The opera Pelléas et Mélisande, a shocker in 1902, took its hair fetish from Parsifal while stripping textures to negligée suggestiveness, devoid of Wagner’s heavy breathing. Along with the rippling La Mer (1905), these fin-de-siècle works are the foundations of Debussy’s fame. At no point does Debussy conceive a theory of music. What he seeks, he tells Stravinsky, is “pure music” — music that is uncontaminated by engagement with human beings and ideas. Music without meaning.
In the great controversies of his lifetime Debussy was determinedly disengaged. In the Dreyfus trial, when every other French composer took sides, mostly the wrong one, Debussy’s only known comment was to complain that it impinged on his personal comforts.
A serial philanderer with women of lower class, he finally settled down with a banker’s wife who had been Gabriel Fauré’s mistress. He had few musical friends, savaging many of his colleagues in newspaper reviews, saving special venom for Maurice Ravel, who gave him nothing but respect. Like many great composers, he was an egotist of a high order and not a very nice man.
If he has a saving grace, it appears in 1917 when, dying of rectal cancer, he wrote a sonata for violin and piano that yearns for lost things, a remembrance of temps perdus. Along with parallel sonatas by Elgar and Janáček, it is one of the most honest accounts of a citizen’s helplessness in war. Debussy died in Paris in March 1918, the crump of long-range German guns his last conscious sound.
Invitations have begun to land for the centenary year and my wastebin is bulging. Wild fauns will not drag me to Garsington Opera’s new Pelléas production in June, nor to the Vienna State Opera’s revival that same month. If I take the sea air at Eastbourne, I shall give a wide berth to the Grand Hotel, where Debussy wrote most of La Mer. On the Bois du Boulogne, his final home, I shall pay no respects.
My dislike of Debussy — more pronounced than of any other important composer — is as much analytical as it is aesthetic. His denial of meaning is the antithesis of Frankl’s search for meaning, a complacency so far removed from my view of the world that I can do nothing but acknowledge it and move on. Pure music, which begins with Debussy, infects the modernist mainstream to the point where it becomes impermissible to express any message in music. You had only to hear Boulez denounce Shostakovich as “reactionary” to understand how effectively Debussy sanitised music of the possibility of meaning.
And it’s not just composers who deny meaning. In a video homily the other day Daniel Barenboim recalled hearing Edwin Fischer analyse the finale of Beethoven’s seventh piano sonata (Op 10/3) as the acme of humour, while Claudio Arrau considered it the depth of tragedy. That being the case, Barenboim concluded, music can have no intrinsic meaning beyond its notes.
I find that so wrong. The marvel of music, as Mahler discovered, is that one phrase can convey multiple, contradictory meanings, a mirror of human psychology. Debussy denied that. I’m done with Debussy.
In the great controversies of his lifetime Debussy was determinedly disengaged. In the Dreyfus trial, when every other French composer took sides, mostly the wrong one, Debussy’s only known comment was to complain that it impinged on his personal comforts.
A serial philanderer with women of lower class, he finally settled down with a banker’s wife who had been Gabriel Fauré’s mistress. He had few musical friends, savaging many of his colleagues in newspaper reviews, saving special venom for Maurice Ravel, who gave him nothing but respect. Like many great composers, he was an egotist of a high order and not a very nice man.
If he has a saving grace, it appears in 1917 when, dying of rectal cancer, he wrote a sonata for violin and piano that yearns for lost things, a remembrance of temps perdus. Along with parallel sonatas by Elgar and Janáček, it is one of the most honest accounts of a citizen’s helplessness in war. Debussy died in Paris in March 1918, the crump of long-range German guns his last conscious sound.
Invitations have begun to land for the centenary year and my wastebin is bulging. Wild fauns will not drag me to Garsington Opera’s new Pelléas production in June, nor to the Vienna State Opera’s revival that same month. If I take the sea air at Eastbourne, I shall give a wide berth to the Grand Hotel, where Debussy wrote most of La Mer. On the Bois du Boulogne, his final home, I shall pay no respects.
My dislike of Debussy — more pronounced than of any other important composer — is as much analytical as it is aesthetic. His denial of meaning is the antithesis of Frankl’s search for meaning, a complacency so far removed from my view of the world that I can do nothing but acknowledge it and move on. Pure music, which begins with Debussy, infects the modernist mainstream to the point where it becomes impermissible to express any message in music. You had only to hear Boulez denounce Shostakovich as “reactionary” to understand how effectively Debussy sanitised music of the possibility of meaning.
And it’s not just composers who deny meaning. In a video homily the other day Daniel Barenboim recalled hearing Edwin Fischer analyse the finale of Beethoven’s seventh piano sonata (Op 10/3) as the acme of humour, while Claudio Arrau considered it the depth of tragedy. That being the case, Barenboim concluded, music can have no intrinsic meaning beyond its notes.
I find that so wrong. The marvel of music, as Mahler discovered, is that one phrase can convey multiple, contradictory meanings, a mirror of human psychology. Debussy denied that. I’m done with Debussy.


















6:05 PM
10:01 AM
7:12 PM
9:12 PM
9:12 PM
8:12 PM
12:11 AM
5:11 PM
1:11 PM
12:11 PM