Sonata for violin and piano in G major (1927)

Ravel’s solution to the problem of writing for piano and violin, two instruments he considered “essentially incompatible,” was not “to mediate between them,” he said, but “to bring out that very incompatibility.” The opening Allegretto, a fluently melodious pastorale, is an inspired rethinking of sonata form in terms of the differing capabilities of the two instruments. Up to a point about two-thirds of the way through, the thematic material passes from one instrument to the other without discrimination. When the pianist reintroduces the first theme at the beginning of the recapitulation, however, the violin rises above it in a flight of legato melody that elevates the music to a new and sustained level of lyrical radiance. The second movement, explicitly headed Blues and opening with a pizzicato imitation of the banjo, is idiomatically highly sophisticated - so much so, in fact, that the main theme clearly anticipates Gershwin’s “Summertime” and, in return, the middle section introduces an unmistakable echo of the same composer’s “Fascinatin’ rhythm.” In the the Perpetuum mobile finale the violin runs off in 200 consecutive bars of non-stop semiquavers, leaving it to the piano to seal the unity of the work with more or less subtle backward allusions, most clearly and most passionately of all to the “Fascinatin’ rhythm” tune from Blues.

Ravel’s solution to the problem of writing for piano and violin, two instruments he considered “essentially incompatible” was not “to mediate between them,” he said, but “to bring out that very incompatibility.” It took him a long time to work out how to do it, however. Having started work on his Violin Sonata in G major in 1923 it was completed only in 1927 when - in spite of the violinist’s dislike of the jazzy element in the work - it was given a highly successful first performance by George Enescu and Ravel himself in the Salle Erard in Paris.

The opening Allegretto, a fluently melodious pastorale, is an inspired rethinking of sonata form in terms of the differing capabilities of the violin and the piano. Up to a point about two-thirds of the way through, the thematic material passes from one instrument to the other without discrimination. When the pianist reintroduces the first theme at the beginning of the recapitulation, however, the violin rises above it in a flight of legato melody which - though it is persistently taunted by a percussive little ragtime figure - elevates the music to a new and sustained level of lyrical radiance.

The second movement, explicitly headed Blues, is idiomatically highly sophisticated - so much so, in fact, that the main theme clearly anticipates Gershwin’s “Summertime” and, in return, the middle section introduces an unmistakable echo of the same composer’s “Fascinatin’ rhythm.” Opening with a pizzicato imitation of the banjo, Blues faithfully incorporates many of the characteristics of jazz at the time - the ambiguous harmonies, the provocative syncopations, the sensual melodic slides, the self-consciously casual ending on a flattened seventh.

The Perpetuum mobile replaces an earlier and apparently “ravishing” finale which the composer bravely discarded because it did not fit into this particular context. The new last movement is exciting rather than ravishing and it fits in largely because of a precipitate momentum generated from the ragtime figure so prominent in the first movement. As the violin runs off in two-hundred consecutive bars of non-stop semiquavers, it is left to the piano to seal the unity of the work with more or less subtle backward allusions, most clearly and most passionately of all to the “Fascinatin’ rhythm” tune from Blues.

When César Franck wrote his Violin Sonata in A major the compatibility of the violin and the piano was not an issue. It was only later that composers began to worry about the acoustic validity of what Stravinsky described as this “blend of strings struck in the piano with strings set in vibration with the bow.” Ravel’s solution to the problem of writing for instruments he considered “essentially incompatible” was not “to mediate between them,” he said, but “to bring out that very incompatibility.” It took him a long time to work out how to do it, however, in spite of the radical example recently set by Bartók. Having started work on his Violin Sonata in G major in 1923 it was completed only in 1927 when - in spite of the violinist’s dislike of the jazzy element in the work - it was given a highly successful first performance by George Enescu and Ravel himself in the Salle Erard in Paris.

The opening Allegretto, a fluently melodious pastorale, is an inspired rethinking of sonata form in terms of the differing capabilities of the violin and the piano. Up to a point about two-thirds of the way through, the thematic material passes from one instrument to the other without discrimination. When the pianist reintroduces the first theme at the beginning of the recapitulation, however, the violin rises above it in a flight of legato melody which - though it is persistently taunted by a percussive little ragtime figure - elevates the music to a new and sustained level of lyrical radiance.

The second movement, explicitly headed Blues, is idiomatically highly sophisticated - so much so, in fact, that in the middle section the piano introduces a theme which unmistakably anticipates Gershwin’s “I got rhythm.” Opening with a pizzicato imitation of the banjo, Blues faithfully incorporates many of the characteristics of jazz at the time - the ambiguous harmonies, the provocative syncopations, the sensual melodic slides, the self-consciously casual ending on a flattened seventh.

