For his newest Florent Schmitt Chandos recording (scheduled for release in October 2026), when French conductor Yan Pascal Tortelier was considering contemporaneous compositions to pair with Schmitt’s strikingly modern Symphonie concertante (1931-32), one of his choices might seem curious: Çançunik, Op. 79, dating from 1927-29.

Compared to the Symphonie concertante – and indeed to several other Schmitt compositions like the daring vocal set Kérob-Shal from 1919-24, Çançunik, with its backward glance at Fauré and even Chabrier, seems more like a throwback to turn-of-the-century late-romanticism.

But looking more closely at the genesis of the work gives important context and provides an explanation as to the composer’s inspiration. Çançunik was written in response to a call from Compagnie français de radiophonie (TSF) in 1927 for composers to write scores specifically intended for radio broadcast. Three prizes were established for audience-friendly musical works – i.e. “music for the masses” – and as stipulated in the competition guidelines, scored for three to twenty-five instruments.

The Paris-Radio competition’s first prize was won by Florent Schmitt for an orchestral suite in two parts he titled Çançunik. In it, the composer followed the competition’s directive to produce a straightforward composition intended to appeal to a wide listening public – eschewing excessive polyphony while also conveying simple and direct ideas with a ‘single direction,’ and giving special prominence to wind instruments which would sound more clear than stringed instruments when heard over the airwaves.

Schmitt’s penchant for dry humor is evident in his work’s title, which at first glance might seem like some sort of journey into a musical “orientalist” realm for which the composer was so well-known. Instead, the title is merely an exotic phonetic spelling of “sens unique” – the French phrase for “one-way direction.”

In that phrase as well, Schmitt may have been alluding to the “one way communication” of radio broadcasting as contrasted with two-way communication between people, either in person or over the telephone.

Moreover, the work’s two movements (“Lied-nocturne” and “Scherzo-tarentelle”) have no association at all with anything “eastern” or “oriental” in music.

In creating its competition to encourage the production of music scores expressly intended for radio broadcast, TSF was walking in the footsteps of its industry counterparts in Germany. Serious theorists, the Germans were keen to understand that radio had brought to the art of sound new timbres in which the sounds of timpani and percussion, strings and other instruments were unable to be reproduced faithfully over the airwaves. As a 1930 article published in a Brazilian radiophony magazine pointed out, “The castanets refuse to give their delightful effects in Spanish music. The wind instruments gain a great deal in reproduction, while the stringed instruments – particularly those of an orchestra – sound distorted.”

In an essay published in the Encyclopedia of the Arts (released in 1946), Hunter College music professor Charles W. Hughes noted the pioneering efforts in music for radio broadcast that had been undertaken in Germany, writing:

“It was … in pre-Nazi Germany that the possibilities of radio as a new channel of expression for the creative musician were first exploited. A work for chamber orchestra and organ commissioned from Paul Hindemith as early as 1927 was broadcast in 1928. In 1929 a monthly broadcast featured original music written especially for the radio. Among the composers whose works were thus broadcast were Franz Schreker, Paul Graener, Max Butting (who became a specialist in this field), and Kurt Weill.”

Upon the initiative of the composer Max Butting, a research center was opened at the Klindworth-Scharwenka Conservatory in Berlin, where the eminent musicologist and ethnologist Georg Schünemann sought to identify and clarify problems posed by the transmission and transformation of sounds via radio – including factors such as the placement of instruments in front of microphones.

Charles Hughes elucidates on such factors in his encyclopedia essay as follows:

“Peculiarities of scoring such as the omission of double basses and second violins, the cultivation of open and transparent orchestral textures, the avoidance of thick and massive tutti passages, were in part concessions to the limited range and sensitivity of early broadcasting apparatus.”

The coursework devised by Georg Schünemann at the Klindworth-Scharwenka Conservatory demonstrated the serious intent that governed these forward-looking experimentations, with individual courses being offered that covered singing and choirs, instrumental music, composition and instrumentation, film music, applied music technology, and electroacoustics.

