Ravel’s Boléro

Composers often set aside ideas that strike them in a flash of inspiration, waiting until the right moment arrives to wrestle them down in detail and give them an enduring form. For Bernd Richard Deutsch, one such idea was to write a work exploring the elemental forces that shape our lives. Franz Welser-Möst provided the occasion when he commissioned a score for The Cleveland Orchestra and Chorus, giving Deutsch carte blanche to choose whatever subject he wished. Cleveland audiences already know the Austrian composer from his tenure as the Orchestra’s Daniel R. Lewis Composer Fellow from 2017 to 2020, which saw performances of his organ concerto Okeanos and the world premiere of Intensity (performed here in 2019 and 2022, respectively). 

Deutsch searched for a text that could carry such breadth and universality and yet be pithy enough to resonate in music than overwhelm it. He found it in Urworte. Orphisch (Primal Words: Orphic), a cycle of five poems Johann Wolfgang von Goethe wrote relatively late in his career. Deutsch realized that the cycle readily lent itself to a five-movement form: each poem establishes a contrasting mood and atmosphere as Goethe traces the arc of a human life. Yet taken together, the five poems form a coherent whole, framed at the beginning and end by a cosmic perspective. 

In the process, Deutsch found himself reflecting on questions that remain as relevant now as in Goethe’s time. “In Urworte, Goethe speaks about the forces that influence all of our lives. He does so by considering the whole lifespan of a human being and ending with the concept of hope,” Deutsch explains. 

Goethe wrote these enigmatic, eight-line stanzas in the fall of 1817, giving each a subtitle that names its respective “primal word”: Daimon (“Demon,” referring to the inborn essence or genius rather of an individual), Tyche (“Chance” or “The Accidental”), Eros (“Love” or “Passion”), Ananke (“Necessity” or “Limitation”), and Elpis (“Hope”). The first four words derive from a late-Classical Roman source that lists Greek words naming divinities presiding over birth. Goethe’s own invention was to conclude with the forward-looking concept of Hope (not present in the ancient source). 

The full title, Urworte. Orphisch, evokes the ancient tradition of poetry attributed to the mythical singer Orpheus — texts dealing with wisdom, creation, and the ordering forces of the cosmos. By invoking this label, Goethe suggested that his five “primal words” are timeless formulas of Fate and existence, distilled for a modern age. 

To give these poems and concepts musical form, Deutsch understood that they demanded the largest forces at his disposal. Because Goethe is not speaking from an individual perspective but to humanity as a whole, the score is conceived for chorus as a collective protagonist, without soloists. The instrumentation is correspondingly lavish. Contrabassoon, bass clarinet, and other low winds, reinforced by brass and low strings, form the subterranean foundation of Deutsch’s soundworld, while piccolo, high woodwinds, divided strings, and glittering percussion reach into the stratosphere. This vast range creates a spatial dimension that mirrors the cosmic scale of Goethe’s vision. 

At various points throughout this ambitious score, the massive choral-orchestral forces recall the textures of Schoenberg’s Gurre-Lieder, while pounding ostinatos and stark harmonic repetitions carry a Stravinskian edge. Yet Deutsch refracts these antecedents into a language all his own — by turns playful, severe, luminous. 

In the opening preludial passage, a dense, brooding chord is sustained in the lowest and darkest register, setting the work in motion with a thick cluster of sound that seems to rumble up from an ancient source. From this emerges a motive stated by the contrabassoon that seeds the entire first movement, while the brooding, cosmogenic sonority that launches Urworte returns at the very end, enclosing the whole work in a great arc. 

This lays the foundation for the Daimon movement. For Goethe and the ancient Greeks alike, “Demon” did not connote something diabolical. It refers to a neutral force or guiding spirit “that drives people,” according to Deutsch, and “signifies character, talent, that inner essence or charisma that is elusive and yet tangibly present.” But it also encompasses the creative force that makes artists unique, adds Deutsch, and was translated by the Romans into “genius.” 

The chorus enters not with melody but in close, hovering harmonies that create a suspended, almost ritualistic atmosphere. At times, it declaims Goethe’s words in massive, block-like sonorities; at others, the writing dissolves into shimmering melismas, whispered consonants, or even spoken shouts. At a certain point in each movement, the chorus explicitly enunciates its primal word, as if sealing Goethe’s aphorisms in sound. 

Tyche, by contrast, is mercurial and scherzo-like, the music darting in unpredictable directions: sudden choral shouts, flickering orchestral colors, restless percussion that rattles and scrapes like Chance itself. The texture feels volatile, unstable, ready to veer off course. The chorus seizes on the stanza’s final verse — Die Lampe harrt der Flamme, die entzündet (The lamp awaits the flame that will ignite it) — and repeats it ecstatically, fanning the image into a blaze of sound. “No other phrase is repeated and illuminated musically so often,” according to the composer. 

