Erik

Satie
Mary E. Davis
Erik Satie
Titles in the series Critical Lives present the work of leading cultural
figures of the modern period. Each book explores the life of the
artist, writer, philosopher or architect in question and relates it to
their major works.
In the same series

Michel Foucault Frank Lloyd Wright

David Macey Robert McCarter
Jean Genet Jean-Paul Sartre
Stephen Barber Andrew Leak
Pablo Picasso James Joyce
Mary Ann Caws Andrew Gibson
Franz Kafka Noam Chomsky
Sander L. Gilman Wolfgang B. Sperlich
Marcel Duchamp Jorge Luis Borges
Caroline Cros Jason Wilson
Guy Debord Ludwig Wittgenstein
Andy Merrifield Edward Kanterian
Erik Satie

Mary E. Davis

reaktion books
Published by Reaktion Books Ltd
33 Great Sutton Street
London ec1v 0dx, uk

www.reaktionbooks.co.uk

First published 2007

Copyright © Mary E. Davis 2007

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission
of the publishers.

Printed and bound in Great Britain

by Cromwell Press, Trowbridge, Wiltshire

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Davis, Mary Elizabeth
Erik Satie. – (Critical lives)
1. Satie, Erik, 1866–1925
I. Title
780.9’2

isbn-13: 978 1 86189 321 5

isbn-10: 1 86189 321 3
 Contents

Introduction 7
1 Honfleur 13
2 Student, Soldier, Gymnopédiste 21
3 Parcier 40
4 Velvet Gentleman 59
5 Scholiste 74
6 Bourgeois Radical 81
7 Ballets Russes 106
8 En ‘Smoking’ 118
9 Dadaist 132
Envoi 145

References 151
Bibliography 163
Select Discography 169
Acknowledgements 173
Photo Acknowledgements 175
Erik Satie photographed in 1922 by Man Ray.
 Introduction

Satie (Alfred Erik Leslie-Satie, dit Erik). French composer, born in

Honfleur (1866 – 1925), author of Trois Gymnopédies for piano (1888),
the ballet Parade (1917) and Socrate (oratorio, 1918). His stripped-down
style is often humorous.
Le Petit Larousse Illustré

Erik Satie, cultivator of minimalist aesthetics, would have warmed

to this crisp biography in the Petit Larousse Illustré, the dictionary
that traces its roots to 1856 and stakes its claim as the premier
French guide to the ‘evolution of the language and the world’. The
brief description conveys much about Satie for anyone who reads
between its three concise lines: a quirky personality comes across
in the spelling of his name – ‘Erik’ with a ‘k’ rather than the
conventional ‘c’; the mention of Honfleur sets the scene in a
picturesque Norman port town and conjures a lineage of native
artists ranging from landscape painter Emile Boudin to novelist
Gustave Flaubert. The three referenced works trace a history of the
arts in Paris – from the cabarets of fin-de-siècle Montmartre, where
Satie presented himself as a ‘gymnopédiste’, to the Théâtre du
Châtelet, where Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes gave a scandalous
performance of Parade at the height of World War i, to fashionable
salons of the Parisian elite where the classicizing ‘symphonic

7
drama’ Socrate was premiered in its aftermath. As for his ‘stripped-
down style’ and humour, both emerge from the mingling of high
art and vernacular culture that was central to Satie’s sound – and
to the history of modernist art. Thus considered, the Petit Larousse
Illustré entry on Satie comes into focus as a tantalizing glimpse of
man, music and legacy, all accomplished in under fifty words.
Longer accounts of Satie’s life and work have been available
since 1932, when Pierre-Daniel Templier published the first
biography of the composer.1 Templier had a close vantage point:
his father, Alexandre, was Satie’s friend and neighbour in the Paris
suburb of Arcueil, and they were both involved in its Radical-
Socialist Committee. The younger Templier’s biography appeared
in a series of studies devoted to ‘Masters of Ancient and Modern
Music’, thus placing Satie in the company of Beethoven, Wagner,
and Mozart as well as Debussy and Stravinsky. Illustrated with
photographs and documents supplied by Satie’s brother Conrad,
the book’s stated aim was ‘authenticity’: written not even a decade
after Satie’s death, it was an attempt to create a more realistic
portrait of a composer who had been both hailed as ‘the greatest
musician in the world’ and vilified as an untalented provocateur.2
Templier offered a two-part assessment, covering details of Satie’s
life in the first section of his book and presenting a richly
annotated chronology of works in the second. For the next sixteen
years, during which the composer faded from public memory and
largely disappeared from concert-hall and recital programmes, this
volume was the primary available source on Satie, and even today
it remains the authoritative study of his early years.
While Satie’s star waned in France, the publication of Rollo
Myers’s English-language biography in 1948 fuelled interest in the
composer in the United States and Britain.3 By that time a number
of significant composers and critics had already emerged as
advocates for Satie, championing both his musical innovations and
original voice. Virgil Thomson, a leader in the effort, famously

8
acclaimed Satie as the originator of the ‘only twentieth-century
aesthetic in the Western World’, and argued that the composer was
‘the only one whose works can be enjoyed and appreciated without
any knowledge of the history of music’.4 John Cage, another
unwavering admirer, pronounced Satie ‘indispensable’ and
acclaimed him as ‘art’s most serious servant’.5 Perhaps most
importantly, in essays, concerts and his own compositions, Cage
brought Satie to the attention of the postwar American avant-garde
across the arts and promoted his aesthetic as a powerful alternative
to more hermetic modes of modernism – an antidote to the control-
orientated approaches of Schoenberg, Boulez and Stockhausen.
In a surprising manner, the cultural shifts of the 1950s and ’60s
further raised Satie’s profile and saw the spread of his music in
concert halls and less likely venues, including jazz clubs and rock
festivals. His mass popularity arguably reached a high point
when the rock group Blood, Sweat and Tears adapted two of the
Gymnopédies and featured the recording as the lead track on their
self-titled album in 1969; the album sold three million copies and
won the Grammy Foundation’s award for Album of the Year, while
‘Variations on a Theme by Erik Satie’ won the Grammy for Best
Contemporary Instrumental Performance. The foundation for
this crossover had been laid by historian Roger Shattuck’s
groundbreaking study The Banquet Years (1958, revised 1968),
which solidified Satie’s position as an avatar of modernism and
an exemplar of hipness by situating the composer alongside
Guillaume Apollinaire, Alfred Jarry and Henri Rousseau as one
of the original members of the French avant-garde.6 The group,
Shattuck proposed, constituted the core of ‘the fluid state known
as bohemia, a cultural underground smacking of failure and fraud
[that] crystallized for a few decades into a self-conscious avant-
garde that carried the arts into a period of astonishingly varied
renewal and accomplishment.’7 For readers of the time, Satie’s
status as a progenitor of experimental art music – as well as rock

9
music performed by bands styled in the image of their Parisian
avant-garde forebears – was secured.
A seemingly reactionary response to this understanding of
Satie as an icon of nonconformist chic set in as the century came
to a close. A spate of specialized musicological studies, based on
examinations of Satie’s manuscripts and sketches, laid out the first
comprehensive analysis of his work, from which emerged a fresh
recognition of his contributions as well as a new awareness of his
rigorous compositional technique. As the focus shifted from
biography to compositional process, a consensus began to form
about his importance not just for the avant-garde, but also for
figures more fully assimilated into the musical mainstream,
including Claude Debussy and Igor Stravinsky. No longer
perceived as simply a musical eccentric, he was absorbed into
the longer chain of music history, linked to Mozart and Rossini
as well as Cage and Steve Reich. The view of Satie was further
enlarged by the appearance of a steady stream of books exploring
non-musical aspects of his creative work, and particularly his
literary output; from the appearance of edited collections of
his writings in 1981 to the arrival of his ‘almost complete’
correspondence in 2002, Satie’s own views and idiosyncratic
modes of expression could be factored with minimal mediation
into the mix of evidence about his life and work.
Satie was a prolific and original writer, and although much of
his work remained unpublished until recently, a number of his
essays and commentaries saw print in specialized music journals as
well as mass-market magazines in France and the United States
during his lifetime. Among these were autobiographical sketches
written at various times in his career, all of which are remarkable
because they convey a considerable amount of information despite
their almost complete lack of facts and overarching tone of irony.
The first of these profiles, entitled ‘Who I Am’, initiated the series
that Satie called ‘Memories of an Amnesiac’, which appeared

10
between 1912 and 1914 in the Revue musicale S.I.M..8 ‘Everyone will
tell you that I am not a musician’, Satie began; ‘That is true’:

From the outset of my career, I have classed myself among the

phonometrographers. My works are pure phonometrics . . .
Scientific thought dominates. As for the rest, I find greater
pleasure in measuring a sound than in hearing it. With my
phonometer in hand, I work happily and confidently. What
can’t I measure or weigh? All of Beethoven, all of Verdi, etc.
It’s very curious.9

A year later, in a brief description prepared for his publisher,

Satie presented a different image, proclaiming himself a ‘fantaisiste’,
thus aligning his work with that of a group of young poets led
by Francis Carco and Tristan Klingsor. Identifying himself as
‘the strangest musician of our time’, he proceeded to state his
importance: ‘Short-sighted by birth, I am long-sighted by nature . .
. We should not forget that the master is considered, by a great
number of “young” composers, as the precursor and apostle of the
musical revolution now taking place.’10
And even just before his death he struck a similar obfuscating
tone, tinged with a sense of bitterness:

Life became so impossible for me that I resolved to retire to my

estates and pass the remainder of my days in an ivory tower –
or one of some other (metallic) metal. That is why I acquired a
taste for misanthropy, why I cultivated hypochondria; why I
became the most miserable (leaden) of men. It upset people
to look at me – even through hallmarked gold eye-glasses. Yes.
All this happened to me because of Music.11

Phonometrographer, fantaisiste, misanthrope: as these sketches

attest, Satie was sharply aware of the power of image, and he

11
worked throughout his career to hone and project a variety of
carefully cultivated public personas. The ironic stance of his self-
descriptions was matched by the unconventionality of his changing
self-presentations – a process that began in his youth and endured
to his death. These shifts are documented in photographs and self-
portraits, as well as in drawings and paintings of Satie done by
friends in the course of his life: from Augustin Grass-Mick’s fin-de-
siècle depiction of the composer in the company of stars including
Jane Avril and Toulouse-Lautrec, to the portraits done in the 1920s
by Pablo Picasso, Jean Cocteau and Francis Picabia. As these
artworks attest, Satie perceived the link between public image and
professional recognition, and throughout his career manipulated
his look to conform to his artistic aims. A few examples make the
case: working in the cabarets of Montmartre as a young man, he
adopted a Bohemian uniform, then took to wearing one of seven
identical velvet suits at all times; as the composer of pseudo-
spiritual music in the 1890s he founded his own church and
roamed the streets dressed in priestly cassocks; as a well-known
figure in the avant-garde he wore a dark three-piece suit more
typical of a bourgeois functionary than a revolutionary. In short,
it is clear that Satie self-consciously projected variable identities
through his appearance as well as his art, creating a mutually
reinforcing relationship between personality and vocation.
This biography, one tale among many that could be told about
the composer, takes Satie’s purposeful meshing of public image
and artistic enterprise as the backdrop for consideration of his
career. Against the screen of his dramatic shifts in wardrobe and
changing self-presentations, his work and legacy come into fresh
perspective. In an age when the celebrity culture we now take for
granted was but an emerging phenomenon, Satie clearly
understood the value of cutting a unique – and easily recognizable
– figure. Clothes helped make the man, and they surely played a
role in articulating the main breakthroughs in his art.

12
 1

Honfleur

I came very young into a world that was very old.

Satie

Musing on his family origins in 1924, Satie speculated that, while

the roots of the family tree might ‘reach back into the mists of
time’, the branches probably did not include members with
‘connections to the Nobility (even Papal)’ but instead were filled
with ‘good modest serfs, which in the past was an honour and a
pleasure (for the serf ’s good lord, I mean).’1 His own story begins
modestly enough on Honfleur’s rue Haute, which contrary to its
name is the lowest street in the town. The Saties were long-
standing residents of Honfleur, having lived on that same street
probably since 1817, when Erik’s great-grandfather, François-
Jacques-Amable Satie, first arrived.2 A broken piece of ceramic
bearing the name Guillaume Satie provides evidence that the group
was in Normandy by 1725, and once there they did not leave:
Pierre-François (1734–1811) settled in the port town of Le Havre,
where his eldest son Joseph-André (b. 1771) remained, while the
younger François-Jacques-Amable (b. 1780) crossed the harbour
and relocated in Honfleur. Both sons distinguished themselves as
sea-captains, as did François-Jacques-Amable’s son Jules-André
(1816–1886). Jules, as he was known, married the reportedly stern
Strasbourg-born Eulalie Fornton, who bore the couple three
children: Marie-Marguerite (b. 1875, listed in the Honfleur records

13
 The garden and house
of the Satie family in
Honfleur.

as having ‘disappeared to America’), Louis-Adrien (1843–1907), and

Jules-Alfred (1842–1903).3
The brothers, known as Adrien and Alfred, remained in
Honfleur and continued to work in the family shipping business
before pursuing other careers. Templier reports that they had
‘opposite characters’: while Adrien, nicknamed ‘Sea Bird’, was
‘undisciplined’, Alfred was ‘studious and docile’.4 As a young man
Alfred matriculated at the college in Lisieux, where he met Albert
Sorel, the historian and author who later served as Secretary to the
President of the French Senate; the two remained friends late into
life. It was to Sorel that Alfred wrote in March 1865 with news of
his whirlwind decision to marry. ‘My Dear Albert,’ he began:

14
 The news I am about to give you will cause you no jubilation. I am
on the point of marrying . . . guess who! You will never guess –
Miss Jeannie Leslie Anton!!! . . . We have met only three times at
Miss Walworth’s; we write to each other every day, and what
letters! Everything was done by correspondence and in two weeks!5

Jane Anton, known as ‘Jeannie’ to her family, was a London-

born girl who had come to Honfleur to study French and acquire
the continental polish considered desirable for young ladies. A
potential barrier to her marriage to Alfred was her Anglican faith;
as the would-be bridegroom noted in his letter to Sorel, ‘among
their difficulties’ the ‘religious one’ was hardly the least, since his
mother – a staunch Catholic – was insisting on Jane’s promise to
raise any children in that faith. Jane refused, and in the end the
couple wed on 19 July at the Anglican church of St Mary, Barnes,
outside London. ‘The respectable Saties’, Templier reports,
‘Catholics and anglophobes’, and the ‘worthy Antons’ examined
one another ‘in silence, frostily’.6 A honeymoon followed in
Scotland, the childhood home of Jane’s mother Elsie, and upon
their return to Honfleur Jane and Alfred announced the impending
birth of their first child. At 9 a.m. on 17 May 1866 Eric-Alfred Leslie
was born; three months later he was taken to the Anglican church
and baptized. The earliest known photograph shows him as a
baby, perhaps two years old, with a shock of hair (which was red)
and a round, smiling face, wearing an embroidered dress typical of
the region and looking directly into the camera.
Three other children completed the family: Louise-Olga-Jeannie
(1868–1948), Conrad (1869–1933) and Diane (1871–1872). With each
Anglican baptism the animosity between Jane and her mother-in-
law escalated, and by all accounts the situation became untenable
while Alfred was away from home, serving as a lieutenant in the
National Guard during the Franco-Prussian War. When he returned
to Honfleur it was only to pack up; by the end of 1871 the family had

15
 Erik Satie at about two
years old, c. 1868.

settled in Paris, where Sorel had arranged a position for Alfred, who
spoke seven languages, as a government translator.7
Tragic events followed on the heels of this move. Diane, four
months old, died shortly after the relocation, and in October 1872
Jane died suddenly aged 34. Alfred, disconsolate, departed for a
year of European travel, leaving his children in the care of relatives;
Olga was sent to live with a maternal uncle in Le Havre, while Eric
and Conrad were taken in by their paternal grandparents, accepted
only on Eulalie’s condition that they renounce the Anglican faith
and be re-baptized in the Catholic Church. Eric – now aged six and
judged old enough to be more or less on his own – was placed as
a boarder at the Collège of Honfleur, located just two streets away
from the rue Haute, where he passed the next six years. The school
guaranteed students instruction in ‘all things moral and healthy’,
a category that encompassed religion, reading, writing, French,
English, German, history, geography, arithmetic, literature,
algebra, trigonometry, physics and chemistry, along with hygiene,

16
gymnastics, art and music.8 The rigorous curriculum was the
centrepiece of a regimented life; accommodations were spare and
students wore uniforms that consisted of short trousers, white
shirts and a dark jacket. Satie later recounted these years without
nostalgia. ‘I stayed in that city until I was twelve years old,’ he
recalled, ‘I had an unremarkable childhood and adolescence, with
no features worth recording in serious writings.’9
A mediocre student at best, Satie did well in Latin and showed
a talent for music, to the extent that he was given the somewhat
odd yet musical nickname ‘Crin-Crin’, which translates roughly as
‘scraper’. Within months of his return to Honfleur his grand-
parents arranged lessons for him with the town’s most notable
musician, Gustave Vinot, the organist at the church of St Léonard.
Vinot had distinguished himself as a student of Gregorian chant
and early music at the Ecole Niedermeyer, the conservative school
that specialized in training church musicians, and during four
years of lessons with him Satie no doubt studied chant and solfège
as well as piano and organ. The instructions perhaps went further
afield; Vinot was also a composer of light music, including a piece
entitled La Valse des Patineurs, which he performed to general
acclaim with the Honfleur Philharmonic in the 1870s, and he may
have introduced his pupil to some of the techniques and methods
of popular music. In any event, for the young Satie the surround-
ings must have been as enchanting as the subject matter, as St
Léonard was one of the oldest and most elaborate buildings in
town, with a tower and nave dating to the fifteenth century, and a
decorated west portal that was recognized as one of the last
expressions of Gothic art. Largely destroyed in the Hundred Years’
War, it had been rebuilt in the seventeenth century, in the process
gaining a distinctive octagonal bell tower decorated with detailed
bas-reliefs depicting musical instruments.
Vinot left Honfleur for a post in Lyon in 1878, but the year
marked more than the end of Satie’s music lessons: that summer his

17
grandmother drowned while taking her regular swim at the town
beach, and Eric and his brother Conrad were returned to their
father’s care. Alfred had settled in Paris, and when his sons joined
him there he took an unconventional approach to their education,
declining to enrol them in school but instead taking them to
lectures at the Collège de France and the Sorbonne, to performances
of operettas and plays at his favorite theatres, and to Versailles for
Sunday dinners hosted by Sorel. This period, which must have been
an idyllic reprieve for Eric after the discipline of his life in Honfleur,
lasted less than a year. At Sorel’s house Alfred met Eugénie
Barnetche, a composer and a serious pianist who had studied at the
Paris Conservatoire, and after a brief courtship they married in
January 1879. Ten years her husband’s senior, Eugénie’s influence in
the household was considerable: among other things she compelled
the family, now extended to include her mother, to move to a new
home on the rue de Constantinople, near the Gare St Lazare.10 As
she took charge of Eric and Conrad’s education, one of her first
priorities was to ensure that Eric continued music lessons. Enrolling
him in the preparatory class of Emile Descombes at the
Conservatoire, she initiated what would be a seven-year course of
study and a source of continual frustration for her stepson.
The Paris Conservatoire offered a music curriculum that differed
dramatically from the programme Satie had followed with Vinot,
as well as an atmosphere far less inspiring than the eclectic décor at
St Léonard. Satie later described it as a ‘huge, very uncomfortable,
and rather ugly building, a sort of local penitentiary, without
exterior charm – or interior, either’.11 The nation’s premier school
for the training of musicians had by the late nineteenth century
become a stodgy institution known primarily for its rigour and
insistence on technical excellence. Admission was highly competitive,
thus by the age of thirteen Satie’s piano skills must have been more
than adequate; his audition piece was a Chopin Ballade, and during
his first year he performed virtuosic concertos by Ferdinand Hiller

18
and Felix Mendelssohn to the satisfaction of the faculty. The
problem was not technique or musicality but attitude, encapsulated
in the assessment of one faculty member who deemed him ‘gifted
but indolent’. In 1881 a performance of a Mendelssohn concerto
prompted his own teacher to evaluate Satie as the ‘laziest student in
the Conservatoire’, and a lacklustre performance of Beethoven’s
Sonata in A flat major (Op. 26) in 1882, probably at the end-of-
semester jury, was the final straw: Satie was dismissed from the
school and sent home.12
In the midst of his son’s dramas, Alfred Satie made a career
change. In 1881 he opened a stationery store, where he sold sheet
music as well as writing paper and no doubt with his wife’s
encouragement, he acquired the catalogue of the music publisher
Wiart, which had printed a number of Eugénie’s compositions. The
following year he began to publish music himself, including her
Scherzo (Op. 86), Rêverie (Op. 66) and Boléro (Op. 88). Alfred also
tried his own hand at composition, producing a polka entitled
Souvenir d’Honfleur in 1883 and, in total, a group of thirteen works
by 1890. Perhaps in the hope of furthering this enterprise, he
moved his family and business several times in the early 1880s,
settling finally on the Boulevard de Magenta, in the hub of the
Parisian music industry.13 He also began to cultivate contacts in
Parisian music halls and café-concerts and found some success
publishing chansons and other light fare heard in these venues.
Alfred’s association seems to have been closest with the Eldorado,
the Scala and the Eden-Concert, but he also published songs
popularized in larger establishments such as the Ambassadeurs,
the Alcazar d’Hiver and the Bataclan, by stars including Marius
Ricard and the famous Mademoiselle Blockette.14 It seems likely
that Satie would have accompanied his father as he visited these
spots in search of new tunes, but it is impossible to know for sure.
In any event, surrounded by musical activity at home and
prompted by his stepmother, Satie returned to the Conservatoire

19
in 1883, this time as an auditeur in Antoine Taudou’s class on
harmony. The experience seems to have been more stimulating
than piano study, since within a year Satie produced his first
composition, a brief piano piece with the nondescript title Allegro.
This seemingly inconsequential work – it consists of only nine
bars of music – offers a surprising glimpse of Satie’s future
compositional style. Dated ‘Honfleur, September 1884’ and
composed during a holiday visit to his hometown, the piece
includes a fragment of the widely known tune ‘Ma Normandie’,
which was written by Frédéric Bérat in 1836. So popular that it
became the ‘unofficial anthem of Normandy’, the song is a paean
to the charms of the north country. Satie quotes a bit of the refrain,
the lyrics of which are ‘I long to see my Normandy once again,
It’s the country where I saw the light of day’, in the centre of his
composition. The musical reference, clear enough to be audible to
any listener familiar with the tune, creates an allusion to both song
and place, thus deepening the experience of the music beyond the
purely sonic realm into the arena of memory and nostalgia. The
musical borrowing also suggests Alfred’s role, since such tech-
niques were a staple of performances in the music halls and café-
concerts he routinely frequented.
The little Allegro, which Satie signed, for the first time, with the
name ‘Erik’, remained unpublished until the 1970s and was unknown
in Satie’s lifetime. Instead, Satie made his public debut as a composer
in 1887 with two simple piano pieces composed in 1885, which were
published in a supplement to the magazine La Musique des familles.
His Valse-Ballet (later issued by his father as Satie’s Op. 62) appeared
in March and his Fantaisie-Valse in July. Bearing a dedication to
‘Contamine de Latour’, this last piece heralds the arrival of an import-
ant and eccentric personality and influence in Satie’s life and signals
the start of a new phase in his fledgling career.

20
 2

Student, Soldier, Gymnopédiste

I lost no time in developing an unpleasant (original) originality,

irrelevant, anti-French, unnatural . . .
Satie

José Maria Vincente Ferrer, Francisco de Paula, Patricio Manuel

Contamine – known as Patrice Contamine to most of his friends,
and as J.P. Contamine de Latour or ‘Lord Cheminot’ in his
professional life – had come to Paris in the 1880s from the
Catalonian town of Tarragona, located just south of Barcelona.
Born on 17 March 1867, he was exactly ten months younger than
Satie and, like the composer, in his early twenties had become
captivated by the vie de bohème lived by artists and entertainers in
the city’s countercultural mecca: Montmartre. They met in 1885,
probably on the Butte, and as Latour later recalled, were from the
outset ‘joined in fraternal friendship’:

We were inseparable, spending our days and part of our nights

together, exchanging ideas, planning ambitious projects,
dreaming of sensational successes, growing drunk on crazy
hopes and laughing at our own poverty. I could say we lived out
the final scenes of Murger’s La Bohème, transplanted from the
Latin Quarter to Montmartre. We didn’t eat every day, but we
never missed an aperitif; I remember a particular pair of
trousers and a pair of shoes that used to pass from one to the

21
 other, and which we had to mend every morning . . . It was a
happy life.1

Latour aimed to make a career as a poet and short-story writer,

and his imagination was fertile: he claimed, among other things, to
be a descendant of Napoleon and a rightful heir to the French crown.
Satie began to set poems by the friend he jokingly nicknamed ‘Le
Vieux Modeste’ almost immediately, starting with the melancholy
‘Elégie’, a brief lament on lost hope, in 1886. Settings of sentimental
poems – ‘Les Anges’, ‘Les Fleurs’ and ‘Sylvie’ – followed that year; rife
with hothouse images of ‘angels floating in the ether like lilies’ and
‘lutes shimmering in divine harmony’, they reflect Latour’s lingering
attraction to Baudelaire and the Symbolists. Satie, eschewing more
predictable approaches such as chromaticism and Wagnerian excess,
matched these verses with music that in an understated and original
way mirrored their decadent quality. His simple and fluid melodies
recalled the modal sounds of the ancient past, his delicate harmonies
were built from colouristic seventh, ninth and eleventh chords
presented in static, slow repetition. Further, he took the radical step
of eliminating both the time signature and bar lines from his score in
‘Sylvie’, thus announcing his break with convention in no uncertain
terms and initiating a practice that would become a hallmark of his
style. His father, no doubt intending to confer a degree of legitimacy
on these offbeat works, published ‘Elégie’ as Satie’s ‘Op. 19’ in 1887
and collected the three other settings as Trois Mélodies of ‘Op. 20’
that same year, suggesting a compositional history that simply did
not exist.
Roaming Paris with Latour in the late 1880s, Satie became
increasingly fascinated with Gothic art and architecture. There was
much to absorb: from the 1840s onward the architect and theorist
Eugène-Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc (1814–1879) had worked to
restore the many monuments that had been damaged in the
Revolution, including the cathedral of Notre Dame, the Hôtel de

22
Satie in his late teens, c. 1884.

Cluny and the Abbey of Saint-Denis. These restorations, while

controversial, were a revelation for the young composer, inspiring
a change of affect and signalling a new direction in his work.
Neglecting the Conservatoire, where he remained enrolled in the
intermediate piano class of George Mathias, he spent his days
meditating in the gloom of Notre Dame and reading medieval
history at the Bibliothèque Nationale, passing hours ‘passionately
thumbing through Viollet-le-Duc’s weighty tomes’.2 A new piety
seized him, he ‘affected a great humility’ and ‘talked endlessly
about “his religion”, the strict commandments of which were
meticulously followed’.3 Nicknamed ‘Monsieur le Pauvre’ by
friends who observed this turn toward earnest austerity, he
cultivated a new aesthetic in his compositions, aiming to translate
medieval style to the musical realm. The first works in this vein,
entitled Ogives, made the intended connection clear through their
invocation of the technical term for the pointed arches typical of
Gothic architecture; according his younger brother Conrad, they
were inspired in the course of ‘hours of ecstasy’ at Notre Dame

23
A stereoscopic photo, c. 1900, of a chimera on the north tower of Notre-Dame
cathedral; in the distance is Montmartre.

during which Satie’s ‘thoughts used to follow the curves of the

vaulting and rise toward the Creator’.4
Four brief compositions for piano, the Ogives build on the
innovations of the Latour songs, but their explicitly historicizing
subject provided Satie with a new grounding for his musical
experiments. Fluid modal melodies notated without bar lines now
suggest plainchant, while slow parallel harmonic motion calls to
mind the early polyphony known as organum. In addition, the
four-phrase structure of each Ogive evokes medieval performance
practice traditions: in the first phrase the basic tune is presented in
open octaves, suggesting the intonation of the chant melody by a
soloist, while the following phrases offer variant voicings and
slightly different harmonizations, mimicking the response of a
choir, congregation and/or instrumentalist. This antiphonal effect
is intensified by Satie’s alternation of textures and his treatment of
dynamics, with dramatic shifts from pianissimo to fortissimo at
each change of phrase. In short, by mining the past to make the
Ogives thematically meaningful, Satie expanded on his new
repertoire of musical approaches, going beyond issues of style to
the broader parameters of form.

