Music history is sadly full of stories of brilliant composers whose lives were cut tragically short. Felix Mendelssohn and George Gershwin both died at 38; George Bizet died at 36, never knowing that his opera Carmen would become perhaps the most celebrated opera of all time. Mozart was only 35 when he left us, and Franz Schubert a mere 31. Despite their early deaths, each of these composers left behind a substantial catalog of works, many of which remain among the most beloved music ever composed. Not so the brilliant French composer Lili Boulanger, who had just begun to set the music world on fire when Crohn’s disease took her at the tender age of 24.

Lili was the second child of two professional musicians. Her father, Ernest Boulanger, was a composer of some note, and her mother was a contralto. Her older sister Nadia also composed and would eventually become known worldwide as one of the preeminent composition teachers of the 20th century. Lili’s talent was recognized early, but a bout with bronchial pneumonia at age two left her physically frail. Her weakened condition meant that her musical studies were mostly done at home, as she was not physically strong enough to undertake the normal curriculum at the Paris Conservatory. She did manage to enroll in one composition class from 1911 to 1913, however, and at the conclusion of that class she submitted her cantata Faust et Hélène for consideration for the Prix de Rome, an enormously prestigious prize that funded a residency for composers to study in Rome. It was the most coveted composition award in all of Europe, and her father had won it in 1835. Incredibly, she was awarded the top prize in the Prix de Rome that year, the first woman ever to do so. The resulting attention and headlines in the international press were extraordinary. Lili was 19 years old.

Her residency at the Villa Medici in Rome was unfortunately cut short by the outbreak of World War I. When she eventually returned, her health began to collapse, and she had to head home to Paris, where she struggled to continue composing. It was shortly after undergoing an appendectomy in 1917 that she wrote two brief companion pieces, D’un soir triste (Of a Sad Evening) and D’un matin de printemps (Of a Spring Morning). They would be among her final compositions, as she died mere months after their completion.

While D’un soir triste is an understandably somber work, D’un matin de printemps is the definition of joy. The bustling energy of new life is everywhere as chirping woodwinds, delicate percussion, muted strings, celeste, and harp combine in delicious, sweeping gestures—a whirlwind of activity as life, large and small, reawakens. Like Debussy and her fellow Impressionist composers, Boulanger makes ample use of the woodwinds with swirling melodies punctuated by muted brass, creating a churning sea of timbres. The work’s end is particularly unique as the orchestra cedes to a sweeping harp glissando, leading to a final exclamation point from the whole ensemble. A mere two months from death, a weakened Lili Boulanger composed a love letter to the energy of new life, making us all wonder what else she could have accomplished, if she’d only had more time.

Music history is full of the life stories of composers who were child prodigies—creative geniuses whose gifts were discovered and celebrated early and by many. But for every Mozart who was performing for royalty before his tenth birthday, there is a Dvořák. Born into a family of butchers, Dvořák struggled for decades as an underpaid church organist and community orchestra violist, composing primarily as a hobby. It was only in his mid-thirties that he was finally “discovered” and began to gain international recognition. The “discovering” was done in large part by Johannes Brahms, who in 1875 had served on a panel of composers judging works submitted by “impoverished artists” who were seeking scholarships from the Ministry of Culture and Education in Vienna. Dvořák had submitted 15 works, including two complete symphonies. It is recorded that Brahms was “visibly overcome” by “the mastery and talent of Dvořák,” and the struggling Czech composer was awarded first prize. It was this financial award that finally allowed the 33-year-old husband and father to begin composing full time.

The Symphony in D Major, although the sixth symphony Dvořák wrote, was actually the first to be published. It was written in seven weeks during the early fall of 1880 after a request by Hans Richter, then conductor of the Vienna Philharmonic. Richter had conducted Dvořák’s Third Slavonic Rhapsody in a performance in 1879 and was quite taken by the work. Unfortunately, due to a series of delays, the symphony was not premiered in Vienna but rather in Prague, where it was well received. Richter eventually conducted the work in London, but the Vienna Philharmonic did not perform the piece until decades later.

The symphony is a shining example of Dvořák’s mature style, which incorporates his lifelong love of Bohemian folk music within the traditional Germanic symphonic structures. The first movement, Allegro non tanto, has frequently been compared with the opening of Brahms’ Second Symphony, not only in that they share the key of D major but also in the pastoral quality of the themes and the bucolic writing for horns and woodwinds. The composer’s sheer joy in nature is evident throughout the movement. The Adagio is one of Dvořák’s most idyllic slow movements. Here the woodwinds and horns still reign supreme, and the comparisons to Beethoven’s “Pastoral” Symphony No. 6 are frequently noted. The third movement, Furiant, is where Dvořák’s love of Czech folk music is front and center. It was following this movement that the audience at the premiere in Prague demanded an immediate encore. The Finale is a jubilant romp through the countryside—a full-throated expression of joy from a mature artist finally receiving the recognition he so long deserved.