In addition to Hindemith’s organ/chamber music composition noted above plus Florent Schmitt’s Çançunik, two additional works of significance created expressly for radio broadcast performance were Wer zuletz lacht (He Who Laughs Last), a comédie sans paroles by Erich Liebermann-Rosswiese, and Der Lindberghflug (The Lindbergh Flight), a cantata with music by Hindemith and Kurt Weill that featured lyrics by Bertolt Brecht. All four of these compositions were written during the period 1927-29.

While acknowledging Florent Schmitt’s early prizewinning composition Çançunik, Hughes’ essay contends that “in general, both France and England seem to have been slower to utilize the resources of broadcasting for the serious composer than was Germany.”

In this regard, Hughes’ contention is supported by several other writers. As one example, an article appearing in the February 22, 1930 issue of the Parisian newspaper L’Intransigeant made note of the following:

“All those who regularly study the conditions under which French broadcasts are made do not cease to deplore the lamentable performance of musical broadcasts … We could cite with Hindemith numerous compositions from outside our borders which are not intended to be played in concert, but rather in front of a microphone and by an orchestra specially constituted for radio broadcasts. 

We have protested against the fact that a station like Radio-Paris has proven incapable of formulating a clearly defined musical program; everything is done here at the last minute and haphazardly. Just two days ago we pointed out that Wagner’s birthday had been forgotten … which is only the result of the disorder which reigns in France everywhere where broadcasting is done.”

The L’Intransigeant article continued with its review of the premiere concert hall performance of Florent Schmitt’s Çançunik, which was presented by the Concerts Poulet on February 16, 1930:

“The story we want to tell you today is … not of a classic [composer] whose date of birth or death our leaders have forgotten, but rather the first French work written especially for the [radiophonic] microphone by a great French musician – and which has just been given its first performance in Paris without anyone having deigned to notice. 

Our radio leaders were unfortunate because this work, which won a great success, was performed by one of the rare orchestras in Paris whose concerts are not broadcast by the TSF [French Radio]. The Poulet Concerts, as everyone knows, are held every week in the hall of the Sarah-Bernhardt Theatre where no one has yet thought of placing a microphone. It is there that Florent Schmitt had his Çançunik performed. 

It consists of two pieces for reduced orchestra – Lied-nocturne and Scherzo-tarentelle. If Mr. Schmitt wrote for a reduced orchestra, it is precisely because he saw in this production a first attempt at composing a radiophonic musical composition. The strings, always in question with the demands of the microphone, play only a secondary role here.”

The Poulet concert was attended by numerous Parisian critics, nearly all of whom noted the charm of Schmitt’s score and its appropriateness for being broadcast over the airwaves. A review by Pierre Blois appearing in the February 26, 1930 issue of L’Européen contradicted L’Intranigeant’s assertion that the Concerts Poulet presentation was the first public airing of the music. Blois wrote:

“Çançunik is a piece written especially for the wireless. The piece was once performed on Radio-Paris, the station for which the composer created it. The orchestra is reduced to its simplest form; everything is clear and frank but despite this, the composer’s vitality is immediately recognizable. The instruments … resonate fully and the contrasts are vivid … 

This piece is an example of what can be achieved with a chamber orchestra, a formation that is not very popular in our country but whose possibilities are nevertheless very great … [it is a piece] as carefully crafted as the large-scale works by the same composer.”

The composer-critic Paul Le Flem, writing in the February 17, 1930 issue of Comoedia magazine, noted:

“Another unpublished work by Florent Schmitt is welcomed … Çançunik, written especially for the TSF – a lied, then a scherzo borrowing its rhythm from that of a tarantella – such are the two pieces of this score. The ideas, which have frankness and momentum, are drawn with a clear and lively line. They follow one another and develop with a clarity that accentuates an orchestra reduced to the bare minimum, but which sounds with astonishing happiness with the instruments it unites. Gaston Poulet conducted it with great precision of rhythm and a keen concern for nuances, bringing to his interpretation a supple intelligence.”

