Sextet for piano, flute, oboe, clarinet, bassoon and horn (1933–39)

Although Poulenc had, as he said, “woodwind in the blood,” and although he was himself an accomplished pianist, he had a long struggle with the Sextet for piano and wind. Its history is not entirely clear: there is evidence that it was heard in an all-Poulenc concert in the Salle Chopin in July 1931 and yet in a letter written to Henri Sauguet more than a year later he announced that he would “finish the Sextet in ten days.” Perhaps he was revising the work rather than actually creating at that point, although that does not explain why a performance at a concert in the Sérénade series on 16 December 1933 was billed as the first. Whatever the truth of the situation, Poulenc did not long remain happy with the score in its 1933 state. Making a thorough revision six years later, he found it in its newly adjusted proportions “better balanced and sounding very clear.” No hint of a problematic history is discernible, however, in a work as cheerful, witty, outrageous even, and as sentimental as anything else he had written.

The sentimental heart of the first movement is a melodious middle section to be taken at half the speed of the stridently busy outer sections. The central Divertissement is constructed in the same way as the Allegro vivace but turned inside out – which is to say that the buoyantly music-hall middle section is twice as fast as the classically poised Andante sections on either side of it. As for the Finale, it turns out not to be quite as recklessly irresponsible as it at first seems. Even when it is in full flight it takes a few thematic glances backwards and towards the end, after a dramatic pause, it confirms its long-term structural conscience in a very slow and at first very quiet contemplation of the most melodious material from the first two movements.

“This”, said Poulenc of the piano and wind sextet, “is chamber music of the most straightforward kind: an homage to the wind instruments which I have loved from the moment I began composing.”

Straightforward for the listener it might well be but for the composer it was anything but. Although he had, as he claimed, “woodwind in the blood,” and although he was himself an accomplished pianist, Poulenc had a long struggle with the Sextet for piano and wind. Its history is not entirely clear: there is evidence that it was heard in an all-Poulenc concert in the Salle Chopin in July 1931 and yet in a letter written to Henri Sauguet more than a year later he announced that he would “finish the Sextet in ten days.” Perhaps he was revising rather than actually creating at that point, although that does not explain why a performance at a concert in the Sérénade series on 16 December 1933 was billed as the first. Whatever the truth of the situation, Poulenc did not long remain happy with the score in its 1933 state. Making a thorough revision six years later, he found it in its newly adjusted proportions “better balanced and sounding very clear.” No hint of a problematic history is discernible, however, in a work as cheerful, witty, outrageous even, and as sentimental as anything else he had written.

The sentimental heart of the first movement is a melodious middle section to be taken at half the speed of the stridently busy outer sections. Linked to the opening section by a bassoon soliloquy, it encourages the lyrical proclivities of all six instruments, beginning with the piano but featuring above all the horn which makes no fewer than five solo entries, the last one just before bassoon and piano effect a transition back to Allegro vivace. The central Divertissement is constructed in the same way as the preceding movement but turned inside out – which is to say that the classically poised Andante sections proceed at half the pace of the buoyantly music-hall middle section with, on the one hand, its alarming passages for horn bouncing up and down an octave and, on the other, the the unexpected sweetness squeezed out of lyrically unpromising material by the oboe.

As for the Finale, it turns out not to be quite as recklessly irresponsible as it at first seems. Even when it is in full flight it takes a few thematic glances backwards. Towards the end, after the rudest gestures of all, a dramatic pause and another bassoon soliloquy, it confirms its long-term structural conscience in a very slow and at first very quiet but ultimately very loud contemplation of the most melodious material from the first two movements.