George Benjamin: not afraid of the major triad

George Benjamin.

When the Second Viennese school outlined the tonal limits of Western harmony in the early 20th century by creating a sound world where each of the 12 semitones was of equal importance, it was something of a nail-in-the-coffin moment for tonality. Pure major and minor triads, inextricably linked to tonality in expressing tonic and dominant chords in their purest forms, correspondingly suffered something of a genocide. Only in the ever-optimistic music of Messiaen were they to be found extensively - as pure sensual phenomena rather than tonal units.


Lush: 'Louange à léternité de Jésus', movement five in Messiaen's 'Quartet for the End of Time' (1941).

The elimination of major and minor triads from the modern composer's palette was concomitant with the increasing complexity of modes of expression witnessed in the 20th century. For it is one of those wonderfully inexplicable things that the neurons in human brains react in some way to the combined frequencies of a major triad so as to give us the impression of happiness. And the impression of sadness for minor triads. It is these very simple chords that give rise - although not exclusively of course - to the two simplest emotions, and the further harmonic language goes from them, the more abstract the music becomes. It is the preoccupation with complexity and abstraction as a means of innovation in modern composing that has estranged major and minor triads to the point of non-recognition. And perhaps it is due to my personal education, but I get a feeling that there is a very real sense of fearfulness towards the major triad amongst modern composers, as though writing one will immediately make you derivative and unoriginal, a naive fool who still thought that such a simple mode of expression existed.


Boulez: 'Le Marteau sans Maitre' (1955). Ain't no major triads in here.

On Sunday at Queen Elizabeth Hall there was a moment that stood out, therefore, as the London Sinfonietta played George Benjamin's 'Palimpsests' (2000), during which the brass play two very loud chords, a major triad followed by a minor triad. Amid a sea of ableit very carefully thought out atonal harmony, this sudden consonance of the highest - and simplest - order was incongruous to say the least. (In an interview on the guardian website Benjamin even mentions that he never thought he would write a passage like it.) A similar moment occurred during the 'Piano Figures' (2004), at some point near the end of the collection of ten miniatures, where there featured a passage of exclusively consonant harmony, using only major sonorities with added 6ths and 9ths. Again, the seasoned atonal listener in every audience member jumped up in his armchair, startled.

After a century of atonal classical music, now that every composer and modern music lover's ear is accustomed to the sonority of total dissonance, it seems as though, ironically, consonance has become the new diminished 7th or Neapolitan 6th, the shock point before the end of a fugue. Or are we starting to come through the other end of the atonal tunnel? Either way, it seems as though Benjamin has overcome the fear of the major triad.