24
 As Satie became more deeply engrossed in composition, his
enthusiasm for the Conservatoire plummeted to a new low; as
Conrad Satie explained, ‘a Christian idealist like Satie could not
find fulfilment’ in such an institution, and ‘his lofty soul underwent
peculiar suffering at finding itself enclosed in sterile academic
formulae’.5 The situation was little more acceptable to the
Conservatoire faculty, who judged his performances in 1886 to be
‘very insignificant’ and ‘laborious’, and in June that year his teacher
Mathias bluntly deemed his presentation of a Mendelssohn Prelude
‘worthless’.6 By the end of November Satie had volunteered for
his mandatory military duty and left the Conservatoire for good;
in December he departed Paris for Arras with the 33rd Infantry
Regiment. Enlisted for a three-year stint, he barely made it through
four months of service. As Templier reports, ‘he was soon tired of
this new life’, and took ‘drastic steps’ to escape: ‘One winter evening
he lay out under the stars with no shirt on. Serious bronchitis
ensued, followed by convalescence and further convalescence; he
was left in peace for nearly three months.’7
Satie’s illness guaranteed his release from the military, which
came in November 1887. The months leading up to this formal
discharge were spent in Paris, where he read Gustave Flaubert’s
novels, including Salammbô and La Tentation de Saint Antoine, and
attended the opera, where he saw Chabrier’s Le Roi malgré lui.
Latour remained a major presence; Satie set another of his poems,
‘Chanson’, and seems to have been inspired to write his first suite
of dances, Trois Sarabandes, after reading Latour’s poem La
Perdition; in his manuscript copy of the work, an excerpt of the
verse written most likely in Latour’s hand appears in the upper left-
hand corner of the first piece. The vaguely Symbolist poem sets an
apocalyptic tone:

Suddenly all was revealed and the damned fell

Shrieking and jostling in a whirl as they were thrown;

25
 And when in starless night they found themselves alone
They thought each other black, so began to blaspheme.

The three miniature pieces in Satie’s set seem to owe more of a

debt to the venerable dance that inspired their title than to
Latour’s dark images. The sarabande, which originated in
sixteenth-century Spain, was assimilated as an inherently French
instrumental genre during the seventeenth century, danced in
intimate and simple settings as well as in the courtly splendour of
Louis xiv’s Versailles. Crossing the history of the genre with his
own ongoing explorations of modality and rhythmic stasis, Satie
created works that have since been acclaimed as milestones, the
harbingers of a ‘new aesthetic, instituting a particular
atmosphere, a totally original magic of sound’.8 Indeed, the
Sarabandes introduce compositional approaches that would prove
important not only in Satie’s later work but also in the broader
history of French music. First, they presented a new conception of
large-scale form, in which groups of three very similar pieces,
deliberately interlinked by means of motivic cells, harmonic
events and recurring interval patterns, combine to constitute a
unified work. This was an alternative to traditions largely
associated with nineteenth-century German music – including
sonata form, theme and variations, and the like – and in Satie’s
view amounted to an ‘absolutely new form’ that was ‘good in
itself ’.9 Second, the Sarabandes proposed a new compositional
system in which motivic cells were repeated or juxtaposed; this,
too, was a rejection of Germanic preferences for melodic
development and variation. Finally, the work subverted the
convention of associating dissonance and consonance with
longing and resolution – cornerstones of the tonal system,
exploited to an extreme by Richard Wagner and late-Romantic
German composers – by suppressing altogether notions of such
emotional strain. The essential ‘Frenchness’ in Satie’s work was

26
especially evident in his first drafts of the compositions, which
followed the model of ancien régime sarabandes in their bipartite
design, with the first section concluding on a dangling dominant
chord and the division articulated by a repeat sign.10 A more
contemporary French reference for Satie may have been the
Chabrier opera he saw just before he began work on the
composition; much has been made by scholars of the way in
which the Sarabandes include chains of consecutive ninth chords
similar to those in the prelude to Le Roi malgré lui.11 Satie was
clearly an admirer of Chabrier, and after hearing that opera was so
‘carried away with enthusiasm for the composer’s daring’ that he
was moved to leave an ornate copy of one of his own works,
‘decorated with a superb dedication – in red ink, of course’, with
Chabrier’s concièrge as a token of his esteem.12 Alas, Chabrier
seems never to have responded to this extravagant gesture.
Shortly after his official military discharge was issued Satie left
his family home on the Boulevard de Magenta and took up
residence in Montmartre. The departure may have been
precipitated by an argument with his father and stepmother that
followed the younger Satie’s affair with the family maid; in any
case, a gift of 1600 francs from his father financed the rental and
furnishing of an apartment at 50 rue Condorcet.13 Freed from
responsibilities to either Conservatoire or Army, Satie embraced
the bohemian lifestyle that flourished on the Butte at the fin de
siècle, frequenting its many cabarets and cafés, and associating with
the poets, painters and musicians who likewise gravitated to its
alternative entertainments. Headquarters for many of these artists
was the Chat Noir, an ‘artistic cabaret’ founded in 1881 by
Rodolphe Salis, a student at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts who billed
his establishment as ‘the most extraordinary cabaret in the world’,
where one could ‘rub shoulders with the most famous men of Paris
. . . with foreigners from every corner of the world.’14 A small, two-
room space that could barely accommodate 30 people, the original

27
 The Chat Noir after its move
to the Boulevard de Clichy in
Montmartre.

Chat Noir was located on the Boulevard de Rochechouart, only a

few minutes’ walk from Satie’s apartment; the exterior of the
building was fitted out with a sign depicting a black cat, as well as a
notice to passers-by instructing them to ‘Stop . . . Be Modern!’
Inside there was ‘a mixture of fun and seriousness without
doctrine’, as patrons mingled in a decor loaded with faux-medieval
and pseudo-Renaissance art and furniture, including rustic chairs,
stained-glass windows, suits of armour and masks, imitation
tapestries and an overwhelming amount of cat imagery. The front
room was open to the general public, but the back room, known
(in joking reference to the Académie de France) as the ‘Institut’,
was an early VIP room, reserved for regulars; it also served as a
workroom for production of the cabaret’s own illustrated journal,
Le Chat noir. Under editors Emile Goudeau and Alphonse Allais
and artistic directors Henri Rivière and George Auriol, the journal

28
 Tournée du Chat Noir: a
poster of 1896 by
Théophile Alexandre
Steinlen for the
Montmartre cabaret
venue.

published social and political satire alongside illustrations by

Adolphe Wilette, Caran d’Ache and Théophile-Alexandre Steinlen,
among others. Still popular today is Steinlen’s rendition of a rather
sinister black cat perched on a red stone slab, which served as a
publicity poster for the cabaret.
The journal was not the only outlet for Chat Noir
expressiveness. Salis, defying a government statute that prohibited
music in cabarets – thus distinguishing them from cafés and the
café-concert, where musical performances were expected –
installed a piano at the Chat Noir and began to feature song as well
as poetry and verse at his evening shows. After he acquired a larger
space a few blocks away on the rue Laval, the slate of
entertainments expanded to include shadow plays, which were
presented in a theatre on the building’s top floor. On the evening of
28 December 1887 a shadow play of unprecedented ambition and

29
Henri Rivière, photo of technicians moving shadow puppets behind the screen at
the Chat Noir, Montmartre.

opulence had its premiere; this was Rivière’s adaptation of

Flaubert’s Tentation de Saint Antoine, rendered in 40 scenes and
billed as a ‘féerie à grand spectacle’. The first shadow play to use
colour projections, it featured musical accompaniment by an
ensemble that included an organ (or harmonium) and four
percussionists, and involved two narrators, each of whom played
the role of a ‘choeur antique’.15 This premiere seems to have
occasioned Satie’s initial visit to the Chat Noir as well as his
introduction to Salis. As Latour recalled the moment, Satie’s friend
Vital Hocquet, a plumber who published poetry under the
pseudonym Narcisse Lebeau, ‘announced imposingly “Erik Satie,
gymnopédiste!” to which Salis, bowing as low as he could, replied:
“That’s a very fine profession!”’16
Satie, who at the time of this meeting had at best made
preliminary sketches for the works that would become the famous
Gymnopédies, had in a stroke found an identity and a new second

30
home. Certainly he would have warmed to the Chat’s eclectic décor,
so precisely in tune with his own fascinations with the past, and he
must have been delighted to fit into a clique of regulars that
included a number of fellow Normans, notably Allais, who
although a decade older than Satie had lived on the same street in
Honfleur and attended the same boarding school. In addition there
were the painters Georges de Feure and Marcellin Desboutin, poets
Charles Cros and Jean Richepin, singers Paul Delmet, Maurice
Mac-Nab and Vincent Hyspa, and the notorious Aristide Bruant,
whose gruff stage manner matched the off-colour lyrics he
performed. Within weeks of his first visit Satie was hired as the
cabaret’s ‘second pianist’, replacing Dynam-Victor Fumet. This new
post, and more generally the Chat Noir milieu, inspired a major
change of affect in Satie; Latour recalled that the composer, ‘till
then shy and reserved, gave free reign to the hoard of wild good
humour that lay dormant in him’.17 He changed his appearance
entirely and, following a ‘chatnoiresque rite’, let his beard and hair
grow long. As for wardrobe, Latour recalled that Satie destroyed
the few garments he owned in a frenzy:

One day he took his clothes, rolled them into a ball, sat on them,
dragged them across the floor, trod on them and drenched them
with all kinds of liquid until he’d turned them into complete
rags; he dented his hat, broke up his shoes, tore his tie to ribbons
and replaced his fine linen with fearful flannel shirts.18

In the wake of this purge, Satie began to sport the uniform of

Bohemian Paris, wearing a top hat and a large Windsor tie along
with dark trousers and a long frock coat. As his friend Francis
Jourdain, the decorative artist and furniture-maker, recalled, the
composer became a ‘dandy, of the sort who, as you might imagine,
notices the dictates of fashion only so that he can violate them’.19
Signalling a new association with the radical fringe, this sartorial

31
 Santiago Rusiñol’s
sketch of Satie at the
harmonium, 1891.

shift was the first of many reinventions Satie would make via
fashion, and as Latour noted, it was emblematic of Satie’s decision
to ‘forge a personal artistic style for himself ’.20
The Chat Noir proved a stimulus to Satie’s work as well as the
inspiration for a new look; by 2 April 1888 the composer had
completed his most ambitious composition to date, the Trois
Gymnopédies for piano. The source of this unusual title, a
translation of the Greek word describing a yearly festival at which
young men danced naked (or perhaps simply unarmed), remains
the subject of speculation. His friend Roland-Manuel maintained
that Satie adopted it after reading Salammbô, while Templier and
others have attributed the inspiration to Latour, noting that an
extract from his poem Les Antiques was published with the score of
the first piece in the magazine La Musique des familles in the

32
summer of 1888. Latour’s poetry, with its reference to ‘atoms of
amber, glistening in the firelight’ that ‘joined their sarabande to the
gymnopédie’ surely makes the connection explicit, but there is no
certainty that the musical score did not precede the poem.21 Satie
may simply have landed on the idea while perusing the Larousse
Illustré or a more specialized music reference book such as
Dominique Mondo’s Dictionnaire de Musique, which defined
‘gymnopédie’ as a ‘nude dance, accompanied by song, which
youthful Spartan maidens danced on specific occasions’, following
the similar definition in Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s 1768 Dictionnaire
de la Musique. Whatever the origins of the title, there can be no
doubt that the compositions reflect Satie’s integration of Chat Noir
aesthetics into the idiosyncratic style he had under development.
Like the Sarabandes, the Gymnopédies evoke a dance tradition,
this time calling up ideas of the waltz via their steady triple metre.
Although the melodies still have a modal flavour – perhaps Satie’s
attempt to suggest the music of ancient Greece – they are matched
to a patterned chordal accompaniment much in the manner of
popular salon music. Ideas are repeated and juxtaposed, and
harmonies are more restrained but still far from tonal; while there
are many unresolved seventh chords, the composition does not
include the more dissonant ninth and eleventh sonorities present in
Satie’s earlier compositions. The real innovation of the Gymnopédies,
however, occurs in the area of form: Satie carries forward from the
Sarabandes the idea of a three-part structure, in which the
individual ‘movements’ are linked by shared material, but he treats
the design with more nuance. This amounts to a wholesale shift of
compositional approach; as Roger Shattuck notes, Satie ‘takes one
musical idea and . . . regards it briefly from three different
directions. He varies . . . the notes in the melody but not its general
shape, the chords in the accompaniment but not the dominant
shape.’22
This emphasis on perspective rather than progress, on nuanced

33
variation rather than development, is signalled in the performance
indications for each of the Gymnopédies: ‘Lent et douloureux’,
‘Lent et triste’ and ‘Lent et grave’. The result is an ethereal and
atmospheric music that must have sounded right at home in the
oddly appointed rooms of the Chat Noir. Announced in the
cabaret’s journal in November 1888, the third Gymnopédie was
endorsed with irony-tinged enthusiasm: ‘We cannot recommend
this essentially artistic work highly enough to the musical public’,
the advertisement proclaimed, ‘It may rightly be considered one
of the most beautiful of the century that has witnessed the birth
of this unfortunate gentleman.’23
The three Gymnopédies were published separately, over a period
of years. In 1888, shortly after the first piece in the set appeared in
La Musique des familles, the third was published privately by Dupré
in a deluxe edition on fine paper, with the title in elaborate red
Gothic letters.24 The second did not see print until 1895, also in an

Satie’s manuscript score

for the first Gymnopédie
(published in 1888).

34
edition by Dupré, and the set as a whole was published only in
1898. By that time Satie had befriended Claude Debussy, and
the older composer had orchestrated Nos 1 and 3 of the set; the
arrangements were completed in late 1896 and premiered on 20
February 1897 at a concert in the Salle Erard, with Gustave Doret
conducting. This was a milestone in Satie’s career, as the concert
was sponsored by the prestigious Société Nationale de Musique –
a state-sanctioned organization helmed by musical heavyweights
including César Franck, Camille Saint-Saëns and Vincent d’Indy –
which had not previously performed his work. It was also the only
time in his career that Debussy orchestrated another composer’s
work, which attests to his high estimation for Satie at the time.
Debussy apparently became intrigued with the idea of orchestrat-
ing his friend’s compositions one evening when Satie was playing
through the pieces for Doret. ‘Pince-nez poised for the assault,’
Doret recalled, Satie

seated himself at the piano. But his playing was a good deal less
than perfect and didn’t do the pieces justice. ‘Come on,’ said
Debussy, ‘I’ll show you what your music sounds like.’ And
under his miraculous fingers the heart of the Gymnopédies, with
all their colours and nuances, was laid bare in an astonishing
manner. ‘The next thing’, I said, ‘is to orchestrate them like that.’
‘I absolutely agree,’ Debussy replied. ‘If Satie doesn’t object,
I’ll get down to it tomorrow.’25

Satie, of course, had no objection, and Debussy’s orchestral version

has remained a repertoire standard even while a range of other
adaptations of the Gymnopédies have appeared and disappeared
from the musical landscape with regularity. Satie gained
considerable exposure with a mainstream audience thanks to the
performance, but it must also have been frustrating, since Debussy
received much of the credit for the work – to the extent that some

35
critics claimed that he had completely transformed the pieces, an
assertion belied by Satie’s original score.
Such frictions were typical of Satie’s friendship with Debussy,
and yet this was one of the most enduring and complex
associations of his life. The relationship between the two men has
inspired considerable speculation over the years, not infrequently
focused on Satie’s sexual orientation and the possibility that their
interaction included a romantic or physical dimension. Their
contemporaries were circumspect about the issue; Louis Laloy,
for example, who knew them both, maintained that they had a
‘turbulent but indissoluble’ friendship based in ‘musical brother-
hood’. More recently, Marc Bredel credibly argued in his 1982
psychological profile of Satie that the composer was a ‘repressed
homosexual’ deeply attracted to Debussy.26 Since no surviving
letters or documents fully illuminate the nature of their personal
relationship, the issue remains open to speculation, but there can
be no doubt about their close working relationship and regular
exchange of ideas. Slightly older than Satie but far more renowned
in the early years of their friendship, Debussy not only provided
his colleague with entrée into sanctioned musical circles such as
the Société Nationale, but also introduced him to publishers and
others in the Parisian music industry. For his part, and contrary to
expectation, Satie seems to have prodded Debussy to explore new
ideas and compositional approaches: his Sarabandes of 1887 were
a model for Debussy’s Sarabande, composed seven years later,
and Debussy’s children’s ballet La Boîte à Joujoux of 1913 includes
fragments of popular tunes and familiar opera extracts much in
the manner of Satie’s 1890s cabaret style. Perhaps best known,
however, is the case of Debussy’s opera Pelléas et Mélisande,
premiered in 1902 but begun nearly a decade earlier. As reported
by Cocteau in 1920, the work had its genesis thanks to Satie, who
when asked by Debussy about his ongoing work, replied that he
was considering a setting of the Belgian Symbolist Maurice

36
Maeterlinck’s play Princesse Maleine, but did not know how to
get the required authorization. ‘Some days afterward,’ Cocteau
recounted, ‘Debussy, having obtained the authorization of
Maeterlinck, commenced Pelléas et Mélisande.’27 In fact, Cocteau
has confused the history: Debussy did write to Maeterlinck, but
his request, for Princess Maleine (not Pelléas) was denied, as the
work had already been promised to Vincent d’Indy. Pelléas came
later, following Debussy’s discovery of the play in 1893. In the
broader sense, however, Satie did not hesitate to take some credit
for Debussy’s ‘Impressionistic’ aesthetic and remembered advising
his friend to take a cue from visual art: ‘Why not make use of the
representational methods of Claude Monet, Cézanne, Toulouse-
Lautrec and so on? Why not make musical transpositions of
them? Nothing simpler . . . This was the starting point for
experiments abounding in tentative – even fruitful – results.’28
While the matter of influence is debatable, and the details of the
first encounter between the two composers remain lost to history, it
is clear that the friendship was established by 1892. That year
Debussy inscribed a copy of his Cinq Poèmes de Baudelaire to ‘Erik
Satie, gentle medieval musician strayed into this century for the joy
of his friend C. A. Debussy’, and Satie reciprocated by presenting
Debussy with a copy of one of his recent compositions inscribed ‘to
the good old son Cl. A. Debussy from his brother in the Lord, Erik
Satie’. A profile of Debussy that Satie wrote for Vanity Fair in 1922
would seem to fix the date of their introduction in 1891 or 1892: ‘As
soon as I saw him for the first time, I felt drawn towards him and
longed to live forever at his side. For thirty years I had the joy of seeing
this wish fulfilled . . . it seemed as if we had always known each other.’29
Satie’s recollections would suggest that the two did not meet
at the Conservatoire, even though both were students there from
1879 to 1884, but rather that they first crossed paths somewhere
on Montmartre, where both were habitués of cabarets including
the Chat Noir, the Divan japonais and the Auberge du Clou. Both

37
were also regulars at the Librairie d’Art Indépendant, the
bookshop specializing in esoteric and occult literature that was
run by Edmond Bailly and frequented by Symbolist poets and
avant-garde artists as well as modernist composers. As one of the
shop’s adherents, Victor-Emile Michelet, recalled, in the late 1880s
Debussy ‘arrived almost every day in the late afternoon, either
alone or with the faithful Erik Satie’.30 Yet another possible
meeting place for the two composers was the Exposition
Universelle in Paris in 1889, since, like most Parisians, Satie and
Debussy paid repeated visits to this massive fair and each was
affected by the music he heard there. Ensembles performing
music and dance had been brought from far and wide to the
French capital for this celebration of the centenary of the
Revolution; the main attraction was the newly built Eiffel Tower,
but crowds flocked to pavilions that featured performing groups
from the United States, the Far East and the French colonies, as
well as from other European cities and towns. A Javanese village
reconstructed on the exhibition grounds, complete with a full
gamelan and dance troupe, captured Debussy’s imagination, while
Satie gravitated to the performances given by visiting Romanian
musicians. In July he sketched a four-bar ‘Chanson hongroise’ that
aimed to capture the essence of their sound, and by early the
following year this idea had blossomed into another set of three
dances, which he gave the umbrella label Gnossiennes.
At about this same time Satie appears to have made his first
contributions to journals published by the cabarets he patronized.
An unsigned advertisement for the Ogives that ran in the February
1889 issue of Le Chat Noir, for example, may have been an ironic
self-promotion. ‘Finally,’ it begins, ‘lovers of gay music will be able
to indulge themselves to their hearts’ content’:

The indefatigable Erik-Satie, the sphinx-man, the composer with

a head of wood, announces the appearance of a new musical

38
 work of which, from henceforth, he speaks most highly. It is a
suite of melodies conceived in the mystico-liturgical genre that
the author idolizes, and suggestively titled Ogives. We wish Erik-
Satie [sic] a success similar to that previously obtained with his
Third Gymnopédie, currently under every piano.31

Similarly sardonic promotions of Satie and his works appeared in

La Lanterne japonaise, the journal of the Divan japonais, published
between October 1888 and April 1889.32 Most of these brief
commentaries, including one crediting the miracle cure of a nose
polyp to a hearing of the Ogives and a ‘few applications’ of the
Third Gymnopédie, were signed by one ‘Virginie Lebeau’ – a
pseudonym, many speculate, for the composer himself.33 Whether
or not he contributed to these journals, there can be no doubt that
by the early 1890s Satie was steeped in hedonistic cabaret culture,
and on the verge of establishing himself as one of Montmartre’s
chief provocateurs.

39
 3

Parcier

With musicians, things are different . . . they are often attracted to

absurdity.
Satie

In the early 1890s, having quickly run through the funds his father
had provided, Satie sold most of his furniture and relocated to a
smaller flat at the summit of Montmartre, near the construction
site where the Basilica of Sacré-Coeur was being erected, on the
rue Cortot. He joked about his reduced circumstances, making
the exaggerated claim that the new apartment offered both an
unobstructed view to the Belgian frontier and a perch above the
reach of his creditors.1 While changing house Satie also established
a new home-away-from-home, defecting from the Chat Noir in the
wake of an argument with Salis to become a patron and employee
of a competing cabaret, the nearby Auberge du Clou. With a
pseudo-Norman décor, the Clou attracted a clientele that was a mix
of local families and bohemian artists, and when the owners opened
a cabaret artistique in the basement in 1891 Satie was brought on as
a hired pianist, in part to accompany shadow-puppet productions.
The director of the shadow-theatre at the Clou was the Catalan
artist Miguel Utrillo and his shows drew a group of his compatriots
to the cabaret, including Ramón Casas, Santiago Rusiñol and
Enrique Clarassó, all of whom were central figures in the Barcelona-
based modernismo movement. They welcomed Satie into their circle

40
and were drawn to his ‘artistic tactics’, which Rusiñol likened to
those of one of their idols, Pierre Puvis de Chavannes. Writing in
the Barcelona daily newspaper La Vanguardia, to which all members
of the group contributed dispatches, Rusiñol commented that Satie

directs his efforts towards realizing in music what Puvis de

Chavannes has achieved in painting, that is, to simplify his art
in order to raise it to the ultimate expression of plainness and
economy, to say in a few words what a Spanish orator would
not express in elegant periods, and to envelop his musical work
in a certain sober indefiniteness that would allow the listener
to follow inwardly according to the state of the soul, the path
traced out for him, a straight path carpeted with harmony and
full of feeling.2

This was no faint praise; Rusiñol studied with Puvis at the Société
de la Palette and considered his teacher to be the ‘most universal
genius of our time’ as well as a ‘great artist and thinker’. Puvis
was an inspiration on multiple levels, not least for his maverick
decision to cut ties with the Parisian art establishment after
achieving success within it; having exhibited at the official Salon
since 1859, he resigned twice (in 1872 and 1881) before breaking
entirely to help found the Société Nationale des Beaux-Arts in
1890. He made his first mark as an artist in a series of public mural
projects, including commissions for the Panthéon and Hôtel de
Ville in Paris, producing works that were conservative in subject
matter but radical in style. Often depicting images and themes
familiar from classical art, Puvis rendered his visions of the ancient
world with newly flattened perspectives, an extreme simplification
of form, and a muted and often pastel palette. Progressive artists
admired the heightened reality and mystical quality of these works,
which they deemed essentially modern; Stéphane Mallarmé, for
one, perceived the sense of anxiety in Puvis’ neoclassical and

41
 Pierre Puvis de
Chavannes, Young
Girls by the Sea,
1879, oil on canvas.
Musée d’Orsay,
Paris.

pastoral allegories, acclaiming him in a sonnet of homage for

‘leading his time’ in solitude toward an artistic awakening.3
Simplification, plainness, economy of means: according to
Rusiñol these were the qualities in Puvis’ work that Satie aimed to
emulate. Equally important, however, was the thematic connection,
as Puvis’ updates of the classical world were a touchstone for Satie,
who had all along been mining the past as a way of moving art
forward. Rusiñol and his circle dubbed Satie their ‘Greek musician’,
and described his compositions as ‘baptized . . . with the name
“Greek harmony’”, but exactly what constituted this ‘Greekness’ in
Satie’s music has been a matter of speculation.4 The title of the
Gymnopédies, as we have seen, surely reflects some degree of
engagement with the classical world on Satie’s part. On a more
technical level, a number of scholars have proposed that in the

42
1890s Satie was actually experimenting with the ancient modes of
Greek music, offering as evidence a sketch in one of the composer’s
notebooks in which he laid out a series of pitches that can be
manipulated to approximate a Greek chromatic scale. If this scale
was indeed the fruit of research rather than independent invention,
its source would not be difficult to imagine: in the course of his
regular visits to the Bibliothèque Nationale Satie could well have
drawn the material either directly from discussions of ancient music
or from a more recent reference book, F.-A. Gevart’s Histoire et
théorie de la musique de l’antiquité, which was published in Paris in
1875.5 Whatever its origin, the pseudo-Greek scale provided Satie
with an underpinning for a number of works in this phase of his
career, helping to define his identity as a backward-glancing
modernist much in the vein of Puvis de Chavannes.
Although Rusiñol and his confrères may have viewed Satie as
their ‘Greek musician’, none of them aimed to capture this
association in depictions of the composer. Instead their paintings
and drawings show him in the course of everyday life, at home and
in Montmartre’s cabarets. A painting by Rusiñol, done in 1890,
depicts a bookish Satie in the corner of his small rue Cortot room;
wearing dark trousers and a jacket, as well as pince-nez decorated
with a black ribbon, he stares into the fire, gazing away from the
viewer. The space is spare and tidy, the bed neatly made, books
stacked on the mantle – and Satie’s involvement with the visual
arts is signalled by the collection of posters and drawings affixed to
the wall. A painting by Casas from the following year shows Satie
in full Bohemian regalia in front of the Moulin de la Galette; a
Rusiñol drawing from about the same time has Satie playing the
harmonium at the Chat Noir, top hat in place and cigarette
dangling from his lips (see page 32). As a group, these portraits
suggest the dual facets of the Montmartre musician: isolated and
contemplative on the one hand, public and performative on the
other.

43
 Ramón Casas, El Bohemio
(‘Portrait of Erik Satie’), 1891, oil
on canvas, Charles Deering
McCormick Library,
Northwestern University,
Evanston, Illinois.

In addition, despite his close friendship with the Catalans, Satie

appears to have collaborated on only a single project with any one
of member of the group. For a performance of a play at Utrillo’s
shadow-puppet theatre at the Clou at Christmas time in 1891 he
composed a brief work called Noël, on a libretto by popular
chansonnier Vincent Hyspa, who had provided the poem for
Debussy’s setting of ‘La Belle au bois dormant’ in 1890.6 Nothing
remains of the production of Noël, but other music from that year
documents a major shift in Satie’s life and career, reflecting his
brief but intense engagement with the bizarre Rosicrucian sect of
Joséphin Péladan.

44
 Péladan (1858–1918) began his career as an art critic, but in the
summer of 1882 started work on a sprawling mystical-erotic novel
entitled La Décadence latine, which eventually encompassed 26
volumes and consumed his energies for nearly a quarter of a
century. In the early phases of this project, at the end of 1887,
he and poet Stanislas de Guaïta founded a cult they called the
Rose+Croix kabbalistique, intended ostensibly as a modern
version of the secret society that traced its roots to medieval
Germany. Overseen by a ‘ruling council’ that met in the dining
room at the Auberge du Clou, the group proved above all to be
a powerful vehicle for Péladan’s self-promotion. By 1890 he had
proclaimed himself ‘Sâr’ (the honorific assumed by kings of
ancient Babylon) and was a widely recognized personality,
traversing Paris dressed in priestly robes and a sheared fur hat,
his beard pointy and unkempt, his hair well beyond his collar.

Ernest Hébert, Sâr

Joséphin Péladan,
1882. Bibliothèque
Nationale de
France, Paris.

45
 In May 1891 Péladan broke ties with Guaïta to found a new
branch of the Rose+Croix cult: the Rose+Croix du Temple, which
boasted an adjunct art society, the Rose+Croix Esthétique, designed
to compete with the official Salons in Paris.7 Péladan announced the
formation of the group in his review of the Salon in May 1891,
addressing himself in a mock-pietistic tone to the ‘magnificent
ones.’ Stipulating that he intended to ‘insufflate contemporary art,
above all, aesthetic culture with theocratic essence’, he promised to
‘ruin the notion attached to facile execution, to extinguish technical
dilettantism, to subordinate the arts to Art, that is to say, to return
to the tradition that considers the Ideal as the sole aim of the

Carlos Schwabe, poster for the Salon

Rose+Croix, 1892.

46
architectonic, pictorial or plastic effort.’8 An article published in
August in Les Petites Affiches declared that the Association de l’Ordre
du Temple de la Rose+Croix had been formed with the intent to
‘regenerate Art’; a subsequent front-page article in Le Figaro on 2
September 1891 announced the first Salon of the Rose+Croix for 10
March the following year. On that ‘solemn’ day, Péladan asserted,
‘Paris will be able to contemplate . . . the masters of which it is
unaware’ and the ‘Ideal will have its temple and knights’, while the
new ‘Maccabees of Beauty’ will sing a ‘hymn to Beauty which is
God’. The Salon, he proclaimed, would be a ‘manifestation of Art
against the arts, of the beautiful against the ugly, of the dream
against the real, of the past against the infamous present, of
tradition against the trifle!’9
In this manifesto Péladan included a list naming the artists he
considered exemplary of Rose+Croix values, at the top of which was
Puvis de Chavannes. He also announced a slate of musical soirées
that would complement the Salon, with evenings dedicated to Bach,
Porpora, Beethoven, Wagner and Franck. New music would feature
as well: among the ‘idealist composers who the Rose+Croix will
bring to light’, Péladan proclaimed, would be ‘Erik Saties’ (sic), who
had composed ‘suites harmoniques for Le Fils des étoiles and
preludes for Le Prince de Byzance and for Sâr Mérodack, tragedy’.10
How had Satie become house composer to Péladan’s Rose+Croix
sect? In short, the association seems to have been nurtured in the
Montmartre cabarets frequented by both men. An habitué of the
Clou, Satie may well have attended the meetings of the original
Rose+Croix kabbalistique and, in addition, Péladan was a regular at
the Chat Noir, to the extent that an 1890 illustration by Fernaud Fau
depicted him, easily recognizable thanks to his unconventional
garb, in the procession of the notable adepts of the cabaret en route
to performances in the provinces.11 There was also common artistic
ground, as Satie and Péladan shared a fascination with the past, and
in particular an attraction to the Gothic world of the Catholic

47
Church, as well as the devotion to Puvis de Chavannes. Satie no
doubt warmed to the eccentric vision of art Péladan proposed,
and on a more practical level saw the potential of the association:
struggling as a sometime cabaret pianist while still attempting to
launch himself as a composer, he must have perceived in Péladan
a champion who could garner publicity for his works as well as
guarantee performances at the Rose+Croix salons. Beyond this, it
seems likely that Satie was drawn to the occult and mystical aspects
of Péladan’s enterprise, and viewed his engagement with the group
as an opportunity to explore the possibilities of translating these
qualities into a new mode of musical expression. Fascinated by
the medieval past from the time of his youth, he created elaborate
sketches of imaginary dragons, sorcerers, knights and castles in the
early 1880s, long before his association with the Sâr.
Satie’s position within Péladan’s splinter group was surely
secured by 28 October 1891, the date on which he signed his
manuscript of a brief ‘leitmotif ’ for the tenth novel in La Décadence
latine, entitled Le Panthée. A facsimile of the autograph score and
an etching by Symbolist painter Fernand Khnopff were printed as
a frontispiece to the novel; a pendant to Khnopff ’s artwork, Satie’s
melody is brief and angular, emphasizing the interval of the
augmented fourth, presented without harmonization or barlines.
The second work for Péladan, a hymn entitled ‘Salut Drapeau’, was
to serve as incidental music for the Sâr’s play Le Prince du Byzance,
but the work was never performed with this musical component.
Set in Renaissance Italy, the play masks a story of homosexual
attraction under a far-fetched tale of gender confusion; Satie’s
music is cued to a key moment in the rambling drama, when
patriotic fervour seizes the protagonists. Péladan’s text at this
juncture is a banal paean to Byzantium focused on its emblematic
flag, and Satie seems not to have paid it much heed. Instead he
continued to explore compositional directions he had already
staked out: the melody is based on the same type of ‘Greek’ scale

48
that had animated the Gymnopédies; form – as in the Ogives,
Sarabandes and Gymnopédies – is based on the repetition of musical
patterns and cells, rather than by the logic of Péladan’s text; and
the performance direction (‘calme et doux’) is entirely at odds with
the effect expected at this emotional moment in the play. Satie,
however, introduces a new element into this mix, harmonizing his
Greek melody with a variety of chord types – major, minor and
diminished – but restricting himself to a single chord structure,
using only four-voiced chords in the same first-inversion form. As a
result, the music has a consistent texture, with no hint of tonality
or progress, and anticipates the aesthetic that Satie would later
describe as stemming from boredom, which was ‘mysterious and
profound’.12
Satie’s public debut as Péladan’s composer came with the
performance of another new work, three fanfares for trumpets and
harps, entitled Trois Sonneries de la Rose+Croix, at the inauguration
of the first Salon Rose+Croix at the Galerie Durand-Ruel on 10
March 1892. The same pieces were repeated at the formal musical
soirée associated with the salon, held twelve days after the
exhibition opening, which also featured the premiere of his three
preludes for Péladan’s ‘Chaldean pastoral’ play Le Fils des étoiles.
Satie continued to advance his ideas of creating musical form
based on repetition and stasis in these works, and much has been
written about his explorations of Golden Section proportions and
other mathematical formulae in them. Satie’s use of such devices
would be consistent with Rosicrucian interests in the occult and
numerology, and it seems possible, if difficult to prove, that he
relied on such manipulations as the basis for new musical
designs.13 But while only the most highly attuned or informed
listener would have been able to discern the presence of these
organizational systems, most who attended the soirée would
have been capable of drawing some conclusions about Satie’s
Rosicrucian bona fides based on the programme itself, which was

49
 Cover of the Sonneries de
la Rose+Croix (1882),
illustrated with a frag-
ment from the mural
Bellum by Pierre Puvis de
Chavannes.

