Ravel, M.


Maurice+Ravel KEY ART. png



This month Michael Tilson Thomas con­ducts the San Fran­cisco Sym­phony in con­cert per­for­mances of Mau­rice Ravel’s L’Enfant et les sor­tilèges, com­pleted in 1925 to a libretto by the great Colette. The work, described by the com­poser as a “fan­taisie lyrique,” is not often per­formed by major opera com­pa­nies in the United States, so these con­certs will be a won­der­ful oppor­tu­nity for audi­ences to expe­ri­ence a rarely encoun­tered com­po­si­tion by one of the con­cert hall’s most pop­u­lar composers.

Though L’Enfant remains a rar­ity to many Amer­i­cans, those who know it trea­sure it. One of those fans is the Amer­i­can com­poser and author Ned Rorem, who has writ­ten, “If my house were on fire and I could take only three records, they would all be L’Enfant et les sor­tilèges, the most beau­ti­ful music ever writ­ten. Yes, Pel­léas and Sacre and Wozzeck, when I first heard them in ado­les­cence, for­ever changed my state of mind. But Ravel’s mas­ter­piece changed my state of body. It became the one work which most overtly influ­enced my own, and which, in some far cor­ner of my being, I have lis­tened to every day of my life.”

Such words are likely to raise eye­brows. If they referred to Mozart’s Le nozze di Figaro, Wagner’s Tris­tan und Isolde, Verdi’s Fal­staff—per­haps, even, Bellini’s Norma—many Amer­i­can music lovers would either agree with Rorem’s sen­ti­ments, or at least under­stand why he might lav­ish such high praise. But to say such things about a French opera? And one by Ravel, a com­poser bet­ter known for writ­ing glit­tery orches­tral bon­bons most often encoun­tered at pops con­certs, or as encores? “The most beau­ti­ful music ever writ­ten”? Per­haps there is more to Ravel and his music than crit­ics and pro­fes­sors have led us to believe.

Per­haps the time has come to take a closer look at Ravel, to re-evaluate the out­put of a man whose musi­cal sig­na­ture is so well-known, so con­stantly enjoy­able, that most of us are — under­stand­ably — tempted sim­ply to sur­ren­der to the ele­gant entice­ment of his music, rather than give care­ful atten­tion to what the com­poser actu­ally wrote.

Vir­gil Thomson

Ravel has never been obscure, even to the plain pub­lic,” wrote the Amer­i­can com­poser and critic Vir­gil Thom­son, who knew Ravel dur­ing the years Thom­son spent in Paris. “His early work pro­duced a shock, but only the shock of com­plete clar­ity. Any­body could dis­like it or turn his back, still can. Nobody could fail, nobody ever has failed to per­ceive at first sight what it is all about.”

That is the widely accepted view of Ravel in this coun­try, cer­tainly from 1947, when Thom­son wrote those words for the New York Her­ald Tri­bune, to today. The stan­dard crit­i­cal line is that Ravel’s music deals with sur­faces. He was a mas­ter col­orist, a com­poser who extended the bound­aries of piano tech­nique, orches­tral tim­bre and har­mony, a per­fec­tion­ist and mas­ter crafts­man who usu­ally con­fines him­self to smaller musi­cal forms. His com­po­si­tion glit­ter and entice. They stir and tease the listener’s senses in the same way the best sec cham­pagne delights the palette — and that is about as far as Ravel goes.

Like Min­erva [Ravel] emerged full-blown. Like Chopin he did not ‘advance,’ have peri­ods, grow more com­plex,” writes Ned Rorem. “He entered the world with the true artist’s fac­ulty to self-appraisal, and all his life wrote the same kind of music, con­sis­tently good….If taste [in music] means deco­rum, bound­ary, mesure, then Ravel’s jew­eled box hold jew­els. Debussy’s jew­eled box holds a heart.”

