OBITUARY: GYÖRGY LIGETI
(1923-2006)
Most obituaries for the composer György Ligeti, who
has died aged 83, will refer to him as the natural heir
to Béla Bartók, his Hungarian compatriot
and a major influence on his early development as a composer.
Like Bartók, Ligeti was fascinated by folk music,
spending many years researching and arranging the traditional
music of Romania, between whose borders his birthplace
now lies. Moreover, it was Bartók’s music
that fired his first mature creative impulses –
the 1954 string quartet, Metamorphoses Nocturnes,
is firmly rooted in the style of Bartók’s
Third and Fourth quartets, whose daring harmonies were
at that time forbidden by a repressive Communist regime.
Ligeti did much more than carry on the Bartók tradition,
however, and the list of influences on his music, particularly
in the last 20 years or so, were eclectic to say the least.
He drew inspiration from electronics, Dadaism, minimalism,
African polyrhythm and the Spectralist movement, from
composers as diverse as Ockeghem, Beethoven, Webern, Stockhausen,
Nancarrow and Claude Vivier. Perhaps the most lasting
influences on him were non-musical – the free-association
absurdity of Lewis Carroll’s Alice books
and the disquieting imagery in the paintings of Bosch
and Brueghel were twin undercurrents in works such as
his 1978 “comic strip” opera, Le Grand
Macabre.
He was a late initiate to the avant-garde movement. The
veil of silence drawn over Hungary in the 40s and 50s
extended very much to the airwaves, but he avidly soaked
up the ideas of Schoenberg and Webern from books and scores
illicitly smuggled into Budapest. By the time he had fled
for Vienna in 1956, he was well versed in the techniques,
if not the practice, of contemporary music, and his evident
enthusiasm won over the likes of Karlheinz Stockhausen,
Gottfried Michael Koenig and Herbert Eimert. It was the
latter who invited him to work at the WDR Electronic Music
Studio in Cologne, and it was there that he first began
experimenting with the ethereal soundscapes that would
ultimately make his name.
His first important work for orchestra, entitled Apparitions,
greatly impressed his contemporaries when it was premiered
in Cologne in 1960. A tapestry of complex sounds woven
from an intricate network of ever-shifting tone clusters,
it marked a breathtaking departure from the ascetic ‘total
serialism’ otherwise preoccupying the compositional
elite of the day. It was followed closely by Atmosphères
(1961), in which Ligeti mastered the art of the gradual
transition, imperceptibly morphing one block of sonority
into another, like a cloud changing shape in the sky.
He christened his tortuously complicated technique “micropolyphony”
– its roots lay in the contrapuntal contraptions
of the Renaissance masters – and it reached its
zenith in the 1965 Requiem for Soprano, Mezzo-Soprano,
Choir and Orchestra. In the Requiem’s haunting
Kyrie, the chorus sings a five-part canon, with each part
further subdivided into another, four-part canon; like
a modern day Spem in Alium, the effect was not
of twenty separate parts, but of a single, writhing mass,
an immeasurable multitude of voices.
In 1968, the director Stanley Kubrick famously used both
Atmosphères and the Requiem in his
film 2001: A Space Odyssey, bringing Ligeti instant
cult status – if not instant financial success.
It was, infamously, only after a friend had gone to see
the film at the cinema that Ligeti was made aware of his
artistic contribution to it; he spent many years trying
to extract royalties from the studio MGM, who eventually
and reluctantly paid him the princely sum of $3,500 for
services (unwittingly) rendered. Ligeti liked the film,
however, saying that he “accepted artistically”
the way Kubrick had used his music, and Kubrick was later
given permission – legally, this time – to
include Ligeti’s music in The Shining and
Eyes Wide Shut.
If nothing else, his brushes with Hollywood brought him
wider exposure, and he became, for many, the acceptable
face of the avant-garde, the People’s Modernist.