The critic Guy de la Brosse, writing in the February 18, 1930 issue of Paris-soir, drew a parallel between the new score and music from Schmitt’s early career, writing:

“If you strip away the mystery of the title, which was originally a simple competition motto, you will find yourself in front of two pieces for reduced orchestra – ‘Lied-nocturne’ and ‘Scherzo-tarentelle’ – of a clear and cordial design and of a pleasant and playful turn. It sounds round and healthy, kindly taking us back to the time when the future composer of the Psaume [XLVII] sent us from Germany, as others send postcards, his luminous Reflets [d’Allemagne] whose charms have never ceased to delight us.”

Similarly, a review by Robert Dezarnaux, appearing in the February 18, 1930 issue of La Liberté, characterized the first movement of Çançunik as “an exquisite thing, Fauréan, bathed in the perfumes of the night. It is a lullaby that caresses its melody around a natural F in the mellow tone of D-flat, sketches its light dance, crosses the lighter tone of G without settling there, leans in subtle thinness and calms down. It is very nearly a concert of breezes.”

The critic Raymond Balliman’s review of the Concerts Poulet performance, appearing in the magazine Lyrica, praised both movements of Çançunik in equal measure:

“What rich musical sap overflows from all the works of Florent Schmitt! Despite its pun-title, Çançunik is of very high quality. The first part, intensely poetic, begins with a beautiful horn phrase, with a gripping and distant feeling; another motif intervenes in the woodwinds, and all this combines with prodigious skill to create a deliciously suave atmosphere. 

The ‘Scherzo-tarentelle’ spins quickly, playfully, cut in the middle by a calm, restful episode. It is simple, sincere and direct music, built by the hand of a master with inexhaustible inspiration, whose themes … present an absolute personality and an incessant variety. 

The reduced orchestra, in which the winds seem to predominate, dazzles with its countless discoveries as it imposes itself with the solidity of its balance.”

Lastly, Maurice Bex, writing in the March 10, 1930 issue of Lumière et radio, noted that Çançunik’s systematically reduced instrumentation was done “in such a way as to best respond to the difficult problem of radio broadcasting, serving to highlight frank and simple ideas so happily expressed that no one could remain indifferent to the charm of the ‘Nocturne’ and the rhythmic attraction of the ‘Scherzo-tarentelle.’”

Following its concert hall premiere in 1930, Çançunik was taken up by a number of other French orchestras and conductors. Désiré Inghelbrecht led the Orchestre National in several performances of the piece in 1935, while conductor Jean Morel did the honors with the same orchestra the following year.

In November 1937, conductor Jack Zadikoff directed the work with his newly created Nouvelle association symphonique – an ensemble made up of recent graduates of the Paris Conservatoire. Writing in the Parisian magazine Le Figaro about that performance, composer-critic Stan Golestan noted:

“What a charming spectacle to contemplate these young, fresh faces, graduates of the Conservatoire, training in an orchestra under the youthful and already-expert baton of Jack Zadikoff. In this case, it was the Nouvelle association symphonique giving its third concert at the Salle Pleyel – the obvious desire to present less hackneyed works than those offered as Sunday fodder to the sheepish audiences of Paris … 

Mr. Zadikoff was firm enough not to fear the quizzical title ‘Çançunik,’ with which Florent Schmitt undoubtedly wanted to pique the public’s curiosity, while the sensitive, finely woven and completely enveloping pages of this score merely indicate a poet’s stroll!”

Outside France, there is scant evidence of concert presentations of Çançunik happening. One performance I have been able to document occurred in the UK on May 12, 1936, played by Leslie Heward directing the BBC Midland Orchestra (a part-time group formed from members of the City of Birmingham Orchestra, later disbanded and reformulated as the BBC Midland Light Orchestra).

… And in the postwar period, I have found no record at all of the score being performed — in France or anywhere else.

As for recordings of the piece, none had ever been made until October 31, 2025, when Yan Pascal Tortelier stepped in front of the microphones to lead the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra in a recording that is planned for release on the Chandos label in October 2026.

As it turns out, Maestro Tortelier absolutely loves this music, referring to it as the “dessert course” on his recording that includes not only the gnarly and challenging Symphonie concertante pour orchestre et piano, Op. 82, but also two other works that are receiving first-ever commercial recordings in their orchestral garb (Trois danses, Op. 86 plus “Stèle pour le Tombeau de Paul Dukas” from the Op. 87 suite Chaîne brisée).