The idea that Ravel’s music some­how con­tains less heart than that of his slightly colder con­tem­po­rary, Debussy (to say noth­ing of the music of other com­posers), is a view one sus­pects Ravel him­self nur­tured care­fully, Why else would he, for exam­ple, head the scores to both the piano and orches­tral ver­sions of Valses nobles et sen­ti­men­tales with the phrase, “…the delight­ful and always novel plea­sure of a use­less occu­pa­tion”?  The words are from Henri de Régnier’s 1904 novel Les Ren­con­tres de Mon­sieur de Bréot. The begin­ning of the sen­tence, which Ravel did not include in his score, is very telling: “I am con­vinced that my book best illus­trates what I have sought in writ­ing, which is noth­ing but….”

But there is another aspect of Ravel’s music we should con­sider. For some of us, Ravel’s glit­ter­ing, sump­tu­ous sur­face, his fre­quent use of musi­cal forms from the sev­en­teenth and eigh­teenth cen­turies, his adher­ence to per­fec­tion­ism, his objec­tiv­ity, are all ways to leash the true emo­tion in his music — emo­tion that is, in fact, so potent, so poten­tially threat­en­ing and over­whelm­ing, that sim­ply to be endured it must be encased tightly, almost entirely buried in its “jewel box.” In a sense, we can plumb the depths of Ravel’s musi­cal emo­tions only by fol­low­ing his care­fully (and beau­ti­fully) con­structed labyrinth of mir­rors until we arrive finally at Ravel’s heart, assum­ing we have not been per­ma­nently dis­tracted by all the beau­ties along the way. (It is per­haps not acci­den­tal that one of Ravel’s best-known works for piano is enti­tled Mir­rors.)

Ravel in 1912

The case for look­ing beneath the cool, rav­ish­ing sur­face of Ravel’s music is akin to the re-evaluation of Mozart that has taken place in this cen­tury. For gen­er­a­tions after Mozart’s death, he was seen as an eighteenth-century dandy, a clever lit­tle man in satin knee-britches and pow­ered wig who wrote charm­ing, light music of lit­tle dra­matic or emo­tional sub­stance. Today, of course, music lovers real­ize this view of Mozart is super­fi­cial. We prize his music all the more because its smoothly con­structed sur­face con­ceals such rich inner emo­tions. So it should be with Ravel.

Now that much of Ravel’s music has become part of the stan­dard reper­toire, and since music lovers have a sense of who he is as a com­poser, we can get to the heart of his com­po­si­tions more eas­ily, per­haps, than pre­vi­ous gen­er­a­tions, for whom the very sound of his music was so novel. As the com­poser him­self once wrote, “On the ini­tial per­for­mances of a new musi­cal com­po­si­tion, the first impres­sion of the pub­lic is gen­er­ally one of reac­tion to the more super­fi­cial ele­ments of its music, that is to say, its exter­nal man­i­fes­ta­tions rather than its inner con­tent. The lis­tener is impressed by some unim­por­tant pecu­liar­ity in the medium of expres­sion, and yet the idiom of expres­sion, even if con­sid­ered in its com­plete­ness, is only the means and not the end in itself, and often it is not until years after, when the means of expres­sion have finally sur­ren­dered all their secrets, that the real inner emo­tion of the music becomes appar­ent to the lis­tener.” (The ital­ics are mine.)

Lis­ten­ers in the United States might have a spe­cial prob­lem under­stand­ing Ravel’s true great­ness because of the par­tic­u­lar places he occu­pies in our con­cert life. Boléro, Pavane for a Dead Princess, La Valse, Rap­sodie espag­nole, even the suites from Daph­nis and parts of Le Tombeau de Couperin have become the province of pops con­certs, which means that Ravel, like George Gersh­win and Sergei Rach­mani­noff, is there­fore slightly sus­pect as a com­poser of truly “seri­ous” music.

