Francis Poulenc
Sinfonietta
Francis Poulenc was born in Paris in 1899 and died there in 1963. He composed this work in 1947 on a commission from the BBC, and it was first performed in a BBC radio broadcast the following year, with the Philharmonia Orchestra under the direction of Roger Désormière. The score calls for 2 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 2 horns, 2 trumpets, timpani, harp, and strings.
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Of the French composers of his generation, Poulenc has had the most staying-power, primarily because his skills and artistic temperament advanced with his years. After the heady boisterousness of his early works, he concluded that his success had come at the expense of a thorough grounding in the basics. He applied himself to correcting that lack and, concurrently with a reawakening of his Catholic faith, matured to where his technique matched his gifts. The devil-may-care brashness that characterized his youthful works was still present, but now as a calculated effect rather than the only hand he knew how to play.
Poulenc’s Sinfonietta has the distinction of having had its premiere in a radio broadcast. The BBC commissioned the work to celebrate the tenth anniversary of their fine arts channel, The Third Programme. Poulenc missed the anniversary deadline, but nonetheless his work was first heard on the radio rather than in a concert hall. The Sinfonietta is also unusual for being one of only a mere handful of works Poulenc composed for orchestra.
The first movement begins with a quirky theme that launches a seemingly random sequence of sometimes playful, sometimes intensely lyrical episodes. It’s probably not as random as it seems. Listen for how the bassoon begins a lyrical second theme by snatching up the quick four-note figure that lies embedded in the first; one can almost hear Poulenc saying, “Look what I found!” Connections like this are everywhere you look. The second movement is a lighthearted scherzo that brings to mind a Tchaikovsky ballet miniature, not least in the warm, sumptuous tune heard in the strings.
The Andante cantabile begins austerely in the winds, but the clarinet melody that ensues is set in a nearly Brahmsian style, full of warmth and nobility. This is Poulenc at his most romantic and most beautiful. The Finale is another kaleidoscope of styles, as if the composer couldn’t decide which to settle on and therefore used them all. We frolic between genteel lyricism and dance hall razzmatazz, and several outrageous head-fakes lead us to an ending that is sure to raise a smile.