Emmanuel Chabrier & French musical tradition.

The works that produce the most traceable effects in the subsequent history of an art are not always those which come to be regarded as epoch-making.

--Donald Francis Tovey

Perhaps the most productive midlife crisis in the history of music began in early March 1880 with a sly little note written by a low-level bureaucrat to his superior at the ministry of the interior in Paris. "Monsieur," it began, "personal matters require my presence in Bordeaux. I would be most grateful if you would permit me three days leave from the Ministry that I might settle my affairs." There were, however, no affaires d'interet in Bordeaux or anywhere else in France, as the writer then smilingly admitted.

 
   The above explanation is just for the file! Now, because I never lie and 
   because for this reason I have been well regarded by my superiors, I will, 
   just between us, tell you the real truth: for the last ten years ... I've 
   been dying to see Tristan et Yseult by Richard Wagner. It can only be seen 
   in Germany ... and it will be given in Munich this Sunday.... I beg you to 
   forgive this administrative escapade ... [but] I'll be back in the office 
   no later than Wednesday morning. 

Along with a small group of friends, the bureaucrat traveled to Munich for a matinee performance of Tristan. One of the group, the composer Paul Duparc, would write that his companion was overcome at the beginning of the opera and that he later returned to his hotel without saying a word. Recovering his spirits on the journey back to Paris, he had been made a decision. Back as promised on the Wednesday, he resigned his position eight months later, two weeks after his nineteenth anniversary at the ministry. In his remaining years, the now ex-bureaucrat devoted himself to composition. Largely self-taught, he completed three operas, various operettas, thirty songs, piano pieces, and a small number of orchestral works. When not composing, he supported his wife and sons as a chorus master and music critic.

In the last quarter of the nineteenth century, French music was having its own midlife crisis. Having largely ignored the heroic music of Hector Berlioz, far and away the great French composer of the first half of the century, the public, in particular the opera-going public, was torn among the "grandiose boredom" (Debussy's phrase) of Meyerbeer, the Italian bel canto school, and a particularly virulent strain of Wagnerism. In the midst of this turmoil, the bureaucrat created a musical style and language that served as an antidote to Wagner's influence and provided a foundation for the future of French music. Those who consider Debussy, Ravel, Milhaud, and Poulenc as among the twentieth century's masters of form, clarity, and expressiveness have this man to thank, as they themselves did fervently thank Emmanuel Chabrier.

Aside from the blockbuster Espana, Chabrier's works have never established themselves in the repertoire. His writing is strikingly individual, avoids easy classification, and has tended to be avoided by musicians assembling concert programs. And it has a deceptive simplicity, which caused its dismissal by other musicians. When Chabrier finished his Trois Valses Romantiques for two pianos, he wrote to the composer Paul Lacome de l'Estalenx: "The girls who play the piano seriously (need I say how ugly they usually are) will be sure to ask for them. Oh! They'll soon calm down when they've read them!" Chabrier found his inspiration in odd places. He once considered a libretto based on a novel by Sacher Masoch. He wrote innocent, anthropomorphic songs about pigs, ducks, and turkeys, but was equally happy creating musical settings for drunkenness, sexual innuendo, and even torture with captivating charm.