limited to his works and the venerable Missa Papae Marcelli,

composed by the sixteenth-century composer Giovanni Pierluigi
da Palestrina. The small booklet outlining the evening’s ‘ordre du
spectacle’ described the ‘young master’s’ preludes for Le Fils des
étoiles as ‘admirably oriental in character’, and characterized the
Sonneries as marked by ‘originality and severe style’. They would
henceforth, according to the programme, be performed only when
the ‘Grand Master has given permission’ or at ‘meetings of the
order’.14 Published under Péladan’s auspices on the heels of the
soirée, the Sonneries were given a lavish treatment that affirmed
their Rosicrucian pedigree: printed with a cover reproducing a
detail of Puvis’ mural Bellum in red chalk, the score linked the new
‘kapellmeister’ with the aesthetics of the sect’s artistic icon.
Péladan’s popular Rosicrucian salons and musical soirées
continued until 1897, but Satie quickly stepped out. By the summer
of 1892 he was engaged in non-Rosicrucian projects: in June he

50
composed two preludes for Henri Mazel’s historicizing play Le
Nazaréen (decorating the score with his own drawing of a medieval
castle) and in July he announced a forthcoming production of a
three-act opera to be staged at the Grand-Théâtre de Bordeaux,
entitled the Bâtard de Tristan, with a libretto by his Chat Noir
colleague Albert Tinchant. Nothing came of this plan, nor of Satie’s
effort at almost the same time to gain election to the Académie des
Beaux-Arts; among those protesting his candidacy was Maurice
Ravel, who described Satie as ‘a complete lunatic’ who has ‘never
done anything’.15 Satie would campaign twice more for a seat at
the Académie, in 1894 and 1896, to no avail.
Satie’s attraction to all these alternative expressive outlets was
no doubt stimulated by infighting in the Rose+Croix sect that
ended in Péladan’s ‘excommunication’ of his primary financial
backer, Comte Antoine de La Rochefoucauld. Satie sided with La
Rochefoucauld in the rift and began to associate with the artists
and mystics in his circle. No doubt emboldened by these new
affiliations, Satie formally broke ties with Péladan in an open letter
published in the widely read satirical journal Gil Blas on 14 August.
The stilted language was pietistic, the tone pseudo-sanctimonious,
but there could be no mistaking the fact that this was a statement
of aesthetic independence:

Truly it doth amaze me that I, as a poor man with thought for

nothing but my Art, should be continually pursued and hailed as
Initiator in music among the disciples of Master Joseph Péladan.
This grieves me sorely and offends, for inasmuch as I am the
pupil of anyone, Methinks this anyone can but be myself; the
more so since methinks that Master Péladan, learned man as he
may be, could never have disciples no more than in music than
in painting or aught else besides . . . I do swear before the fathers
of the Holy Catholic Church, that in this debate in no wise do I
seek to injure or offend my friend Master Péladan.16

51
By swearing an oath of sincerity to the Virgin Mary, ‘third person
of the Divine Trinity’, Satie implied his particular adherence to one
of La Rochefoucauld’s associates, Jules Bois.17 Poet, playwright and
novelist – the publication of his ‘esoteric drama’ Les Noces du Satan
in 1890 gained him considerable notoriety – Bois presided over a
Parisian cult of Isis, in which the Holy Ghost of the Trinity was
replaced by the Virgin. In 1893 he founded the journal Le Coeur,
which took its name from her symbol, a heart, and received its
funding from La Rochefoucauld; published monthly until June
1895, it promised on its masthead a programme of ‘esotericism,
literature, science and arts’. In its pages Satie made a declaration
even more audacious than his Gil Blas pronouncement: under the
headline ‘First Epistle to Catholic Artists’, he announced the
formation of a new church, the Eglise Métropolitaine d’Art.
‘Brethren,’ Satie wrote in 1893:

We live in a troubled hour, when Western society, daughter of

the Apostolic Roman Catholic Church, is overcast by the shades
of impiety, a thousand times more barbarous than in Pagan
times, and seems about to perish . . . We have thus resolved,
following the dictates of Our conscience and trusting in God’s
mercy, to erect in the metropolis of this Frankish nation . . . a
temple worthy of the Saviour, leader and redeemer of all men;
We shall make it a refuge where the Catholic faith and the Arts,
which are indissolubly bound to it, shall grow and prosper,
sheltered from profanity, expanding in all their purity, unsullied
by the workings of evil.18

Thus Satie signalled his ambition to succeed Péladan as head of a

mystic religious/artistic cult, presumably with La Rochefoucauld’s
backing and a core of adepts already in Bois’ circle. Eager to promote
these affiliations, Bois devoted significant space in Le Coeur to Satie,
publishing in this same issue a facsimile score of the composer’s so-

52
Antoine de La
Rochefoucauld, Erik
Satie, 1894, oil on
wood, Bibliothèque
Nationale de France,
Paris.

entitled ‘Sixième Gnossienne’ (now known as the Second Gnossienne),

which was dedicated to La Rochefoucauld. Satie’s Prélude pour La
Porte héroïque du ciel appeared in facsimile in the May 1894 issue of
the journal, and in its final issue, published in June 1895, Le Coeur
showcased Satie, offering the first published commentary on the
composer’s music and aesthetic, illustrated with a portrait by La
Rochefoucauld. Written by his brother Conrad, the ‘life-and-works’
article painted Satie as an iconoclast, a man of ‘transcendent idealism’
happy to ‘follow his thoughts into poverty’ rather than acquiesce to
commercial materialism. The portrait reinforced this idea of Satie’s
mysticism, presenting the composer in the up-to-date Divisionist
style most fully advanced in the work of Paul Signac, who was also a
contributor to the publication. Finally, this issue included a facsimile
excerpt from the Messe des pauvres, Satie’s most ambitious work to
date, a mass setting in several movements for organ, children’s choir
and unison high and low voices. A departure from the established

53
 Portrait of Satie in the series
Musiciens contemporains, 1900.

Catholic mass, Satie’s work included idiosyncratic segments: in

addition to the ‘Prayer of the Organs’ reproduced in Le Coeur, it
featured a ‘Prayer for Travellers and Sailors in Danger of Death’,
as well as a ‘Prayer for My Soul’s Salvation’. The musicians were
instructed by the score to play ‘in a very christian manner’ and
‘with great forgetfulness of the present’.
As ‘Parcener and Master of the Chapel’ of the Eglise
Métropolitaine, Satie struck a bizarre pose clearly modelled on
Péladan’s affect. His arcane honorific, ‘parcier’, was drawn from the
Anglo–Norman past, adapted from a legal term dating to the Middle
Ages that connoted a joint property ownership; Satie seems to have
wanted to extend the concept to the spiritual realm. While he did
not style himself a Babylonian king like the Sâr, he dressed in flowing
robes and sported long hair and a sharply groomed beard, and
cultivated an odd persona based on a mix of bohemian cabaret

54
humour and pseudo-religious eccentricity. He also gravitated to the
written word: other than the Messe des pauvres, only a few small and
unfinished musical works relate to his involvement with his church.
What survives from this phase of his life is a trove of brochures and
written pronouncements that he called ‘cartularies’, all issued from
his abbatiale (‘abbatial residence’) – the tiny rue Cortot apartment.
Linking esotericism and faux-religiosity to art and aesthetics, these
documents were written in mock-Gothic script on large sheets of
paper, decorated with designs and emblems of the church, penned in
red and black ink. In them Satie railed against critics, including the
theatre director Aurélian Lugné-Poe, who founded and managed the
Théâtre de l’Oeuvre de la Fantaisie et du Songe, home to the
premiere of Alfred Jarry’s Ubu Roi in 1896, and Henry Gauthier-
Villars, better known as Willy, who was the husband of the writer
Colette. Willy had dismissed the Préludes du Fils des étoiles in a review
as ‘faucet salesman’s music’; a furious Satie responded in an early
cartulary by characterizing the critic as a ‘threefold specimen of
abject ignominy’ and a ‘mercenary of the pen’. This was just the
opening salvo, following which Satie took direct aim:

Your breath stinks of lies, your mouth spreads audacity and

indecency. Your depravity has caused your own downfall . . . We
can but ignore the misdeeds of a clown; but We must raise Our
hand to cast down the oppressors of the Church and of Art, and
all those who, like you, have never known self-respect. Let those
who think to triumph over Us by threats and insults know that
We are resolute and have no fear.19

In the midst of Satie’s Rosicrucian and Eglise Métropolitaine

adventures, he produced a work that related to neither but
conformed closely to the pseudo-religious affect of both; this was
the ‘Christian ballet’ Uspud, a collaboration with Contamine de
Latour, which was completed in November 1892. Described by

55
Latour as ‘a conglomeration of every extravagance likely to astonish
the public’, the work related the story of the conversion of the
pagan Uspud and included musical interludes scored for flutes,
harps and strings. Performed as a shadow-theatre piece at the
Auberge du Clou with Satie playing the harmonium, it ‘roused
wild approbation and violent reprobation’, according to Latour,
a reaction that left Satie so incensed that he became determined
to see it produced at the Opéra. When the Opéra director, Eugène
Bertrand, failed to respond to Satie’s submission of the work, Satie
challenged him to a duel, upon which a frightened and apologetic
Bertrand agreed to look at the score. Satie, however, doomed the
project by insisting that it be vetted by a committee of 40 musicians
chosen by Latour and himself.20 Nonetheless, for Satie, the
audience with Betrand represented a significant victory, and
perhaps to commemorate the occasion he published a deluxe
edition of the work in 1893. Uspud’s printed edition included the
libretto (unconventionally written entirely in lower-case letters)
along with score excerpts, and featured a cover depicting Latour
and Satie in profile, in the mode of a medallion. The image reflected
a major development in Satie’s personal life: it was created by the
artist Susanne Valadon, with whom the composer had begun an
affair in January that year.
Valadon, born in 1865, was a well-known figure on Montmartre,
having worked as a trapeze artist, then as an artist’s model for
Renoir, Degas, Toulouse-Lautrec and Puvis de Chavannes, among
others. A liaison with the Auberge du Clou’s Miguel Utrillo resulted
in the birth of a son, Maurice, in 1883, who would become a popular
Montmartre artist in his own right. The Satie/Valadon affair was
intense and brief, ending nastily after some six months, in June.
But a letter from Satie to Valadon, written in March, attests to the
affection he felt at one point for the woman he nicknamed ‘Biqui’:

Impossible to stop thinking about your whole being;

56
Suzanne Valadon, Self-portrait, 1883, crayon and pastel on paper. Musée National
d’Art Moderne, Paris.

You are in Me complete; everywhere,

I see nothing but your exquisite eyes, your gentle hands, and
your little child’s feet.21

57
Two compositions chart the course of the affair. The first, a
cheerful song entitled ‘Bonjour, Biqui, Bonjour!’, is illustrated with
an impromptu drawing of a girlish Valadon done by Satie. The
second piece, less joyful, dates from the time of their break up,
which Satie always claimed as his doing; according to his alternate
stories, he either called the police on her or pushed her out of
a window. The piece associated with this end-phase of the
relationship is Vexations, a short composition for piano lasting a
mere thirteen bars, which Satie indicated should be repeated a
deadening 840 times. Vexing not only due to its repetitious nature
and extreme length, the piece features built-in annoyances for the
performer in its persistent enharmonic spellings, atonal harmonies
and asymmetrical phrase structures, all of which undercut efforts
to retain the music in memory. This seems to have been Satie’s
expressive outlet for the frustration he felt in the wake of this failed
and often tempestuous affair with Valadon, which in any event
was definitive: Satie had no other known romantic liaisons, and
according to his friend Augustin Grass-Mick, he thereafter believed
love to be simply ‘a sickness of nerves’.22

58
 4

Velvet Gentleman

I have long subscribed to a fashion magazine. I wear a white bonnet,

white stockings and a white waistcoat.
Satie

In 1895 Satie received a sizeable gift (7,000 francs, according to

Contamine de Latour) from his childhood friends in Honfleur,
Fernand and Louis Le Monnier.1 He used this windfall to pay
some debts, and he invested a portion in the publication of the
increasingly elaborate cartularies of his Eglise Métropolitaine as
well as the deluxe editions of the first two Gymnopédies. A
considerable chunk of the money, however, went to wardrobe
improvements: Satie headed to the middle-market department
store La Belle Jardinière, where he purchased seven identical
chestnut-coloured corduroy suits with matching hats, thus
establishing the uniform he would wear for the next decade. Newly
outfitted and dubbed by friends ‘the Velvet Gentleman’, Satie
lived large, hosting colleagues almost nightly at one or another
Montmartre bistro. By the summer of 1896 he was broke and had
to ask his brother Conrad, a respectable chemical engineer with a
speciality in perfumes, for a loan. ‘I am ruined’, he wrote to ‘Tiby’,
invoking a childhood nickname:

The wheel of fortune is no longer in my grasp; it is destitution . . .

unfortunately I haven’t a sou in my purse . . . It would be very
kind if you would send Me a little help in the shape of a money

59
 Suzanne Valadon, Portrait of Erik
Satie, 1893, oil on canvas, private
collection.

order; without which I will be exposed to cruel suffering, I tell

you. After all, you may say, that serves him right; he shouldn’t
have spent his money so fast. I know.2

Even as his penned this letter Satie was facing another forced
move, this time to a tiny room on the ground floor of the same
building on the rue Cortot, which would cost only 20 francs per
quarter. Unheated, without running water, and too small to
accommodate someone standing up, this closet (or placard, as Satie
called it) was just big enough for a bed that did triple duty, also
serving as a table and as the main altar of the Eglise Métropolitaine.
In light of these circumstances, it does not seem too surprising to
find that Satie completed no new compositions between 1895 and

60
January 1897, when the Sixth (and final) Gnossienne was finished.
Instead, he devoted himself to issuing vitriolic cartularies from his
abbatiale, perhaps as a way of venting some of his frustrations.
The six Gnossiennes form an untidy group. Composed over the
better part of a decade, the series begins with a piece sketched when
Satie was visiting the pavilions at the 1889 Exposition Universelle and
includes a core collection of three works probably composed in 1890
(and known today as Trois Gnossiennes), as well as a single piece from
1891, and the final work from 1897. Brief dances for piano, they
suggest the Eastern influences of the Romanian ensembles Satie
heard at the Exposition through their melodic use of whole-tone and
other exotic scales. At the same time they rely on the slowly changing
tonic, dominant and subdominant harmonies that prevailed in the
Gymnopédies, a similarity that has led many scholars to link the two
sets of dance pieces as evocations of the same classical world; typical
is Alan Gillmor’s view that it ‘seems likely’ that ‘once again Ancient
Greek culture was the source of Satie’s rather odd title . . . the
allusion being to the Cretan palace of Minos at Knossos, which had
recently come very much into the news.’3 It seems equally plausible,
however, that the title relates to Satie’s deepening interest in religion
and occultism during this period, and particularly to his fascination
with Gnosticism, which was officially re-established in France in
1890 by Jules Doinel. Founded on principles of spiritual enlighten-
ment, the Gnostic church included Rosicrucianism as one of its most
important orders, thus Satie’s engagement with this sect would have
been natural.
The Gnossiennes mark an important creative departure for Satie,
for in these works he first begins to interweave colourful language
into his musical compositions. The first Gnossienne, for example,
combines the traditional tempo indication ‘Lent’ with a series of
mystifying performance directives including comments such as
‘very shiny’, ‘ask’, ‘with the tip of your thought’ and ‘postulate
within yourself ’. The initial humour of these remarks rests in their

61
obvious subversion of convention, but a more complex irony may
be discerned in their perverse language, which is simultaneously
impenetrable and unambiguous. Prosaically vague yet poetically
precise, these directives represent a major and often overlooked
musical innovation, as they redraw the relationship between
composer and interpreter, requiring performers to grapple with
interior complexity rather than simply respond to rote technical
language.
The Sixth Gnossienne also has the distinction of marking the end
of a compositional hiatus that began in 1896 and lasted the better
part of two years, during which, according to his friend Grass-
Mick, Satie did ‘absolutely nothing whatsoever . . . I never saw
him work nor write nor take notes.’4 Perhaps the composer was
disorientated by events in his Montmartre milieu, including the
death of Rodolphe Salis in 1897 and the subsequent closing of
the Chat Noir. More promising for Satie in 1897 was the premiere
of his Gymnopédies 1 and 3 in Debussy’s orchestration; the
performance, well received by the audience, left Satie energized
and he got back to business, composing a set of six piano pieces
known collectively as the Pièces froides, a title no doubt inspired by
the winter conditions in his unheated placard. Grouped into two
sets of three pieces, with the subtitles Airs à faire fuir and Danses
de travers, these works mark another milestone in the development
of Satie’s technique, introducing the device of musical borrowing
as a major compositional tool. Satie, it will be recalled, had
incorporated a borrowed tune in his very first piece, the little
Allegro for piano that included a snippet of the tune ‘Ma
Normandie’; in the Pièce froides the concept of borrowing takes a
sophisticated turn, moving from quotation to parody. The shift
occurs in the second Air, where Satie takes as his source material
the well-known Northumbrian folk tune, The Keel Row. In lieu
of simply quoting the jaunty melody, Satie adopted its easily
recognized rhythms, then recomposed and reharmonized the

62
melody as if to conceal the source.5 What resulted was a new
composition that audibly recalled the original tune, but at the
same time presented it in a re-invented and re-arranged fashion.
This fresh approach, in Roger Shattuck’s phrase, left Satie ‘for the
first time [sounding] not medieval or Greek or Javanese, but
Parisian’ – in short, ‘like himself ’.6 Pleased enough with his work
to attempt the difficult task of its orchestration, Satie abandoned
the project only after nineteen unsuccessful attempts.
The creative burst, while bright, was short-lived. In October
1898, broke once again, demoralized and in an artistic crisis, the
composer rented a room in the working-class Paris suburb of
Arcueil-Cachan, ten kilometres south of the city. Located in a
distinctive building known as the Maison des Quatre Cheminées,
his new apartment, which lacked all modern conveniences, had
belonged to one of Rodolphe Salis’s relatives, the colourful cabaret
performer Bibi la Purée. With the help of his friends Henry Pacory
and Grass-Mick, and financial assistance from Conrad, Satie
moved in over time during the winter; this would be his last home
and, once he was established in it, he admitted no visitors. ‘No
one’, according to Grass-Mick, ‘set foot in his room during his
lifetime.’7 Instead, Satie spent most of his time in Paris, walking
to and from the city each day, stopping en route to take coffee and
aperitifs and jotting musical ideas in the small sketchbooks he
carried folded in his breast pocket.
Walking provided inspiration as well as exercise: Shattuck went
so far as to suggest that the ‘source of Satie’s musical beat – the
possibility of variation within repetition, the effect of boredom on
the organism – may be this endless walking back and forth across
the same landscape every day.’8 Satie would start out from Arcueil
each morning, stopping at the local café Chez Tulard before
heading to the city. Templier reported that ‘he walked slowly,
taking small steps, his umbrella held tight under one arm. When
talking he would stop, bend one knee a little, adjust his pince-nez

63
and place his fist on his hip. Then he would take off once more
with small, deliberate steps. This marvellous walker brought his
friends “to their knees”.’9 As the artist George Auriol, Satie’s friend
from the 1880s onward, recalled, he was fit and fearless:

Twenty-four pairs of sturdy boots would not be an exaggeration

for what such a champion of ‘footing’ needed. His intrepidity
as a walker was so great that he made it into a pastime – and
a daily one at that – to cover the distance that separates
Montmartre from . . . Arcueil-Cachan . . . This ‘marche
bourgeoise’ often took place around two in the morning,
across the wild and barbarous quarters of la Glacière and la
Santé where prowling ‘apaches’ were not unknown. This was
why our musician carried a hammer in his pocket.10

Friends accompanying Satie on segments of these expeditions were

also often surprised by his deep knowledge of French history;
Pierre de Massot, for one, ‘loved these long walks because Satie
knew the history of old Paris right down to the last detail and his
colourful monologue was entrancing.’11 But just often Satie was
alone, especially as he made his way home in the early morning
(having missed the last train to Arcueil), and these hours of
isolation surely had as much impact on his work as the daytime
interactions in Parisian cafés.
Shortly after the move to Arcueil Satie got a more regular job,
working as an accompanist for the popular chansonnier Vincent
Hyspa, whom he had no doubt met earlier in the Montmartre
cabarets. Hyspa, a fixture in Parisian nightlife since 1892, had
performed regularly at the Chat Noir; his specialty was the chanson
parodique, a popular genre in which well-known tunes were refitted
with new texts, typically satirical, suggestive or politically
provocative. Topical stories with references to current events,
politics and other news provided good fodder, and scatological

64
humour and double entendres were staples of his craft. Funny in
their own right, these parodies could accrete additional levels of
humour through the interplay of new words with the original text,
which would be lodged in the memory of the listener, as well as
through musical quotation. Since one key to the humour in these
works was the disjunction between original and new material, the
most widely known tunes, including folk songs, popular opera airs
and children’s songs, provided some of the best material for parody
and were thus heard time and again in the cabarets. Other chanson
parodique favourites were the sentimental songs and romances
popularized by more sincere cabaret and café-concert performers,
which were ripe for mocking. A good evening’s entertainment
might include a performance of such a romantic song followed
immediately by a parody of it; in one characteristic juxtaposition,
for example, an earnest rendition of the wistful tune ‘The Lady who
Passes’ was followed by a satirical version, retexted to describe an
accidentally swallowed prune pit – ‘The Pit that Doesn’t Pass.’
During his collaboration with Hyspa, Satie was involved
primarily in arranging and transposing works by other composers,
rather than composing new material for the singer. Only just over a
quarter of the more than one hundred songs that survive in Satie’s
sketchbooks, which he used at the piano during performances
with Hyspa, are likely to be original compositions.12 Among these
works, however, are several striking demonstrations of Satie’s
continuing refinement of his approaches to musical borrowing.
One instance occurs in what was apparently Satie’s first original
cabaret song, ‘Un Dîner à L’Elysée’, a setting of a satirical text
by Hyspa mocking reports of the French President’s banquet for
members of the Société des Artistes Français and the Société
Nationale des Beaux-Arts. Portraying the evening as a disaster
marked by bad food, dull conversation and, worst of all, a shortage
of wine, Hyspa’s text is marked by deft wordplay and glib irony.
Likewise, Satie’s music is a parody of a patriotic march, skewed by

65
an asymmetrical phrase structure, irregular accents and a text-
setting emphatic of Hyspa’s satirical aims. The musical and textual
punch line occurs at the end of each of the song’s four stanzas,
which correspond to courses in the meal, when the President
brings out a military band to play the Marseillaise, the ‘hymne
vraiment français (ou française)’. Hyspa declaimed the text while
Satie played a fragment of the tune itself, rendered majestically in
block chords; the musical quotation delivered the ironic message of
the text, mocking the very pretense of patriotically motivated
support for the arts.
Satie worked a fairly busy schedule with Hyspa, performing at
popular spots including the Treteau de Tabarin and the Boîte à
Fursy, as well as at private parties around town. While these
engagements earned him a living (if meagre), they did not satisfy
his creative energies. Thus we find the composer at work on a
number of fairly large-scale projects near the turn of the century,
many of which were designed to allow a more thorough integration
of the particular brands of humour, mysticism and medievalism
that had already marked much of his literary and musical output.
In tone and style these works seem to amalgamate selected
influences of the cabaret and his Eglise Métropolitaine. One such
project was the development of a ‘clownerie’ entitled Jack-in-the-
Box, with a scenario by Jules Dépaquit, a writer, illustrator and
future mayor of the ‘free commune’ of Montmartre. A second was
the three-act play Geneviève de Brabant, another collaboration
between Satie and Contamine de Latour, now signing himself ‘Lord
Cheminot’. The work was based on the old French canticle of St
Geneviève, which tells the story of a young girl who is mistreated
and left to die in the forest, only to be rescued by her husband
before giving herself to God. The legend enjoyed widespread
popularity through the nineteenth century, among other things
inspiring Robert Schumann’s only opera, Genoveva (1850), and
Jacques Offenbach’s opéra-bouffe Geneviève de Brabant (1859). More

66
importantly for Satie and Latour, Geneviève’s story occupied a
prominent place in the imagination of late nineteenth-century
Paris, having reached an enormous audience in the form of an
illustrated broadsheet that was widely distributed at fairs and
churches, as well as in popular artworks such as images d’épinal and
woodblock prints.13 It is hardly surprising, then, to discover that
the theme of Geneviève even invaded the cabarets: in 1893 the Chat
Noir mounted an elaborate shadow-puppet version of the story,
complete with a musical score for fourteen singers, organ, piano
and violin, by operetta composer Léopold Dauphin.14 In short, by
the late years of the century the legend had become so familiar that
it was considered hackneyed, and it served as the basis for a
number of parodies, including the Satie/Latour offering.
In contrast to the incidental music composed for Péladan’s
plays, Satie’s score for Geneviève reflects his deep interest in
Latour’s text, to the extent that he drafted an abridged version of
the legend alongside his musical sketches.15 For this substantial
hour-long drama, most likely also intended for shadow-theatre
performance, Satie composed a prelude, three arias and three
choruses; interspersed between these main numbers are two
entr’actes, a hunting call and a little soldiers’ march, which is
played four times. All these numbers are crafted from only about
ten minutes of original music, which is extended through
repetition, as seven of the fifteen numbers use the same material,
altered only with subtle variations. The work is scored for solo
voices, chorus and keyboard, and blends Satie’s two established
musical styles, with the Prelude and other instrumental sections
invoking cabaret idioms, while the solo airs are more in keeping
with the meditative and fluid nature of the works he composed
while involved with the Rosicrucian sect. While stylistically
divergent, the music for Geneviève de Brabant shares a common
harmonic sensibility: the harmonies are nominally diatonic, but
inflected with elements of bitonality and chromaticism.

67
Considerable energy must have gone into crafting such a subtle
work, but there is no evidence of any performance and Satie lost
track of the composition shortly after completing it, believing that
he had left the sketchbook containing the score ‘on a bus’. Only
after his death in 1925, when Darius Milhaud and a few other
friends were cleaning out Satie’s filthy apartment, did the score,
which had fallen behind the piano, come to light.16
With no performances of either Jack-in-the-Box or Geneviève de
Brabant, Satie faced another frustrating dead end. ‘I’m dying of
boredom’, he wrote to Conrad on 7 June 1900, ‘Everything I begin
timidly fails with a certainty I’ve never known before.’17 Still, he cut
enough of a figure to be asked to contribute the essay on
‘Musicians of Montmartre’ for the official guidebook to the Butte
that was published in connection with the Exposition Universelle
in 1900, and he set an appropriately ironic tone by noting in his
opening sentence that ‘two or three hundred years ago, very few of
the present musicians of the Butte existed, and their names were
unknown to the wider (or for that matter, narrower) public’.18 Also
for the Exposition, he composed a brief piano piece entitled Verset
laïque et somptueux, for an anthology of works by contemporary
composers in which his score was reproduced in lavish facsimile,
illustrated with a drawing of Paris and the Seine.19
The other composition of note from 1900 was yet another
collaboration with Latour, this time on a three-act play entitled La
Mort de Monsieur Mouche. Almost everything related to the project
is lost, but Satie’s sketches reveal something extraordinary: his
music was to include ragtime syncopations. The sketches were
complete months before John Philip Sousa performed syncopated
American dance music in Paris in May 1900, often cited as the first
occasion on which such music was heard in the city, and suggest
that Satie had obtained access to sheet music versions of the latest
tunes sometime earlier, probably through Gabriel Astruc, who had
visited the Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1893.20 This would

68
Satie’s Verset Laïque et
Somptueux, from the
series Musiciens
contemporains, 1900.

mean that Satie was one of the first composers in Paris to begin to
work with these American idioms, and that his explorations pre-
dated the far more famous use of such music by Debussy in his
piano piece ‘Golliwog’s Cakewalk’ by nearly a decade.
As the century turned, Satie continued to compose light and
entertaining songs, and in 1902 scored a major coup by persuading
music-hall star Paulette Darty to perform his works. As Darty
recalled their meeting, Satie came to her home (probably in 1902),
accompanied by the music publisher Jean Bellon, ‘who had an
attractive voice’:

That morning I was in my bath. I heard the now-famous tune of

‘Je te veux’ that M. Bellon was singing, which had a special
charm and such an attractive quality about it. I quickly got out
of my bath to express my enchantment personally. He sat down

69
 again at the piano and I sang ‘Je te veux’ for the first time. Since
then I have sung these waltzes everywhere with the greatest
success, and Satie has never deserted me . . . What an
unforgettable man!’21

Indeed, for this ‘Queen of the slow waltz’ Satie composed some of
the works that proved the most financially lucrative of his career.
The number she mentions, ‘Je te veux’, was part of a group of
waltzes he composed around the turn of the century, all of which
were designed explicitly for public performance in the café-concert
or music hall. This move toward popular song was a new direction
for the composer, perhaps dictated by economic necessity. For ‘Je te
veux’ Satie adapted lyrics written by his friend Henry Pacory
(toning down their overt sexual references) and matched them
with a lilting and fully diatonic tune; Darty’s imprimatur, conveyed
not only in her performances but also in sheet music stamped with
her name, certainly helped to make the song a hit. Another sung
waltz composed by Satie, entitled ‘Tendrement’, likewise served
her well, but it was the ‘Intermezzo américaine’ entitled ‘La Diva de
L’Empire’ that became one of her signature tunes. A cakewalk
clearly based in American dance idioms, the song was extremely au
courant; not only did it feature the latest in syncopations, but its
lyrics recounted the story of a singer at the thriving Parisian music
hall L’Empire, a popular spot that had been remodelled in English
style in 1904. Satie shortly thereafter composed another
syncopated piece for Darty, which under the title ‘Le Piccadilly’
seems to make a similar reference to things British. The song,
however, was initially entitled ‘La Transatlantique’, and its lyrics
describe a well-recognized type of American circulating in Parisian
society around the turn of the century: the young heiress,
sometimes known as ‘Miss Dollar’, who had come to the city in
search of an aristocratic husband. Darty performed both of these
works regularly, making ‘La Diva’ a showpiece in the revue

70
Devidons la Bobine and featuring ‘Le Piccadilly’ in the Revue sans
fiches. Capitalizing on the Parisian fascination with all things
American (and the conflation of England and America that
somehow resulted) she played an instrumental role in popularizing
syncopated music in Paris thanks to Satie’s clever compositions. As
for his awareness of these idioms, it likely resulted from his
encounters not only with Astruc’s sheet music, but also with
Sousa’s concerts on the Champs de Mars in 1900 and the
performances of Les Ministrels, the ‘orchestre nègre américain’ at
the Montmartre cabaret Le Rat Mort, which commenced in 1903.22
The successes with Darty did little to alleviate Satie’s poverty: in
1903 he received only 70 centimes in performing rights for the year.
The same year, however, saw the composition of one of his most
enduring compositions, second in popular recognition only to the
Gymnopédies: the piece entitled Trois Morceaux en forme de poire.
Satie’s decision to evoke the ‘pear’ in these pieces – whether visually,
aurally or otherwise – sets up a joke that would have been obvious to
his contemporaries, who understood the term poire as a slang insult
meaning ‘fathead’ or ‘fool’. This argot became widespread during
the bourgeois monarchy of Louis-Philippe in the early nineteenth
century, when caricaturists mocked the king by depicting his face as
a pear shape, and by 1835 the association was so entrenched that
even the simplest rendering of the pear could infer the anti-royalist
satire of the king as fool incarnate. A second level of humour arises
from the disjunction of title and musical content in the work;
comprising seven pieces rather than simply the three announced
‘morceaux’, the music bears no apparent structural, philosophical or
metaphysical relationship to the pear of the title. Finally, the title was
likely intended as a joke at Debussy’s expense, a retort to the older
composer’s condescending suggestion that Satie ‘develop his sense
of form’, since his pieces lacked coherent structure.23 The conductor
Vladimir Golschmann later recalled Satie’s account of the joke,
which was perpetrated with the presentation of the score:

71
 All I did was to write Morceaux en forme de poire. I brought them
to Debussy, who asked, ‘Why such a title?’ Why? Simply, mon
cher ami, because you cannot criticize my Pieces in the Shape of a
Pear. If they are en forme de poire, they cannot be shapeless.24