The flame is revealed as Eros, which begins with the strains of a long flute solo, its voice wandering and searching. “Goethe says that Eros comes from chaos, emptiness, loneliness,” notes Deutsch, who reflects the poet’s idea of Eros as “both love and creative energy.” 

Where Eros opened outward, Ananke closes in. The music pounds with motoric rhythms, circling obsessively around the same harmonic space as Deutsch implies the narrowing of possibilities with a claustrophobic sound world that refuses release. Goethe’s line that Ananke can cause “the most beloved is exiled from the heart” finds its echo in the relentless textures. 

Elpis begins in brightness: high strings shimmer, harps glisten, delicate percussion colors rustle like distant bells or rushing wind. The chorus soars in expansive melismas before subsiding into hushed, sustained chords. Goethe’s final image is of a wingbeat that spans eons, placing human life in a cosmic frame. Deutsch’s music correspondingly becomes vast, elemental — and, ultimately, unresolved. “It’s more a question mark at the end,” he remarked. “I don’t give an answer.” 

— Thomas May 

Thomas May is a writer, critic, educator, and translator. A regular contributor to The New York Times, The Seattle Times, Gramophone, and Strings magazine, he is the English-language editor for the Lucerne Festival.

Composer’s Note

In my view, Goethe’s five “primal words” encompass a kind of “Song of Destiny.” I had long wanted to write a piece about the primal forces that shape our lives, and when I encountered this cycle of five poems, I realized that the ideas I wanted to express had been formulated there in exemplary fashion. These five stanzas cover the entire span of a human life: from childhood, youth, and early and middle adulthood through to old age. 

There is a strong contrast between ancient and modern concepts of Fate. In Greek mythology, people seem helpless before the gods — think of Oedipus, who fulfills the oracle despite every attempt to resist. To oppose Fate is futile, for greater forces prevail. Modern, enlightened thought, by contrast, focuses on the individual and on shaping one’s own destiny, a view that has led to great advances and revolutionary change. Yet the last word is not spoken, and there is always the danger of failing through hubris. 

For Goethe, Daimon (Demon) was an extremely important concept. It is a force that drives people: character, talent, that certain something, charisma; it represents an elusive yet tangible essence. For Goethe as poet, the Daimon is above all the force that drives an artist creatively and makes him or her unique. A central theme of the piece is the question: Does freedom exist, and if so, what does it consist of? 

The pair Daimon and Tyche (The Accidental) express a contrast between two principles: genetic disposition and environmental influences. Both are decisive. A key sentence in the Tyche poem reads: “The lamp awaits the flame that will ignite it.” For me, this is one of the most important thoughts in the entire cycle. No other phrase is repeated and illuminated musically so often in my composition. Eros (Love) follows immediately and reveals that flame: not only love, but another central driving force in every creative activity. 

Ananke (Necessity) personifies compulsion and restriction. She can even bring it about that “the most beloved is exiled from the heart,” and our alleged freedom ultimately proves to be an illusion. 

Elpis (Hope) is, like Fate, indestructible and, like Daimon, Tyche, and Eros, a force that drives us. It lifts and inspires us. The final line — “A wing flap! and behind us lie the eons” — suggests both immortality and the universal validity of the five principles across the ages. 

— Bernd Richard Deutsch (adapted from an interview with Kerstin Schüssler-Bach) 

Sung Texts

Urworte for Chorus and Orchestra 
by Bernd Richard Deutsch 
Text by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe 
English translation by Kirk Wetters (from Demonic History: From Goethe to the Present. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 2015)

I. ΔAIMΩN: DÄMON (DAIMON: DEMON) 
Wie an dem Tag, der Dich der Welt verliehen 
Die Sonne stand zum Gruße der Planeten, 
Bist alsobald und fort und fort gediehen, 
Nach dem Gesetz, wonach Du angetreten. 
So mußt Du sein, Dir kannst Du nicht entfliehen, 
So sagten schon Sibyllen, so Propheten, 
Und keine Zeit und keine Macht zerstückelt 
Geprägte Form die lebend sich entwickelt. 

As on the day you were granted to the world, 
The sun stood to greet the planets, 
You likewise began to thrive, forth and forth, 
Following the law that governed your accession. 
You must be so, you cannot flee yourself, 
Thus sibyls long ago pronounced, thus prophets, 
And neither time nor any power can dismember 
Characteristic form, living, self-developing. 

II. TYXH: DAS ZUFÄLLIGE (TYCHE: THE ACCIDENTAL)
Die strenge Grenze doch umgeht gefällig 
Ein Wandelndes, das mit und um uns wandelt; 
Nicht einsam bleibst Du, bildest Dich gesellig, 
Und handelst wohl so wie ein andrer handelt. 
Im Leben ist’s bald hinbald widerfällig, 
Es ist ein Tand und wird so durchgetandelt. 
Schon hat sich still der Jahre Kreis geründet, 
Die Lampe harrt der Flamme die entzündet. 

