Maurice Ravel
Musica orchestrale

Let's leave aside the "Boléro." I have nothing against the most famous piece by Maurice Ravel, but first of all, it has already been excellently addressed in this venue, and then I consider it a spectacular anomaly, a successfully executed coup, a remarkable intuition that has pushed beyond the very boundaries of classical music, towards a hypnotic repetitiveness that is more characteristic of other genres. Instead, I prefer to discover, guided by the brilliant yet respectful interpretation of Pierre Boulez with the New York Philharmonic, what seems to me to be the most authentic Ravel, his perfect balance between tradition and innovation, between the reminiscences of ancient musical forms (baroque, sometimes even five or six-century forms, like the "Pavane") and the modern "impressionist" concept of music, which at the time (late 1800s-early 1900s) was considered a descriptive art on par with painting, hence the abundant presence of "thematic" compositions among Ravel's works and even more so of his illustrious compatriot Debussy, the quintessential impressionist.

At the heart of Ravel's exceptional descriptive ability is an almost absolute wisdom in orchestration, an inimitable mastery in making the most of the orchestra's so-called "colors", which are nothing more than the various timbres expressible by the instruments, with all their possible combinations.
It's no surprise then that much of his work is better known in the orchestral version than in the original, almost always pianistic. This even applies to works by others: the well-known example of Mussorgsky's "Pictures at an Exhibition", which we are now accustomed to knowing with the perfect attire that Ravel tailored onto the original bare skeleton. So let's travel a bit in the company of this great illustrator, who moves through time (back, even quite a lot) and space (towards Spain) to collect images he will then fix in indelible motifs, like the moving "Pavane pour une enfante défunte", immersing us in an enchanted aura of noble antiquity. The simple beauty of the main theme, presented by the horn, has such a direct impact that it overshadows the cultured revival of this ancient dance, which ends up serving as a neutral backdrop to this immortal melody.
The "Menuet antique" is another leap into the past, but in this case, the structure of the minuet (with the inevitable "trio," a sweet oasis of peace) is clearly perceivable, even if covered by a mantle of modern loud sounds and the percussive effects of the timpani, which certainly the naive minuets of the 1700s could not boast. "La valse" could be described as a caricature of the Viennese waltz, but with nothing in common with Mahler's ghostly waltzes, which seem to invite dancing on the edge of a precipice. Here, irony prevails: spurts of "fortissimo," frenzied "crescendos," and furious timpani blows abruptly cut off hints of more romantic themes. The result is a waltz that, although distorted, gains its own frivolous elegance, exquisitely French.
In the suite "Ma mère l'Oye" (literally "Mother Goose") Ravel explores the world of childhood, inspired by Perrault's fairy tales. Perhaps it is in absolute terms the highest testament of that "pictorial" skill mentioned before. The scenes that follow are striking for an almost "three-dimensional" sound that seems to throw the listener into the heart of the fairy tale. The clearest example is "Laideronnette, impératrice des pagodes" with its triumph of little bells and the chirping of flutes, piccolos, and oboes, an almost perfect blend of winds, while the most touching melody once again is associated with the gentle rhythm of a "Pavane" ("Pavane de la belle au bois dormant"). But it's the entire suite that captivates the listener, leaving them wide-eyed like a child being told a fairy tale, and perhaps this is precisely its purpose. Ravel's compass often points West, where the nearby exoticism of Spanish music offers an inexhaustible source of colors. Surely, his being born (to a Basque mother) in a village in the Pyrenees would have a certain influence on this. The "Rhapsodie espagnole", a rare example of a Ravelian work conceived directly for the orchestra, is introduced by the disquieting "Prélude à la nuit", which, thanks to the obsessive repetition of a four-note thematic sketch, manages to evoke the atmosphere of sleepless anticipation before an important day (who knows, perhaps the eve of a bullfight...).
Following are three typically Spanish dances: the "Malagueña", with the beautiful contrast between the deep throbbing of the basses and the sharp, pungent motif presented by the trumpet, the "Habanera", languid and sensual but loaded with a creeping tension, and the overwhelming "Feria", which after some initial hesitation and a brief reappearance of the disquieting theme from the Prelude, fully unleashes this tension. "Alborada del gracioso" is also animated by the frenzy of Spanish dances. In the prancing initial part, we move to the rhythm of castanets, and then the bassoon, the most grumbling of instruments, takes the word and introduces a slow pause, soon to be disturbed by increasingly frequent timpani jolts, until the forceful return of the castanets fully brings back the initial dance.

I can only recommend to everyone a journey through Ravel's orchestral world, confident that even for those not fond of the genre, this world will end up revealing itself as rich in pleasant sensations.