of Escaich’s music is that most of his works are organized around slow progressions leading to moments of expressive intensity. Register, nuance, articulation, and rich harmonic density all contribute to these climaxes. The “Rondel” from Les Nuits hallucinées, based on a poem by Tristan Corbière, is punctuated by crescendos ending in violent explosions of sound, usually taken over by the orchestra. Although the placement of these “genies” does not exactly reflect the text (since the climaxes do not occur at the expected moments), the overall structure is clearly modeled on it. Having reached its climax, the tension in the piece gradually subsides until a final fortissimo burst momentarily shatters the almost restored calm. Similarly, in Exultet, Ad ultimas laudes, and In Memoriam, the high register of the sopranos combines with homorhythm and repeated chords to produce a dramatic sonic outburst. Last, in some of Escaich’s codas (especially in his concertos), the tempi, gestures, and unbridled virtuosity recall Maurice Ravel.
“Counterpoints,” here, are any form of superimposition, whether of themes, chords, texts, languages, styles, languages, or choirs. Escaich’s work is essentially and fundamentally contrapuntal, which is not at all surprising for a musician whose organ-playing and compositional practices are inextricably linked. Certain modes of his composing are reminiscent of medieval or Renaissance polyphony. Though not mentioned in his notes, the polytextual and sometimes polylingual character of some of his choral works — Exultet, Le dernier Évangile, Lamentations of the Prophet Jeremiah, Ad ultimas laudes, Trois Motets, and Grande messe solennelle — evoke motets from the Ars Nova period of the fourteenth century. Like the tenor voice in medieval polyphony, a long-value melody on which a composer builds a contrapuntal edifice, Escaich’s harmonic pedal points unify his heterogeneous material. Furthermore, his use of multiple choirs is indebted to Venetian polyphony and its antiphonal cori spezzati (split choir) style, as well as to the imposing architecture of Bach’s St. Matthew Passion (for example, in the Sanctus and Le dernier Évangile). In short, from perfect homogeneity to the most perfect independence, Escaich exploits every aspect and nuance of counterpoint. Thus, in the Gloria of the Grande messe solennelle (among other examples), homophonic textures alternate with sections of polyrhythm and polytextuality. There are also multiple configurations of polyphony in the fourth movement of Scènes de bal, with the four instruments at some points dissociating into several distinct voices (sometimes with fugato effects), while at others coming together in monolithic blocks. Unsurprisingly, the canon occupies an important place in Escaich’s work, whether vocal or instrumental. His canons are rarely strict, however, allowing a sharp degree of contrast in their tempi and registers. The First Symphony, “Kyrie d’une messe imaginaire,” is emblematic in this regard. Although the first antiphon is an immense canon, its formal character is concealed, with each voice distinguished by different timbres, rhythms, registers, and speeds of enunciation.
The counterpoint in Escaich’s work also influences its harmony. Outside the clearly tonal or modal passages, he favors the use of “numberable” [sic] chords, albeit non-functional ones. His typical practice is to add extra notes to a chord (e.g., at the beginning of Miroir d’ombres, a G-flat ornaments an E-flat major chord), or to combine chords with tonal associations but with a chromatic relationship, such as a semitone apart. These chords are then superimposed on their own appoggiaturas (C-sharp minor and C major, for example) — a process reminiscent of Ravel’s harmonic sensibility. These chords impart color rather than tonal function, with Escaich favoring the dissonance of tritones, sevenths, and semitones. Other harmonic peculiarities include strictly parallel two-part imitative writing (frequently in thirds) and parallel chords, as well as the gradual formation of aggregates, for example in the acclamation in Le dernier Évangile and the very end of Lettres mêlées.
If these distinctive features define, at least in part, Escaich’s voice, it should also be stressed that he does not adhere to a fixed scale system. Although the so-called “Bartók scale” (the fourth mode of an ascending melodic minor scale, otherwise referred to as a Lydian dominant scale) makes an occasional appearance (e.g., in the first movement of Baroque Song), its incursions are only fleeting. Similarly, although Escaich often uses Olivier Messiaen’s second mode of limited transposition,5 he breaks its normal alternation of tones and semitones with irregularities, such as in Sax Trip and “Dans la nuit,” the first movement of Nuits hallucinées). These anomalies once again reflect his reluctance to adhere to static forms. For him, each musical element is bound to depart from its initial state or to confront its antithesis, which explains the coexistence of modality, tonality, and atonality in his work.