In addi­tion to this unfor­tu­nate musi­cal pigeon­hol­ing, Ravel has the added bur­den of being a com­poser of French music. For some rea­son, our musi­cal estab­lish­ment tends to equate “seri­ous­ness” and “great­ness” in con­cert music with the Ger­man musi­cal tra­di­tion. The impli­ca­tion often is that the “real” con­cert reper­toire is made up of basi­cally of nineteenth-century Roman­tic works by Beethoven, Schu­bert, Brahms, and Schu­bert, with some Bach, Mozart and Haydn thrown in. French com­posers are good for sup­ply­ing dessert, but never the main course.

Pianist Louis Lortie’s Ravel is a delight.

Per­haps one rea­son for this almost uncon­scious slight­ing of French music is that it depends for its effects on nuance and del­i­cacy. It must be per­formed with ele­gance. In our cul­ture “nuance” and “ele­gance,” are often syn­onyms for “weak” and “effem­i­nate.” French music is suf­fused with charm, which we often equate with “empty” of “vapid.” But the dic­tio­nary tells us that charm s is “a trait that fas­ci­nates, allures, or delights.”

And Ravel’s music cer­tainly does fas­ci­nate, allure, and delight. To return to Vir­gil Thom­son (who under­stood French music as few Amer­i­cans do): “Ravel’s music represents…the clas­sic ideal that is every Frenchman’s dream and every foreigner’s dream of France. It is the dream of an equi­lib­rium in which sen­ti­ment, sen­su­al­ity, and the intel­li­gence are united at their high­est inten­sity through the oper­a­tions of a moral qual­ity. That moral qual­ity, in Ravel’s case, and indeed the case of any first-class artist, is loy­alty, a loy­alty to clas­sic stan­dards of workmanship.”

Ravel was loyal not only to the clas­sic stan­dards of work­man­ship. He was often loyal to the clas­sic forms of his pre­de­ces­sors, even while using them to express his own voice. A superb exam­ple is Le Tombeau de Couperin, which Ravel wrote for piano between 1911 and 1917, then orches­trated (in part) in 1919.  Le Tombeau is a good exam­ple of Ravel wear­ing many of his dis­guises at the same time — hid­ing his true, deeply felt emo­tion behind sur­face lay­ers of form and tech­nique, while at the same time (so typ­i­cal of him!) using those obscur­ing lay­ers to hint at the true heart of his music.

From the four­teenth through the sev­en­teenth cen­turies, tra­di­tion dic­tated that a com­poser com­mem­o­rate the death of his teach­ers with a musi­cal memo­r­ial writ­ten in the teacher’s style. Such a work would be labeled “glo­ri­fi­ca­tion,” “lamen­ta­tion,” or “tomb” (tombeau). In nam­ing his work Le Tombeau de Couperin, Ravel con­sciously put him­self in this tra­di­tion. Ravel, how­ever, explained that his Tombeau, a col­lec­tion of pieces based on eighteenth-century dance forms, was more homage to past French music in gen­eral than per­sonal trib­ute to François Couperin (1668 – 1733), though Ravel did use the For­lane move­ment from Couperin’s Con­certs roy­aux as the basis for the For­lane in his own Tombeau (the move­ment often con­sid­ered the high­point of Ravel’s composition).

Mar­guerite Long

In addi­tion to hon­or­ing France’s musi­cal her­itage, Ravel’s Tombeau has an addi­tional layer of mean­ing. Ravel served as a dri­ver in the motor trans­port corps dur­ing the First World War. He was changed for­ever by the hor­rors he wit­nessed, and each move­ment of Le Tombeau is ded­i­cated to the mem­ory of a friend who died dur­ing the war. (Toc­cata us ded­i­cated to Cap­tain Joseph de Mar­li­ave, hus­band of the pianist Mar­guerite Long, who pre­miered not only Le Tombeau, but also Ravel’s Piano Con­certo in G major.)