It was March 7, 1928, and Maurice Ravel was celebrating his 53rd birthday in New York. The Frenchman, who by this point in his career was widely considered one of the world’s greatest living composers, was in the midst of a four-month tour that would take him to 20 cities across North America. He was scheduled to conduct the New York Symphony in a program of his works the following day but had accepted an invitation from the Canadian mezzo-soprano Éva Gauthier to attend a party in his honor. Among the guests invited that evening was one young man in particular that Ravel had been eager to meet: 29-year-old George Gershwin.

Like many Europeans, Ravel had heard Gershwin’s music, and he had been enchanted by a performance he attended of the musical Funny Face. He had expressed an interest in meeting Gershwin and was particularly hoping to hear him perform his Rhapsody in Blue. At the party that evening, Gershwin happily complied with the request, and the attendees were treated to an impromptu performance of Rhapsody in Blue as well as a selection of Gershwin’s songs. The performance, according to Gauthier, was spectacular. She later recalled, “George that night surpassed himself, achieving astounding feats in rhythmic intricacies, so that even Ravel was dumbfounded.” The respect between the men was apparently mutual, as Gershwin actually approached Ravel that evening with a request for composition lessons. Ravel, however, was so impressed with Gershwin’s natural talent that he turned him down, saying, “It is better to write good Gershwin than bad Ravel, which is what would happen if you worked with me.” A friendship had been struck, and Gershwin took Ravel to the Savoy Ballroom and the Cotton Club in Harlem, where he heard Duke Ellington and his orchestra. Later that month, Ravel published an essay in the magazine Musical Digest, where he encouraged Americans to take jazz seriously, writing, “Personally I find jazz most interesting: the rhythms, the way the melodies are handled, the melodies themselves. I have heard some of George Gershwin’s works, and I find them intriguing.” It should not be surprising, then, that when Ravel returned to France and began work the following year on his second piano concerto, the rhythms, melodies, and harmonies of American jazz were at the forefront of his consciousness.

Begun in 1929 and completed in 1931, the Concerto in G was originally intended to be performed by Ravel on a grand world tour that he had envisioned. He noted that his goal was to compose “a true concerto” in the spirit of Mozart and Saint-Saëns, one that put the spotlight squarely on the soloist and their virtuosity, as opposed to the larger, more symphonic concerti of the late 19th century. He wrote, “… the music of a concerto should, in my opinion, be lighthearted and brilliant, and not aim at profundity or at dramatic effects. It has been said of certain great classics [specifically Brahms] that their concertos were written not ‘for,’ but ‘against’ the piano. I heartily agree.” To this end, Ravel’s orchestra is markedly smaller than those required for a Romantic-era concerto, and the soloist and orchestra seem to be collaborating rather than competing for attention.

Opening with the “crack of a whip,” the first movement, marked allegramente (cheerfully), takes off like a horse bursting out of the stall as a perky piccolo solo, pizzicato strings, and piano glissandos set a jaunty mood. The soloist takes the spotlight next in a sultry blues music that could have come directly from one of the Harlem nightclubs Ravel and Gershwin visited. Extended solos for woodwinds, trumpet, harp, and horn give the middle of the movement an exotic feel as the nightclub music blends dreamily with elegant French Impressionist harmonies. The movement vacillates seamlessly between these two sound worlds—a true blend of the French and American sounds—and ends with a virtuosic, Gershwin-esque coda.

The second movement, one of the most poignant and beautiful Ravel ever wrote, opens with an extended piano melody, the composition of which Ravel lamented “nearly killed him.” The painstaking work paid off, however, as the deceptively simple right-hand melody, accompanied by a muted waltz rhythm in the left hand, creates an almost hypnotic effect. Woodwind solos eventually join the reverie, culminating in an extended solo for the English horn, above which the soloist provides a decorative filagree. The movement ends as peacefully as it began, drifting off into a gentle slumber.

Ensuring that no one remains asleep for long, thundering brass and percussion announce the opening of the final movement, a virtuosic tour de force for soloist and orchestra. There is a kind of manic energy to the movement as the piano races and chatters while woodwinds and brass swoop in jazzy riffs above it. Here Gershwin makes a return appearance as the syncopated rhythms and bustling energy of the music bring to mind the streets of New York. By the end, the entire orchestra is whirling in a magnificent frenzy as they and the soloist race together to a breathtaking conclusion.

