The music of Maurice Ravel (1875-1937) is some of the most exquisitely crafted in the classical repertoire. The composer’s perfectionism is evinced by his small output. There are basically a handful or two of major works, and many of the orchestral pieces are simply arrangements of compositions for piano. But there are few, if any, duds.
Take, for example, the String Quartet (1903). It is easy to see why it has become one of the staples of the repertoire. The melodic ideas are memorable, the harmonies rich, and the form balanced and easy to follow. The theme that opens the first movement serves as the glue that holds everything together, returning in each of the subsequent movements. The result is a work with four contrasting movements that cover a lot of expressive ground but also constitute a coherent whole. Debussy’s String Quartet (1893), with which Ravel’s is often coupled, uses a similar trick.
The Quartet certainly shows Debussy’s influence on Ravel, and the two composers are commonly grouped together under the “impressionist” label. Both rejected it. In my view, to use the label is to highlight certain similarities while obscuring important differences. Debussy and Ravel both wrote subtle music that demonstrates an exceptional sensitivity to colour—a quality they share with Impressionist painters. But while Debussy’s music can be elusive and even Delphic, Ravel’s remains firmly rooted in the classical tradition.
His attachment to classical forms is evident in the piano works. The early Jeux d’eau (1901), despite its extended tonality, unfolds roughly in sonata form—the compositional model that was elevated to great heights by Haydn and Mozart. The crystalline first movement of the Sonatine (1903-05) is similarly conventional, and the second movement is a minuet, possibly Ravel’s favourite dance form (judging from the number that he wrote). Le tombeau de Couperin (1914-17) comprises a prelude, fugue, and series of stylized dances in the Baroque manner.
That said, Ravel’s piano music—for all its refinement—also contains a Lisztian, extroverted element that is mostly absent from Debussy’s compositions for the same instrument. The suites Miroirs (1904-05) and Gaspard de la nuit (1908) are both highly virtuosic. Alborada del gracioso (the fourth piece in Miroirs) and Scarbo (the third part of Gaspard de la nuit) are well-known for the demands they make on the pianist: repeated note passages, double note passages, and passages in which the hands overlap.
The String Quartet aside, Ravel’s finest chamber music is contained in the Piano Trio (1914) and Violin Sonata (1923-27). These two works show Ravel’s interest in what was then considered “exotic” music (a trait he shared not only with Debussy but also a great number of late-nineteenth and early twentieth-century composers). In the Trio, it is Basque music, and in the Sonata, jazz. But these influences are woven into typically Ravelian textures, fastidious and urbane. In addition to the Trio and Sonata, I note the brief but voluptuous Introduction and Allegro (1905) for harp, flute, clarinet, and string quartet—a favourite of mine.
The ear for instrumental timbre that the chamber music demonstrates is even more evident in the orchestral works. Ravel has long been regarded as a master of orchestration; his technicolour arrangement of Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition continues to surpass the composer’s piano original in popularity. It won’t take long to listen to all of the orchestral works, but you should consider starting with La valse (1919-20)—rather than, say, the omnipresent (and incessantly repetitive) Bolero (1928). La valse gives the listener a better sense of Ravel’s expressive range. Originally conceived as a ballet, the piece might be described as a series of Viennese waltzes that go haywire. While Ravel’s orchestration is often associated with radiant, shimmering surfaces (listen to, e.g., the orchestration of La barque sur l’océan from Miroirs), La valse shows that it could also be used to generate darker and more dramatic effects.
I usually end these articles with a remark about how much more music there is out there: music by the composers that I haven’t mentioned. In this instance, given the relative smallness of Ravel’s oeuvre, there is not too much more (in terms of pieces) to listen to. There are a couple of operas and a smattering of orchestral, chamber, piano, and vocal works. And the music is succinct—never overstaying its welcome. Still, Ravel’s compositional finesse means that, even upon returning to a familiar piece, there will always be more to listen for. Indeed, there are few composers whose work better embodies the axiom “quality over quantity.”