How typ­i­cal of the com­poser to hide the depths of painful emo­tion behind the ele­gance and clar­ity of eighteenth-century musi­cal forms, in a work made up of bright dance move­ments. Lis­ten care­fully to the heart­break­ing sim­plic­ity of Le Tombeau’s ele­giac, almost play­ful Fugue (for instance), and you will never again accuse Ravel of lack­ing deep emo­tion. Then plunge imme­di­ately into Le Tombeau’s next move­ment, the insou­ciant For­lane, with its jazzy swing and jaunty air of a young boule­vardier, cig­a­rette dan­gling from his lips. Ravel mines every emo­tion, every source, every influ­ence to the max­i­mum, the uses them in his own, inim­itable voice. He is like a great chef who reduces a sauce to its essence, then uses it to enhance other dishes.

[Ravel’s music] is a non-romantic view of life,” Thom­son pointed out. “Not an anti-romantic view, sim­ply a non-romantic view, as if the nine­teenth cen­tury had never, save for its tech­ni­cal dis­cov­er­ies, existed. All the other mod­ernists were chil­dren of Roman­ti­cism — wor­ship­ful chil­dren like Schön­berg, or chil­dren in revolt, like Stravin­sky, or chil­dren torn, like Debussy, between atavism and an impe­ri­ous pas­sion for inde­pen­dence. Even Satie felt obliged to poke fun at the Roman­tics from time to time. But for Ravel there was no such temp­ta­tion, to Roman­tic problem.”

Per­haps being so entirely a com­poser of the twen­ti­eth cen­tury is what gives Ravel’s music, despite its often child­like charm and sense of won­der and joy, its deeper, very mature tim­bre. L’Enfant, despite its obvi­ous delight in a child’s point of view, is not a children’s opera. It is a work in which a very sophis­ti­cated adult, with full knowl­edge of his actions, once again sees the world through the mem­ory of a child’s vision. Ravel allows us to laugh and cry with the child in L’Enfant, but the humor is tinged with irony, and the music is suf­fused with the sen­si­bil­ity of an adult, and adult who knows how to play games and wear dif­fer­ent masks, while he retains his own identity.

In his sixty-two years,” observes Ned Rorem, “Ravel, who worked con­stantly, didn’t turn out more than eight hours’ worth of music, as con­trasted to Debussy’s six­teen, Beethoven’s thirty, Wagner’s fifty, Bach’s sev­enty, Ives’s two thou­sand or Webern’s two. Of those eight hours none is slip­shod or routine.”

Ravel pro­duced one work­ing day’s worth of music, in which we can prof­itably spend a lifetime.


Two Musi­cians from the San Fran­cisco Sym­phony Talk about Ravel

Julie Ann Gia­cobassi, Eng­lish Horn:

What’s the first thing that comes to mind when I think about Ravel? Col­or­ing out­side the lines! When I think of some of the clas­si­cal reper­toire, like Beethoven, the music is very defined. But Ravel is like an impres­sion­ist paint­ing, when you com­bine his long lines, his com­plex tonal­ity, his sense of humor. I said that he col­ors out­side the lines, but his woks have sharp­ness and clar­ity. You have to make all the ele­ments fit. He can be ironic — in the best sense. And the music is fiendishly dif­fi­cult to play. When you talk to musi­cians who are com­ing upon Daph­nis for the first time, they can’t believe there are so many notes to learn.

Beyond the tech­ni­cal issues in Ravel, I think it’s hard to take his sim­pler lines and carry them for as long as he intended. I don’t even mean deal­ing with the breath, but just keep­ing the phrase going, keep­ing the inter­est going, keep­ing the story going. It’s like a long com­pli­cated sen­tence, you need to keep mov­ing for­ward. Take that long flute solo in Daph­nis, for instance. It’s not only tech­ni­cally dif­fi­cult, but to make it really work, you have to have the sense of the whole pic­ture and never rest for a minute.