The Perpetuum mobile replaces an earlier and apparently “ravishing” finale which the composer bravely discarded because it did not fit into this particular context. The new last movement is exciting rather than ravishing and it fits in largely because of a precipitate momentum generated from the ragtime figure so prominent in the first movement. As the violin runs off in two-hundred consecutive bars of non-stop semiquavers, it is left to the piano the seal the unity of the work with more or less subtle backward allusions, most clearly and most passionately of all to the “I got rhythm” tune from Blues.

When Fauré wrote his Violin Sonata in A major the compatibility of the violin and the piano was not an issue. It was only later that composers began to worry about the acoustic validity of what Stravinsky described as this “blend of strings struck in the piano with strings set in vibration with the bow.” Ravel’s solution to the problem of writing for instruments he considered “essentially incompatible” was not “to mediate between them,” he said, but “to bring out that very incompatibility.” It took him a long time to work out how to do it, however, in spite of the radical example recently set by Bartók. Having started work on his Violin Sonata in G major in 1923 it was completed only in 1927 when - in spite of the violinist’s dislike of the jazzy element in the work - it was given a highly successful first performance by George Enescu and Ravel himself in the Salle Erard in Paris.

The opening Allegretto, a fluently melodious pastorale, is an inspired rethinking of sonata form in terms of the differing capabilities of the violin and the piano. Up to a point about two-thirds of the way through, the thematic material passes from one instrument to the other without discrimination. When the pianist reintroduces the first theme at the beginning of the recapitulation, however, the violin rises above it in a flight of legato melody which - though it is persistently taunted by a percussive little ragtime figure - elevates the music to a new and sustained level of lyrical radiance.

The second movement, explicitly headed Blues, is idiomatically highly sophisticated - so much so, in fact, that the main theme clearly anticipates Gershwin’s “Summertime” and, in return, the middle section introduces an unmistakable echo of the same composer’s “Fascinatin’ rhythm.” Opening with a pizzicato imitation of the banjo, Blues faithfully incorporates many of the characteristics of jazz at the time - the ambiguous harmonies, the provocative syncopations, the sensual melodic slides, the self-consciously casual ending on a flattened seventh.

The Perpetuum mobile replaces an earlier and apparently “ravishing” finale which the composer bravely discarded because it did not fit into this particular context. The new last movement is exciting rather than ravishing and it fits in largely because of a precipitate momentum generated from the ragtime figure so prominent in the first movement. As the violin runs off in two-hundred consecutive bars of non-stop semiquavers, it is left to the piano to seal the unity of the work with more or less subtle backward allusions, most clearly and most passionately of all to the “Fascinatin’ rhythm” tune from Blues.

Although no one had seemed to worry about it very much before, when Ravel was working on his Violin Sonata in G in the 1920s there was a general concern among progressive composers about the acoustic validity of what Stravinsky described as this “blend of strings struck in the piano with strings set in vibration with the bow.” Ravel’s solution to the problem of writing for instruments he too considered “essentially incompatible” was not “to mediate between them,” he said, but “to bring out that very incompatibility.” It took him a long time to work out how to do it, however, in spite of the radical example recently set by Bartók. Having started work on his Violin Sonata in G major in 1923 it was completed only in 1927 when – in spite of the violinist’s dislike of the jazzy element in the work – it was given a highly successful first performance by George Enescu and Ravel himself in the Salle Erard in Paris.   

The opening Allegretto, a fluently melodious pastorale, is an inspired rethinking of sonata form in terms of the differing capabilities of the violin and the piano. Up to a point about two-thirds of the way through, the thematic material passes from one instrument to the other without discrimination. When the pianist reintroduces the first theme at the beginning of the recapitulation, however, the violin rises above it in a flight of legato melody which – though it is persistently taunted by a percussive little ragtime figure –    elevates the music to a new and sustained level of lyrical radiance.

The second movement, explicitly headed Blues, is idiomatically highly sophisticated – so much so, in fact, that the main theme clearly anticipates Gershwin’s “Summertime” and, in return, the middle section introduces an unmistakable echo of the same composer’s “Fascinatin’ rhythm.” Opening with a pizzicato imitation of the banjo, Blues faithfully incorporates many of the characteristics of jazz at the time – the ambiguous harmonies, the provocative syncopations, the sensual melodic slides, the self-consciously casual ending on a flattened seventh.

The Perpetuum mobile replaces an earlier and apparently “ravishing” finale which the composer bravely discarded because it did not fit into this particular context. The new last movement is exciting rather than ravishing and it fits in largely because of the precipitate momentum generated from the ragtime figure so prominent in the first movement. As the violin runs off in two-hundred consecutive bars of non-stop semiquavers, it is left to the piano to seal the unity of the work with more or less subtle backward allusions, most clearly and most passionately of all to the “Fascinatin’ rhythm” tune from Blues.