As for content, the Trois morceaux are an unorthodox anthology

of Satie’s works from the 1890s, including newer songs and
material from Le Fils des étoiles: of the seven movements, only the
first ‘morceau’ is not based on earlier material. The ‘morceaux’
themselves form the core of the work and are framed by two
opening movements (‘Manière de commencement’ and
‘Prolongation du même’) and two closing movements (‘En plus’
and ‘Redite’). In all, the work was an extraordinary compendium
of Satie’s experiments and musical styles, juxtaposing lively
cabaret and dance idioms with the more interiorizing and
esoteric approaches of the Rosicrucian experience and the Eglise
Métropolitaine. For Satie, the synthesis of such styles – of
supposedly high and obviously vernacular art – made this a
momentous composition. ‘I am at a prestigious turning-point
in the History of My life,’ he wrote; ‘In this work, I express my
appropriate and natural astonishment. Believe me, despite the
predispositions.’25
Alas, things did not turn as quickly as Satie had hoped. He
continued to compose cabaret songs, and even wrote music for
the operetta Pousse L’amour, on a libretto by Jean Kolb and Maurice
de Feraudy, artistic director of the Comédie Royale. Performed in
Paris and Nice, this was a successful work, and brought Satie some
acclaim. Yet he was discouraged and in 1905, nearing 40 and
describing himself as ‘tired of being reproached with an ignorance
I thought I must be guilty of ’, he enrolled for composition and
counterpoint courses at the Schola Cantorum, the Parisian music
academy founded in 1894 by Vincent d’Indy, Charles Bordes and
Alexandre Guilmant.26 Over the next seven years, while working by

72
day on the chorales, fugues and other academic exercises required
for his diploma, he eked out a living by night playing piano in
Parisian cabarets and music halls, employment he later denounced
as ‘more stupid and dirty than anything’.27

73
 5

Scholiste

Am I French? Of course I am . . . How do you think a man of my age

could not be French? You amaze me . . .
Satie

Satie spent a good part of the 1890s groping toward a new

compositional style, not only immersing himself in the worlds
where potential source materials abounded, but actually entering
those milieux – from cabaret and music-hall to Rosicrucian Salon –
as a creative and active participant. As a composer of both popular
songs and medievalizing melodies, he would seem to have been
especially well equipped to create music that was an amalgam of
styles, and that in addition was at once inherently modern and
identifiably French. This was a goal he shared with other composers
in France around the turn of the century, many of whom, weary
of the pervasive influence of Richard Wagner and still stinging
from the defeat of the Franco-Prussian War, were seeking cultural
vindication.
In the effort to define a new musical tradition for France,
the rediscovery of the nation’s musical heritage was fundamental.
For French composers, the pre-Romantic era of Jean-Baptiste Lully,
François Couperin and Jean-Philippe Rameau provided a compelling
model, one enhanced by its distance in time and its associations
with the ancien régime. Access to the music of this period improved
significantly in the late nineteenth century, as the collected works
of Couperin and Rameau began to appear in modern editions in

74
France beginning in the 1860s, providing contemporary composers
with new formal, stylistic and aesthetic resources. Dance forms of
the period held a special appeal, offering an alternative to the rigid
formalism and developmental orientation characteristic of the
Germanic sonata and symphony. Debussy, for example, used such
dance models in his first multi-movement keyboard works,
including the Petite Suite (1888–9) and the Suite bergamasque
(1890–1905), and Ravel turned famously in this direction with Le
Tombeau de Couperin (1914–17). The alignment of these and similar
new works with the French past was made explicit through the use
of evocative titles, as well as through the implication of eighteenth-
century musical forms, melodies and rhythmic gestures.
Satie, never one for the mainstream, harboured little nostalgic
sentiment for the French rococo, and couched his evocations of the
French past in ruthlessly satiric terms. His comment for an article
in the magazine L’Opinion, published in 1922, is typical. ‘I also
want to pay homage,’ he wrote, ‘but Debussy is taken, so are
Couperin, Rameau and Lully as well.’ Instead Satie proposed that
he would ‘compose an homage to Clapisson’, refererring to Louis
Clapisson, composer of medievalizing songs and comic opera,
professor of harmony at the Conservatoire from 1862 until his
death in 1866, and founder of the Conservatoire’s instrument
museum. Those searching Satie’s scores for references to this
composer, or to Couperin and Rameau for that matter, will be
disappointed, for Satie pressed into service a set of decidedly
different – and arguably more potent – traditions. His path to this
new music required a significant detour: looking for a way to
‘break away from the Wagnerian adventure’, and to create a ‘music
of our own, preferably without sauerkraut’, he found himself,
against Debussy’s advice, back in school.1
Satie’s institution of choice was the Schola Cantorum, founded
a decade earlier to encourage comprehensive study of music and its
history. In contrast to the Conservatoire, where technical skill and

75
virtuosity were prized above all and nineteenth-century music was
the focus, the Schola emphasized artistry and a broad slate of topics
extending from medieval chant to contemporary music. Satie, with
a career as a composer already well underway, seems to have taken
the ‘humble and courageous’ step of returning to school as an
opportunity to address gaps in his training.2 He immersed himself
in the rudiments of music, studying counterpoint with Roussel
from 1905 to 1908, and taking the better part of d’Indy’s famous
seven-year composition course, which included work on basics
such as form, analysis, sonata construction and orchestration. The
programme required the completion of regular exercises, including
chorale harmonizations and composition of fugues, and his note-
books from the period chart his progress from simple projects to
complex five- and six-voice counterpoint during his first year of
study. The student who had once been singled out as the laziest
in the Conservatoire now adopted the blunt view that ‘there is a
musical language and one must learn it’, while his teacher Albert
Roussel, recalling Satie’s ‘impeccable counterpoint’, testified to
his earnestness, remarking that ‘his enthusiasm for Bach chorales
would have singled him out even in an organ class!’3 Not surprisingly,
Satie’s dedication of purpose was reflected in a new look; he aban-
doned the Velvet Gentleman get-up that signalled his association
with bohemians and entertainers and adopted the costume of a
bourgeois functionary – a conservative three-piece suit, white shirt
and tie, bowler hat and, always, an umbrella.
Study at the Schola opened a new world of contrapuntal com-
position to Satie, and the successful completion of the programme
– his diploma in counterpoint signed by Roussel and d’Indy was
awarded with the distinction ‘très bien’ in 1908 – provided both
credibility and a confidence boost. Exercises in chorale harmoniza-
tion and fugal writing left him fluent in those forms and eager to
explore the possibilities of meshing contrapuntal techniques with
his own established style, marked by dissonance and infused with

76
Pablo Picasso,
Erik Satie, 1920,
pencil and charcoal
drawing, Musée
Picasso, Paris.

irony. For Satie, the leap from academic to compositional counter-

point was profound. Generally adhering to the formal discipline
imposed by chorale and fugue, Satie explored in his explicitly
contrapuntal compositions a full range of harmonic and melodic
expression in modern idioms, and used the works as vehicles for
his own quirky brand of humour.
His first non-academic contrapuntal composition, for example,
Aperçus désagréables, originated in 1908 as a paired chorale and
fugue; in 1912 he expanded the work by adding an opening
movement, which he titled ‘Pastorale’. Satie composed the piece to
play with Debussy during the lunches that the two men had every
week during this period chez Debussy, and it includes a running
dialogue inserted between the staves, which was designed to
entertain the performers. The text associated with the ‘Choral’, for
example, instructs the performer of the prima part (presumably
Debussy, the better pianist) not to turn the page, and to ‘scratch’ at

77
certain points. Debussy, no fan of the Schola’s ‘vestry-scented air’,
was bluntly critical, disparaging Satie’s fugue as a work ‘in which
tedium disguises itself behind wicked harmonies’; already sceptical
of Satie’s return to academe (he had warned his friend that at his
age it would be impossible to ‘shed his skin’) he had somewhat
mockingly dedicated his first set of Images to ‘my old Satie, the
celebrated contrapuntist’.4 ‘Here I am then,’ Satie wrote to Conrad
in January 1911, ‘holding a certificate that gives me the title of
contrapuntist’:

Proud of my knowledge, I set to work to compose. My first work

of this kind is a Choral and fugue for four hands. I have often
been insulted in my poor life, but never was I so despised.
What on earth had I been doing with d’Indy? The things I
wrote before had such charm! Such depth! And now? How
boring and uninteresting!5

Writing an autobiographical sketch for the publisher Demets a few

years later, Satie took a less bitter view, describing the ‘beautiful
and limpid’ Aperçus to be ‘most elevated in style’, adding that they
‘show how the subtle composer is able to say “Before I compose a
piece, I walk around it several times, accompanied by myself ”.’6
And despite the critiques, Satie followed the Aperçus with
another work much in the same vein – En Habit de cheval, also for
piano duet and likewise structured around choral-fugue pairings.
Composed during the summer of 1911, the work consists of two
miniature chorales and two titled fugues – the ‘Litanical fugue’ and
the ‘Paper fugue’. Satie considered it to be ‘the result of eight years
of hard work to come to a new, modern fugue’, a breakthrough
significant enough to merit his teacher Roussel’s evaluation.7
Roussel was pleased by the score, Satie reported to his new friend,
the composer and critic Alexis Roland-Manuel: ‘the whole thing
entertained him. He has sided with me on this new conception of

78
the fugue, especially the expositions. He loved its little harmonies.’8
At the time of the work’s composition Satie was still grappling
with his courses in orchestration and making slow progress. His
notebooks teem with reminders about elementary aspects of the
craft: ‘flute and trumpet blend very well’, ‘horn and trombone –
useless’ and ‘with three trumpets, one can do anything’.9 Never-
theless, no doubt heartened by Roussel’s praise and the sale of the
duet score to the publisher Rouart, Satie decided to attempt an
orchestration of En Habit. Though the sketches attest to the fact
that it did not come easily, this project was a milestone for Satie,
marking his first successful conversion of a composition from
keyboard to orchestral scoring – in this case a rather pared-down
ensemble of winds, brass, and strings.
During his tenure at the Schola, Satie continued to perform in
café-concert and music-hall programmes, and, in part due to the
attention he gained in those venues, emerged as a presence in his
suburban Arcueil-Cachan community. In 1908 he began attending
meetings of its Radical-Socialist party and he contributed regular
music reviews to the left-leaning newspaper L’Avenir d’Arcueil-
Cachan, which was edited by architect Alexandre Templier, father
of Satie’s future biographer. He also organized concerts, known
as Matinées Artistiques, for the town’s Cercle Lyrique et Théâtral,
calling on Hyspa, Darty and other stars of his acquaintance to
perform in this series. More broadly, he was involved in founding
a number of civic organizations, including a group devoted to
historic preservation in Arcueil (a town that even today boasts a
Roman aqueduct) and one specifically for exiles from Normandy
and like-minded places – Maine, Poitou and Canada.10 He served
as ‘Superintendant’ of the town’s Patronage laïque (a charitable
organization for laymen), devoting himself largely to activities for
children; he taught weekly solfège lessons and took classes of
schoolchildren on regular outings. In 1909 he was given the honorific
title ‘Officier d’Académie’ in recognition of his involvements, and

79
that summer the locals hosted a Vin d’honneur as a commendation
for his contributions. Satie’s period of civic engagement, unfortu-
nately, was short lived, brought to an end in 1910 following an
argument with the organizers of the Patronage laïque. Nonetheless,
for the townspeople of Arcueil Satie remained to his death a
memorable and down-to-earth presence, the composer of a few
well-loved popular songs and waltzes and a self-described ‘old
Bolshevik’ legendary for his conversion to socialism after the
assassination of one of the founders of the Socialist Party in France
– the pacificist leader Jean Jaurès, shot in a café on 31 July 1914, on
the eve of the First World War.

80
 6

Bourgeois Radical

When I was young, people used to say to me ‘Wait until you’re fifty,
you’ll see’. I am fifty. I haven’t seen anything.
Satie

For Satie, 1911 was a breakthrough year. In January Maurice Ravel,

whom Satie had met nearly twenty years earlier at the Montmartre
cabaret La Nouvelle Athènes, showcased his music at a Salle
Gaveau concert of the newly formed Société Musicale Indépendante
(smi). Ravel had founded the group the previous year after resign-
ing from the Société Nationale de Musique in protest and, with
Gabriel Fauré as its honorary president, the organization mounted
concerts of music by contemporary composers including Florent
Schmitt, Chares Koechlin and Maurice Delage in its inaugural
season. For the opening concert of 1911, held on 16 January, the
programme focused on Satie, and particularly on his early works:
featured were the second Sarabande (1887), the Prelude to Act 1 of
Le Fils des étoiles (1891) and the third Gymnopédie (1888), all played
by Ravel himself. An unsigned programme note offered an
appreciative assessment of the composer, positioning him for the
first (but hardly the last) time as a ‘genial precursor’ of modern
French music, who occupied a ‘truly exceptional place in the
history of contemporary art’:

On the margins of his own epoch, this isolated figure long ago
wrote several brief pages that are those of a precursor of genius.

81
 These works, unfortunately few in number, surprise one
through their prescience of modern vocabulary and through the
quasi-prophetical character of certain harmonic discoveries . . .
With today’s performance of the Second Sarabande (which
bears the astonishing date of 1887), Maurice Ravel will prove
the esteem in which the most ‘advanced’ composers hold this
creator who, a quarter century ago, was already speaking the
audacious musical idiom of tomorrow.1

Suddenly Satie, who had spent more than twenty years

labouring in comparative obscurity, was in the public eye. Only
weeks later, in March 1911, a review of the concert by Michel
Calvocoressi appeared praising Satie as an important forerunner of
Debussy and Ravel, and at a concert of the Cercle musicale on 25
March Debussy conducted his own orchestral versions of two of
Satie’s Gymnopédies to rave reviews. Satie was delighted with the
performance and reported the evening’s ‘great success’ before an
‘ultra-chic public’ to Conrad.2 The attention was sustained
throughout the year, as articles about Satie appeared in a variety of
publications. In March a large spread on the composer appeared in
the newly launched Revue musicale s.i.m. (published by the Société
Intérnationale Musicale), and included an overview by critic Jules
Ecorcheville illustrated with Antoine de La Rochefoucauld’s
portrait of Satie, as well as the scores for a number of his works.
In April Calvocoressi published another article on Satie in the
journal Musica, and in December he included Satie with a group
of forward-looking composers ranging from Chopin to Debussy in
an article in the London-based Musical Times, which was entitled
‘The Origin of To-Day’s Musical Idiom’.3
At the same time that Satie was garnering this critical attention,
a number of his works were seeing print for the first time: in 1911
alone, Rouart-Lerolle published the Sarabandes, Trois morceaux en
forme de poire, and the piano duet En Habit de cheval. Satie’s

82
exposure was further enhanced when he began to write articles for
publication in the Revue musicale S.I.M. (his first literary piece, the
infamous ‘Memoirs of an Amnesiac’, appeared in 1912) and by the
end of that year a group of younger composers and critics took
such inspiration from his example that they proposed he be
honoured as ‘Prince of Musicians’. Demurring initially from this
suggestion - ‘these asses are completely ignorant’, he insisted - he
thought twice and accepted, reasoning that ‘music needs a Prince’
and agreeing that ‘she shall have one, by God’.4
A burst of compositional activity between 1912 and 1916 attests
to the creative stimulus this attention inspired. In these highly
fruitful years, Satie turned his attention fully to the project of
integrating high and low music that he had initiated with Trois
morceaux, most importantly producing the piano works that are
generally referred to as the ‘humoristic piano suites’. The series
began in 1912 with the Préludes flasques (pour un chien) and
Véritables préludes flasques (pour un chien), and continued in 1913
with an amazing group of six sets of pieces: Descriptions
automatiques, Embryons desséchés, Croquis et agaceries d’un gros
bonhomme en bois, Chapitres tournés en tous sens, Vieux sequins et
vieilles cuirasses, and three groups of children’s pieces, given the
overall title Enfantines. The year 1914 brought three additional
works, Heures séculaires et instantanées, and Trois valses distinguées
du précieux dégoûté, as well as the album Sports et divertissements,
and 1915 saw the last of these pieces, Avant-dernières pensées.
Often considered to be insignificant, these ‘humoristic suites’
are in fact path-breaking works that redraw the parameters of
piano composition, and they reflect Satie’s continuing negotiation
of medievalizing and popularizing impulses, of esoteric and
everyday musical styles. They also reveal his growing engagement
with visual art. Satie insisted that ‘musical evolution is always a
hundred years behind pictorial evolution’, and he befriended many
artists (including the Catalans) while living on Montmartre;

83
beginning around 1911 his scores obviously reflect an awareness of
trends in contemporary visual art, noticeable especially in their
emphasis on graphic design.5 An artist himself, Satie was adept at
drawing and filled numerous sketchbooks and hundreds of small
cards with imaginative renderings of subjects ranging from Gothic
castles to clipper ships and futuristic airplanes.6 Calligraphy was
his particular fascination, and one not reserved for special
occasions: letters, notes and even marginalia are carefully inked in
his unusual hand. As recalled by his friend Jean Wiéner, no matter
how inconsequential the calligraphic project, Satie pursued ‘total
perfection’, even though ‘it took him a good twenty minutes to
write a six-line post card’.7
The influence of Satie’s involvements with visual art is obvious
in the unconventional appearance of the scores for the humoristic
piano suites. All but one of the compositions are written in
notation that eliminates bar lines and key signatures, and all but
two are composed without time signatures. Satie had toyed with
the conventions of notation from almost the start of his career
(the 1886 Latour song, Sylvie, it may be recalled, had no bar lines),
but in these suites the technique is more thoroughgoing and put to
greater expressive use. In particular, freed from the conventional
scaffolding of measures and metre the musical notes assume a
fresh quality, and can be manipulated to great visual effect to
reinforce the expressive content or meaning of a given piece.
Also apparent in the humoristic suites is Satie’s expansion of his
experiments with language and music; no longer limited to
performance directives, his commentaries take shape as epigraphs
and small narratives that are inserted between the staves of music
but not meant to be spoken or sung.
Satie’s experiments with the integration of music and text
constitute an utterly new conception of composition. From the
origin of keyboard music down to his own day, words had
appeared in piano scores in two basic guises: first, in titles, and

84
second, in standardized instructions for the performer, such as
‘allegro’, ‘largo’, ‘legato’, and so on. In the humoristic suites, Satie
expanded on both conventions, and in addition explored a variety
of new possibilities, creating compositional complexes in which
texts and music combined to generate expressive content that
transcended a work’s individual elements. Although this idea may
sound familiar – bringing to mind the Wagnerian ideal of the
Gesamtkunstwerk, or ‘total work of art’ – Satie’s impulses and
objectives could not have been further removed from those motivat-
ing Wagner. As we have seen, Satie had begun to experiment with
the possibilities of using texts in his compositions as early as the
1890s, with the Gnossiennes, and continued these explorations right
up through the composition of En Habit de cheval in 1911. One
indisputable influence in this regard was the fin de siècle cabaret,
where language was developing as the centrepiece of a unique mode
of ironic humour that was captured in contemporary parlance by the
complex term blague. A watchword of the bohemian counterculture,
it was described by 1913 as a mix of acute observation and playful
teasing:

Blague is a certain taste which is peculiar to Parisians, and still

more to Parisians of our generation, to disparage, to mock,
to render ludicrous everything that hommes, and above all
prud’hommes are in the habit of respecting and caring for; but
this raillery is characterized by the fact that he who takes it up
does so more in play, for a love of paradox, than in conviction:
he mocks himself with his own banter, ‘il blague’.8

As an attitude and artistic stance, blague passed from the

Montmartre studios housing bohemian artists at the close of
the nineteenth century to the Montparnasse cafés frequented by
the twentieth-century avant-garde, and through the shift Satie
remained one of its definitive and unwavering exponents.

85
 On the most immediate level, the ton de blague in Satie’s
humoristic piano works is conveyed in his enigmatic titles.
Prefigured by Trois morceaux en forme de poire (1903), these range
from the absurd Flabby Preludes (for a dog) to the mystifying Dryed-
out Embryos, and are humorous because of their obfuscating
language as well as their lack of functionality: disjunct from the
music itself, the titles satirize the entire tradition of labelling
musical compositions, either in neutrally descriptive terms, such
as ‘Sonata’, or more allusive language, such as Robert Schumann’s
Papillons, or Claude Debussy’s Jardins sous la pluie. More subtle
humour emerges in Satie’s inclusion of texts that go beyond
performance directives to form brief narratives and conversational
commentaries that are built into the compositional fabric.
Defying categorization as either poetry or prose, these texts are
astonishingly diverse and entertaining, covering everything from a
wife’s harangue of her husband in a department store to an erudite
account of the activities of imaginary sea creatures. In form and
structure, they are a mélange, juxtaposing snippets of spoken
language with storytelling and personal asides. More often than
not, the language is cool and objective, the tone is one of reserved
banality, and the overall effect is that of a recorded observation
of daily activities; Satie captures the mundane quality of even the
wildest imaginings and conversely invests the everyday with an
aura of fantasy. In short, his uses of text reflect his engagement
with vanguard trends in visual art and literature, and attest to his
continuing challenge of the boundaries of musical composition.
The text for the first of the Embryons déssechés is exemplary in
this regard. The work as a whole, described by Satie in his
manuscript as ‘completely incomprehensible, even to me’, takes
as its central conceit the evocation of three obscure sea creatures,
the holothuria, edriophthalma and podophthalma, each of which
is the subject of a brief composition. Satie introduces each piece
with an epigraph that describes the animal in question in original,

86
mock-scientific and playfully inaccurate terms. His account of the
holothuria, for example, presents a comically ‘learned’ explication
of the animal’s characteristics: ‘Referred to by the ignorant as the
‘sea cucumber’. Holothuria generally climbs on stones or blocks
of rock. Like the cat, this animal purrs; it also spins a disgusting
kind of silk. The action of light seems to disturb it. I observed a
holothuria in Saint-Malo Bay.’ The text integrated into the score
takes the more familiar tone of colloquial reportage, describing a
series of events in progress:

Leaving in the morning Returning in the evening

It is raining It is raining
The sun is in the clouds The sun is no longer there
As long as it never comes back

Cold enough. Good Cold enough. Good

Little purr. Mocking little purr.

What a pretty rock! It was a really good rock

It is nice to be alive.
Like a nightingale Don’t make me laugh, foamy bit
with a toothache. You are tickling me.

I haven’t any tobacco.

Luckily, I don’t smoke.

It is a day in the life of the holothuria, viewed from the improbable,

indeed ridiculous, standpoint of the animal itself.
Like other texts embedded in Satie’s suites of 1913–14, the
holothuria’s story calls to mind the contemporary poetry of
Guillaume Apollinaire, and particularly the so-called ‘conversation
poems’ including Les Fenêtres and Lundi, rue Christine. Distinguished
by their use of everyday language as well as their reliance on the

87
techniques of juxtaposition and ellipsis, the overall effect of these
poems is dislocation and incoherence.9 In Lundi, rue Christine, for
example, the reader must assemble a series of disjointed comments
to create meaning, as consideration of even the opening stanzas of
the poem demonstrates:

The concierge’s mother and the concierge will let everyone

through
If you’re a man you’ll come with me tonight
All we need is one guy to watch the main entrance
While the other goes upstairs
The gas burners lit
The proprietess is consumptive
When you’ve finished we’ll play a game of backgammon
An orchestra leader who has a sore throat
When you come through Tunis we’ll smoke some hashish
That almost rhymes.10

While Apollinaire’s poetry presents a more complicated set of

conditions than Satie’s commentaries, the similarities between the
two texts are striking. Apollinaire’s verse, for example, describes
a scenario through a series of juxtapositions, much like those in
Satie’s text for ‘Holothuria’. In Apollinaire’s case, as we learn from
the remainder of the poem, the setting is a crowded café and the
poetic lines are fragments of ongoing discussions in the room,
thus evoking both the café ambiance and conveying the details of
individual conversations; using the same techniques, Satie more
simply presents the imaginary world of his sea creature. Both
Apollinaire and Satie rely on a colloquial tone, shifts between
interior and exterior dialogue, and off-the-cuff comments seemingly
directed at the reader (in Apollinaire’s case, in the final quoted line,
‘that almost rhymes’) to emphasize the quality of immediacy in
their work. Both texts, at bottom, aim to evoke some sense of

88
mundane reality, whether the noise of the café or the imagined
activities of the sea creature.
Satie’s work, however, raises the additional issues of how to take
account of the texts in performance: should they be read aloud for
the benefit of an audience, or are they intended only for the eyes of
the performer? Satie left one answer to this question in the preface
to the piano suite Heures séculaires et instantanées (June–July 1914),
imposingly warning interpreters that the composer ‘forbids the
text to be read out loud during the performance of the music’ and
noting that ‘failure to conform with these instructions will cause the
transgressor to incur my just indignation’. Astonishingly, despite
Satie’s history of ironic joking and false posturing, this admonition
has been taken at face value, rather than, as he more likely intended,
as simply another manifestation of the ton de blague.
The complex interaction of text and music in ‘Holothuria’,
which is typical of these compositions, illuminates the matter.
Carefully using music and language in tandem, Satie offers a fresh
take on the sonata, thus tweaking one of the most venerable
musical forms in the repertory. On the large scale, his mechanisms
are simple: the opening section of the sonata, known as the
exposition and generally characterized by the presentation of two
themes in contrasting keys, is matched to the first section of the
text, which describes the daylight hours. The central part of the
sonata, known as the development and typically the area in which
the themes are manipulated, coordinates with the textual aside
‘It is good to be alive/Like a nightingale with a toothache.’ The last
major section in sonata form, known as the recapitulation and
noted for the return of the two themes, now both in the primary
key area, is cued to the text that describes the evening and the
holothuria’s return. Finally, a brief musical coda corresponds to
the concluding couplet of text.
‘Holothuria’ follows conventional sonata principles by presenting
two distinct musical themes in the exposition, a feature emphasized

89
through the identification of specific sections of text with each
theme: the first theme is coordinated with the text from its opening
through the reference to ‘purring’, the second with the subsequent
invocation of the ‘pretty rock’. As anyone familiar with sonata form
would expect, these textual associations remain stable in the
recapitulation, adding the weight of language to the structure of
musical repetition. In short, both music and language delineate
sonata form.
Satie’s aim, however, is not to render, but to parody sonata
form. Having established a textual and musical outline of sonata
structure, he proceeds to undo each of its fundamental principles.
His main target is tonal contrast: flouting time-honoured rules,
Satie presents both themes of the exposition in the tonic key,
c major, and he keeps his brief development section – where
composers typically go farthest afield – fundamentally static.
With the coda, he veers to blatant mockery by repeating a g-major
chord – accentuated by the dynamic marking forte and with the
additional directive ‘grandiose’ – then ends his piece not in the
expected key of c major, but rather on that g-major dominant
chord – thus leaving the listener dangling, deprived of a much-
anticipated resolution.
On a more local level, Satie relies on musical borrowing to add
an additional layer of humour in ‘Holothuria’. In particular, he
deflates the Romantic pretence of thematic ingenuity (the idea of
melodic genius and inventiveness) by using a phrase lifted from
the popular song ‘Mon Rocher de Saint-Malo’ as his second theme.
Even funnier, the premise for the musical quote is established in
the preface to the work, in which the ‘narrator’ recalls having seen
a holothuria in ‘Saint-Malo Bay’, and when the song is quoted
(in both the exposition and recapitulation) it is coordinated with
a reference in Satie’s text to a ‘pretty rock’ – which is, of course,
exactly the subject of the original song. The preface, then, may be
seen as a kind of cue to the musical quotation, while the

90
Opening of ‘Sur un vaisseau’, from Satie’s Descriptions automatiques (1913).

intersection of music and text in the second theme completes the

pun. ‘Holothuria’ concludes with a simpler and more explicit
connection of music and language, as the text of the coda (‘I have
no tobacco’) is aligned with a musical quotation of the well-known
folksong of the same name.
As this brief analysis of ‘Holothuria’ suggests, the humour of the
text/music relationship can best be appreciated by someone with
access to score and text, as well as a familiarity with the musical
references Satie employs. In other ‘humoristic’ works of the period
Satie brings another element – graphic imagery – into play, using
notation and articulation marking to create musical ideograms that
reinforce his narratives. This graphic imagery is possible primarily
because of Satie’s elimination of bar lines, and typically involves
an alignment of text, music and visual elements. Again, there is
a parallel in the works of Apollinaire, who, following Mallarmé’s
example, eliminated punctuation from his work, beginning with
his first major collection of verse, Alcools (1913). The opening piece
in Descriptions automatiques, ‘Sur un vaisseau’, is exemplary of
Satie’s efforts in this regard. The initial gesture of the piece sets
the scene on the boat, coordinating the text phrase ‘drifting with
the current’ with a recurring four-note musical figuration that is
visually analogous to a wave. Heightened by the incorporation of
slurs and staccato notes, this figuration recurs through the piece as
a rhythmic ostinato, creating a visual and aural metaphor for the
ocean waves. Above this ostinato, each subsequent textual event is
similarly coordinated with a simultaneous musical and graphic

91
gesture. The ‘small dashes of spray’, for example, are represented
musically by an embellished descending scale, while a ‘gust of cool
air’ is rendered as an ascending pattern. Satie relies on musical
borrowing to reinforce this imagery and create a pun on several
levels by including a fragment of the well-loved song ‘Maman, les
p’tits bateaux’ at just the moment his text comments ‘the boat gives
a nasty laugh’. The quotation does double duty, evoking the subject
of the composition, the boat, through a simple but unexpected
external reference, and also cueing up for the audience the
established allusions of the song, especially its nonsensical text
‘Mother do the little boats in the water have legs?’, which adds an
element of childlike naïvety to the work.
With Descriptions automatiques, then, Satie combines music,
language and graphic imagery in various ways to humorous effect.
In Templier’s assessment, this represents the ‘first example of a new
form of mysticism in Satie – a kind of elusive mystery, subtly evoked
in a musical atmosphere which is partly poetic, partly amused, but
very moving.’11 This work also represents his first major experiment
with an aesthetic idea that was widespread and diversely manifested
in the early years of the century: namely, simultaneity. A short cut
through traditional discursive processes, this artistic approach
aimed to capture the essence of the modern world, and especially
its fundamental characteristics of novelty and change. Satie’s
explorations of its possibilities in music provide further evidence
of the importance of the visual arts to his own aesthetic.
Far from specific in its application, ‘simultaneity’ was a
catchword that came into use around 1910 to describe the vast and
varied efforts to synthesize time, materials, form and colour in
artistic works. Introduced as a term in colour theory by Michel-
Eugène Chevreul as early as 1839, and taken up by Henri Bergson
as a keystone of his concept of the durée, or the ‘persistence of the
present in the past’, simultaneity was essential to Cubist, Futurist
and Dada artists, and to poets including Mallarmé, Apollinaire and

92
Blaise Cendrars. Examples abound: from the ‘visual lyricism’ of
Apollinaire’s poetic ideograms to the inclusion of newspaper
fragments in Cubist collage, the desire to create integrated art that
transcended boundaries was a central preoccupation. For artists
of the day, music was a powerful and present model, thanks to its
centuries-old reliance on simultaneity, whether in the sounding
of contrapuntal lines, the confluence of music and lyric, or the
perception of variegated rhythmic structures (to cite but a few
examples). In Satie’s work, however, the expressive possibilities of
simultaneity in music were expanded to new extremes, in the end
resulting in his creation of a completely new kind of artform.
Surprisingly, the world of fashion and high society would prove
the critical stimulus to this radical innovation. Satie – Montmartre
bohemian, middle-aged student, citizen of the dingy suburb of
Arcueil – would seem an unlikely posterboy for Parisian
fashionability. Yet in 1913 he met the woman who would provide
him entrée into the world of high style, Valentine Gross. One of
the few female members of the art staff at the elite Paris fashion
magazine La Gazette du Bon Ton, she and Satie became fast friends;
by October he was referring to her as ‘one of the good ones’ and
dedicating his children’s pieces Menus propos enfantins to her,
while, for her part, Gross was working her magazine connections
on his behalf.
Satie’s relationship with Gross, often underplayed in studies
of the composer, was among the most durable and unusual
associations of his lifetime. The two were close from the time of
their meeting, which probably took place at the family home of
pianist Alexis Roland-Manuel, right up to Satie’s death; she was
a trusted confidante and the only woman in his inner circle. An
artist trained at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, she attracted attention
in 1913 when her sketches of Isadora Duncan and of Nijinsky and
the Ballets Russes dancers performing in The Rite of Spring were
exhibited at the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées during the scandalous

93
production’s run there. Artists and writers, including those
associated with the Nouvelle revue française, later frequented the
regular Wednesday afternoon gatherings she hosted in her
apartment on the Ile Saint-Louis; Satie and Cocteau would meet
there in 1915. Gross and Satie maintained a lively correspondence
throughout their relationship, which documents the progress of his
work and sheds light on their interconnected social life, but which
most revealingly illuminates a unique tenderness, unmediated
by irony, on Satie’s part. Addressing her variously as his ‘Bonne
Demoiselle’, ‘Chère Amie délicieuse’, and ‘Chère grand-fille’, he
treated her with an affection that sometimes suggests romantic
attraction but most often remains touchingly platonic, particularly
following her marriage to artist Jean Hugo in 1919, at which he and
Cocteau served as official witnesses. In the professional realm she
provided Satie with connections and crucial assistance at times
when his poverty was dire and his mental health in jeopardy, and
up until his death she remained a stalwart ally.
Among the potential patrons to whom Gross introduced Satie
in 1914 was the Gazette’s publisher, Lucien Vogel, who that year
offered Satie the commission for a work on themes of fashion,
which was to be titled Sports et divertissements. Legend holds that
Vogel first offered Igor Stravinsky the project but, unable to meet
the composer’s fee, he turned to Satie – who when offered a smaller
sum at first refused, fearing that such a large commission might
be compromising. Although colourful, this scenario runs directly
counter to the reality of Satie’s vigilant attention to his finances,
a trait evident even on the pages of the sketchbooks for Sports et
divertissements, where the composer meticulously recorded Vogel’s
instalment payments on the commission. Amounting to the
handsome sum of 3,000 French francs, it was the largest payoff
that Satie had ever received for one of his works.
Vogel’s investment funded an extraordinary and category-
defying work that put simultaneity into the service of celebrating

94
Charles Martin’s design for ‘Le Yachting’ from Sports et divertissements (1914).

and cementing the relationship between music and fashion. With

its mix of piano pieces, texts, graphic designs and colour illustra-
tions, Sports et divertissements is a musical adaptation of the fashion
magazine, complete with up-to-date illustrations depicting the latest
styles. Even its title originates in the fashion milieu: the phrase
‘sports et divertissements’ was a widely used slogan designed to
attract upmarket tourists to trendy resorts and it can be found in
advertisements published in popular women’s magazines from
the 1910s onward. The work’s twenty very brief multimedia
compositions take as their subjects the pastimes of contemporary
Parisian society, ranging from real sports, such as tennis and golf,
to social sports, such as flirting and dancing the tango. In its
format, too, the musical album is inspired by the fashion press: just
as the fashion magazine relies on the simultaneous presentation
of interconnected texts and images to convey its messages, so Sports
et divertissements depends on correspondences among art forms,
adding music to the established mix. Each of its subjects is
represented by a title page with a small design encapsulating the
topic; the reverse side of this page contains Satie’s score, which

95
Satie, score for ‘Le Yachting’, from Sports et divertissements (1914).

combines music and texts; and the page facing the score contains a
full-page colour illustration of the theme.
Sports et divertissements unquestionably adopted its design features
and sophisticated tone from the Gazette de Bon Ton. Like Vogel’s
magazine, the musical album makes its first impression as a luxuri-
ous, collectible portfolio: it is oversized at approximately 430 mm
(17 in) square, covered in fine paper, and backed by flyleaves in an
art deco print extolling the virtues of ‘love, the greatest of all games’.
Produced as an unbound folio, the album opens to reveal a stylized
title page featuring an icon of leisure and fashionable decadence – a
modern odalisque. Satie’s score appears in lavish facsimile; the
musical notation is dramatic and flowing, with stylized notes in black
on red staves, much in the style of some works from the Rosicrucian
period. No bar lines interrupt the visual effect, and the text, in Satie’s
elegant calligraphy, is purposefully placed on the page so that it may
be read – but not easily sung or spoken – along with the music.