I think of com­plexly cut crys­tal when I think of Ravel, facets of light and color. His works have an enor­mous spec­trum of color. They are com­plex, yet light, witty, sophisticated.


Robin Suther­land, Piano:

The main chal­lenge of Ravel’s music for a pianist is to have enough fin­gers — by that I mean way more than ten — to put across the sound he demands. I’m not going to call that sound “gos­samer,” because it isn’t always that. But it is a sound unique to Ravel, and the chal­lenge is the incred­i­ble amount of work involved in doing it well. For­tu­nately, the music is writ­ten quite grace­fully.. Even in the fiendish turns of Gas­pard de la nuit, it’s always idiomatic, and what you need is where you need it. Ravel’s writ­ing for the piano got thicker as he con­tin­ued com­pos­ing. I think of some of the early pieces as being spindly, yet mag­nif­i­cent, like the Mother Goose Suite or the Sonatine.  But the last move­ment of Mother Goose, The Fairy Gar­den, is quite full of pathos. There’s incred­i­ble grandeur there. And in Beauty and the Beast from Mother Goose—what he does with the melody and its under­pin­nings! He har­mo­nizes it as Brahms would, which is to say a Bach would, and just when you think you might choke on souf­flé, bingo, you’re not chok­ing at all.

There’s a won­der­ful sense of irony — it grabs my heart and gives it a twirl. With Ravel the com­par­i­son and analo­gies end up being gas­tro­nomic. I think of his music as stuff to be eaten with the ears. Prop­erly done, there’s always a sense of being sated.

Ravel has style. You lis­ten to only a few bars of his music and it’s unmis­tak­ably his. The French have a word I love, “ensoleilie.” It doesn’t trans­late into Eng­lish, but if I had to ren­der a sense of it, it would be “en-sunned” — infused, efful­gent. It’s there in Ravel.

A very slightly dif­fer­ent form of this arti­cle appeared orig­i­nally in the pro­gram book of the San Fran­cisco Sym­phony and is used here by permission.

Maurice Ravel – Chansons madécasses




1)    “Nahan­dove, ô belle Nahandove!”

2)   “Aoua!”

3)   “Il est doux…”

The Chan­sons madé­casses were com­mis­sioned by the Amer­i­can patroness  Eliz­a­beth Sprague Coolidge (to whom they are ded­i­cated) who also com­mis­sioned music by Bartók, Hin­demith, Prokofiev, Schoen­berg, Stravinksy and Brit­ten, among oth­ers. She left the choice of text up to Ravel but did sug­gest “if pos­si­ble” adding flute and cello to the piano accompaniment.

Ravel chose to set three poems by Evariste-Désiré de Parny, whose Chan­sons madé­casses, traduites en françois appeared in 1787. In his music, Ravel dives head­long into the unabashed emo­tional realm the poet cre­ates. In each of the three songs, Ravel so totally depicts a new world that is it hard to believe he uses only voice, piano, flute and cello.  “It is a sort of quar­tet in which the singing voice plays the role of prin­ci­pal instru­ment,” Ravel wrote of the cycle. “Sim­plic­ity reigns,  [as does] the inde­pen­dence of the voices.”

The first song, “Nahan­dove, ô belle Nahan­dove!” is the longest of the cycle. The intensely erotic mood of the song begins with a descend­ing phrase in the cello, to which Ravel adds only the voice for the first two verses. It is only as the lover hears Nahan­dove approach­ing that Ravel quick­ens the tempo and adds piano and flute.  Through­out, the song jux­ta­poses erotic lan­guor with fevered antic­i­pa­tion and love­mak­ing, end­ing, as it began, with the cello alone.

Ravel took the warn­ing cry “Aoua!” from Parny’s poem “Méfiez-vous des Blancs” and used it as the title of his sec­ond song, a harsh, angry denun­ci­a­tion of the white man. Even the quiet sec­tions of the song have a night­mar­ish, dis­turb­ing qual­ity, per­fectly in keep­ing with the poet’s anguished words.