According to Escaich,
I like the body to participate when I play music, imagining the involvement of other people’s bodies. If my music is energetic, it is because I have an almost primal need for music to be an expression of the body. I myself need to be in movement to conceive it. I don’t see music as something you listen to only in concert, with your arms folded.6
In Bernard Bloch and Hélène Pierrakos’s documentary film about him, he says more succinctly: “My world is a rhythmic world.”7
This centrality of rhythm is confirmed his Escaich’s use of irregular metrics reminiscent of Bartók (with added-value rhythms and syncopations), references to dance (tango, swing, and waltzes), alternations of long and short beats (as was popular in French Baroque music), frequent use of percussion and percussive writing, and, above all, fascination with ostinatos. As relentless repetitions of a melodic-rhythmic motif, ostinatos are a driving force that he uses in a wide variety of contexts and genres. They are just as prevalent in his instrumental music (including the Violin Concerto, the double concerto Miroir d’ombres, the second Évocation, the Quatrième Esquisse for organ, and the Lettres mêlées) as in his vocal works (Le dernier Évangile, the Grande messe solennelle, and Claude). A notable example is Ad ultimas laudes, in which the ostinato pedal suggests an incantation or bewitching litany. For Escaich, then, repetition is not just a formal tool; perhaps above all, it is the sign of an obsessive relationship to certain themes or rhythms, which run through his work like musical signatures. One is the often-used intervallic profile of a descending semitone, followed by a large descending interval and return to the initial note, as found in Ad ultimas laudes, Le dernier Évangile, Lamentations of the Prophet Jeremiah, Les nuits hallucinées, the second of his Trois motets, Scènes de bal, and Claude. Another is two short values followed by silence, as appears frequently in Baroque Song, Nocturne, Chorus, the First Symphony, and many other pieces.
From this point of view, much of Escaich’s music is intimately motivated by the dual imperatives of dance and seduction. His fascination with dance is clear in his strong-willed repetitions of idiosyncratic rhythmic and melodic figures. Although this perpetual spinning invites movement, it is experienced and internalized rather than external and visible. (Significantly, he has written only one ballet: The Lost Dancer.) The role of seduction, in contrast, lies in the incantatory dimension of many of his themes, as well as in the special relationship he maintains with figures that fascinate him, transforming his music into an emotional and sensitive experience that aims to captivate the listener physically.
Escaich continues to be driven to create complex yet coherent musical objects using superimposed and overlapped heterogeneous and traditional materials. Over the years, the stylistic and formal characteristics of his work have remained remarkably stable. His aesthetic choices are underpinned by the search for a form of euphony, immediately perceptible energy and expression, and evocatively meaningful sounds.
Translated from the French by Melvin Backstrom
1. This approach could be seen as postmodern, however complex and controversial its definition. Cf. Jacques AMBLARD, “Postmodernismes,” in Théories de la composition musicale au xxe siècle, volume 2 (eds Nicolas Donin and Laurent Feneyrou), Lyon, Symétrie, “Symétrie Recherche,” 2013, p. 1387-1424. ↩
2. Thierry ESCAICH, Le dernier Évangile, Ensemble orchestral de Paris, Maîtrise Notre-Dame de Paris, dir. John Nelson, CD Hortus, 2006, no. 024, p. 5. ↩
3. Thierry ESCAICH, catalogue page, http://www.escaich.org/pages/catalogue/ (link verified September 2017). ↩
4. Cf. Hélène Pierrakos, in Thierry ESCAICH, Exultet: Œuvres pour ensemble vocal, Thierry Escaich, organ, Ensemble vocal Sequenza 9.3, dir. Catherine Simonpietri, CD Accord/Universal, 2006, no. 476 9074, p. 12. ↩
5. Though claiming no particular compositional heritage, Escaich confesses to admiring Olivier Messiaen: ibid., p. 14. ↩
6. Ibid., p. 12. ↩
7. Thierry Escaich, in Bernard BLOCH and Hélène PIERRAKOS, Thierry Escaich (Productions l’œil sauvage, 2007), Paris, Bibliothèque publique d’information, 2013. ↩
Do you notice a mistake?