Boléro

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.