In the last song, “Il est doux…,” Ravel con­jures a lan­guid, heat-drenched world in which even the talk of danc­ing evokes a lazy, sen­sual rhythm. When the singer calls for sup­per to be pre­pared, Ravel stops the music abruptly, and the exotic worlds he so deftly cre­ated sim­ply vanish.

The Chan­sons madé­casses were pre­miered  at the Amer­i­can Acad­emy in Rome on May 8, 1926 by singer Jane Bathori, with Alfredo Casella, piano; Louis Fleury, flute; and Hans Kindler, cello.  The com­poser him­self later tran­scribed them for voice and piano alone.

This arti­cle appeared orig­i­nally in the pro­gram book of the San Fran­cisco Sym­phony and is used here by per­mis­sion.


Ravel’s Waltzes – Noble, Sentimental, Always Enchanting



As the waltz began shed­ding its ländler folk-dance roots and emerg­ing into the glid­ing, twirling dance we know today, it also acquired the rep­u­ta­tion of being shock­ing erotic. Cou­ples danced closely together, clasped in each other’s arms, “each move­ment mak­ing lit­tle lust­ful pres­sures,” sniffed one onlooker. But as the Nine­teenth Cen­tury pro­gressed, pro­hi­bi­tions against the waltz gave way to a waltz craze, fueled by the entic­ing three-quarter-time music that swept all of Europe into its lilt­ing rhythm.

The title Valses Nobles et Sen­ti­men­tales suf­fi­ciently indi­cates my inten­tion of writ­ing a cycle of waltzes after the exam­ple of Schu­bert,” said Ravel, though most lis­ten­ers today are more likely to think of Johann Strauss, Jr. What­ever the actual inspi­ra­tion, Ravel’s cycle of eight waltzes was orig­i­nally writ­ten for piano, and had its pre­mier in 1911 at a con­cert put on by the Soci­eté Musi­cales Indépen­dante. None of the pieces were attrib­uted to com­posers and the audi­ence voted on each work’s author­ship. Ravel later remem­bered his work being “per­formed to the accom­pa­ni­ment of hoots and cat-calls.” Though Debussy com­mented, “It is the prod­uct of the finest ear that has ever existed.”

A year later Ravel orches­trated it — superbly. The bril­liant instru­men­ta­tion gives each waltz a unique tim­bre, so that even in the eighth waltz (labeled “Epi­logue” in the score) when mate­r­ial from the ear­lier waltzes returns, it takes on a dif­fer­ent hue. The first waltz begins with a series of brac­ing chords, like the first sips of a per­fectly chilled mar­tini on a swel­ter­ing after­noon, astrin­gent and filled with deli­cious promise. From exu­ber­ance to inti­macy, from child­like glee to wispy melan­choly, each rav­ish­ingly beau­ti­ful waltz has its own sharply etched char­ac­ter defined within a mea­sure or two, though Ravel said “the sev­enth waltz seems to me to be the most char­ac­ter­is­tic.” With the excep­tion of the third waltz that segues into the fourth with­out a break, the waltzes are sep­a­rated by a slight pause.

Through­out Ravel’s fabled crafts­man­ship is fully in evi­dence. Each waltz is a per­fect minia­ture, its melody, rhythm and har­mony set out in a such a way that the lis­tener can­not con­ceive of a sin­gle note being dif­fer­ent than it is. The piece as a whole is enchant­i­ngly summed up by a quo­ta­tion Ravel put at the head of the score, from Henrí de Régnier’s Les Ren­con­tres de Mon­sieur de Bréot: “…the plea­sure, delight­ful and always new, of a use­less vocation.”

A slightly dif­fer­ent ver­sion of these notes appeared in the 2010 Lucerne Fes­ti­val Sum­mer pro­gram book.