96
Martin’s illustration for ‘Le Yachting’, from Sports et divertissements (1922).

Satie’s beloved ton de blague is evident in his preface to the

album, which is also written in careful calligraphy and reproduced
in facsimile in the score. Laden with puns, his brief text advises
readers to ‘leaf through the book with a kindly and smiling finger’
and warns off deeper analysis with the admonition ‘Don’t look for
anything else here’. Accompanying this commentary is a brief
composition, the Unappetizing Chorale, which Satie notes was
composed ‘in the morning, before breakfast’. His preface elaborates
on his intentions:

For the shrivelled up and stupid I have written a serious and

proper chorale.
I have put into it all I know of boredom.
I dedicate this chorale to all those who do not like me.
I withdraw.

Satie’s use of a chorale to introduce a work devoted to fashionable

97
themes is deliciously ironic; few genres could be more antithetical
to the pursuit of stylish pastimes than this symbol of Protestant
piety and music pedagogy. Informed by his intensive study of
counterpoint at the Schola Cantorum, the piece is a crafty parody
of the chorale tradition, modelled on a Bach chorale setting. It was
not the first time the composer set himself against this towering
musical figure: ‘My chorales’, he wrote in the preface to his earlier
Choses vues à droite et à gauche, ‘equal those of Bach with this
difference: there are not so many of them and they are less
pretentious.’
The score for Sports et divertissements is a work of art in its own
right, but the illustrations seal the identification with the Gazette:
brilliantly coloured pochoir plates, they are the work of Charles
Martin, one of the magazine’s most prominent artists.
Commissioned to create images for the work around the same time
Satie was brought into the project in 1914, Martin produced a set
of illustrations to accompany Satie’s music and texts. While the
album was complete by summer it never went to press, however,
as virtually all publishing activity in Paris came to a halt during
the war. Martin served at the front, and on his return revisited
the project and revised all the plates, updating them to capture
the look of the new fashions of the day. The originals, after all,
depicted clothing that was au courant in 1914 but had long since
gone out of fashion, and in addition the realistic style of the
drawings had become outdated. The revised plates, which make
the connection between modern fashion and modern art, attest
to the transformation of both clothing and modes of illustration
between 1914 and 1922. More than a shift of style was at stake,
however. Satie’s score was not revised when the drawings were
redone, and Martin’s two sets of illustrations correspond with
differing levels of immediacy to the events and images conveyed
in the music and texts. Sports et divertissements thus exists in two
distinct versions: in the original conception music, text and visual

98
Satie, score for ‘Le Golf ’, from Sports et divertissements (1914).

art are tightly integrated, while in the revised version a looser set of
relationships among artforms prevails.
Consider the case of Le Golf. Satie’s score is built around a text
that recounts a surprising incident on the course:

The colonel is dressed in shocking green ‘Scotch Tweed’.

He will be victorious.
His ‘caddie’ follows him carrying his ‘bags’.
The clouds are amazed.
The ‘holes’ are all trembling: the colonel is here!
Now he takes his swing:
His ‘club’ breaks into pieces!

Long popular in Britain, golf had been introduced as a French

pastime around the turn of the century and discussions of the

99
Illustration by Martin for ‘Le Golf ’, from Sports et divertissements (1914).

sport and the clothing appropriate for afternoons on the links

quickly became standard fare for fashion magazines. Martin’s
original drawing conveys the sense of chic that attached to the
sport while faithfully portraying the details of Satie’s narrative,
depicting the caddy standing by with a golf bag strapped across
his chest as the colonel makes his shot and shatters his club. In
the original conception, then, Martin followed the model of the
Gazette’s fashion plates, illustrating the witty story suggested by
Satie’s composition as an up-to-date fashion scene.
By the time Martin revised the illustration, however, both the
clothing and culture of golf had changed; attitudes concerning
women’s participation in the sport, in particular, had evolved.
While female adepts of the game in 1913 were characterized by
Fémina as a small ‘passionate clan’ struggling with the rudiments of
the game, the fair sex took so enthusiastically to the sport that by
1921 the magazine was sponsoring an annual national tournament
for women with prizes including a silver cup, cash and jewellery by

100
Another illustration for ‘Le Golf ’ by Martin, from Sports et divertissements (1922).

Cartier.12 Martin’s revised plate for Le Golf takes account of these

changes. While in the original illustration three well-dressed
women watch passively from the sidelines as the drama of the
colonel’s breaking club unfolds, the later plate foregrounds a
woman confidently selecting the club for her next shot as her
male partner looks on. This revised illustration shows no direct
connection to either Satie’s music or his quirky text, but evokes
in more universal terms the good life enjoyed by the upper class
following the war.
The musical components of Satie’s score further complicate
the relationship between text and visual art. Adding a level to the
illustration of the narrative, his composition explicitly represents
images of the text in sonic and graphic terms. In Le Golf, for
example, the ‘trembling holes’ are evoked by use of a descending
chromatic scale; an ascending flourish based on unusual quartal
harmonies and emphasized by a fortissimo dynamic marking
provides a striking musical image of the breaking club. Satie

101
meticulously coordinates these musical gestures to coincide with
the corresponding bits of text, creating notation that provides a
visual metaphor both for the shaking holes and the club breaking
in the air.
Each of the twenty vignettes in Sports et divertissements, while
lasting no more than one or two minutes, provides a rich and
deeply integrated artistic experience rooted in the culture of
fashion. Perhaps because of this subject matter, so often dismissed
as frivolous, or because of its comic touch and the brevity of its
pieces, Sports et divertissements is often spurned by critics. In fact,
as a culminating work in Satie’s series of humoristic piano pieces,
it stands alone; quietly radical in its fusion of music, language
and visual image, it is an unheralded achievement of musical
modernism.
For Satie, Sports et divertissements had a practical advantage,
as it eased his entrée into social circles that would prove career
changing. Prime among the contacts it fostered was Jean Cocteau,
the young poet, author, playwright and society figure who quickly
became one of Satie’s most important collaborators and champions.
In addition, it served as a stimulus to works that, while less
extravagant, built on its ideas: Heures séculaires et instantanées
(June–July 1914); Les Trois valses distinguées du précieux dégoûté
(21–23 July 1914); and Avant-dernières pensées (23 August–6 October
1915). It is not coincidental that each of these works was premiered
in a fashionable setting.
The earliest of the pieces to debut was Les Trois valses, which
had its first performance at the Société Lyre et Palette, a loosely
organized collective of painters, writers and musicians based in
the newly chic Montparnasse quarter of Paris. The list of Lyre et
Palette affiliates reads like a roster of modernism: Picasso, André
Derain, Henri Matisse, Jean Metzinger, Juan Gris, Amedeo
Modigliani, Manuel Oritz de Zarate, André Lhote and Gino
Severini all exhibited there, and Apollinaire, André Salmon, Max

102
Jacob, Pierre Reverdy, Blaise Cendrars and Cocteau himself read
poetry. Cocteau was a regular, and it was probably at a Lyre et
Palette ‘Festival Erik Satie-Maurice Ravel’ in 1916 that he first heard
Satie’s music. Reaching beyond the bohemian intellectual set, the
Salle Huyghens events drew a high-society crowd; on one typical
occasion, according to a newspaper report, rows of ‘splendid,
shining limousines’ idled their engines while their well-heeled
owners enjoyed a poetry reading inside.13
On the programme of the Satie/Ravel concert in April 1916
were performances of two new songs, ‘La Statue de Bronze’ and
‘Daphénéo’, and Trois morceaux en forme de poire of 1903. An
important event for Satie, the concert was introduced by Roland-
Manuel, who gave a background lecture on Satie’s life and
compositional aesthetic, and raised the composer’s visibility by
establishing the first chronology of his works.14 The concert also
set the stage for the more famous ‘Instant Erik Satie’ sponsored by
the Lyre et Palette in November 1916, held in conjunction with an
exhibit in which works by Kisling, Oritz, Matisse, Picasso and
Modigliani were displayed alongside African masks and sculptures
lent to the gallery by the dealer Paul Guillaume. At this event Satie
gave the premiere performance of Les Trois valses distinguées du
précieux dégoûté, and Cocteau and Cendrars each read a poem in the
composer’s honour – the wordplay-filled ‘Hommage à Erik Satie’
from Cocteau, and from Cendrars the punning ‘Le Music Kiss Me
(Le Musickissme)’.
The setting for the premiere of Heures séculaires was the Galerie
Barbazanges, the art gallery overseen by top fashion designer Paul
Poiret. Having begun his career as a couturier just after the turn
of the century, Poiret had established himself as a major force in
fashion by introducing highly unconventional garments, including
dresses that required neither corseting nor bustling, hobble skirts
and even harem-style pantalons for women. He also amassed not
one but two of the finest art collections in Paris: the first, which he

103
sold at auction in 1912, focused on eighteenth-century work, the
second, which he began immediately thereafter, on works of his
contemporaries. Also a patron of music, he showcased new music
in regular concerts at the Galerie Barbazanges, often combining
the presentation of musical works with the exhibition of new
art. Such was the case at the famous Salon D’Antin in 1916,
a blockbuster series devoted to ‘Painting, Poetry, Music’ sponsored
by the review SIC (short for Sons-Idées-Couleurs). The programme
for the Salon included an exhibition of avant-garde art, two literary
matinees and two musical matinees. While a large number of
paintings were on view for the first time during this show, the
exhibition is famous for one in particular, Picasso’s Les Demoiselles
d’Avignon, which shocked and scandalized audiences at the opening
even though it had been completed nine years earlier. The literary
and musical events adjunct to this exhibition included poetry
readings by poets Max Jacob and Apollinaire and concerts
featuring works by Satie, Milhaud, Stravinsky and Georges Auric.
The first of these musical performances included Satie’s
Gymnopédies and a Sarabande for piano, and Stravinsky’s Three
Pieces for String Quartet. The event drew mixed reviews, including
a harshly negative assessment from Parisian socialite Misia Sert,
who was in the audience. The next day she described the evening
in a letter to Stravinsky as a ‘nightmare for the ears and eyes’
with music (including his own) that was nothing more than ‘poor
man’s sauerkraut’.15
Satie’s Avant-dernières pensées had its premiere at a less well-
known but equally important art gallery-cum-fashion salon, the
Galerie Thomas, run by Poiret’s sister, Germaine Bongard. Almost
completely unknown today, Bongard was significant enough in
1912 to merit a full-page profile in Vogue, and was in addition an
important figure in the circle of Montparnasse modernists.16
She made her mark by sponsoring a number of interdisciplinary
artistic events at the Galerie with the assistance of her lover, artist

104
Amédée Ozenfant (1886–1966), who is now recognized primarily
for his collaboration with Charles-Edouard Jeanneret (later known
as Le Corbusier) in the development of the post-war movement
known as Purism. Together they organized a series of events in the
Galerie Thomas designed to showcase the latest works of Picasso,
Léger, Matisse, Derain, Modigliani, Vlaminck and other modernists
in their group, many of whom were also involved with the Société
Lyre et Palette. Three major shows at the Galerie Thomas were
mounted between December 1915 and June 1916, and, as at the
Salle Huyghens, poetry readings and musical performances were
linked to each exhibition. Among these musical performances was
a concert devoted to the music of Satie and Enrique Granados. The
event was in part a memorial tribute to Granados, who had died
crossing the Atlantic when a German torpedo hit his ship, but it
was also a celebration of living artists, with a printed programme
featuring designs by Matisse and Picasso, and performances
of Satie’s most recent works by the composer himself. For Satie
the evening chez Bongard marked a significant career juncture,
establishing him firmly as a darling of the creative set and laying
the groundwork for his entrée into the city’s loftiest artistic
domains. Solidifying his position in the centre of the vibrant group
of artists, poets, writers and musicians who were working in the
war years to recast modernism as an expressive mode that could
accommodate fashionable avant-garde approaches as well as
pro-French political sentiment, it augured a future that would be
at once stylish and scandalous.

105
 7

Ballets Russes

The Idea can do without art.

Satie

Shortly after their first encounters in 1915, Jean Cocteau and Erik
Satie began work on the ballet Parade. Their stormy partnership
would last for nearly seven years, and though the fruits of their
collaboration were few in number they were bold in intent: the duo
proposed to demonstrate that modernist art could be entertaining,
fashionable and fun. Drawing on the ephemera of everyday life,
including fashion, advertising, cinema and popular song, they
devised a brand of modernism that was casual yet cosmopolitan,
and certain to appeal to high-society patrons as well as avant-garde
provocateurs. By the close of the 1920s it was the preferred style
in France and the United States, recognized as a viable alternative
to the more hermetic and abstract varieties of modernism that
emerged at the same time. Not to everyone’s taste, however,
fashionable modernism à la Cocteau and Satie had its share of
detractors, and they reacted with force on the occasion of its public
debut, which arrived with the premiere of Parade at the Théâtre
du Châtelet in May 1917.
Satie had been involved in an earlier Cocteau project, a French
production of Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream planned for
the Cirque Médrano in 1915 that was intended to be a marriage of
Cubism and modern music. With costumes and décor by Albert
Gleizes and André Lhote, and a score in which Satie’s music was to

106
be the centrepiece amid compositions by Stravinsky, Milhaud and
others, it was intended, in Cocteau’s words, as a ‘potpourri of
everything we like’.1 The production never came to fruition and
Satie alone seems to have completed his contribution; entitled Cinq
Grimaces pour ‘Le Songe d’une nuit d’été’, it was a set of five short,
popularizing pieces scored for music-hall orchestra. Though
unrealized, the Dream project pointed directly to Parade in its
heightened awareness of the potential that the mix of ‘high’ and
vernacular elements held for modernist art. As we have seen, this
had been a preoccupation for Satie from at least the time of Trois
morceaux en forme de poire in 1903, and existed as the kernel of an
idea even in his first little Allegro for piano in 1884; in many of his
compositions thereafter, the idealized qualities of ‘serious’ French
art music – clarity, simplicity and structural balance, as well as
learned forms and techniques – coexist with the music-hall tunes,
sentimental waltzes and folksongs of the everyday Paris.
This high-low mix was present in Sports et divertissements but
takes centre stage in Parade. The only new work to be offered by
Sergei Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes in the troupe’s one wartime Paris
season in 1917, the ballet had an all-star creative team: scenario
was by Cocteau, choreography was by Diaghilev’s new lead dancer
Léonide Massine, and costumes and décor were by Picasso. The
group, exhorted by Cocteau to ‘be vulgar’, created a ballet that was
simultaneously whimsical and radical, a work that took its themes
and materials from everyday life, rejecting opulence and fantasy
in favour of a coarse mix of popular culture and everyday art.2 A
departure from the standard Ballets Russes fare of mythology and
oriental spectacle, Parade was a detour into the mundane world
of Parisian entertainment, deriving both its title and content from
the performance sideshows known as ‘parades’ that were typical at
French carnival celebrations and foires. Cocteau featured characters
and acts modelled recognizably on entertainments of the day,
including a Chinese conjurer, a pair of acrobats and a Little

107
American Girl reminiscent of early film stars; Massine’s athletic
choreography mimicked the magic tricks, dances and tumbling
routines of the circus and even included the slapstick antics of a
larger than life-sized horse, manned by two dancers. Picasso’s
costumes and decor transferred the angularity and distorted
perspectives of Cubism to the ballet stage, most aggressively in
the ten-foot-tall, three-dimensional constructions worn by the
Managers appearing between the acts; and Satie’s score owed as
much to the cabaret as the concert hall, blending ragtime with
fugue and counterpoint to offend almost the entire Ballets Russes
audience, from devotees of Schéhérazade to fans of The Rite of
Spring. In short, Parade’s popularizing stance was shocking enough
to prompt an uprising in the theatre, as some members of the
opening-night audience jeered the work and derided its creators as
‘sales boches’ (‘dirty Krauts’), a particularly biting insult in France
at the height of World War i. At the same time, however, the
ballet’s transgression of the boundaries of high art and low culture
was viewed in progressive circles as a harbinger of modernism;
indeed, scandal in the theatre conveyed the imprimatur of avant-
gardism instantly and incontrovertibly. Parade’s legacy as a counter-
establishment work of art was sealed after one performance, and
with his collaborators Satie was guaranteed a position in the new
artistic order.
The generally hostile press reviews of Parade ridiculed Satie’s
score as a grand hoax. The mainstream reaction was voiced by the
music critic in the newspaper Le Figaro, who accused Satie of taking
laborious pains to ‘reproduce the burlesque effects that even a
dozen fairground musicians can produce without effort’.3 Even
sympathetic critics could find nothing good to say: Jean d’Udine,
for example, complained in Le Courrier musical that he searched in
vain for something likeable in the music but could find ‘nothing,
nothing, nothing’ in this ‘bad joke’.4 One important critic, however,
took a different view. In a now famous programme note for Parade,

108
published in the week before the premiere, Apollinaire heralded
Satie as an ‘innovative musician’, a composer of ‘astonishingly
expressive music, so clear and simple that it seems to reflect the
marvellously lucid spirit of France’. Parade, he proclaimed,
embodied the best of the French past as well as the promise of the
nation’s cultural future, a fusion whose importance he signalled
by invoking the contemporary political phrase esprit nouveau as a
motto for the work as a whole.5 In a stroke, Apollinaire thus lifted
Satie to a place of importance, anointing him as a modern musical
representative of the national heritage.
Study of Satie’s score for Parade illuminates some of the ways in
which the ‘lucid spirit of France’ and its ‘vulgar’ twin meet in his
music. French traditions of clarity and symmetry are represented
most broadly in the balanced structure of the work, in which
three central thematic movements (one devoted to each of the
characters) are framed by an introduction and conclusion. These
outer segments, recalling the piano duets Satie composed just after
leaving the Schola Cantorum, include a chorale and fugue, both
updated with a new, though still tonal, language. More prominent
in the musical score, however, are elements evoking the popular
culture of contemporary entertainments. On the level of form,
this influence is reflected in the diversity of the music and by
the constant and abrupt juxtaposition of stylistically different
materials; in this way Satie’s score replicates the stage show of
the contemporary variety theatre or music hall, which typically
featured a rapidly changing series of diverse tableaux. In its details,
too, the music echoes the music hall, presenting a series of short
and tuneful melodies matched to simple accompaniments comprised
largely of ostinato and pendulum figures. Finally, Satie’s score
showcases one of the primary technical tools of popular entertain-
ment, musical parody, which, as we have seen, had featured in his
work with Hyspa and emerged as an important compositional
device in the humoristic suites.

109
 Parade’s kinship with fashionable music-hall culture was
obvious above all in the character of the Little American Girl and
Satie’s score for her dance. Hollywood supplied the models for this
character in the form of two young starlets who ruled the silver
screen in its early days: Pearl White and Mary Pickford. White,
who played the lead in the popular movie series The Perils of Pauline,
released in 1914–15, was known for her cleverness and daring stunt
work, while Pickford, dubbed ‘America’s Sweetheart’, played the
cute charmer in a string of films that included Poor Little Rich Girl
and Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, both released in 1917. The costume
for Parade’s Little American Girl, purchased at the last minute
off the rack of a Parisian sporting-goods store, combined allusions
to Pickford’s childish attire, which generally involved flouncy
dresses and a floppy hair bow, with the suggestion of White’s
‘Pauline’ uniform, which typically included a wide-collared middy
sailor blouse.
In Parisian music halls, imitators of Pickford and White
performed under evocative names such as ‘Miss Rag Time’ and
‘Miss Kathaya Florence, The Yankee Girl’. Cocteau’s ‘Girl’, like her
music-hall counterparts, performed a routine worthy of the screen
heroines, riding a horse, jumping on a train, cranking up a Model
T Ford, pedalling a bicycle, swimming, playing cowboys and
Indians, snapping the shutter of a Kodak camera, dancing a
ragtime, imitating Charlie Chaplin, getting seasick, almost sinking
with the Titanic and finally relaxing at the beach. The ballerina
dancing the role was required to execute an unprecedented athletic
routine that included numerous cartwheels, splits and jumps,
prompting one contemporary critic to note that there were ‘dozens
of music-hall performers who can do this sort of thing better,
because they are to the impudent manner born’.6
In keeping with her Hollywood roots, the Little American Girl’s
showpiece was a ragtime dance, performed to music that seemed
to come directly from the USA. Thus it seems fitting that Satie’s

110
Sheet music for That Mysterious Rag, by Irving Berlin and Ted Snyder (1911).

catchy ‘Steamship Ragtime’ had an American core: it was a

reworking of Irving Berlin and Ted Snyder’s 1911 hit song, ‘That
Mysterious Rag’. One of that year’s best-sellers in the US (topped
by another Berlin dance tune, ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’), ‘That
Mysterious Rag’ never made it to Broadway but was a centrepiece
of the vaudeville skit ‘A Real Girl’, which was performed at the
annual Friar’s Frolic, a springtime ritual of New York society. The

111
song reached Paris in 1913 under the title ‘Mystérious Rag’ and was
one of the highlights of the music-hall revue Tais-toi, tu m’affolles
(roughly, ‘Shut up, you bother me’), which played at the Moulin
Rouge through most of that year.
Exactly how or why Satie landed on ‘That Mysterious Rag’ as his
model for the ‘Steamship Ragtime’ remains a mystery. He never
acknowledged his use of the song and no obvious connection links
the tune or lyric to the scenario enacted by the Little American
Girl. Furthermore, there is no evidence to suggest that Satie
attended the Moulin Rouge show or that he met Berlin prior to
a reported encounter in Paris in 1922.7 What Satie probably did
know was the French score of Berlin’s piece, in at least one of the
four versions issued by the Salabert firm: it was published in 1913
as a piano solo, as a song with English text and piano
accompaniment, and in versions for large and small orchestra.
Satie’s adaptation, scored for large orchestral ensemble, is not
a simple borrowing from any of these arrangements, but is instead
a thorough reworking of the model that alters melodies, harmonies
and overall structure while leaving the rhythms of the original song
almost entirely intact – thus recalling the approach he had first
explored in the Airs à faire fuir of the late 1890s. Reorganizing the
original material, he presents it in reverse order, beginning with
twenty-four bars that correspond to the original chorus, moving on
to sixteen bars based on Berlin’s verse, and ending with eight bars
that paraphrase Berlin’s introduction. In each of these sections,
Satie also alters the original melodies, following a formula that
turns rising passages into descending ones, stepwise patterns into
skips, and repeated notes into distinct and different pitches. In
combination with his advanced harmonic scheme for the piece,
these melodic changes obscure the original tune, masking the
model so thoroughly that Satie’s use of Berlin’s music escaped
critical notice until 1961 – a remarkably late date, given the
widespread popularity of the original song.

112
 Satie’s title, ‘Steamship Ragtime’, is easier to explain. Derived
from the scenario for the Little American Girl’s turn on stage, it
refers both to the general vogue for transatlantic steamship travel,
which remained a novelty through the 1920s, and more specifically
to the Titanic, whose sinking the Girl escapes. Above all, however,
the ship seems to serve as a marker of Americanism, as detailed in
Cocetau’s description:

The Titanic – ‘Nearer My God to Thee’ – elevators . . .

steamship apparatus – The New York Herald – dynamos –
airplanes . . . palatial cinemas – the sheriff ’s daughter – Walt
Whitman . . . cowboys with leather and goat-skin chaps – the
telegraph operator from Los Angeles who marries the detective
in the end . . . gramophones . . . the Brooklyn Bridge – huge
automobiles of enamel and nickel . . . Nick Carter . . . the
Carolinas – my room on the seventeenth floor . . . posters . . .
Charlie Chaplin.

This string of ideas, painting modern America as a clanky hub of

endless sound, motivated the most radical innovation of Parade’s
score, which was the inclusion of non-musical noises. Added by
Cocteau, and ranging from whistles and sirens to the pecking of
a typewriter and the firing of a gun, these sounds were intended
to heighten the ballet’s realism; as Cocteau jotted in a note on the
final copy of Satie’s manuscript, ‘the four-hand piano music of
Parade is not a work in itself but is intended as a background
designed to put the primary subject of sounds and scenic noises
into relief.’8 Not surprisingly, Satie objected to having his music
accorded such lesser status, and at his insistence nearly all of the
sounds were suppressed in the performances of 1917.
As Parade’s creators surely recognized, the ballet was destined
to be scandalous in some conservative quarters. Ever savvy,
though, Cocteau chose to depict in Parade specific kinds of

113
entertainment that enjoyed a particular vogue with members of
fashionable society who, having taken up ‘slumming’ during the
war, had begun to frequent lowbrow haunts like the music hall and
circus. This was the same stylish crowd that remained at the core
of the Ballets Russes’s audience, and by presenting to them on the
stage of the Châtelet an ‘artistic’ version of the acts they enjoyed in
shadier venues, Cocteau not only allowed everyday entertainment
to ‘invade art with a capital A’, but also validated their role as
tastemakers. In addition, the brand of musical modernism on
display in Parade suited upmarket Parisian tastes: accessible,
peppered with familiar French and American tunes, amusing and,
in its own way, elegant, it provided a template for up-and-coming
composers and established a link between the growing world of
jazz and the established domains of art and ballet music. Parade
thus marked a turning point for the Ballets Russes, heralding a
new sensibility rooted in the sophistication of upper-class life.
Parade had a short run in 1917. Between its premiere and its
revival in 1920, the ballet’s most significant afterlife occurred on
the pages of style and fashion magazines, where articles illustrated
with drawings and photographs extolled its modernity and
originality. Since many French journals had suspended publication
during the war, some of the most fervent appreciations of Parade
could be found in American magazines, including Vanity Fair,
the culture and arts magazine founded in 1913 by the legendary
publisher Condé Nast. Only months after the work’s Paris
premiere, in September 1917, the magazine published an article
about the ballet by Cocteau himself and reported that Satie,
‘leader of the Futurist musicians’, Picasso, ‘leader of the Cubist
artists’, and the ‘poet’ Cocteau had sparked a Parisian ‘fury’ with
the ballet.9 Cocteau reserved comment on Satie’s music for the
end of his essay, praising his clear and natural orchestration, his
‘purest rhythms’ and ‘frankest melodies’. The absence of ‘slurring
pedals, of all evidences of the melted and hazy’ in the score,

114
according to Cocteau, resulted in ‘the unfettering of the purest
rhythms and frankest melodies’. The essay’s most trenchant
remarks about music, however, concern the manner in which
Satie used elements of dance and other popular styles to infuse
the score with a modernist sensibility and ‘ambiguous charm’. In
Parade, Cocteau asserted, ‘two melodic planes are superimposed’,
and ‘without dissonance’ Satie ‘seems to marry the racket of a
cheap music-hall with the dreams of children, and the dreams
and murmur of the ocean’.10
In this article Cocteau tested the ideas that would form the basis
for the quirky manifesto on music he published in early 1918,
entitled Le Coq et l’arlequin. A collection of aphorisms designed as
a defence of Parade, this little book served above all to promote
Satie, whom Cocteau claimed was spearheading a ‘return to order’
by composing a ‘music of France for France’ based in the idioms of
‘the music hall, the circus [and] American Negro orchestras’. The
‘Impressionist’ style of Debussy and Ravel, according to Cocteau,
was outdated – ‘enough of clouds, waves, aquariums, water-sprites,
and perfumes of the night’, he claimed – and Stravinsky simply
extended the Russian tradition of Mussorgsky and Rimsky-Korsakov
with more aggressive rhythms. In contrast, Satie’s ‘music of the
earth, everyday music’, captured the very essence of modern life
and introduced into modernist composition ‘the greatest audacity
– simplicity’. Satie, in Cocteau’s memorable phrase, composed
‘music on which one walks’.11
Beginning in March 1918 Vanity Fair expanded on these same
themes in a series of essays written by and about Cocteau and
Satie, presenting them as the avatars of French modernism and
promoting their brand of dernier cri avant-gardism. Carl Van
Vechten’s enthusiasm was obvious in the two articles he published
in that issue of the magazine, which had titles describing the
composer as both ‘Master of the Rigolo’ and ‘A French Extremist
in Modern Music’. Painting Satie as an innovative visionary, Van

115
Les Six on the Eiffel Tower, Paris, 1921.

Vechten credited him (rightly) with using whole tone scales in his
compositions ‘before Debussy ever thought of doing so’, and
described his borrowings from popular music models as ‘one of the
necessary links between the music of the past and the music of the
future’.12 In 1921 Satie took centre stage in the magazine, as articles
either by or about him appeared in consecutive issues between
September and January; in 1922 he was featured in eight out of the
twelve issues. The first two articles to appear in the magazine were
by Satie himself, inaugurating a series by the composer described
in a photo caption as a ‘satiric clown, [a] fantastic juggler’. His
ironic ‘Hymn in Praise of Critics’, published in September 1921,
was a tirade against critics rather than a hymn in their praise; 13 ‘A
Lecture on The Six’, which appeared the following month, formally
introduced readers to Satie’s circle with a handsome photograph of

116
the stylishly attired group of young composers who followed him
posed on the Eiffel Tower, solidifying their identification with
Parisian chic.14 Two more of Satie’s pre-concert commentaries
followed: ‘A Learned Lecture on Music and Animals’, in May 1922,
and, in October that year, ‘La Musique et les enfants’, which
appeared entirely, and extraordinarily, in French.15 Vanity Fair also
solicited two new (and more conventional) articles from Satie,
including an appreciation of Igor Stravinsky, published in February
1923, and a similar piece on Claude Debussy, which for reasons
unknown remained unpublished.16 Running parallel to Satie’s own
commentaries throughout this period was a series of articles by
Vanity Fair’s critics, including Paul Rosenfeld and Edmund Wilson,
Jr, emphasizing the importance of Satie’s popularizing aesthetic to
the development of modernist music. Back in Paris, Satie’s status
was celebrated in an expansive concert of his works sponsored by
the Société Lyre et Palette just after Parade’s premiere, in June 1917.
Organized by poet Blaise Cendrars as an homage to the composer,
the evening featured the premiere of Parade in piano reduction,
with Satie and the Russian pianist Juliette Meerovitch performing,
and opened yet another phase of the composer’s career.

