Which works prior to ‘Le Marteau…..’ were serial? Polyphonie X,ÉtudesandStructures, book I
Boulez has constantly revised his compositions. Make a list of revisions and version of ‘Le Marteau’ Revised the order of the fist six movements in 1955, then added three new ones as well as "Bel édifice" settings and the third commentaire on "Bourreaux de solitude", the flute and viola were added in the revision.
What literary piece is the music based on? The collection of poems of the same name by René Char
How many sections of music are there in total? Nine
When & where was the 1st performance? 1955 at the 29th Festival of the International Society for Contemporary Music in Baden-Baden (Germany)
Which musical cultures influenced the piece? Gamalan, Japanese Koto, and African Balafon (tuned percussion)
Which compositional technique does Boulez use in this piece which is common to a lot of his music? The instruments gradually become percussive noise from initial semi-melodic sounding voices.
What is the technique of multiplication? Complicated, but new pitches are created by multiplying together two existing pieces
My First Concert by Harry Newton
I entered the theatre with high hopes. I had heard much about Boulez, with his radical lack of bass instruments and outrageous compositional techniques. I sat down near the front and refused the offer of a drink.
Pierre Boulez entered the room to silence. He was wearing a French expression but surprisingly no shoes. He welcomed the audience and thanked them for coming. I muttered to my partner that It was no big deal and that This was what I wanted to do but I don't think he heard me with his ear plugs in. Boulez announced the musicians : Claire on flute, Dave on guitar, Jean-Claude Jr on viola, Crunk on vibrophone, Norris on Xylorimba and Cinammon on Voice. She was stood next to a pole which I found wholey unnecessary. I was just ready to leave when they started playing.
I instantly grimaced and my spine grew weary with discordance. I laughed to myself : This joker feels so comfortable with music and the audience that he is showing how not to do things. Of course, once my hair started falling out I realised that he was being serious. I'm pretty sure that the musicians were simply exacting rage on their instruments to produce the most horrible sound possible. Boulez was sitting down, looking crestfallen. Believe me, his crest had defiinitely fallen. After a few minutes I had grown used to the cacophonic mess and started to appreciate the radical style conveyed in the piece, with its complex compositional techniques and brand new approach to serialism.
Then I woke up and realised where I was. My ears began to bleed and I thought that that was probably a bad thing. I was worried that everyone else seemed to be enjoying the music, either that or had been drugged beforehand. The vibrophone player was going mental on the keys, frothing at the mouth and seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. I felt pity for Boulez, forced to sit so close the source of dirge that he had created. I thought I saw a single tear fall across his ashen face. I knew that I had been staring at him for a long time when he returned my gaze.
I saw great sorrow in his eyes. His lip was quivering and I saw him form the words 'What have I done?' before he quickly glanced away. I felt terrible, and made a mental note to download the song as soon as I got home since he still needed to buy his bread whatever his profession.
When the piece had continued for another five minutes I had had enough. I stopped by the stage to give Cinammon some money and her bra back, then exited by the side door. I felt someone follow me. Outside, I was joined by Boulez. He closed the door and lit a cigarette. His yellowing eyes fixed on mine and he spoke with teeth the colour of papaya. He told me how he had been forced by a very inconsiderate person to leave his studies of mathematics to create awful music and lose all of his respect. He had been obliged to drug spectators if he was to scrape a living. His breath was horrendous. He placed a shaky hand on my shoulder and hissed in my ear:
"Sick I have become. The dark side of music gone to I have. Same mistake, make you, do not"
My First Concert by Harry Newton
I entered the theatre with high hopes. I had heard much about Boulez, with his radical lack of bass instruments and outrageous compositional techniques. I sat down near the front and refused the offer of a drink.
Pierre Boulez entered the room to silence. He was wearing a French expression but surprisingly no shoes. He welcomed the audience and thanked them for coming. I muttered to my partner that It was no big deal and that This was what I wanted to do but I don't think he heard me with his ear plugs in. Boulez announced the musicians : Claire on flute, Dave on guitar, Jean-Claude Jr on viola, Crunk on vibrophone, Norris on Xylorimba and Cinammon on Voice. She was stood next to a pole which I found wholey unnecessary. I was just ready to leave when they started playing.
I instantly grimaced and my spine grew weary with discordance. I laughed to myself : This joker feels so comfortable with music and the audience that he is showing how not to do things. Of course, once my hair started falling out I realised that he was being serious. I'm pretty sure that the musicians were simply exacting rage on their instruments to produce the most horrible sound possible. Boulez was sitting down, looking crestfallen. Believe me, his crest had defiinitely fallen. After a few minutes I had grown used to the cacophonic mess and started to appreciate the radical style conveyed in the piece, with its complex compositional techniques and brand new approach to serialism.
Then I woke up and realised where I was. My ears began to bleed and I thought that that was probably a bad thing. I was worried that everyone else seemed to be enjoying the music, either that or had been drugged beforehand. The vibrophone player was going mental on the keys, frothing at the mouth and seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. I felt pity for Boulez, forced to sit so close the source of dirge that he had created. I thought I saw a single tear fall across his ashen face. I knew that I had been staring at him for a long time when he returned my gaze.
I saw great sorrow in his eyes. His lip was quivering and I saw him form the words 'What have I done?' before he quickly glanced away. I felt terrible, and made a mental note to download the song as soon as I got home since he still needed to buy his bread whatever his profession.
When the piece had continued for another five minutes I had had enough. I stopped by the stage to give Cinammon some money and her bra back, then exited by the side door. I felt someone follow me. Outside, I was joined by Boulez. He closed the door and lit a cigarette. His yellowing eyes fixed on mine and he spoke with teeth the colour of papaya. He told me how he had been forced by a very inconsiderate person to leave his studies of mathematics to create awful music and lose all of his respect. He had been obliged to drug spectators if he was to scrape a living. His breath was horrendous. He placed a shaky hand on my shoulder and hissed in my ear:
"Sick I have become. The dark side of music gone to I have. Same mistake, make you, do not"