Yet this strict limit is gently circumscribed 
By a fluctuation that flows around and with us; 
You are not alone, but shape yourself socially, 
And must certainly act just as another acts. 
In life things are often due, overdue, redone, 
It is a trinket, passed in makeshift thrift. 
The circle of the years is already silently closed, 
The lamp awaits the flame that will ignite it. 

III. EPΩΣ: LIEBE (EROS: LOVE)
Die bleibt nicht aus! — Er stürzt vom Himmel nieder, 
Wohin er sich aus alter Öde schwang, 
Er schwebt heran auf luftigem Gefieder 
Um Stirn und Brust den Frühlingstag entlang, 
Scheint jetzt zu fliehn, vom Fliehen kehrt er wieder, 
Da wird ein Wohl im Weh, so süß und bang. 
Gar manches Herz verschwebt im Allgemeinen, 
Doch widmet sich das Edelste dem Einen. 

And there she is! — He hurtles down from the heaven, 
Where he had lifted himself out of ancient chaos, 
He soars and surges forward on airy wings 
Surrounding brow and breast across the vernal day, 
Seems now to flee, but in flight he turns about, 
Creating pleasure in the pain, so happy and forlorn. 
Many a heart drifts away in generality, 
But the noblest devotes itself to the One. 

IV. ANAΓKH: NÖTIGUNG (ANANKE: NECESSITY)
Da ist’s denn wieder, wie die Sterne wollten: 
Bedingung und Gesetz und aller Wille 
Ist nur ein Wollen, weil wir eben sollten, 
Und vor dem Willen schweigt die Willkür stille; 
Das Liebste wird vom Herzen weggescholten, 
Dem harten Muß bequemt sich Will’ und Grille. 
So sind wir scheinfrei denn nach manchen Jahren, 
Nur enger dran als wir am Anfang waren. 

Now all follows once again the stars’ will: 
The terms and laws and the wills of all 
Are but a single will, just because we have to, 
And before the will all choice is silenced; 
The most beloved is exiled from the heart, 
Desire and fancy submit to hard compulsion. 
Thus apparently then, after many years, we are 
Only more tightly bound than in the beginning. 

V. EΛIIIΣ: HOFFNUNG (ELPIS: HOPE)
Doch solcher Grenze, solcher eh’rnen Mauer 
Höchst widerwärt’ge Pforte wird entriegelt, 
Sie stehe nur mit alter Felsendauer! 
Ein Wesen regt sich leicht und ungezügelt, 
Aus Wolkendecke, Nebel, Regenschauer 
Erhebt sie uns, mit ihr, durch sie beflügelt, 
Ihr kennt sie wohl, sie schwärmt durch alle Zonen; 
Ein Flügelschlag! und hinter uns Äonen.

But such a limit, such a steely wall, 
Its most revolting portal is unlatched, 
Though it may stand with a mountain’s age! 
A being arises lightly, without reins, 
Out of the clouds’ cover, fog and rainfall, 
It lifts us up, with her, by her wings, 
You know her well, she swarms toward every zone; 
A wing flap! and behind us lie the eons.

Until about 1900, Richard Strauss concentrated largely on his great series of symphonic poems — from Don Juan (1888) to Ein Heldenleben (1898). His first two operas, Guntram (1893) and Feuersnot (1901), were failures; his third, Salome (1905), became a universally acclaimed masterpiece. Despite being one of his most celebrated operas, Salome is also one of his most provocative and controversial works. The premiere, in 1905, was a huge success, despite its shockingly modern musical style and a plot that struck many as an insult to morality. 

In Oscar Wilde’s one-act play Salomé (1892), the biblical story was modernized and turned into an erotic thriller focusing on the morbid aspects of the legend. As soon as Strauss had seen a performance of Wilde’s play in Max Reinhardt’s Little Theater in Berlin, he knew it had great operatic potential. Rather than having the drama adapted as a libretto, he set Wilde’s original text directly to music (in Hedwig Lachmann’s German translation), with only a few minor changes. 

At one pivotal point in the opera, Salome performs the shocking “Dance of the Seven Veils” for her stepfather, Herod, the ruler of Judea, who has given his word to grant her heart’s desire, whatever it may be, in return. Salome does not name her prize until the dance is over. To Herod’s horror, she demands the head of John the Baptist (Jochanaan in the German translation), the imprisoned prophet who has pronounced a curse on Salome because of her shamelessness. 