117
 8

En ‘Smoking’

Today will be the day, monsieur.

Satie

In the wake of Parade’s succès de scandale, Satie’s ties with upmarket

Paris were secured. Even before the ballet’s premiere, the composer
had received an important commission from one of the city’s most
influential arts patrons, the Princesse Edmond de Polignac. Born
Winnaretta Singer in Yonkers, New York, the Princesse was an
heiress to the Singer Sewing Machine fortune and, although
lesbian, married into one of the most venerable families in the
French aristocracy. Beginning around the time of her husband’s
death in 1901, she defined herself as a major patron of the arts,
establishing a salon frequented by a glittering constellation of
artists, including Proust, Monet, Colette and Diaghilev. Music was
her main passion, and during World War i she provided much-
needed support to a trio of composers, commissioning pieces for
her salon from Manuel de Falla, Stravinsky and Satie. The works
that resulted – El Retablo de Maese Pedro, Renard and Socrate –
mixed drama and music to new effect, helping to redraw the
parameters of chamber music.
It is not clear when Satie and the Princesse first met, but by the
late summer of 1916 he was invited to dinner at her luxurious home
on the Avenue Henri-Martin. As the Princesse recalled the evening,
Satie impressed her as: ‘A man of about 52 [actually 50], neither tall
nor short, very thin, with a short beard. He invariably wore pince-

118
nez, through which one saw his kindly but rather mischievous pale
blue eyes, always ready to twinkle as some humorous thought
crossed his mind.’1 She proposed a commission: a student of Greek
language and culture, she wanted a setting of The Death of Socrates
from Plato’s Phaedo, and was willing to pay Satie two thousand
francs up front, with two thousand more on delivery of the piano-
vocal and orchestral scores.2 Satie quickly agreed, and his first
inclination was to compose a musical background for a recitation
of the Dialogues in Greek by the Princesse and members of her
circle. He ended with a different approach, however, setting the
text in a nineteenth-century French translation, for one to four
female singers. For Satie, the project was daunting; he had still not
begun the piece in January 1917, when he wrote to Valentine Gross,
confiding in her that he ‘had the jitters about “botching” this
work that I want to be white and pure like the Antique. I’m in it
“completely” and don’t know any more where to put myself.
There’s something beautiful to be done with this idea, that’s for
sure.’3 Two weeks later, things had come into focus, and he wrote
to Gross again, this time with obvious ebullience:

What am I doing? I’m working on the Vie de Socrate. I have

found a beautiful translation; that of Victor Cousin. Plato is a
perfect collaborator, very gentle and never troublesome. It’s a
dream! . . . I’m swimming in happiness. At last, I’m free, free as
air, as water, as the wild sheep. Long live Plato! Long live Victor
Cousin! I’m free! Very Free! What happiness!4

Satie had turned to Socrate having finished work on the four-hand

piano score for Parade in early January; ‘my role is over,’ he wrote
to Cocteau on New Year’s Day, ‘yours is beginning’.5 Indeed,
Diaghilev, Picasso, Massine and Cocteau decamped to Rome
during February and March to prepare the ballet, while Satie
stayed behind to orchestrate the work, a task he completed on 8

119
May, just ten days before the premiere. Perhaps not surprisingly,
as Parade came to fruition, Socrate languished.
Things did not improve as the summer came and went. Satie
found himself involved in a lawsuit that began when critic Jean
Poueigh published a negative review of Parade in the newspaper
Les Carnets de la semaine. Having personally complimented Satie
at the work’s premiere, Poueigh (writing under the pseudonym
Octave Séré) turned around and blasted this ‘ballet that outrages
French taste’, accusing the composer of incompetence and a lack
of musicality.6 Insulted by Poueigh’s hypocrisy, Satie responded
with a series of vitriolic postcards, in which he characterized the
critic as ‘an asshole – and an unmusical asshole at that’ and
addressed him as ‘Monsieur Fuckface . . . famous Gourd and
composer for Nitwits’.7 Since the cards could be read by (at least)
the postman and Poueigh’s concierge, the critic sued the composer
for libel and prevailed, after a stormy trial at which Cocteau,
Lhote, Severini and Gris testified on Satie’s behalf. The composer,
condemned to a week in prison and ordered to pay a fine of a
hundred francs plus a thousand francs in damages to Poueigh,
lodged an appeal and the proceedings dragged into November,
resulting in a verdict in Poueigh’s favour. In the end the Princesse
de Polignac came to Satie’s aid, loaning him the money to cover
the fine and damages, and with Diaghilev’s patron Misia Edwards
(later Sert) she lobbied for his release. On 15 March 1918, thanks
no doubt to their influence, the affair came to a close, as the court
suspended Satie’s sentence ‘on the condition that he show good
conduct and not receive any prison sentence for five years.’8
Satie managed the good behaviour but did not pay the damages
due to Poueigh; he wrote to the Princesse in October 1918 that
he had ‘no intention of giving one cent to the noble critic who
is the cause of my judiciary ills’ and instead asked for permission
to use the money for living expenses, which she apparently
granted.9

120
 Remarkably, Satie managed to be productive during these
difficult months. In July 1917, no doubt inspired by the ongoing
aggravations he encountered while pursuing legal advice, he
composed the Sonatine bureaucratique, a piano piece that spoofed
one of the best-known compositions for beginning piano students
– Muzio Clementi’s Sonatina Op. 36, no 1. Satie’s parody involves
direct quotation from the original work as well as a large-scale
reorganization of its thematic and harmonic materials, and the
humour is heightened by his implication of a text into the score,
as the music is cued to the story of a bureaucrat’s day, which includes
‘a neighbour’s piano that plays some Clementi’. This was the last in
the line of humoristic piano pieces, and Satie would compose only
one further major work for the instrument, the Nocturnes of 1919,
which, with no texts or quotation, and complex formal designs,
explore vastly different aesthetic territory.
In August he returned to Socrate but made little progress. By the
following April he was still reporting to critic Henry Prunières that
‘the work is coming along . . . It’s a return to classical simplicity with
a modern sensibility. I owe this – very useful – return to my “Cubist”
friends. Bless them!’10 Extracts of the work may have been performed
for the Princesse that spring, and noted soprano Jane Bathori, who
had premiered Satie’s Trois mélodies at the Satie-Granados concert
chez Bongard in 1916, sang ‘a corner of the third part’ of Socrate at
her home in June.11 Satie’s conception continued to evolve, at one
point even involving a children’s choir, but the first full performance
at the Polignac salon in February 1919 appears to have featured
Bathori alone, with Satie at the piano. A month later, on 21 March
1919, Satie was at the instrument again, this time accompanying
soprano Susanne Balguerie in a performance of Socrate at Adrienne
Monnier’s Left Bank bookshop La Maison des Amis des Livres,
before a crowd that included Braque and Picasso, Gide and James
Joyce, Stravinsky, Poulenc and Milhaud. As one of the era’s most
colourful chroniclers, Maurice Sachs, recalled the evening:

121
 We did not know at first just what was in store for us, and what
amusement the serious-farcical Satie had prepared for us under
the name of SOCRATES . . . in truth, there were many tears in the
eyes of those who listened to the death of Socrates . . . [We]
were the witnesses to this phenomenon of which one speaks so
often in the arts chronicles, and which is so rare: a revelation.12

Sachs was not alone in perceiving something new in Socrate. This

‘symphonic drama in three parts with voice’, scored for an
ensemble of winds, horn, trumpet, harp and strings, and female
voice (or voices; the score suggests the involvement of up to four
singers), takes for its texts three segments of the Dialogues,
specifically Alcibiades’ eulogy of Socrates at the banquet, a
conversation between Socrates and Phaedrus on the banks of the
river Ilissius, and Plato’s account of the philosopher’s death. In
sum, these excerpts convey little in the way of narrative, instead
creating a triptych of moody landscapes, stoically calm, inherently
classical, ultimately tragic. Satie’s music matches these sensibilities
in its static rhythms, slow pulse and ostinato structures, as well as
its undulating, speech-like vocal lines. Harmonies are focused on
open intervals, especially the perfect fourth, and orchestration is
designed to reinforce a monochromatic effect. As Francis Poulenc
so aptly put it, Socrate, with its ‘limpidity, like running water’,
marked the ‘beginning of horizontal music that will succeed
perpendicular music’.13
The work had its first public performance, with Bathori and
Balguerie singing and André Salmon at the piano, at a concert of
the Société Nationale de Musique on Valentine’s Day, 1920. The
audience, by this point expecting humour from Satie, profoundly
misunderstood the work and laughed at the philosopher’s death,
while critics responded with hostility; typical of this stance was the
review by Jean Marnold for the Mercure de France, which described
the score for Socrate as a ‘total nullity’ that served as background for

122
Georges Braque, Socrate, or Still-life with Satie’s Score, 1921, oil on panel, Musée
National d’Art Moderne, Paris.

a text ‘intoned in the matter of a drawing-room conversation’.14 Not

all the criticism, however, was so harsh; Satie’s friend Roland-
Manuel offered an alternate and more enduring view of the work in
the newspaper L’Eclair. ‘All the emotion of the admirable text’, he
wrote, ‘was expressed with nobility, discretion, and the most perfect
unity.’15 Stravinsky, who attended the performance, reportedly
exclaimed afterward that ‘There is Bizet, Chabrier and Satie’,
presumably defining a lineage of true French art.16 For Satie’s part,
he claimed to have earnest and modest aims, as he wrote to the
Belgian pianist and musicologist Paul Collaer after this premiere:

I thought I was composing a simple work, without the least idea

of conflict; for I am only a humble admirer of Socrates and
Plato – who look like two charming gentlemen . . . my music
was badly received, which didn’t surprise me; but I was
surprised to see the audience laugh at Plato’s text. Yes. Strange,
isn’t it?17

A different reception awaited the premiere of the orchestral version

123
of Socrate. A highlight of the ‘Festival Erik Satie’ sponsored by Count
Etienne de Beaumont and mounted at the Salle Erard on 7 June, this
all-Satie programme began with a lecture by Cocteau and featured a
number of other premieres, including the first performance of the
Premier Minuet and the Nocturnes, both played by Ricardo Viñes,
as well as the better-known Chapitres tournés en tous sens and the
version of Parade for piano duet played by Satie and Germaine
Tailleferre. Le tout Paris was on hand for the event; the Princesse de
Polignac attended with many other socialites who supported the
event as a ‘Dame protectorice’. As the critic Pierre Leroi reported
for the Courrier musical, there was ‘considerable affluence’, with a
‘long line of deluxe cars’ parked outside the theatre.18
The upmarket audience surely warmed to Socrate in part
because of the work’s affinity with a more general interest in the
classical world that had taken hold in the first decades of the
century. Spurred in part by a wartime cultural agenda in which
France aligned itself with classical tradition, thus defining a
heritage distinct from the ‘barbarian’ Germans, elite Parisians
embraced classicism in everything from Isadora Duncan’s chiton-
clad dances to Paul Poiret’s ‘Hellenic’ dresses. The fashionability of
classical culture would reach a high point in 1924, with Cocteau’s
adaptation of Antigone, for which costumes were designed by Coco
Chanel. For Satie, the Salle Erard concert served as at least a partial
vindication, helping to rehabilitate his reputation in the aftermath
of the Parade scandal, during which he had been accused of having
German sympathies. As he wrote to Etienne de Beaumont a few
days after the performance, ‘Thanks to you, people finally see me
as a little bit more French than they did before. My Bochisme is now
more Parisian, and has become legendary.’19 It also propelled him
more fully into the rarefied social and artistic circles he had begun
to penetrate with Sports et divertissements in 1914; Constantin
Brancusi, for one, found inspiration in Socrate that led to three
sculptures, entitled Plato, Socrates and Socrates Cup. More bizarrely,

124
it led to a conflation of identities, in which Satie was actually
viewed as the modern-day Socrates. Writing in his journal in
October 1916, for example, journalist and diplomat Paul Morand
noted that Satie resembled Socrates; ‘his face is composed of two
half moons; he scratches his goat’s beard between each word’,
while Valentine Gross later entitled her reminiscence of the
composer ‘The Socrates that I Knew’.20 Much as Satie’s mixture of
high and low sources had been viewed as a musical result of the
mingling of art and entertainment earlier in his career, so
biographical detail was perceived as corresponding to artistic
practice in this new phase of Satie’s life and work, and he was seen
to personify the aesthetic his music promoted.
And the biographical details of these years were dramatic;
Socrate spanned an especially intense period of change in Satie’s
personal life. Not only was the composer contending with the
Poueigh lawsuit, but just after its long-awaited resolution in
March 1918 Debussy died. Satie had cut ties with his friend of
nearly three decades after Debussy criticized the score for Parade
during rehearsals a year earlier, with what Satie described as
‘painful teasing – and at a rehearsal too! Quite unbearable,
anyhow!’21 Uncharacteristically, he relented and mended the rift
when Debussy was in the last stages of his illness; as he told
Prunières, in April that year he had written to the older
composer, ‘fortunately for me, a few days before his death.
Knowing that he was doomed, alas, I didn’t want to remain on
bad terms with him. My poor friend! What a sad end! Now
people will discover that he had enormous talent. That’s life!’22 At
almost the same time, on the evening of 13 March, he barely
missed being hit during a German air bombardment of Paris; as
he wrote to Roland-Manuel, ‘The shells were terribly close to me!
I thought I was done for! People were killed, but not me. A bit of
luck, eh?’23 Blaise Cendrars, who happened to be present, recalled
the event as well:

125
 On the night of the shelling, in 1918, I saw a man lying at the
foot of the Obelisk, Place de la Concorde. I bent over him,
thinking he was dead. It was my old friend Satie. ‘What are you
doing there?’, I asked him. He replied, ‘I know it’s ridiculous
and that I’m not in the shelter. But what the hell, that thing
sticks up into the air and I have the feeling of being sheltered.
So I’m composing a piece of music for the Obelisk.’24

No such piece has ever surfaced.

Only weeks later Cocteau published his little manifesto on
French music, Le Coq et l’arlequin, which, as we have seen, elevated
Satie as the avatar of modern French music. But even this
publication did little to raise Satie’s spirits, which hit a new low. By
August, penniless and alone in Paris while most of his friends and
colleagues vacationed during the summer holiday, he wrote in
desperation to Valentine Gross:

I suffer too much. It seems to me that I’m cursed. This ‘beggar’s’

life fills me with loathing. I am searching for a job, whatever
tiny thing there is. I shit on Art: I owe to it too many ‘reversals’
. . . The most menial tasks would not be below me, I promise.
See what you can do as soon as possible; I’m at the end of my
tether and can’t wait any longer. Art? It’s been more than a
month since I wrote a note. I don’t have any ideas, and I don’t
want to have any. So?25

No employment was forthcoming, but Gross seems to have arranged

for an anonymous gift to the composer, to the amount of 1000
francs. This no doubt saw him through the early months of 1919,
during which he made revisions to Parade in anticipation of its
revival in the 1920 Ballets Russes season. He also returned to
composition, completing the Nocturnes and the Trois petites pièces
montées for music-hall orchestra, and, surprisingly, found Parade

126
taken up by artists in the Dada movement, including Tristan Tzara
and Francis Picabia, who viewed the ballet as emblematic of their
anti-art aims.
Satie’s fortunes changed even more for the better in 1920, a
banner year. The upswing began in March with the premiere of his
‘furnishing’ pieces for small ensemble, now widely known under
the title Musique d’ameublement. The first of these innovative
compositions, completed in 1917, had been absorbed into Socrate,
but a second set stood alone with the subtitle ‘sons industriels’.
Both promoted a radical concept: as the composer indicated in
notes on the (unpublished) score, he intended the work as a
‘furnishing divertissement’: ‘Furnishing music replaces “waltzes”
and “operatic fantasias” etc. Don’t be confused! It’s something
else!! No more “false music” . . . Furnishing music completes one’s
property . . . it’s new; it doesn’t upset customs; it isn’t tiring; it’s
French; it won’t wear out; it isn’t boring.’
The inspiration for such an artistic work seems to have come
from artist Henri Matisse, who ‘dreamed of an art without any
distracting subject matter, which might be compared to a good
armchair’.26 But what it amounts to is background music, or as
some have argued, even a progenitor of Muzak – music not to be
listened to, music that deflates the very purpose of the expressive
medium. Indeed, even more than an exploration of the possible
meaning of music, the Musique d’ameublement was an experiment
in the potential of spatial music; as Darius Milhaud, who
performed the two-piano score with Satie at the premiere, later
recalled, ‘In order that the music might seem to come from all sides
at once, we posted the clarinets in three different corners of the
theatre, the pianist in the fourth, and the trombone in a box on the
first floor.’27 With forces thus arranged at Paul Poiret’s Galerie
Barbazanges, where an exhibition of children’s art was on display,
the music was premiered between the acts of a play by Max Jacob,
entitled Ruffian toujours, truand jamais. According to Milhaud,

127
Satie invited the audience to ‘walk around, eat and drink’ and
shouted at them to ‘Talk, for heaven’s sake! Move around! Don’t
listen!’, but all to no avail: ‘they kept quiet. They listened. The
whole thing went wrong.’28 The performance did, however, earn
Satie his first notice in Vogue magazine – in fact, in the very first
issue of French Vogue – where the Musique d’ameublement garnered
a mention in a column on the latest in home decor:

Furniture music? It is music that must be played between the

acts of a theatrical or musical spectacle, and which contributes,
like the sets, the curtains or the furniture of the hall in creating
an atmosphere. The musical motifs are repeated without stop
and it is useless, says Erik Satie, to listen to them: one lives in
their ambiance without paying them any attention. It’s up to you
to find a way to hear this musique d’ameublement and to devise an
opinion on the topic. But that has nothing to do with the
furniture we’re so taken with this season. It’s just an opportunity
to make and hear music, the passion of the moment.29

Two other events in 1920 secured Satie’s place in stylish Parisian

circles. The first, the now legendary ‘Spectacle-Concert’ financed by
Beaumont and presented in February at the Comédie des Champs-
Elysées, featured the premiere of Milhaud’s Le Boeuf sur le toit, as
well as public premieres of Satie’s Trois petites pièces montées,
Georges Auric’s ‘foxtrot’ Adieu, New York!, and Poulenc’s setting of
three Cocteau poems, collected under the title Cocardes. Then, in
July, Satie gained even more credibility when he collaborated with
the dancer Elise Jouhandeau (née Toulemon), better known as
Caryathis, on a ‘fantaisie sérieuse’ entitled La belle Excentrique. A
highly touted adept of Jacques Dalcroze and his eurhythmic school,
‘Carya’ was also a presence in Parisian social and cultural circles,
counting Chanel among her closest friends and actor-producer
Charles Dullin among her lovers. For her first major post-war

128
performance Satie composed what he described as a ‘très Parisien’
tour through three decades of dance entertainment in the city.
Scored for a small music-hall style orchestra, the suite included
three dance movements – the ‘Franco-Lunar March’, subtitled
‘1900: Marche pour une Grande Cocotte’; the ‘Waltz of the
Mysterious Kiss in the Eye’, or ‘1910: Elégance du Cirque’; and a
‘High Society Cancan’, described as ‘1920: Cancan moderne’ – all
linked by a ‘Grand Ritournelle’, which was a recycled version of his
1905 cabaret song ‘Legende Californienne’. So successful was the
work that it had a reprise in June 1921 at one of the most stylish
venues in Paris; Paul Poiret’s private garden club, called L’Oasis,
with Satie himself conducting the orchestra.
While the performance chez Poiret helped boost Satie’s cachet,
the former Montmartre bohemian reached the pinnacle of Parisian
chic in 1923, when his works were showcased at the most
fashionable event of the city’s social season – the annual costume
ball hosted by Etienne de Beaumont and his wife Edith.
Immortalized by Raymond Radiguet in the popular novel Le Bal du
Comte d’Orgel, these parties, held at the Beaumonts’ eighteenth-
century mansion on the rue Duroc, tapped into the pervasive mood
of over-the-top celebration that took hold in Paris after the war.30
Hardly simple affairs, the Beaumont balls featured lavish food,
plentiful drink and entertainments that always included a series of
entrées, during which costumed characters (who were also guests)
would make dramatic entrances, acting out a theme or brief
narrative. These tableaux vivants, often rehearsed for weeks and
typically accompanied by music and dance, aimed to stun with
their opulent costumes and clever wit. The Beaumont mansion was
an ideal site for stylish parties, beginning with a ‘great Negro fête’
in August 1918 (even before the end of the war), which included a
performance of Poulenc’s Rhapsodie Nègre, as well as American
jazz. The parties continued annually through the 1920s, and
included a ‘Bal de Jeux’, where guests dressed as toys and games,

129
and a ball where one was simply invited to come ‘leaving exposed
that part of one’s body that one considered the most interesting’. 31
The 1923 Beaumont fête, known as the ‘Bal Baroque’, took for
its theme the splendours of the ancien régime, and for this occasion
the Count arranged a spectacular reunion of the team that had
created Parade, commissioning an entrée with music by Satie,
scenario by Cocteau, costumes by Picasso and choreography by
Massine. Since the Bal Baroque in part celebrated the inauguration
of the newly restored eighteenth-century organ in the Beaumonts’
music room, Satie composed a work showcasing the instrument; as
he wrote to the Comtesse de Beaumont in December 1922, ‘The
organ isn’t necessarily religious and funereal, good old instrument
that it is. Just remember the gilt-painted merry-go-round.’32 His
five-movement work for the instrument, with trumpets added at
the end, matched Massine’s choreography and a scenario by
Cocteau, which is now lost. This slight divertissement, set in the
eighteenth century and based on a rococo theme, concerns the
discovery of a statue by two women. Simple and direct, it begins
with a March, after which follow two ‘searches’ that were probably
acted out by the two female protagonists moving in opposite
directions. The statue’s discovery is announced by a trumpet blast,
and the work closes with a brief theme labelled ‘retreat’; scored in
three voices, for organ plus trumpet, the music suggests that the
statue came to life when it was found. The score is economical,
lasting under four minutes, but its sections were no doubt repeated
as necessary to match the action of the entrée.
Satie participated in a second entrée at the Bal Baroque: for a
performance by another beautiful young Parisian socialite, Mme
René Jacquemire (the daughter of couturiere Jeanne Lanvin), he
composed a five-song set on texts by Léon-Paul Fargue, entitled
Ludions. Fargue was an old friend of Satie’s, the author of the text set
by the composer as the song ‘La Statue de bronze’, which was
premiered at one of the soirées held at Germaine Bongard’s salon in

130
the spring of 1916. The songs for the Beaumont party were short
and bordered on being silly; the set takes its title from a kind of toy
popular at the time, in which small objects (often a miniature diver)
were suspended in water so that they would bob up and down. The
song group includes a ‘Rat’s Tune’, written in 1886 by the ten-year-
old Fargue for his pet white rat, a song called ‘Spleen’, in which a
seemingly nostalgic poet shifts tone and longs for a ‘cute but
worthless blond in this cabaret of nothingness which is our life’, and
‘The American Frog’, where, predictably enough, animal sounds are
the basis for word-play and musical jokes. All the music was light,
entertaining and popularizing, yet had an edge; as the Comte and
Comtesse de Beaumont no doubt hoped, at the 1923 Bal Baroque
high society and modernist art met on the plane of fête.
For Satie, the Bal Baroque marked a culmination of his
achievements in rarefied Parisian social circles. As usual the move
was signalled in sartorial terms: the composer received his first
smoking jacket as a gift in 1922, and in an unprecedented move
quickly donned it and arranged a professional photograph to
document his new look.

131
 9

Dadaiste

Work is not always as unpleasant as books maintain.

Satie

Etienne de Beaumont’s involvement with Satie continued in a more

entrepreneurial mode in 1924, when he financed and organized a
series of premiere performances under the rubric ‘Soirée de Paris’.
Echoing the name of Apollinaire’s prewar avant-garde magazine
Soirées de Paris, this title also suggested Beaumont’s desire to outdo
Diaghilev as a ballet impresario, a point reinforced by his commission
of five ballets from Léonide Massine, who at that time was alienated
from the Ballets Russes. The performances were held at the fading
Montmartre music hall La Cigale, which by the 1920s was best known
for its scandalous all-girl revues. While a number of innovative
projects, including a version of Romeo and Juliet by Cocteau, were
included in the series, the major work to emerge was the ballet Les
Aventures de Mercure, with music by Satie, scenario, sets and decor
by Picasso, and choreography by Massine – another reunion of the
Parade team, this time with Cocteau pointedly left out.
Picasso’s scenario for the ballet was a satire on the many-faceted
mythological character Mercury, and it provided the slightest
pretense for the work. Lacking both a discernable plot and a clear
organizational framework, the ballet is a humorous mélange of
visual effects; costumes and decor merge together, as dancers
intermingle with wooden and wicker puppets, creating an effect
likened by Gertrude Stein to ‘pure calligraphy’.1 In Satie’s view, it

132
Pablo Picasso, Design for the curtain for the ballet Mercure, or La Musique, 1924,
tempera on canvas, Musée National d’Art Moderne, Paris.

was a ‘decorative spectacle’ that ‘related quite simply to the music

hall, without stylization, or any rapport with things artistic’.2
This ‘purely decorative’ ballet liberated Satie to write music
directly for Picasso, a task he relished:

You can imagine the marvellous contribution of Picasso,

which I have attempted to translate musically. My aim has
been to make music an integral part, so to speak, with the
actions and gestures of the people who move about in this
simple exercise. You can see poses like them in any fairground.
The spectacle is related quite simply to the music hall, without
stylization, or any rapport with things artistic. In other
respects, I always return to the sub-title ‘Poses plastiques’,
which I find magnificent.3

133
Amid Satie’s comments about the popularizing aspects of the
work, the term ‘poses plastiques’ stands out, suggesting a strong
aesthetic tie between Mercure and the Beaumont Balls. Indeed, the
ballet evolves by groupings, or tableaux vivants, in much the same
way as the succession of entrées characterized the entertainment
of the balls. In Mercure the ‘plastic’ sense is exaggerated to an
extreme by Picasso’s combination of traditional costumes and
the cut-out constructions of bent rattan that the dancers carried
around the stage. The themes of the ballet’s three tableaux provide
a style-inflected update of mythology, as, for example, in the
second tableau, where Mercury robs the Three Graces of their
ropes of pearls while they are bathing; this too is reminiscent
of the balls, where mythology and history formed the basis for
creative and modernizing interpretations. Satie’s music further
reinforces the meshing of parody and popular culture, evoking
a mix of dance forms including the polka, waltz and cakewalk,
as well as music hall tunes.
As with Parade, a scandal ensued. André Breton and Louis
Aragon, founders of the new Surrealist movement, came to the
performance angry at Satie: Breton was still stinging from a mock
trial in 1922, presided over by Satie, condemning his efforts to
convene a so-called ‘Congrès de Paris’ to redefine the direction
of avant-garde art.4 At the premiere, the group gathered around
Breton protested against Mercure, yelling from the back of the hall,
with Aragon reportedly shouting ‘Bravo Picasso, down with Satie!’
until the police arrived to eject them from the theatre.5 This
altercation sealed the ballet’s already considerable artistic cachet,
and in the end the Mercure project further enhanced Satie’s
visibility in stylish Parisian circles. Vogue covered the production
in its July 1924 issue, in an article illustrated with photographs
and drawings, acclaiming Beaumont as the ‘Maecenas of Paris’.6
A year earlier, in June 1923, a drawing of the composer by fashion
illustrator Eduardo Benito had appeared in the magazine,

134
accompanying a story about the adventures of a fictional Parisian
named Palmyre who meets the ‘good musician’ Erik Satie, ‘bearded
and laughing like a faun’, and he had turned up several times later
that summer in Vogue’s coverage of the Beaumont Bal Baroque.7
The year 1924 had begun with the premiere of Satie’s last
project for Diaghilev, which certainly promised to keep him in
the centre of Parisian style. The Ballets Russes had announced a
‘Grand French Festival’ for the winter season in Monte Carlo, with
programmes designed to link the music of the glorious French past
to contemporary composition. Shortly after the war, the Ballets
had made the Riviera – and specifically the Casino at Monte
Carlo – its winter headquarters, the better to align itself with the
fashionable Parisian set that headed south for sun and sea each
January. Perhaps drawn by the same attraction, Satie made one of
his very rare forays beyond Paris, travelling by train to Monte Carlo
for the performances. New ballets by Poulenc and Auric would be
featured, as would revivals of operas by Charles Gounod – La
Colombe, Philémon et Baucis and Le Médecin malgré lui – with new
recitatives by (respectively) Poulenc, Auric and Satie, and
Chabrier’s Une Education manquée with recitatives by Milhaud. All
of the elements of fashion were in place: the Gounod operas, while
composed in the mid-nineteenth century, harked back for their
subjects to the ancien régime, and notably to Molière, who was also
the source for Auric’s ballet Les Fâcheux, while Poulenc’s Les Biches
was an erotically charged divertissement set in a contemporary
drawing room and featuring modern-dress costumes by Marie
Laurencin.
The revitalized version of Le Médecin had its debut on 5 January,
with sets and costumes by Alexandre Benois and choreography
by Bronislava Nijinska, who was still basking in the success she
garnered with the Paris performances of Stravinsky’s Les Noces the
previous summer. Satie had worked on his contribution through
much of the second half of 1923, carefully preparing the

135
orchestrated recitatives for this three-act comic opera, and
composing perhaps the most conventional music of his career; he
wrote to Milhaud in September that he was ‘working like a worker
at work (a rare thing)’.8 The performance was a success, but it led
to another scandal, this time on a personal level. The critic Louis
Laloy was at the centre of this drama: charged with writing the
programme for Diaghilev, he neglected to acknowledge Satie but
heaped praise on Auric and Poulenc. Satie later learned that Laloy
had been organizing opium-smoking parties in Monte Carlo, to
which the two younger composers, along with Cocteau, had been
regularly invited. In the end he broke definitively with Cocteau
over this, and throughout the spring published a series of articles
in various publications denouncing all three artists.
In the aftermath of the Monte Carlo fiasco, Satie turned
abruptly away from the French classical past and toward the Dada
painters and poets, who continued to linger on the radical fringe.
His connections with this group dated back almost to the arrival
of Dada in Paris in January 1920, when Tristan Tzara, one of its
founders, identified Cocteau, Satie and Milhaud as representatives
of new art that was ‘the sole expression of modern man’.9 By
November that year another central figure in the group, Francis
Picabia, included the pun ‘Erik is Saterik’ in his journal 391, and
the following January Satie contributed two off-colour ‘pensées’ to
its illustrated supplement, Le Pilhaou-Thibaou.10 His own arguably
proto-Dada work, the ‘lyric comedy . . . with dance music’ Le Piège
de Méduse, composed in the midst of work on the humoristic
piano pieces in 1913, finally had its premiere at the Théâtre Michel
in May 1921. Satie himself wrote the scenario for this absurd
theatrical piece, which seems to have its roots in the commedia
dell’arte tradition but prefigures Dada by focusing on a bizarre
cast including the Baron Médusa (Baron Jellyfish), his daughter
Frisette, her would-be lover Astolfo and the servant Polycarpe,
and composed twelve dances for its most compelling character –

136
Jonas, a monkey. Also in 1921 Satie had his first encounter with
Man Ray, at an exhibition of the artist’s work at the Galerie Six.
As Man Ray recalled the occasion, he was lost in the crowd when
‘a strange little voluble man in his fifties came over to me and
led me to one of my paintings . . . With a little white beard, an
old-fashioned pince-nez, black bowler hat, black overcoat and
umbrella, he looked like an undertaker or an employee of some
conservative bank.’11 The two repaired to a café and then stopped
off at a shop where Man Ray bought a flat iron, a box of tacks and
some glue. ‘Back at the gallery’, Ray remembered, ‘I glued a row
of tacks to the smooth surface of the iron, titled it ‘The Gift’,
and added it to the exhibition. This was my first Dada object in
France.’12 It was also the start of a friendship that would last until
Satie’s death.
The battle between the Surrealist and Dada factions, led,
respectively, by Breton and Tzara, simmered until 1923, when Tzara
organized an evening he called the Soirée du Coeur à Barbe,
recalling the name of the magazine he had published briefly in
1922 as an organ for anti-Breton propaganda. On the bill would be
poetry readings by Cocteau, Philippe Soupault and Paul Elouard,
along with Tzara’s play Le Coeur à gaz. Satie had contributed to the
journal and Tzara asked him to organize the music for the Soirée at
the Théâtre Michel, which at one point was to include Stravinsky’s
Trois pièces faciles for piano four-hands, as well as works by anti-
Dadaist Georges Auric. Satie himself performed Trois Morceaux
en forme de poire with pianist Marcelle Meyer, although by the time
they took centre stage most of the audience was paying no
attention, involved instead in a series of altercations that required
two separate police interventions.13 One attendee recalled that
Breton hit one man with a walking stick and slapped another,
while a number of others were ‘roughed up’ before the evening
was called to a halt.14 This, too, formed a backdrop for the protest
that took place at Mercure’s premiere.