The Requiem was much imitated in subsequent film
scores, and Ligeti’s highly individual soundworld
was suddenly the byword for anything on screen that looked
vast and unfathomable. By the mid-60s, however, another
strand of his psycho-musical makeup had begun to assert
itself: in pieces such as Aventures and Poème
Symphonique (both 1962), Ligeti began to explore the
theatrical and the absurd in true Dadaist fashion. Aventures,
along with its sequel Nouvelle Aventures, was a
playful parody of singing and singers, full of invented
vocal techniques and riotous percussive effects (a tray
of crockery is flung noisily to the ground at one stage);
the notorious Poème Symphonique, on the
other hand, pits one hundred tick-tocking metronomes against
one another in a battle to see which will last longest.
The Future of Music is a wry comment on performance
art – very much in vogue at the time – for
mute lecturer, blackboard and audience. 0’00”
cruelly satirises John Cage, in the shortest piece of
music ever written.
In the 1970s, Ligeti’s radical bent – born
of his natural anti-authoritarianism – was supplanted
by a more lyrical, even “melodic” sensibility.
In 1971’s Melodien, he adapted the micropolyphonic
and transitionary techniques he had perfected in the 60s
to a series of ever-changing melodies, each one emerging
from his trademark web of sound for a brief moment of
clarity before being subsumed once again. The Double
Concerto (1972) for Flute, Oboe and Orchestra, is
a restrained and underrated masterpiece of subtle colouration
and microtonally inflected harmonies, drifting dreamily
from inertial calm to frenzied movement and back again.
San Francisco Polyphony, written for and premiered
by Seija Ozawa, must count as the most exuberant and exciting
concert opener produced in the latter half of the 20th
Century.
The 70s culminated in the completion of Le Grand Macabre
(1978, extensively revised in 1997), Ligeti’s only
opera and a veritable summation of his work to that point.
Its sense of absurdity comes straight from Aventures,
but the opera’s subject – the end of the world
and the massacre of innocents – comes straight from
Brueghel. (It is perhaps telling that, when faced with
such a topic, Ligeti – whose father and brother
were murdered in the Holocaust – should choose comedy
as his medium.) Musically, it ranges from a prelude for
four squawking motor horns, to a duet of alphabetised
imprecations, to the darkly effective passacaglia
that accompanies the end of the world. Its main characters,
including the apocalypse-bringing Nekrotzar, the long-suffering
astronomer Astradamors, and the ineffectual and effeminate
Prince Go-Go, are all authoritarian figures who, in one
way or another, are rendered impotent by their inability
to inspire fear; it represents another instance of Ligeti
thumbing his nose at the dictatorships he so thoroughly
reviled.
As with politics, he was against any sort of dogmatism
in music, and his attitudes contrasted sharply with those
who advocated the rigours of serialism as the only ‘true’
way forward. In the 1980s and 1990s, Ligeti’s music
moved further and further away from the avant-gardism
with which he had made his name, eventually writing long
stretches of music that could be broadly described as
tonal. The Horn Trio of 1982 and the 1992 Violin
Concerto both feature extended, lyrical melodies,
though both utilise decidedly ‘weird’ tunings
to create distinctly Ligetian harmonies. In the Piano
Etudes (1985) and Piano Concerto (1988), Ligeti
turned to sub-Saharan Africa for inspiration, taking an
interest in the layered rhythmic patterns of Pygmy drumming
as a means of creating sustained musical structures. Amongst
his last works were a song that liberally pastiched Hungarian
folk music, and a piano etude that used only the white
keys.
Ligeti’s open-mindedness, his receptiveness to new
ideas, his rigorously analytical mind, his warmth and
generosity, all conspired to make him as well-loved a
teacher as he was a composer. Numbering amongst his erstwhile
students are such rising stars as Unsuk Chin and Hans
Abrahamsen; his weekly lectures in Hamburg, along with
his annual appearances at Darmstadt, were legendary. But
for those composers who never got to meet him, his influence
will continue to be felt. As the only composer since Stravinsky
to have his entire body of work recorded while he was
still alive, it is obvious that Ligeti occupies a special
place in the history of modern music. His place in the
hearts of millions of music lovers, now and in the future,
is equally assured.
He is survived by his wife Vera and his son, the composer
and percussionist Lukas Ligeti.
Tristan Jakob-Hoff
Another obituary, written by Evan Dickerson
for MusicWeb's CD review section appears Here