The onstage musicians begin to play a fast and wild introduction for Salome, but the princess’s motions them to slow down so she can begin the dance in a languid mood. The music has a distinctly seductive character at the start, with long notes preceded by rapid ornaments, and the interval of the augmented second — Strauss’s attempt to evoke Middle Eastern music. After a while, the dance gives way to a waltz (slow at first but gradually getting more animated). The strains of the waltz include a short, four-note motive that recurs throughout the opera, symbolizing Salome’s relationship to Jochanaan, a mixture of awe, revulsion, and strong sexual attraction. 

For a moment, Salome seems exhausted, but she recovers her strength for the frenzied last section of her dance, where the opening seductive motives are combined with the accelerated waltz theme. She briefly looks into the cistern where Jochanaan is imprisoned (the flutes and oboes play Salome’s theme at this moment), and then throws herself at Herod’s feet, sure of her imminent triumph. 

Following Salome’s dance — heard here as a stand-alone orchestral work — the opera moves quickly to its finish. Despite his promise to Salome, Herod cannot bring himself to order Jochanaan’s execution. Salome’s mother and Herod’s wife, Herodias (who hates Jochanaan), removes the ring of death from her husband’s finger and gives it to the executioner. Thus, Herod is forced by his oath to comply with Salome’s murderous wish. 

In the final scene, we see the bloodthirsty princess being presented with Jochanaan’s head on a silver platter. She addresses the dead prophet in a solo that is in turn tender, ecstatic, mocking, and mysterious. Herod then watches in horror as Salome kisses the severed head before ordering his soldiers to “kill this woman,” whereupon the curtain falls and the opera ends. 

— Peter Laki 

Peter Laki is a musicologist and frequent lecturer on classical music. He is a visiting associate professor of music at Bard College. 

Maurice Ravel once described Boléro as “seventeen minutes of orchestral tissue without music.” Somewhat to the composer’s surprise, Boléro eclipsed most of his other works in popularity. Ravel himself considered it “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.” 

What it does achieve, then, is a single drawn-out crescendo in which the instruments of the orchestra enter gradually to build up the closing climax. The melody, which is quite complex, with many irregularities in its phrase structure, never changes. More precisely, it alternates between two forms. Generally, we hear the first version twice, followed by two renditions of the second version, and then the first form again. The snare drums play the bolero rhythm without a moment’s interruption from beginning to end. The bass part is not exceedingly varied either: it consists of the same two notes, for all but eight measures of the piece. 

Over this clockwork ostinato, the wandering melody snakes its way through the orchestra, starting with solo flute, then clarinet, followed by the bassoon, up through the high-pitched E-flat clarinet, before descending to the oboe d’amore (a double reed pitched between an oboe and English horn). More instruments take their turns: trumpet with flute, saxophones, twinkling celesta and horn, a quartet of reeds, an inebriated-sounding trombone sliding from note to note, the highest-pitched woodwinds, and finally, the strings. The texture continues to build, now with whole swaths of the orchestra jumping in until, almost unexpectedly, the piece tumbles to an end. 

Boléro was first conceived as a ballet for Ida Rubinstein’s dance company in Paris. (Interestingly, the original title was Fandango, another Spanish dance, which has a slower tempo; Ravel always insisted that the tempo of his piece should not be rushed.) The original ballet’s storyline, if it may be called that, has been summarized by one writer as follows: 

The curtain rises on a dark, smoky room in a Spanish tavern. A woman enters, dressed as a gypsy, with a tall Spanish comb and a scarlet and black shawl. Atop a table, she begins to stamp out the rhythm of the bolero. Instantly the room fills with men. The music grows in passion and the woman is joined in the dance, first by one and then by a dozen or so men. The excitement increases. Knives are drawn. A fight is barely avoided. The gypsy woman is tossed from arm to arm. Then, suddenly, all comes to a stop as the music reaches its climax. Curtain. 

Boléro was a sensation at its premiere in Paris in 1928 — the music overshadowing the choreography — and the piece quickly took on a life of its own in the concert hall. This independent success may have been due, in part, to the fact that the ballet’s scenario was not the only thing on Ravel’s mind when he composed the piece. In a 1932 interview printed by the London Evening Standard, Ravel said, “I love going over [to] factories and seeing vast machinery at work. It is awe-inspiring and great. It was a factory which inspired my Boléro. I would like it always to be played with a vast factory in the background.” The same idea had appeared in Ravel’s correspondence with musicologist and friend Alexis Roland-Manuel four years earlier, who had detected rhythmic similarities between Boléro and the “Fabrika” (Factory) movement in Prokofiev’s ballet Le pas d’acier (The Steel Leap), which was produced by the Ballets Russes in Paris in 1927, the year before Boléro. 

Whether you envision Spanish dancers in a smoky room, or the awe-inspiring synchronization of factory automation, Ravel’s Boléro strikes a mesmerizing balance between stasis and momentum, as sure to entrance audiences today as it did almost a century ago. 

— adapted from a program note by Peter Laki