137
 Man Ray, Cadeau,
c. 1958, replica of
1921 original, mixed-
media assemblage.

More importantly, however, the Soirée set the stage for Satie’s
last major work, the ballet Relâche. His collaborators in this
endeavour would be Blaise Cendrars and Francis Picabia, the
work’s animator would be Rolf de Maré, and the performing
troupe would be the Ballets Suédois. Satie, who had admired de
Maré’s troupe from the time of its arrival in Paris in 1920, was
enthusiastic about the opportunity to work with this fresh team,
which he viewed at least in part as a replacement for Cocteau,
Diaghilev and the Ballets Russes. He had attended the Swedish
Ballet’s performances, many of which featured music by Les Six,
including, in October 1923, Germaine Tailleferre’s Marchand
d’oiseaux and Milhaud’s La Création du monde, and had been
searching out an opportunity to work with the troupe since at least
1921, when he proposed a collaboration with artist André Derain

138
on a ballet to be titled Supercinéma. His chance came in November
1923; at work on the recitatives for Le Medécin malgré lui, he
received a letter from de Maré inviting his involvement in a ballet
with a scenario by Cendrars, who had just finished working on
La Création with Milhaud. Cendrars was called to Rio de Janeiro
shortly after Satie signed the contract, but he provided the ballet
scenario as promised, along with a list of three artists he thought
up to the task. Satie selected Picabia, and the artist, assured that he
would have ‘complete freedom’ as well as a 10,000 franc advance,
signed on to the project.15
Cendrars’s scenario, entitled Après-dîner, was explicitly about
urban night-life, viewed from a male perspective, and he indicated
that it was to be ‘très Parisien’. Picabia expanded the format,
extending it from one to two acts and including two film interludes,
one after the overture and the other at the intermission. Satie
viewed the changes as ‘très chic’ and ‘very interesting indeed’, and
worked through the summer and autumn of 1924 to complete the
score.16 The film segments, created by vanguard cinematographer
René Clair, offered him the chance to work in this nascent medium,
and inspired Satie to create the first film music composed ‘frame
by frame’; this was the last section of the composition to be
completed, and Satie was meticulous in his coordination of musical
gestures with projected images.17 Though he was in the midst of
the fallouts with Cocteau, Auric and Poulenc, he maintained his
sense of humour throughout this endeavour, writing to Massot
that he was ‘working on Relâche as much as I can’, having ‘done’
all the music himself: ‘all the flats (above all), all the sharps (even
the daggers), have been done entirely (from head to foot!) by me.
All this is very odd & indicates great strength of character.’18
By late October the score was complete and Satie was
anticipating a ‘lively premiere’, warning that ‘the enemy – this time
– will meet ours. We are mobilizing!’19 He was not proven wrong
at the work’s debut, which occurred on 7 December 1924 at the

139
Théâtre des Champs-Elysées. The work’s title, Relâche, was alone a
provocation: translating as ‘no performance’, it is the French term
routinely posted at theatres to indicate a dark house between
shows or during vacations, and the subtitle ‘Ballet instantanéiste’
did little to correct the notion of an artistic void. (Ironically, the
lead dancer, Jean Borlin, fell ill just at the time of the scheduled
dress rehearsals, so the performance had to be postponed, and the
theater for Relâche was actually relâche.) The decor and costumes
were equally confrontational, ranging from a backdrop of 370
reflecting mirrors that blinded the audience, to graffiti instructing
dissatisfied patrons to ‘fuck off ’, to a finale featuring Satie and
Picabia driving on stage in a Citroën 5cv.
The scenario went through a number of revisions, and the final
version has not come to light, but a number of details can be
gleaned from Picabia’s surviving plans for the project and from
photographs and first-hand accounts of the performances. The
cast included a hyper-fashionable woman (Edith Bonsdorff )
dressed in a glittering drop-waist dress and matching turban;
a man (Jean Borlin, here presumably a war veteran) in tails and
a top hat, in a wheelchair; a male chorus; and a fireman who
wandered in and out of every scene, smoking and emptying a
bucket of water from one pail to another. The performance began
with a film clip in which Satie and Picabia, shot in slow motion,
jumped up and down on the roof of the Théâtre des Champs-
Elysées, then fired a cannon directly at the audience. The curtain
rose to reveal the blinding mirrors, and the action began when
Bonsdorff rose from a seat in the theatre to take the stage. In the
first act, she was joined by Borlin, who zoomed across the stage
in his motorized wheelchair, only to regain the use of his legs
thanks to the power of her beauty. Celebrating in a ‘Dance of the
Revolving Door’, the couple was joined by the eight-man chorus,
each member of which rose from a seat in the audience to engage
in the onstage revelry. The dance devolved into a striptease that

140
left Bonsdorff dressed only in a rose-coloured body stocking, lifted
high above the stage by the group of men.
The second act continued in the same vein. A new backdrop,
designed by Picabia, was a jumble of lines and arrows, in the midst
of which was a scrawl of graffiti, including the slogan ‘Erik Satie is
the greatest musician in the world.’ In a reversal of the first act,
Bonsdorff reappeared on stage, now with a wreath of orange
blossoms in her hair, and after being surrounded by the men,
proceeded to put her dress back on. The men then stripped down
to silk tights, keeping their top hats in place, before returning to
their seats in the audience. Bonsdorff gathered their clothes into
a wheelbarrow, dumped them in a corner and threw her wreath
to a man in the audience, who crowned a woman ‘queen’ of the
theatre. Bonsdorff took her seat among the spectators, a white
curtain fell, and a young woman appeared, miming and singing
the folksong ‘La Queue du chien’ (‘The Dog’s Tail’), which had
long been understood to invoke off-colour meanings.
Unlike Picabia, for whom the work seems to have provided the
justification for an aggressive stance, Satie appears to have viewed
the Relâche collaboration as his opportunity to demonstrate that
the Dada aesthetic did not preclude structural organization of the
musical score; his composition is tightly crafted, self-sufficient and
highly logical. Nonetheless, as Satie predicted, the ballet created
a major scandal and resulted in a backlash against the composer,
exemplified by Roland-Manuel’s scathing column in the Revue
Pleyel, entitled ‘Adieu à Satie’:

Relâche marks an important date in the annals of French

music. Let us thank it for proclaiming its true bankruptcy,
for committing suicide so well, and for dying without beauty,
doubtless so as to deter later converts from martyrdom . . .
Dada waylaid Satie . . . Relâche is the most stupid and boring
thing in the world . . . Adieu Relâche. Adieu Satie. Hurry away

141
 to hell, together with the love of wrong spelling and the cult
of false taste, this sham classicism which is nothing other than
a lack of grace, and this abominable romanticism which is
misjudged as sincerity.20

Though the criticism – issuing even from former friends and

supporters like Roland-Manuel – was harsh, the benefits of this
project were many. For one thing, with Relâche Satie had the
chance to push the boundaries of the popular music/high-art mix
to further extremes. Waltzes and marches prevail, and parodies
pervade the score; harking back to the techniques he perfected in
the Montmartre cabarets and honed in the piano suites, Satie wove
popular tunes through the ballet, altering melodies, rhythms and
harmonies to humorous effect. Second, the work offered Satie the
opportunity to further hone his concept of large-scale musical
structure. For Relâche, he devised his most rigorous framework,
creating an elaborate 22-part mirror structure that in a sophisti-
cated way matched the mirrored actions of the stage action – not
to mention the mirrors of the decor.21
Most importantly, with Relâche Satie made his mark as a film
composer. René Clair’s hilarious Entr’acte, now recognized as an
icon of early cinema, matched an absurd narrative with a mélange
of disconnected images, many of which reflect early film experi-
ments. Beginning with a projection of distorted light dots, it segues
into a cross-cut series of Parisian scenes, then focuses on the kinds
of oddities easily found in the city’s shops, animating them:
balloon dolls are inflated and deflated, boxing gloves come to life
and fight one another, wooden matches burst into flame. A
ballerina, shot from below, dances on a piece of glass; Man Ray
and Marcel Duchamp play chess on the roof of the Théâtre des
Champs-Elysées; the ballerina is revealed to be a man with a beard,
moustache and pince-nez – evoking, of course, none other than
Satie. A thin plot takes shape: Borlin appears dressed in Tyrolean

142
hunting garb and is shot accidentally by Picabia; a lengthy funeral
procession follows, during which the hearse, pulled by a camel,
breaks away and moves through changing scenery at an ever-
accelerating pace. When it comes to rest in an open field, the coffin
opens and Borlin emerges, dressed as a magician; he uses a magic
wand to make the remaining members of his entourage disappear
before turning it on himself, and the word fiN appears onscreen.
But the piece is not at an end: exploiting the possibilities of film,
Borlin rips through this backdrop in slow motion and is knocked
to the ground and kicked in the head by de Maré – who is
obviously eager to get on with the show – after which the film
rewinds, pushing him back through the backdrop and restoring
the word fiN. This signals the start of the ballet’s second act.
Satie carefully planned the score to accompany the film, among
other things laying out a detailed arrangement of the orchestral
forces he would employ. Some segments of the action dictated a
specific musical response: the funeral procession, for example,
almost mandated a quote from Chopin’s famous funeral march in
the piano sonata Op.2, no. 35; the ballerina’s dance suggested a
waltz or similar tune. Satie meets these expectations, but deflates
the conventions by altering melodies, harmonies and rhythms to
convey a different sensibility, which film scholar Martin Marks has
characterized as ‘ironic detachment and motion without a goal’.22
Much of the score consists of vamping ostinatos and other
background patterns, all designed to subtly reflect the visual
images, all repeated and juxtaposed to create the larger work. For
Satie, the ultimate appeal of Relâche seems to have rested neither in
its provocations nor in its status among avant-garde expressions,
but rather in its engagement of everyday materials to create
modern art. As he explained in a programme note, the music:

depicts characters ‘on the razzle’. For that, I made use of

popular themes. These themes are strongly ‘evocative’ . . . Yes,

143
 very ‘evocative’. Even ‘peculiar’ . . . the ‘timorous’ – and other
‘moralists’ – will reproach me for using these themes. I don’t
bother with the opinions of such people . . . Reactionary
‘muttonheads’ will hurl their thunderbolts. Bah! I only permit
one judge: the public. They will recognize these themes and
will not be the least bit offended in hearing them.23

As it turned out, the public judged Relâche more harshly than

anything Satie had previously done, but for Picabia and avant-
garde artists it was ‘perfect’ and ‘a masterpiece’, inspiring a rallying
cry: ‘Long live Satie!’24

144
 Envoi

Time passes, and will not pass again.

Satie

In fact, Satie had only months to live. Sick with cirrhosis of the
liver, his health declined rapidly during the winter of 1925, and by
February he was no longer able to make the daily trip from Arcueil
to Paris. Friends arranged a room for him at the luxurious Grand
Hôtel on the Place de l’Opéra, thinking that he would like the view,
but as Madeleine Milhaud recalled, he ‘hated’ it and stayed only
two days. He spent the next days at the small Hôtel Istria in
Montparnasse, a ‘very noisy, little place, extremely gay, the type
of place where the women who sit for painters have rooms’, which
Picabia and others working on Relâche had made their unofficial
headquarters only months earlier.1 By April he developed pleurisy
and had to be hospitalized; Etienne de Beaumont arranged a
private room at the Hôpital Saint-Joseph, and it was there that
Satie lived out his last days. Among his regular visitors was the
young composer Henri Sauget, who left a moving description of
Satie during these final months:

I saw him get paler, thinner and weaker, but the bright, piercing
look in his eye never faltered. He kept his lively, whimsical sense
of humour and his sly, tender smile. When the secretary of his
publisher Lerolle brought him a bunch of flowers, he exclaimed
‘Already!’ . . . no doubt regarding them as an ill omen . . . He

145
 passed away peacefully at 8 p.m. on 1 July, after receiving the last
rites of the church . . . His last words were ‘Ah! The cows . . .’

The funeral took place in Arcueil on 6 July. Francis Poulenc,

with whom Satie had broken ties during the Monte Carlo
season in 1924, did not attend but instead heard the details in
a letter from his friend Raymonde Linoissier. Satie, she wrote,
was buried:

this morning in Arcueil, in a simple, rustic ceremony, where the

coffin was lowered straight into the earth – a deal coffin stained
red to imitate mahogany . . . No doubt many people were
unable to attend, and only the smart, leisured, homosexual set
was well represented . . . I feared, and rightly so, that people
might not turn up because of the holidays and the remoteness
of Arcueil. I also feared that the funeral might be a rather poor
affair and I wanted le bon maître to be treated as a maître and
not as a penniless musician . . . there was a touching artificial
violet tribute costing about 25 francs with a ribbon bearing the
message: ‘To Monsieur Satie – The Tenants.’ He must have been
greatly loved there. The patissière wanted to know all the details
of his death.2

An article in the next day’s issue of Comoedia took note of those

in attendance, listing Cocteau, Darius and Madeleine Milhaud,
Auric, Germaine Tailleferre, Sauget, Paulette Darty, Valentine
(née Gross) and Jean Hugo, René Clair and Lucien Vogel among
the mourners.3 Conrad Satie was there as well, and recorded his
impressions of the day, ending with a whimsical vision: ‘We move
away from the burial vault. I hear Satie’s bantering voice saying to
God: “Just give me time to put on a petticoat, and then I’m yours.”
He was so alive.’4
In the days after the funeral, Conrad, Darius Milhaud and a few

146
other friends gathered again in Arcueil to clear out Satie’s apartment.
It was apparently the first time in decades that anyone but Satie
had entered the room, which by all accounts was in a nightmarish
condition. As Milhaud recalled:

A narrow corridor, with a washbasin in it, led to the bedroom

into which Satie had never allowed anyone, not even his
concierge, to penetrate. It was with a feeling akin to awe that we
approached it now. What a shock we had when opening the
door! It seemed impossible that Satie lived in such poverty. The
man, whose faultlessly clean and correct dress made him look
rather like a model civil servant, had literally nothing worth a
shilling to his name: a wretched bed, a table covered with the
most unlikely objects, one chair and a half-empty wardrobe in
which there were a dozen old-fashioned corduroy suits, brand-
new and almost identical. In each corner of the room there were
piles of old newspapers, old hats and walking sticks. On the
ancient, broken-down piano with its pedals tied up with string,
there was a parcel whose postmark proved it had been delivered
several years before: he had merely torn a corner of the paper to
see what it contained – a little picture, some New Year’s present,
no doubt. On the piano we found gifts bearing witness to
precious friendship, the édition de luxe of Debussy’s Poèmes
de Baudelaire, and Estampes and Images, with affectionate
dedications . . . With his characteristic meticulous care, he had
arranged in an old cigar box more than four thousand little
pieces of paper on which he had made curious drawings and
written extravagant inscriptions. They spoke of enchanted
shores, pools and marshes in the time of Charlemagne . . .
He had also very carefully traced tiny plans of an imaginary
Arcueil, in which the Place du Diable stood very near the Place
Notre Dame.5

147
 Obituary notices appeared in the Paris press and in major
papers worldwide, in many cases harshly assessing the composer
and his work. Henri Prunières, editor of La Revue musicale,
voiced a common view when he claimed that the celebrity Satie
enjoyed after World War i had a negative influence on his art;
‘His success’, the critic opined, ‘killed him.’6 British critic Eric
Blom was even more hostile, characterizing Satie as an ‘original
but ineffectual musician’, and a ‘preposterous eccentric’.7 A loyal
opposition, including Cocteau, members of Les Six and prominent
figures such as Boris de Schloezer and Alfred Cortot, argued
‘the Satie case’, establishing the foundations for a meaningful
assessment of his legacy and setting the stage for a resurgence of
interest in Satie that would take hold in the United States in the
1950s. John Cage, in the vanguard of this revival, never wavered
in his admiration for the composer he considered to be
‘indispensable’, not least for his insistent disregard of conventional
boundaries. ‘To be interested in Satie,’ Cage wrote in 1958,
‘one must be disinterested to begin with, accept that a sound
is a sound and a man is a man, give up illusions about ideas of
order, expressions of sentiment, and all the rest of our inherited
claptrap.’8
Looking back over Satie’s career, it becomes clear that the
‘inherited’ tradition was indeed not for him. He staked out fresh
territory from the beginning, forsaking the genres held in highest
esteem by musical intellectuals – composing no symphonies,
concertos, operas, string quartets or massive keyboard works –
and focusing instead on small-scale pieces that challenged the
very idea of such conventions. In his music high art meets
vernacular idioms, words and music come together in new ways,
visual and sonic expressions collide. Engaged equally with the
idea of the ancient world and the energy of everyday Paris,
he meshed old and new with sophistication, wit and elegance.
Utterly original, he was exactly of his time and place, whether as

148
part of the fun-loving fin de siècle cabaret scene in Montmartre or
the heady postwar avant-garde. At the centre and through it all,
there was an aesthetic vision, a deeply personal view of his art,
which Satie carefully noted on the cover of one of his sketchbooks
while working on Socrate in 1917. ‘Craftsmanship’, he wrote, ‘is
often superior to subject matter’:

Do not forget that the melody is the Idea, the outline; as much
as it is the form and the subject matter of a work. The
harmony is an illumination, an exhibition of the object, its
reflection.
Great Masters are brilliant through their ideas, their craft is a
simple means to an end, nothing more. It is their ideas
which will endure.
What they achieve is always good and seems natural to us . . .
Who established the Truths governing Art? Who?
The Masters. They had no right to do so and it is dishonest to
concede this power to them . . .

And, in almost a postscript, he left the statement that not only

best encapsulates his aesthetic, but also offers a challenge to all
who follow:

Become Artists unconsciously.

The Idea can do without Art.
Let us mistrust Art: it is often nothing but virtuosity.9

In the end, Satie was thin and wasted by his illness, seemingly
beyond caring about dress or image. Yet in his final days
Madeleine Milhaud went to Arcueil to collect fresh laundry from
his concierge, gathering what seemed to be an enormous number
of handkerchiefs. Returning to the hospital she was surprised
to meet an irate Satie, Velvet Gentleman and dandy to the end,

149
Satie’s visiting-card.

who ‘blew up again because there were only ninety-eight

handkerchiefs when it seemed he had given ninety-nine or a
hundred to the laundry’.10

150
 References

Introduction

1 Pierre-Daniel Templier, Erik Satie (Paris, 1932).

2 Ibid., p. 100.
3 Rollo Myers, Erik Satie (London, 1948).
4 Virgil Thomson, The Musical Scene (New York, 1947), p. 118.
5 John Cage, ‘Satie Controversy’, in John Cage, ed. Richard Kostelanetz
(New York, 1970), p. 90.
6 Roger Shattuck, The Banquet Years: The Origins of the Avant-Garde in
France, 1885 to World War i (New York, 1968).
7 ‘Preface to the Vintage Edition’, in ibid.
8 Author’s translation; Satie, ‘Mémoires d’un Amnésique (fragments)’,
Revue musicale s.i.m. (15 April 1912), p. 69; reprinted in Erik Satie, Ecrits,
ed. Ornella Volta (Paris, 1990), p. 19; alternative trans. in Erik Satie,
A Mammal’s Notebook, ed. Ornella Volta, trans. Antony Melville (London,
1996), pp. 101–7.
9 Ibid., p. 101.
10 Satie, Ecrits, p. 142.
11 Satie, ‘Recoins de ma vie’, Les feuilles libres (January–February 1924),
pp. 329–31; reprinted in Satie, Ecrits, p. 25; alternative trans. in Satie,
A Mammal’s Notebook, p. 106.

1 Honfleur

1 Satie, ‘Recoins de ma vie’, Les feuilles libres (January–February 1924),

pp. 329–31; reprinted in Erik Satie, Ecrits, ed. Ornella Volta (Paris,

151
 1990), p. 25; alternative trans. in Satie, A Mammal’s Notebook, ed.
Ornella Volta, trans. Antony Melville (London, 1996), p. 106.
2 Ornella Volta, Erik Satie honfleurais (Honfleur, 1998), p. 12.
3 Ibid., pp. 11–13.
4 Pierre-Daniel Templier, Erik Satie (Paris, 1932), p. 7.
5 Ornella Volta, Satie Seen through his Letters (London, 1989), p. 16.
6 Templier, Erik Satie, p. 7.
7 Volta, Erik Satie honfleurais, p. 15.
8 Ibid.
9 Satie, ‘Recoins de ma vie’, reprinted in Satie, Ecrits, p. 26; alternative
trans. in Satie, A Mammal’s Notebook, p. 106.
10 Robert Orledge, ‘The Musical Activities of Alfred Satie and Eugénie
Satie-Barnetche, and their Effects on the Career of Erik Satie’, Journal of
the Royal Musical Association, cxvii/2 (1997), pp. 170–97.
11 Quoted in Templier, Erik Satie, pp. 7–8.
12 Robert Orledge, Satie Remembered (London, 1995), pp. 10–13.
13 Orledge, ‘The Musical Activities of Alfred Satie and Eugénie Satie-
Barnetche’, pp. 274–5.
14 Steven Moore Whiting, Satie the Bohemian (Oxford, 1999), p. 63.

2 Student, Soldier, Gymnopédiste

1 J. P. Contamine de Latour, ‘Erik Satie intime: souvenirs de jeunesse’,

Comoedia (August 1925), p. 2; trans. in Robert Orledge, Satie
Remembered (London, 1995), pp. 15–17.
2 Pierre-Daniel Templier, Erik Satie (Paris, 1932), p. 13; trans. in Orledge,
Satie Remembered, p. 9.
3 Ibid.
4 Conrad Satie, ‘Erik Satie’, Le Coeur (June 1895), pp. 2–3; trans. in
Orledge, Satie Remembered, pp. 48–50.
5 Ibid.
6 Orledge, Satie Remembered, p. 13.
7 Templier, Erik Satie, p. 13; trans. in Orledge, Satie Remembered, p. 9.
8 Alexis Roland-Manuel, Erik Satie: Causerie faite à la Société Lyre et Palette,
le 18 Avril 1916 (Paris, 1916), p. 3.
9 Satie, quoted in Paul Collaer, La musique moderne (Brussels, 1955); trans.

152
 Sally Abeles as A History of Modern Music (Cleveland, 1961), p. 136.
10 Robert Orledge, ‘Satie’s Sarabandes and their Importance to his
Composing Career’, Music and Letters, lxxvii/4 (November 1996),
pp. 555–65.
11 Orledge, Satie the Composer, p. 36.
12 Templier, Erik Satie, p. 14; trans. in Orledge, Satie Remembered, p. 9.
13 Templier, Erik Satie, p. 15.
14 Description published in Le Chat Noir, 8 April 1882; quoted in Philip
Denis Cate and Mary Shaw, eds, The Spirit of Montmartre: Cabarets,
Humor, and the Avant-Garde, 1875–1905 (New Brunswick, nj, 1996), p. 26.
15 Philip Denis Cate, ‘The Spirit of Montmartre’, in Cate and Shaw, eds,
The Spirit of Montmartre, pp. 60–62.
16 Contamine de Latour, ‘Erik Satie: Souvenires de jeunesse’; trans. in
Orledge, Satie Remembered, p. 24.
17 Ibid., p. 25.
18 Ibid.
19 Francis Jourdain, Né en 76 (Paris, 1951), pp. 244–8; trans. in Orledge,
Satie Remembered, p. 39.
20 Latour, ‘Erik Satie: Souvenirs de jeunesse’; trans. in Orledge, Satie
Remembered, p. 25.
21 Ibid., p. 25.
22 Roger Shattuck, The Banquet Years: The Origins of the Avant-Garde in
France, 1885 to World War i (New York, 1968), p. 141.
23 Quoted in Steven Moore Whiting, Satie the Bohemian (Oxford, 1999),
pp. 92–3.
24 Reproduced in Ornella Volta, Satie et la danse (Paris, 1992), p. 143.
25 Gustave Doret, Temps et contretemps: Souvenirs d’un musicien (Fribourg,
1942), p. 98; trans. in Orledge, Satie Remembered, p. 47.
26 Louis Laloy, La musique retrouvée (Paris, 1928), pp. 258–9; trans. in
Orledge, Satie Remembered, pp. 98–9; Marc Bredel, Erik Satie (Paris,
1982), pp. 84, 90.
27 Jean Cocteau, ‘Fragments d’une conférence sur Eric [sic] Satie (1920)’;
trans. Leigh Henry in Fanfare, 1–2 (15 October 1921), p. 23.
28 Satie, ‘Claude Debussy’, in Satie, Ecrits, pp. 65–70; trans. in Wilkins,
The Writings of Erik Satie, pp. 106–10.
29 Ibid.
30 Victor-Emile Michelet, Les compagnons de la hiérophanie: souvenires du

153
 mouvement hermétiste à la fin du 19e siècle (Paris, 1937), p. 73; trans. in
Orledge, Satie Remembered, pp. 44–5.
31 Quoted in Ornella Volta, Erik Satie: D’Esoterik Satie à Satierik (Paris,
1979), p. 139.
32 Whiting, Satie the Bohemian, p. 101.
33 Ibid., p. 103.

3 Parcier

1 Contamine de Latour, ‘Erik Satie: souvenirs de jeunesse’; trans. in

Robert Orledge, Satie Remembered (London, 1995), p. 26.
2 Quoted in Erik Satie à Montmartre, exh. cat., Musée de Montmartre,
Paris (1982), pp. 8–9.
3 Stéphane Mallarmé, ‘Homage (à Puvis de Chavannes)’, Collected Poems,
ed. Henry Weinfield (Berkeley, ca, 1994), p. 75.
4 Quoted in Steven Moore Whiting, Satie the Bohemian (Oxford, 1999),
p. 120.
5 Fr Aug. Gevaert, Histoire et théorie de la musique de l’antiquité, i (Ghent,
1875).
6 Whiting, Satie the Bohemian, p. 117.
7 Maria H. Hand, ‘Carloz Schwabe’s Poster for the Salon de la
Rose+Croix: A Herald of the Ideal in Art,’ Art Journal, xliv/1 (Spring
1984), pp. 40–45.
8 Joséphin Péladan, Le Salon (Dixième année), pp. 55–6; quoted in Hand,
‘Carloz Schwabe’s Poster’, p. 40.
9 Quoted in Hand, ‘Carloz Schwabe’s Poster’, p. 41.
10 Quoted in Whiting, Satie the Bohemian, p. 140.
11 Reproduced in Philip Denis Cate and Mary Shaw, eds, The Spirit of
Montmartre: Cabarets, Humor, and the Avant-Garde, 1875–1905 (New
Brunswick, nj, 1996), p. 68.
12 Rusiñol, quoting Satie, in Erik Satie à Montmartre, p. 9.
13 Courtney S. Adams, ‘Erik Satie and Golden Section Analysis’, Music and
Letters, lxxvii (1996), pp. 242–52.
14 Quoted in Whiting, Satie the Bohemian, p. 128.
15 Quoted in Ornella Volta, Satie Seen through his Letters (London, 1989),
p. 60.

154
16 Nigel Wilkins, The Writings of Erik Satie (London, 1980), p. 150.
17 Satie, Ecrits, pp. 235–6; trans. in Orledge, Satie Remembered, pp. 48–50.
18 Satie, ‘Epître d’Erik Satie première aux artistes catholiques et à tous les
Chrétiens’, Le Coeur (September–October 1893), pp. 11–12; reprinted in
Satie, Ecrits, p. 15; alternative trans. in Satie, A Mammal’s Notebook, ed.
Ornella Volta, trans. Antony Melville (London, 1996), p. 97.
19 Wilkins, Writings of Erik Satie, pp. 44–5.
20 Contamine de Latour, ‘Erik Satie intime’; trans. in Orledge, Satie
Remembered, p. 31.
21 Satie, Letter to Suzanne Valadon, 11 March 1893, in Correspondance
presque complète, ed. Ornella Volta (Paris, 2002), p. 42.
22 Quoted in Volta, Satie Seen through his Letters, p. 47.