Ravel had to content himself with conducting the premiere of the work in 1932, his skills at the piano having fallen short of what the piece required. Nonetheless, the concerto found immediate acclaim and served as proof that the “high-brow” European tradition and the “unwashed emotion” of American jazz could not only co-exist, but combine for a pretty spectacular cocktail—if only you have a composer skilled enough to create it.

Composers, and artists in general, can be notorious control freaks. It is natural, when you are creating something that is a profoundly personal statement, to want it to be “perfect.” What the artist cannot control, however, is the public’s reaction to their work. While some may be stung by harsh criticism, others may be mystified or even annoyed that a work that they considered relatively insignificant becomes their most celebrated work. Author A.A. Milne produced 25 plays and seven novels during his lifetime, but he remains most famous for his children’s series Winnie the Pooh. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle actually resorted to killing off Sherlock Holmes in order to give himself more time to devote to what he considered his life’s work: writing historical fiction. And so, it would undoubtedly be frustrating to the brilliant Maurice Ravel that, despite having produced an extraordinary catalog of elaborate, complex, and meticulously crafted masterpieces, history remembers him first and foremost for a work that he once described as “a piece … consisting wholly of orchestral texture without music”—his repetitive, unrelenting, and thoroughly magnificent Boléro.

Originally composed as ballet music, Boléro was commissioned by the Russian dancer Ida Rubinstein, who had originally requested transcriptions of six piano pieces by the Spanish composer Isaac Albéniz. Ravel eventually decided to compose an original work instead, choosing as his inspiration the Spanish dance form, bolero. Ravel’s Boléro had its premiere in November, 1928 at the Paris Opera, accompanying a ballet that depicted a party in a Spanish tavern. A female reveler, cheered on by her companions, jumps up on a table and wows the crowd with her increasingly animated dancing. The ballet is rarely performed today, but the music was an immediate sensation and is today one of the most beloved works in the entire orchestral repertoire. It has also found its way into popular culture, most famously having been featured prominently in the 1979 movie 10, starring Dudley Moore and Bo Derek.

The piece is stunningly simplistic in its construction, comprised of just two competing melodies each played twice then repeated in sequence, with each repetition gradually becoming louder and more harmonically complex. The two melodies are accompanied by a relentless bolero rhythm played by a lone snare drum. (The snare drummer is frequently moved toward the front of the orchestra in recognition of the importance of their role, as well as the extraordinary difficulty of playing the same rhythm over and over, while gradually getting louder and louder, for almost 15 minutes.) Opening with a lone flute, the work slowly builds through multiple extended solos, duos, and passages for ever-larger forces. Ravel masterfully manages the building musical tension, as if he is slowly adding ever more pungent ingredients to a simmering broth. In total, there are 18 repetitions of the main themes before a dazzling coda, which finally breaks the cycle with a spectacular tonal modulation and technicolor conclusion. With swooping brass and thundering percussion, the tension reaches critical mass, and the final explosion of color and sound inevitably leaves the listener breathless and exhilarated.

Although the work’s premiere was immediately successful, its popularity exploded after Arturo Toscanini programmed it for a performance by the New York Philharmonic at the Paris Opera in 1930. The story of that performance, and the “not-so-gentlemanly” disagreement between Toscanini and Ravel, remains a favorite tidbit of classical music folklore. Apparently, Toscanini’s tempo that night was markedly faster than what Ravel had indicated in the score. Ravel was so annoyed that he refused to stand when acknowledged from the stage by Toscanini during the ample applause. Backstage, the two men had a tense exchange. By one account, Ravel told the conductor that his tempo was too fast, to which Toscanini replied that the faster tempo was “the only way to save the work.” By another account, Ravel said, “That's not my tempo.” Toscanini replied, “When I play it at your tempo, it is not effective,” to which Ravel retorted, “Then do not play it!” Months later, Ravel did attempt to smooth things over, inviting Toscanini to conduct the premiere of his Piano Concerto for the Left Hand. Toscanini, however, declined.

Ravel was anxious that the public understand that Boléro was not intended to be a profound work, writing that it was nothing more than “an experiment in a very special and limited direction” that “should not be suspected of aiming at achieving anything different from, or anything more than, it actually does achieve.” He saw the work as having fulfilled a simple commission and not as a masterpiece that would define his legacy. “I have done exactly what I have set out to do, and it is for listeners to take it or leave it,” he wrote. Listeners have been gratefully “taking it” for almost 100 years now, and no one would be more surprised by that than the composer himself.