“I hate those artists who dwell in the wake of the masters… I am a musician without a label.”—Poulenc
Born into a wealthy family in Paris on Jan. 7, 1899, Francis Poulenc became an intriguing dichotomy: a highly devout Catholic with, according to him, “the faith of a country pastor,” and a bit of a hedonist. He was a blend of his deeply religious father and his mother, a leading figure in Parisian society, with whom he shared a passion for music, art, literature, and theater.
Critic Claude Rostand summarized: “In Poulenc there is something of the monk and something of the rascal.” Both traits are reflected in Poulenc’s music, which ranges from serious religious music to glib, humorous, charming tunes.
Poulenc’s mother taught him to play piano, but he learned composition from books… “because I feared being influenced by a teacher,” he said. (He had one lesson with Ravel.) “I read a lot of music and greatly pondered musical aesthetics. My four favorite composers, my only masters are Bach, Mozart, Satie and Stravinsky. I don’t like Beethoven at all. I loathe Wagner.”
In his late teens, Poulenc became one of Les Six, a group of hip, young composers who spurned the classical establishment for more popular styles. Describing himself as “wildly eclectic,” Poulenc favored irreverent music and brazen jazz-infused tunes but also took inspiration from diverse composers (Bach, Mozart, Chabrier, Stravinsky, and Maurice Chevalier)—in order to create his own unique style.
Poulenc fell in love with a woman once, but came to accept his homosexuality, becoming one the first openly gay composers. Although he could be very animated, funny, and risqué, he also suffered from depression. He reveled in his Parisian social life but also coveted the solitude of his country home.
By 1932, Poulenc was very popular with the wealthy French nobility. Princess Edmond de Polignac, heiress of the American Singer sewing machine fortune (who supported many leading composers), commissioned a new work from Poulenc.
That summer he wrote his sparkling, light-hearted three-movement Concerto for Two Pianos for himself and friend Jacques Février. The very definition of “wildly eclectic,” the effervescent work gleefully combines influences from Mozart, Ravel, Stravinsky, popular music-hall entertainment, and exotic Balinese gamelan music, which he’d heard at the 1931 Paris Exposition.
The music moves quickly, dramatically, and is unceasingly entertaining. Poulenc wrote, “You will see for yourself what an enormous step forward it is from my previous work and that I am really entering my great period.”
The first movement is “gay and direct,” a description Poulenc often used for his music. Marked Allegro ma non troppo, it launches with two percussive gunshot chords before delivering a series of madcap melodies and a clever four-note rhythmic motive, as the pianists engage in intricate, ongoing dialogue, filled with references to popular, upbeat Parisian tunes.
The wallop of madness suddenly recedes for a much calmer middle section in a slow, hypnotic tempo, as the two pianos rule with unruffled, exotic melodies over delicate orchestration. A return to zaniness is abruptly interrupted with a pause. The two pianos magically deliver the mysterious, mystical bell-like sounds of gamelan instruments.
The second movement, written in a Neoclassical style, is a more serious, enchanting homage to Mozart featuring a delightful opening melody, resembling a Mozart slow-movement theme with unusual chromatic half-step (nuances unheard of in Mozart’s day). The middle section, as it shifts into a dreamy romantic style, gives off Rachmaninoff vibes.
Poulenc said: “In the Larghetto of this Concerto, I allowed myself, for the first theme, to return to Mozart, for I cherish the melodic line and I prefer Mozart to all other musicians. If the movement begins alla Mozart, it quickly veers, at the entrance of the second piano, toward a style that was standard for me at that time.”
The finale bursts open much like the first movement—full of diverse, joyful escapades and brilliant toccata-like music for the two pianos. A succession of audaciously orchestrated witty tunes is interspersed with passages of lovely, romantic lyricism. For the coda, the gamelan music returns, brighter and less mysterious, leaving the audience both amused and touched.
After the Venetian premier on Sept. 5, 1932, Poulenc said, “I must testify without any modesty at all that the first performance was flawless…It was a smashing success, for the work is gay and uncomplicated.”
In 1936, following a friend’s death, Poulenc wrote somber, religious pieces. But even his sacred music was sassy: his irreverent “Gloria” caused a scandal. He never gave up his secular tunes, but in 1957, depression set in again, leading Poulenc to compose subdued music.
He died in Paris in 1963 from heart failure, but his music—so direct, simple, plump with charming tuneful melodies, music-hall clichés, and passages of heartfelt sensitivity—lives on.
Jayce Keane, who began her career as a journalist for The Rocky Mountain News, has been working in the orchestra industry and writing about music for 18 years. A longtime resident of California, she now lives in Colorado.