4 Velvet Gentleman

1 Satie, Correspondance presque complète, ed. Ornella Volta (Paris, 2002),

p. 53.
2 Satie, Letter to Conrad Satie, [22 July 1896?], Correspondance, pp. 72–3.
3 Alan Gillmor, Erik Satie (Boston, ma, 1988), p. 46.
4 Quoted in ibid., p. 107.
5 Robert Orledge, Satie the Composer (Cambridge, 1990), pp. 190–91.
6 Roger Shattuck, The Banquet Years: The Origins of the Avant-Garde in
France, 1885 to World War i (New York, 1968), p. 140.
7 Quoted in Ornella Volta, Satie Seen through his Letters (London, 1989),
p. 70.
8 Roger Shattuck in conversation with John Cage, Contact, 25 (1982), p. 25.
9 Pierre-Daniel Templier, Erik Satie (Paris, 1932), p. 52.
10 George Auriol, ‘Erik Satie, the Velvet Gentleman’, Revue musicale, 5
(March 1924), pp. 210-11; trans. in Robert Orledge, Satie Remembered
(London, 1995), pp. 71–2.
11 Pierre de Massot, ‘Quelques propos et souvenirs sur Erik Satie’, Revue
musicale, 214 (June 1952), pp. 127–8; trans. in Orledge, Satie
Remembered, pp. 74–5.
12 Steven Moore Whiting, Satie the Bohemian (Oxford, 1999), pp. 184ff.
13 Ornella Volta, Erik Satie et la tradition populaire (Paris, 1988), p. 14.
14 Philip Denis Cate and Mary Shaw, eds, The Spirit of Montmartre:

155
 Cabarets, Humor, and the Avant-Garde, 1875–1905 (New Brunswick, nj,
1996), pp. 186–7.
15 Ornella Volta, ‘L’Os à moelle: Dossier Erik Satie’, Revue Internationale de
Musique française, viii/23 (June 1987), pp. 6–31.
16 Darius Milhaud, ‘The Death of Erik Satie’, trans. Donald Evans in Notes
without Music (London, 1967), p. 151.
17 Satie, Letter to Conrad Satie, 7 June 1900, Correspondance, p. 97.
18 Satie, Les Musiciens de Montmartre, trans. and reprinted in Nigel
Wilkins, The Writings of Erik Satie (London, 1980), p. 6.
19 Ornella Volta, L’Ymagier d’Erik Satie (Paris, 1979; reprinted 1990), p. 40.
20 Whiting, Satie the Bohemian, p. 257.
21 Paulette Darrty, ‘Souvenirs sur Eric Satie’; trans. in Orledge, Satie
Remembered, p. 96.
22 Whiting, Satie the Bohemian, p. 303.
23 See Templier, Erik Satie, pp. 25–6.
24 Vladimir Golschmann, ‘Golschmann Remembers Erik Satie’, Musical
America, 22 (August 1972), pp. 11–12; trans. in Orledge, Satie
Remembered, p. 100.
25 Quoted in ibid., p. 11.
26 Satie, Letter to Conrad Satie, 17 January 1911, Correspondance, p. 145.
27 Volta, Satie Seen through his Letters, pp. 27–8.

5 Scholiste

1 Nigel Wilkins, The Writings of Erik Satie (London, 1980), pp. 106–10.
2 Pierre-Daniel Templier, Erik Satie (Paris, 1932), p. 27.
3 Quoted in Robert Orledge, Satie the Composer (Cambridge, 1990), p. 81;
and quoted in Templier, Erik Satie, p. 27.
4 Jean Cocteau, ‘Fragments d’une conférence sur Eric [sic] Satie (1920)’,
Revue musicale, 5 (March 1924), p. 222.
5 Satie, Letter to Conrad Satie, 17 January 1911, Correspondance presque
complète, ed. Ornella Volta (Paris, 2002), p. 145.
6 Satie, Ecrits, ed. Ornella Volta (Paris, 1990), pp. 25–6.
7 Satie, Letter to Conrad Satie, 6 September 1911, Correspondance, p. 155.
8 Satie, Letter to Alexis Roland-Manuel, 4 August 1911, Correspondance,
p. 154.

156
 9 Alan Gillmor, Erik Satie (Boston, ma, 1988), p. 137.
10 Ornella Volta, Satie Seen through his Letters (London, 1989), p. 85.

6 Bourgeois Radical

1 Quoted in Pierre-Daniel Templier, Erik Satie (Paris, 1932), p. 33.

2 Satie, Letter to Conrad Satie, 27 March 1911, Correspondance presque
complète, ed. Ornella Volta (Paris, 2002), p. 149.
3 Jules Ecorcheville, ‘Erik Satie’, Revue musicale s.i.m., 7 (15 March 1911),
pp. 29–40; Michel Calvocoressi, ‘M. Erik Satie’, Musica, 10 (April 1911),
pp. 65–6; Michel Calvocoressi, ‘The Origin of To-day’s Musical Idiom’,
Musical Times, lii (1 December 1911), pp. 776–7.
4 Satie, Letter to Roland-Manuel, 3 July 1912, Correspondance, p. 170.
5 Satie, Ecrits, ed. Ornella Volta (Paris, 1990), p. 158.
6 For an extensive sampling of these designs, see ibid., pp. 184–228.
7 Jean Wiéner, ‘Un grand musicien’, Arts, i/25 (20 July 1945), p. 4.
8 Quoted in Victor Du Bled, La Société française du xvie siècle au xxe siècle.
ix Série: xviiie et xixe siècles: Le Premier salon de France: L’Académie
française: L’Argot (Paris, 1913), p. 258.
9 Guillaume Apollinaire, Calligrammes: Poems of Peace and War
(1913–1916), ed. Anne Greet and S. I. Lockerbie, trans. Anne Greet
(Berkeley, ca, 1980), pp. 4–5.
10 Apollinaire, ‘Lundi, rue Christine’, Les Soirées de Paris (December 1913);
reprinted in ibid., p. 52.
11 Templier, Erik Satie, p. 82.
12 ‘Le Golf ’, Fémina, 15 May 1913, p. 267; ‘La coupe Fémina’, Fémina, May
1921, p. 36.
13 ‘Vernissage cubiste’, Cri de Paris, quoted in Billy Klüver and Julie
Martin, Kiki’s Paris: Artists and Lovers, 1900–1930 (New York, 1989),
p. 222 n. 4.
14 Alexis Roland-Manuel, Erik Satie (n. p.).
15 Quoted in Arthur Gold and Robert Fitzdale, Misia: The Life of Misia Sert
(New York, 1980), p. 174.
16 ‘A New Salon for Unique Fashions’, Vogue [New York], 1 October 1912,
p. 47.

157
 7 Ballets Russes

1 Quoted in Frederick Brown, An Impersonation of Angels: A Biography of

Jean Cocteau (New York, 1968), p. 87.
2 Richard Axsom, Parade: Cubism as Theater (New York, 1979), fig. 96.
3 Régis Gignoux, ‘Courrier des théâtres – avant première’, Le Figaro, 18
May 1917, p. 4.
4 Jean d’Udine, ‘Couleurs, mouvements, et sons: Les Ballets Russes en
1917’, Le Courrier musical, June 1917, p. 239.
5 Guillaume Apollinaire, ‘“Parade” et l’esprit nouveau’, L’Excelsior, 11 May
1917, p. 5.
6 Ernest Newman, The Observer, 23 November 1919; quoted in Deborah
Menaker Rothschild, Picasso’s Parade: From Street to Stage (New York,
1991), p. 95.
7 The Berlin/Satie meeting in 1922 is reported in Gaige Crosby, Footlights
and Highlights (New York, 1948), p. 186.
8 See Satie, copyist’s manuscript for Parade, p. 1 (Frederick R. Koch
Foundation, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale
University, New Haven)
9 Jean Cocteau, ‘“Parade”: Ballet réaliste, In Which Four Modern Artists
Had a Hand’, Vanity Fair, September 1917, p. 37.
10 Ibid.
11 Jean Cocteau, Le Coq et l’arlequin (Paris, 1918, reprinted 1979).
12 Carl Van Vechten, ‘Erik Satie: Master of the Rigolo’, Vanity Fair, March
1918, p. 61.
13 Erik Satie, ‘A Hymn in Praise of Critics, Those Whistling Bell-Buoys
Who Indicate the Reefs on the Shores of the Human Spirit’, Vanity Fair,
September 1921, p. 49.
14 Erik Satie, ‘A Lecture on “The Six”: A Somewhat Critical Account of a
Now Famous Group of French Musicians’, Vanity Fair, October 1921, p. 61.
15 Erik Satie, ‘A Learned Lecture on Music and Animals’, Vanity Fair, May
1922, p. 64; Satie, ‘La Musique et les enfants’, Vanity Fair, October 1922,
p. 53.
16 Erik Satie, ‘Igor Stravinsky: A Tribute to the Great Russian Composer
by an Eminent French Confrère’, Vanity Fair, February 1923, p. 39; Erik
Satie, ‘Claude Debussy’, Ecrits, ed. Ornella Volta (Paris, 1990), p. 65.

158
 8 En ‘Smoking’

1 Quoted in Sylvia Kahan, Music’s Modern Muse: A Life of Winnaretta

Singer, Princesse de Polignac (Rochester, ny, 2003), pp. 203–4.
2 Satie, Letter to Alexis Rouart, 4 October 1917, Correspondance presque
complète, ed. Ornella Volta (Paris, 2002), p. 309.
3 Satie, Letter to Valentine Gross, 6 January 1917, Correspondance, p. 274.
4 Satie, Letter to Valentine Gross, 18 January 1917, Correspondance,
pp. 277–8.
5 Satie, Letter to Jean Cocteau, 1 January 1917, Correspondance, p. 271.
6 Ornella Volta, Satie Seen through his Letters (London, 1989), p. 132.
7 Satie, Postcard to Jean Poueigh, 30 May 1917, Correspondance, p. 289.
8 Quoted in Volta, Satie Seen through his Letters, p. 140.
9 Satie, Letter to Winnaretta Singer, 10 October 1918, Correspondance,
pp. 340–41.
10 Satie, Letter to Henry Prunières, 3 April 1918, Correspondance, p. 324.
11 Satie, Letter to Valentine Gross, 24 June 1918, Correspondance, p. 329.
12 Maurice Sachs, Au Temps du Boeuf sur le Toit (Paris, 1948), pp. 29–30.
13 Quoted in Robert Orledge, Satie the Composer (Cambridge, 1990), p. 133.
14 Quoted in Alan Gillmor, Erik Satie (Boston, ma, 1988), p. 218.
15 Ibid., p. 217.
16 Satie, Ecrits, ed. Ornella Volta (Paris, 1990), p. 251.
17 Satie, Letter to Paul Collaer, 16 May 1920, Correspondance, pp. 406–7.
18 Pierre Leroi, ‘Festival Erik Satie’, Le Courrier musical (August/September
1920), p. 233.
19 Satie, Letter to Etienne de Beaumont, 11 June 1920, Correspondance,
p. 411.
20 Morand, quoted in Volta, Satie Seen through his Letters, p. 153; Valentine
Hugo, ‘Le Socrate que j’ai connu’, Revue musicale, 214 (June 1952),
pp. 139–44.
21 Satie, Letter to Madame Claude Debussy, 8 March 1917, Correspondance,
p. 282.
22 Satie, Letter to Henry Prunières, 3 April 1918, Correspondance, p. 324.
23 Satie, Letter to Alexis Roland-Manuel, 14 March 1918, Correspondance,
pp. 321–2.
24 Quoted in Robert Orledge, Satie Remembered (London, 1995), pp. 77–8.
25 Satie, Letter to Valentine Gross, 23 August 1918, Correspondance, p. 334.

159
26 Quoted in Rollo Myers, Erik Satie (New York, 1968), p. 60.
27 Darius Milhaud, ‘Lettre de Darius Milhaud’, Revue musicale, 214 (June
1952), p. 153.
28 Ibid., pp. 154–5.
29 J.R.F., ‘Conseils d’été’, Vogue [Paris], 15 June 1920, p. 15.
30 Raymond Radiguet, Le Bal du Comte d’Orgel (Paris, 1924); trans.
Annapaola Cancogni (New York, 1989).
31 Reginald Bridgeman, quoted in Francis Steegmuller, Cocteau: A
Biography (Boston, ma, 1970), p. 227.
32 Satie, Letter to Countess Edith de Beaumont, 26 December 1922,
Correspondance, p. 511.

9 Dadaist

1 Quoted in Ornella Volta, L’Ymagier d’Erik Satie (Paris, 1979; reprinted 1990),
p. 79.
2 Quoted in Pierre de Massot, ‘Vingt-cinq minutes avec: Erik Satie’, Paris-
Journal (30 May 1924), p. 2.
3 Ornella Volta, Satie Seen through his Letters (London, 1989), p. 172.
4 Michel Sanouillet, Dada à Paris (Paris, 1952), pp. 319–47.
5 Volta, Satie Seen through his Letters, p. 186.
6 J.R.F., ‘The Maecanas of Paris Entertains’, Vogue [New York], 1 June
1924, p. 46.
7 ‘Palmyre reçoit sa Famille: Ses Escapades dans le monde des artistes’,
Vogue [Paris], 1 June 1923, pp. 40–41.
8 Satie, Letter to Darius Milhaud, 15 September 1923, Correspondance
presque complète, ed. Ornella Volta (Paris, 2002), p. 561.
9 Ornella Volta, Satie/Cocteau: Les Malentendus d’une entente (Paris, 1998),
p. 58.
10 Volta, Satie Seen through his Letters, p. 179.
11 Quoted in ibid., p. 180.
12 Ibid., p. 181.
13 Sanouillet, Dada à Paris, pp. 382–5.
14 Roger Vitrac, quoted in Volta, Satie Seen through his Letters, p. 184.
15 Documented in correspondence between Pierre de Massot and Picabia;
see ibid., pp. 190–91.

160
16 Satie, Letter to Francis Picabia, 8 February 1924, Correspondance, p. 587.
17 Martin Marks, ‘The Well-Furnished Film: Satie’s Score for Entr’acte’,
Canadian University Music Review, 4 (1983), pp. 245–77.
18 Satie, Letter to Pierre Massot, 27 July [1924], Correspondance, pp. 625–6.
19 Volta, Satie Seen through his Letters, p. 196.
20 Roland-Manuel, ‘Adieu à Satie’, Revue Pleyel, 15 (December 1924),
pp. 21–2.
21 Robert Orledge, Satie the Composer (Cambridge, 1990), pp. 177–84.
22 Marks, ‘The Well-Furnished Film’, p. 250.
23 Satie, trans. and quoted in Orledge, Satie the Composer, p. 357, n. 17.
24 Picabia, quoted in Robert Orledge, Satie Remembered (London, 1995),
p. 194.

Envoi

1 Madeleine Milhaud, quoted in Robert Orledge, Satie Remembered

(London, 1995), pp. 212–13.
2 Raymonde Linoissier, Letter to Francis Poulenc; in ibid., Satie
Remembered, pp. 218–19.
3 Ibid., pp. 216–17.
4 Ibid., p. 220.
5 Ibid., pp. 214–15.
6 Henri Prunières, ‘The Failure of Success’, Musical Digest, 8 (28 July
1925), p. 5.
7 Eric Blom, ‘Erik Satie (1866–1925)’, Musical News and Herald, 69 (18 July
1925), p. 53.
8 John Cage, ‘On Erik Satie’, Art News Annual, xxvii (1958), p. 81; reprint-
ed in John Cage, Silence (Middletown, ct, 1961), p. 82.
9 Satie, Ecrits, ed. Ornella Volta (Paris, 1990), pp. 48–9; trans. in Robert
Orledge, Satie the Composer (Cambridge, 1990), pp. 68–9.
10 Quoted in Orledge, Satie Remembered, p. 213.

161
162
 Bibliography

Autograph sources

Most of Satie’s autograph manuscripts are housed in the collections of the

Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris, and at the Houghton Library,
Harvard University. A chronological list of compositions included in Robert
Orledge’s Satie the Composer offers a useful summary of Satie’s output,
including information concerning manuscript location, publication history
and premiere performances.

Writings

Satie’s published writings appeared during his lifetime in a variety of maga-

zines and journals in France and the United States. They have since been col-
lected and issued with his private commentaries, notes and small jottings in
a number of French and English sources.

Satie, Erik, Ecrits, ed. Ornella Volta (Paris, 1990)

——, Les Bulles du Parcier, ed. Ornella Volta (Frontfroide, 1991)
——, A Mammal’s Notebook, ed. Ornella Volta, trans. Antony Melville
(London, 1996)
Wilkins, Nigel, The Writings of Erik Satie (London, 1980)

163
 Letters

Borgeaud, Henri, ‘Trois lettres d’Erik Satie à Claude Debussy (1903)’, Revue
de Musicologie, xlviii (1962), pp. 71–4
Lockspeiser, Edward, The Literary Clef: An Anthology of Letters and Writings by
French Composers (London, 1958)
Satie, Erik, Correspondance presque complète, ed. Ornella Volta (Paris, 2002)
Volta, Ornella, Satie Seen through his Letters (London, 1989)
Wilkins, Nigel, ‘Erik Satie’s Letters’, Canadian University Music Review, ii
(1981), pp. 207–27
——, ‘Erik Satie’s Letters to Milhaud and Others’, Musical Quarterly, lxvi
(1980), pp. 404–28

Iconography

Volta, Ornella, L’Ymagier d’Erik Satie (Paris, 1990)

——, Erik Satie (Paris, 1997)

Satie’s life and music

Adams, Courtney, ‘Erik Satie and Golden Section Analysis’, Music and
Letters, lxxvii (1996), pp. 242–52
Apollinaire, Guillaume, ‘“Parade” et l’esprit nouveau’, L’Excelsior (11 May
1917), p. 5
——, Calligrammes: Poems of Peace and War (1913–1916), ed. Anne Greet and
S. I. Lockerbie, trans. Anne Greet (Berkeley, ca, 1980)
Axsom, Richard, Parade: Cubism as Theater (New York, 1979)
Blom, Eric, ‘Erik Satie (1866–1925)’, Musical News and Herald, 69 (18 July
1925), p. 53
Bois, Jules, Les petites religions de Paris (Paris, 1894)
Bredel, Marc, Erik Satie (Paris, 1982)
Brown, Frederick, An Impersonation of Angels: A Biography of Jean Cocteau
(New York, 1968)
Cage, John, Silence (Middletown, ct, 1969)

164
Cate, Phillip Dennis, and Mary Shaw, eds, The Spirit of Montmartre: Cabarets,
Humor, and the Avant-Garde, 1875–1905 (New Brunswick, nj, 1996)
Cocteau, Jean, ‘“Parade”: Ballet réaliste, in which Four Modern Artists Had a
Hand’, Vanity Fair (September 1917), p. 37
——, ‘Fragments d’une conférence sur Eric [sic] Satie (1920)’, Revue musicale,
v (March 1924), p. 222
——, Portraits-Souvenirs, 1900–14 (Paris, 1935); trans. Jesse Browner as
Souvenir Portraits: Paris in the Belle Epoque (London, 1991)
——, Erik Satie (Liège, 1957)
——, Le Coq et l’arlequin (Paris, 1918, reprinted 1978)
Collaer, Paul, La musique moderne (Brussels, 1955); trans. Sally Abeles as A
History of Modern Music (Cleveland, 1961)
Contamine de Latour, J.P., ‘Erik Satie intime: Souvenirs de jeunesse’,
Comoedia, 3, 5 and 6 August 1925
Cooper, Douglas, Picasso Theater (New York, 1987)
Crosby, Gaige, Footlights and Highlights (New York, 1948)
Davis, Mary E., Classic Chic: Music, Fashion, and Modernism (Berkeley, ca,
2006)
——. ‘Modernity à la mode: Popular Culture and Avant-gardism in Erik
Satie’s Sports et divertissements’, Musical Quarterly, 83 (Fall 1999), pp.
430–73
Donnay, Maurice, Autour du Chat Noir (Paris, 1926, reprinted 1996)
Ecorcheville, Jules, ‘Erik Satie’, Revue musicale S.I.M., 7 (15 March 1911),
pp. 29–40
Erik Satie à Montmartre, exh. cat., Musée de Montmartre, Paris (1982)
Garafola, Lynn, Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes (Oxford, 1989)
Gignoux, Régis, ‘Courrier des théâtres – avant-première’, Le Figaro (18 May
1917), p. 5
Gillmor, Alan, Erik Satie (Boston, ma, 1988)
Gold, Arthur, and Robert Fitzdale, Misia: The Life of Misia Sert (New York,
1980)
Gowers, Patrick, ‘Satie’s Rose-Croix Music (1891–1895)’, Proceedings of the
Royal Music Association, xcii (1965–6), pp. 1–25
——, ‘Erik Satie: His Studies, Notebooks, and Critics,’ PhD dissertation,
University of Cambridge, 1966
Hand, Maria H, ‘Carlos Schwabe’s Poster for the Salon Rose + Croix: A

165
 Herald of the Ideal in Art’, Art Journal, xliv/1 (Spring 1984), pp. 40–45
Harding, James, Erik Satie (New York, 1975)
Hugo, Valentine, ‘Le Socrate que j’ai connu’, Revue musicale, 214 (June 1952),
pp. 139–45
Kahan, Sylvia, Music’s Modern Muse: A Life of Winnaretta Singer, Princesse de
Polignac (Rochester, ny, 2003)
Jean-Aubry, Georges, French Music of Today, trans. Edwin Evans (London,
1919)
Kostelanetz, Richard, ed., John Cage (New York, 1970)
Klüver, Billy, and Julie Martin, Kiki’s Paris: Artists and Lovers, 1900–1930
(New York, 1989)
Lajoinie, Vincent, Erik Satie (Lausanne, 1985)
Leroi, Pierre, ‘Festival Erik Satie’, Le Courrier musical (August–September
1920), p. 233
Mallarmé, Stéphane, Collected Poems, ed. Henry Weinfield (Berkeley, ca,
1994)
Marks, Martin, ‘The Well-Furnished Film: Satie’s Score for Entr’acte’,
Canadian University Music Review, 4 (1983), pp. 245–77
Massot, Pierre de, ‘Vingt-cinq minutes avec: Erik Satie’, Paris-Journal, 30
May 1924, p. 2
Messing, Scott, Neoclassicism in Music: From the Genesis of the Concept through
the Schoenberg/Stravinsky Polemic (Ann Arbor, mi, 1988)
Milhaud, Darius, Ma vie heureuse (Paris, 1973)
——, Notes without Music: An Autobiography, trans. Donald Evans (New
York, 1953)
Myers, Rollo, Erik Satie (London, 1948, reprinted New York, 1969)
Nichols, Roger, The Harlequin Years: Music in Paris, 1917–1929 (Berkeley, ca,
2003)
Orledge, Robert, Satie the Composer (Cambridge, 1990)
——, ‘The Musical Activities of Alfred Satie and Eugénie Satie-Barnetche,
and their Effect on the Career of Erik Satie’, Journal of the Royal Musical
Association, cxvii/2 (1992), pp. 270–92
——, ‘Satie and the Art of Dedication’, Music and Letters, lxxiii (1992),
pp. 551–64
——, Satie Remembered (London, 1995)
——, ‘Satie’s Sarabandes and their Importance to his Composing Career’,
Music and Letters, lxxvii/4 (November 1996), pp. 555–65

166
——, ‘Erik Satie’s Ballet “Mercure” (1924): From Mount Etna to
Montmartre’, Journal of the Royal Musical Association, cxxiii/2 (1998),
pp. 229–49
——, ‘Satie in America’, American Music, xviii/1 (Spring 2000), pp. 909–12
Perloff, Nancy, Art and the Everyday: Popular Entertainment and the Circle of
Erik Satie (New York, 1991)
Poulenc, Francis, My Friends and Myself, trans. Cynthia Jolly (London, 1978)
Prunières, Henri, ‘The Failure of Success’, Musical Digest, 8 (25 July 1925),
p. 5
Radiguet, Raymond, Le Bal du Comte d’Orgel (Paris, 1924); trans. Annapaola
Cancogni as Count D’Orgel’s Ball (New York, 1989)
Rey, Anne, Erik Satie (Paris, 1974)
Roland-Manuel, Alexis, Erik Satie. Causerie faite à la Société Lyre et Palette,
le 18 Avril 1916 (Paris, 1916)
——, ‘Adieu à Satie’, Revue Pleyel, 15 (15 December 1924), pp. 21–2
Rothschild, Deborah Menaker, Picasso’s Parade: From Street to Stage (New
York, 1989)
Sachs, Maurice, Au temps du Boeuf sur le toit (Paris, 1939, reprinted 2005)
Sanouillet, Michel, Dada à Paris (Paris, 1965)
Satie, Conrad, ‘Erik Satie’, Le Coeur (June 1895), pp. 2–3
Séré, Octave [pseud. of Jean Poueigh], Musiciens français d’aujourd’hui (Paris,
1921)
Shattuck, Roger, The Banquet Years: The Origins of the Avant-Garde in France,
1885 to World War I (New York, 1958, rvd 1968)
Steegmuller, Francis, Cocteau: A Biography (Boston, ma, 1970)
Templier, Pierre-Daniel, Erik Satie (Paris, 1932); trans. David and Elena
French (Cambridge, ma, 1969)
Thomson, Virgil, The Musical Scene (New York, 1947)
Van Vechten, Carl, ‘Erik Satie: Master of the Rigolo’, Vanity Fair (March
1918), p. 61
Volta, Ornella, Erik Satie: d’Esoterik Satie à Satierik (Paris, 1979)
——, ‘Dossier Erik Satie: L’Os à moëlle’, Revue Internationale de Musique
Française, 23 (June 1987), pp. 7–98
——, Erik Satie et la tradition populaire (Paris, 1988)
——, Satie et la danse (Paris, 1992)
——, Satie/Cocteau: les Malentendus d’une entente (Paris, 1993)
——, Erik Satie: Bibliographie raisonnée (Arcueil, 1995)

167
——, et al., Erik Satie del Chat Noir a Dadá (Valencia, 1996)
——, Erik Satie honfleurais (Honfleur, 1998)
Wehmeyer, Grete, Erik Satie (Regensburg, 1974)
Whiting, Steven Moore, ‘Erik Satie and Vincent Hyspa: Notes on a
Collaboration’, Music and Letters, lxxvii (1996), pp. 64–91
——, Satie the Bohemian (Oxford, 1999)

168
 Select Discography

Compilations

The Very Best of Satie, 2 cds. Klara Kormendi, Gabor Eckhardt; Nancy
Symphony Orchestra, dir. Jerome Kaltenbach. Naxos 8.552137-38. Released
2006.

Piano Music

complete works

Jean-Joel Barbier, Satie: Intégrale pour piano, 4 cds. Accord 20072, 221362,
220742, 200902. Recorded 1963–71.

Aldo Ciccolini, Satie: Works for Piano, 5 cds. emi Classics cdc 749702 2,
749703 2, 749713 2, 749714 2, 749760 2. Duets with Gabriel Tacchino.
Recorded 1980s.

Jean-Yves Thibaudet, Satie: Complete Solo Piano Music, 5 cds. Decca 473 620-
5 dcs. Recorded 2003.

selections

Aldo Ciccolini, Satie: Piano Works, 2 cds. emi Classics czs 7 67282 2.
Recorded 1966–76.

169
Michel Legrand, Erik Satie by Michel Legrand. Erato 4509-92857-2. Recorded
1993.

Anne Queffélec, Erik Satie and Erik Satie: Piano Works. Virgin Classics 7
90754 2 and 7 59296 2. Recorded 1988 and 1990.

Pascal Rogé, Satie: Trois Gymnopédies and Other Piano Works. Decca 410 220-
2. Recorded 1983.

Marcela Roggeri, Satie: Piano Works. Transart Live, tr 134. Recorded 2005.

Jean-Yves Thibaudet, The Magic of Satie. Decca 470 290-2. Recorded 2002.

duets

Jean-Pierre Armengaud and Dominique Merlet, Erik Satie: Complete Works

for Piano Duet. Mandala 4882. Recorded 1996.

Champion-Vachon Duo, Erik Satie: Complete Works for Piano 4 Hands.

Analekta-Fleur de Lys 2-3040. Recorded 1995.

ballets and orchestral music

The Complete Ballets of Erik Satie. The Utah Symphony Orchestra, dir.
Maurice Abravenel. Vanguard Classics ovc 4030. Recorded 1968.

Erik Satie and Darius Milhaud. London Festival Players, dir. Bernard
Hermann. London/Decca 443 897-2. Recorded 1996.

Les Inspirations Insolites d’Erik Satie. L’Orchestre de Paris, dir. Pierre

Dervaux. emi Classics czs 762877 2. Recorded 1966–73.

Satie: Parade, Relâche, En Habit de Cheval. Orchestre du Capitole de Toulouse,

dir. Michel Plasson. emi Classics 749471 2. Recorded 1988.

Satie: Parade, Relâche, Mercure. The New London Orchestra, dir. Ronald
Corp. Hyperion cd a66365. Recorded 1989.

170
vocal music

Satie: Mélodies. Mady Mesplé, Nicolai Gedda, Gariel Bacquier, Aldo

Ciccolini. emi cd 7491672. Recorded 1960s through 1980s.

Satie: Intégrale des Mélodies et des Chansons. Bruno Laplante, Marc Durand.
Analekta 1002. Recorded 1986.

Erik Satie: Melodies and Songs. Anne-Sophie Schmidt and Jeanne-Pierre

Armengaud. Mandala 4867. Recorded 1996.

organ music

La Musique mediévale d’Erik Satie. Hervé Desarbre (organ) with the Paris
Renaissance Ensemble, dir Hélène Breuil. Includes the Messe des Pauvres.
Mandala 4896. Recorded 1997.

arrangements and adaptations

The Minimalism of Erik Satie. Vienna Art Orchestra. Harmonia Mundi 6024.
Recorded 1989.

Satie: Works for 10-String Guitar. Pierre Laniau. Gramophone 4729672.

Recorded 1998.

Satie: Gymnopédies–Gnossiennes. Jacques Loussier Trio. Telarc cd-83431.

Recorded 1998.

Sketches of Satie. John Hackett (piano) and Steve Hackett (flute). Camino
cam cd20. Recorded 2000.

Blood, Sweat & Tears. Blood, Sweat & Tears. Mobile Fidelity cmob 2009 sa.
Recorded 1968, reissued in sacd 2005.

171
of historical interest

Francis Poulenc Plays Satie and Poulenc. Sony Masterworks Portrait mpk
47684. Recorded 1951.

Mélodies. Pierre Bernac and Francis Poulenc. Sony Masterworks Portrait

mpk 46731. Recorded 1940s and ’50s.

Socrate/Cheap Imitation. Hilke Helling, Deborah Richards, Herbert Henke.

Wergo 6186. Recorded 1969.

172
 Acknowledgements

This biography was possible thanks to work done over the past several
decades by a community of Satie scholars. Leading the ranks is Ornella
Volta, President of the Fondation Erik Satie in Paris, whose countless
contributions and great enthusiasm for the composer have proved invaluable
and endlessly inspiring. I also wish to thank Daniel Albright, Alan Gillmor,
Nancy Perloff, Robert Orledge, and Steven Moore Whiting for their
meticulous and perceptive studies of Satie, which have informed my
work at fundamental levels. At Reaktion Books, I am indebted to
Vivian Constantinopoulos, who commissioned this book, to Harry Gilonis,
and to David Rose, for the many improvements he made as it came to
fruition. Finally, I wish to thank Reinhold Brinkmann, to whom this book
is dedicated, for his longstanding guidance and encouragement.

173
 Photo Acknowledgements

The author and publishers wish to express their thanks to the following
sources of illustrative material and/or permission to reproduce it (some
locations of artworks are also given below):

Photos Archives de la Fondation Erik Satie, Paris: pp. 14, 16, 23; photos
Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris: pp. 28, 29, 34, 45, 46, 50, 54, 69;
Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris: p. 53 (photo Snark/Art Resource,
New York); photos © cnac/mnam/Dist. Réunion des Musées Nationaux/
Art Resource New York/Artist Rights Society/adagp): pp. 6, 57, 133;
photo Giroudon/Art Resource, New York/Artist Rights Society/adagp
p. 60; photos Houghton Library, Harvard University: pp. 95, 96, 97, 99, 100,
101, 150; photos Library of Congress, Washington, dc: pp. 24 (Prints and
Photographs Division, lc-usz62-133247), 111; Musée de l’Orsay, Paris: p. 42
(photo Erich Lessing/Art Resource, New York); Musée National d’Art
Moderne, Paris: p. 6 (photo by Man Ray, 1922), 57, 123; Museu Nacional de
Arte de Catalunya, Barcelona: p. 32 (photo Artist Rights Society/adagp);
Museum of Modern Art, New York: p. 138 (digital image © The Museum
of Modern Art, New York/licensed by scala/Art Resource, New York/
Artist Rights Society/adagp); photo Northwestern University Library,
Northwestern University, Evanston, Illinois: p. 44; photo Réunion des
Musées Nationaux/Art Resource, New York: p. 30; photo Réunion des
Musées Nationaux/Art Resource, New York/Artist Rights Society/adagp:
p. 77; photo Scala/Art Resource, New York/Artist Rights Society/adagp:
p. 123; photo Vanity Fair/Condé Nast Publications: p. 116.

175