Although there is no record of anything Ravel said on this precise subject, it is quite clear from the Violin Sonata in G major that he would have agreed with Poulenc in his emphatic dislike of “the endless violin-melodic line sonatas written in France in the nineteenth century…The prima donna violin above an arpeggio piano accompaniment makes me sick.” Certainly, he was very conscious of the basic incompatibility of the violin and the piano and he is on record as saying that “far from attempting to mediate between them” in his Violin Sonata, he made a point of “bringing out that very incompatibility.” It took him a long time to work out how to do it. Having started work on a Violin Sonata for Hélène Jourdan-Morhange in 1923, he completed it only in 1927, by which time she had been forced to give up the violin by a rheumaticky shoulder. However, although the first performance was given by Ravel with George Enescu - and very successfully, in spite of the violinist’s dislike of the jazzy element in the work - she did receive the dedication.

The opening Allegretto, a fluently melodious pastorale, is an inspired rethinking of sonata form in terms of the differing capabilities of the violin and the piano. Up to a point about two-thirds of the way through, the thematic material passes from one instrument to the other without discrimination. When the pianist reintroduces the first theme at the beginning of the recapitulation, however, the violin rises above it in a flight of legato melody which - though it is persistently taunted by a percussive little ragtime figure - elevates the music to a new and sustained level of lyrical radiance.

The second movement, explicitly headed Blues, is idiomatically highly sophisticated - so much so, in fact, that the main theme clearly anticipates Gershwin’s “Summertime” and, in return, the middle section introduces an unmistakable echo of the same composer’s “Fascinatin’ rhythm.” Opening with a pizzicato imitation of the banjo, Blues faithfully incorporates many of the characteristics of jazz at the time - the ambiguous harmonies, the provocative syncopations, the sensual melodic slides, the self-consciously casual ending on a flattened seventh.

The Perpetuum mobile replaces an earlier and apparently “ravishing” finale which the composer bravely discarded because it did not fit into this particular context. The new last movement is exciting rather than ravishing and it fits in largely because of a precipitate momentum generated from the ragtime figure so prominent in the first movement. As the violin runs off in two-hundred consecutive bars of non-stop semiquavers, it is left to the piano to seal the unity of the work with more or less subtle backward allusions, most clearly and most passionately of all to the “Fascinatin’ rhythm” tune from Blues.

Ravel was also an admirer of Jelly d’Arányi: it was for her that he wrote his virtuso Hungarian rhapsody, Tzigane, in 1924. The Violin Sonata in G major was a slightly earlier conception intended, from when he first started thinking about it in 1923, for his violinist friend Hélène Jourdan-Morhange. It is not impossible, even so, that it too was influenced by d’Aranyi, since he had heard her perform Bartók’s First Violin Sonata with the composer in Paris in 1922. Certainly, like Bartók, Ravel was very conscious of the basic incompatibility of the violin and the piano. As he said, “far from attempting to mediate between them,” he made a point of “bringing out that very incompatibility” - if with less radical intent than that of his Hungarian colleague. Unfortunately, it took him a long time to work out how to do it. By the time he had finished it in 1927 Jourdan-Morhange had been forced to give up the violin by a rheumaticky shoulder. However, although the first performance was given by Ravel with George Enescu - and very successfully, in spite of the violinist’s dislike of the jazzy element in the work - she did receive the dedication.

The opening Allegretto, a fluently melodious pastorale, is an inspired rethinking of sonata form in terms of the differing capabilities of the violin and the piano. Up to a point about two-thirds of the way through, the thematic material passes from one instrument to the other without discrimination. When the pianist reintroduces the first theme at the beginning of the recapitulation, however, the violin rises above it in a flight of legato melody which - though it is persistently taunted by a percussive little ragtime figure - elevates the music to a new and sustained level of lyrical radiance.

The second movement, explicitly headed Blues, is idiomatically highly sophisticated - so much so, in fact, that the main theme clearly anticipates Gershwin’s “Summertime” and, in return, the middle section introduces an unmistakable echo of the same composer’s “Fascinatin’ rhythm.” Opening with a pizzicato imitation of the banjo, Blues faithfully incorporates many of the characteristics of jazz at the time - the ambiguous harmonies, the provocative syncopations, the sensual melodic slides, the self-consciously casual ending on a flattened seventh.

The Perpetuum mobile replaces an earlier and apparently “ravishing” finale which the composer bravely discarded because it did not fit into this particular context. The new last movement is exciting rather than ravishing and it fits in largely because of a precipitate momentum generated from the ragtime figure so prominent in the first movement. As the violin runs off in two-hundred consecutive bars of non-stop semiquavers, it is left to the piano to seal the unity of the work with more or less subtle backward allusions, most clearly and most passionately of all to the “Fascinatin’ rhythm” tune from Blues.