I was privileged to be able to attend the Çançunik recording session held on October 31, 2025, thereby being one of the first people to hear the felicitous charms of this music after more than 80 years. While visiting with Maestro Tortelier in Manchester, I asked if he would be willing to share his perspectives on the two pieces that make up the suite. In response, he kindly provided the following observations about the music:

Notes on Florent Schmitt’s Çançunik

By:  Yan Pascal Tortelier 

In the course of the decade 1929-1938, Florent Schmitt takes us totally by surprise with his Çançunik, a diptyque that is a complete antipode of the Symphonie concertante.

Apparently, there is no clear explanation as to the true meaning of this Çançunik, a play on words and orthography related to “sens unique” – one way – suggesting that the work can be played in one direction only.  Another possible explanation, related to this composition being commissioned for broadcast over TSF, is the allusion to unidirectional airwaves. (One could go even further afield in conjecture by noting it is in contrast to Reger’s name which can be read either way, or to Hindemith’s short opera Hin und Zurück — Forward and Backward!)

Through Çançunik’s simplicity, freshness and tenderness, the composer pays beautiful homage to his master, Gabriel Fauré. This is clearly evident in the marvelous “Lied-nocturne,” which possesses a never-ending melody along with lovely Fauréan harmonic turns. Another wonderful – and very typical – feature of Schmitt’s musical artistry then appears in the form of a mélopée (also appearing in the Symphonie concertante) – given first to the oboe solo, then passed on to the flute solo, and which will return briefly to conclude with pure nostalgia this first part of the diptyque.

Clearly, the “Scherzo-tarentelle” second part of the work can be played only “one way” (the right way!), with so much velocity being required to express the twirling character of this dance style originating from the southeastern Italian region of Taranto. It’s a frenetic dance that could otherwise be explained by the sting of a tarantula (take your pick!). Although it exhibits a lighthearted and playful style reminiscent of Emmanuel Chabrier, Florent Schmitt makes sure to integrate some of his own individual and witty harmonic turns as well.

Moreover, this “Scherzo-tarentelle” benefits from a quite striking and very slow (très modéré) central section featuring the dark expressive power of the horns and bassoons, modulating impressively from F minor into F-sharp minor for its subsequent response (Animez un peu). This is repeated, preceding the buildup back to the tarantella music. After a short and lovely pizzicati-woodwind variation on its main subject, the sequence of the “dark expressive power” returns again – but this time with a climactic ending featuring stentorian brass.

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There is little doubt that Yan Pascal Tortelier’s recording of Schmitt’s Çançunik will be the “first and final word” on this irresistibly charming score. The maestro deserves credit for rescuing this special gem from undeserved obscurity, while music-lovers await the recording’s release with great anticipation.

… And what about France’s commitment to music broadcasting? Did the country ever catch up to the pioneering efforts happening in Germany?

Perhaps not, but an article appearing in Variety magazine in April 1935 reveals that after a relatively slow start, France had started putting serious firepower behind the initiative that had begun eight years earlier with Florent Schmitt’s prizewinning entry in the TSF “radiophonic” composition competition. Published under the headline “Plenty of Names on French Radio Boards,” the Variety article reads as follows:

“[The] most distinguished bunch of gents who have ever chaperoned an industry have been named by Communications Minister Georges Mandel to supervise the programs of the French radio stations. They are called the Superior Council of Emissions. 

In the literary and artistic section of the council are Henry Bernstein, Jean Giradoux, Henry de Jouvenal, Henry Kistemaeckera, François Maurice, André Maurois, Paul Morand, Darius Milhaud, Maurice Ravel, Jules Romaine, Philippe de Rothschild, Florent Schmitt and a flock of other literary, musical and show highlights. 

[The] administrative section has even more names, including all the chief politicians of France, from Edouard Herriot to ex-President Alexandre Millerand. 

Directing councils for the regional stations, which are to be chosen by listeners, will be elected April 28. Everyone who can show a receipt for the tax on a radio set can vote, and balloting by mail is permitted.”