Tzigane

Ravel’s Tzigane – his “Hungarian rhapsody” as he called it – was conceived in a drawing room in London, probably in Holland Park. It was there that he usually stayed when he visited London in the 1920s and 30s and it might well have been there that, in June 1922, he spent an evening with the Hungarian violinist Jelly d’Aranyi. Anyway, wherever it was exactly, she played Hungarian-Gypsy music to him until 5 in the morning and he was so fascinated that he promised himself he would write a virtuoso piece for her in the same style.

It took him nearly two years to get round to it but – armed certainly with Paganini’s solo-violin Caprices and Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsodies – he did complete Tzigane just in time for a concert d’Aranyi was giving in London in 1924. It proved to be as sensational as it was obviously intended to be. Ravel assumes the style so self-consciously, parading the characteristic Hungarian rhythms and the gypsy scale from the beginning, and puts on such an obvious display of bravura violin technique that it couldn’t have been anything but breath-taking.

Another reason why Tzigane is so exhilarating is that the composer takes risks too. The first of them is a brooding slow introduction for unaccompanied violin which, lasting almost as long as the quicker section that follows, is a severe test even of Ravel’s genius for instrumental colour. The two main tempi – which have several themes in common and which are linked by an inspired transitional passage with harp acting as a fantasy cimbalom – represent the lassu and friss sections of the traditional Hungarian rhapsody. The similarly traditional acceleration at the end, after an unfailingly entertaining succession of gypsy-style fiddle tunes and virtuoso thrills,, is brilliantly effective.

Ravel’s Tzigane – his “Hungarian rhapsody” as he called it – was conceived in a drawing room in London, probably in Holland Park. It was there that the composer usually stayed when he visited London in the 1920s and 30s and it might well have been there that, in June 1922, he spent an evening with the Hungarian violinist Jelly d’Aranyi. Anyway, wherever it was exactly, she played Hungarian-Gypsy music to him until 5 in the morning and he was so fascinated that he promised himself he would write a virtuoso piece for her in the same style.

It took him nearly two years to get round to it but – armed with Paganini’s solo-violin Caprices and Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsodies – he did complete Tzigane just in time for a concert d’Aranyi was giving in London in 1924. It proved to be as sensational as it was obviously intended to be. Ravel assumes the style so self-consciously, parading the characteristic Hungarian rhythms and the gypsy scale from the beginning, and puts on such an obvious display of bravura violin technique that it couldn’t have been anything but breath-taking.

Another reason why Tzigane is so exhilarating is that the composer takes risks too. The first of them is a brooding slow introduction for unaccompanied violin which, lasting almost as long as the quicker section that follows, is a severe test even of Ravel’s genius for instrumental colour. The two main tempi – which have several themes in common and which are linked by an inspired transitional passage with the harp acting as a fantasy cimbalom – represent the lassu and friss sections of the traditional Hungarian rhapsody. The similarly traditional acceleration at the end, after an unfailingly entertaining succession of gypsy-style fiddle tunes and virtuoso thrills, is brilliantly effective.

Unlikely though it might seem, Ravel’s Tzigane - his “Hungarian rhapsody” as he called it - was conceived in a London drawing room, probably in Holland Park. It was there, in the home of the singer Louise Alvar, that he usually stayed when he visited London in the 1920s and 30s and it might well have been there that, in June 1922, he spent an evening with the Hungarian violinist Jelly d’Aranyi. A niece of Joachim, a pupil of Hubay, a specially favoured interpreter of Bartok, and only 27 years old at the time, she clearly fascinated Ravel. When she played Hungarian-Gypsy music to him, as she did until 5 in the morning on this occasion in London, he was so fascinated that he promised himself he would write a virtuoso piece for her in the same popular style.

It took him nearly two years to get round to it but, armed with Paganini’s solo-violin Caprices and Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsodies, he did complete Tzigane (in its original chamber version) just in time for a recital Jelly d’Aranyi was giving with the pianist Henri Gil-Marchex in London in April 1924. It was a sensation – which is no more than it aimed to be. Ravel assumes the style so self-consciously, parading the characteristic Hungarian rhythms and the Gypsy scale from the beginning, and puts on such an obvious display of bravura violin technique that it would have been embarrassing if the piece had not taken a significant proportion of breath away. It is an exhilarating experience because the composer also takes risks, not the least of them being a slow introduction for unaccompanied violin lasting almost as long as the quicker section that follows. The two main tempi - which are linked by an inspired transitional passage and have several themes in common - represent the lassu and friss sections of the traditional Hungarian rhapsody. The similarly traditional acceleration at the end, after an unfailingly entertaining succession of Gypsy-style fiddle tunes, is brilliantly effective.

The orchestral version of Tzigane was written in July 1924 and first performed by Jelly d’Aranyi with Gabriel Pierné and the Colonne Orchestra in Paris four months later.

My mother said that I never should

Play with the gypsies in the wood…

If all musicians, particularly Spaniards and Hungarians, had taken that maternal advice we would be much the poorer for it. Both Spanish flamenco and what was long thought to be Hungarian folk song are exotic fruits of the cross-fertilisation over centuries between home-grown and gypsy musicians. As we know from the keyboard sonatas of Scarlatti in Spain and the string quartets of Haydn in Austro-Hungary, they had both developed a seductive appeal well before the end of the eighteenth century. In the second half of the nineteenth they offered the same kind of temptations to “straight” musicians as jazz in the twentieth. Since their starting points were so far apart, however, they never had much in common beyond the virtuoso and improvisatory opportunities they both offered the performer - traditionally voice and guitar in Spain and (as reflected in Sarasate’s Zigeunerweisen and Ravel’s Tzigane) violin and cimbalom in Hungary. And in the twentieth century they met very different fortunes. Highly commercialised though flamenco had become, its authenticity as a folk art form remained unchallenged. In Hungary, on the other hand, Bartók sided with the mothers and devoted much of his life to getting indigenous peasant music out of the wood and, in so far as he could, separating it from gypsy associations.

Bartók’s revelation of the (from his point of view) spurious nature of Hungarian-gypsy music - which was often of urban origin and professionally composed - did not stop Hungarian violinists enjoying it, even those most closely associated with him. It was Jelly d’Aranyi, a specially favoured interpreter of Bartók, who inspired Ravel’s Tzigane, a work the composer frankly declared a “Hungarian rhapsody” in the Liszt tradition. One day in London in June 1922, probably at 14 Holland Park where he often stayed in the ‘20s and ‘30s, Jelly d’Aranyi regaled Ravel until 5 in the morning with her extensive and obviously much-cherished repertoire of Hungarian-gypsy violin music. He was so fascinated by both the violinist and what she played that he promised himself he would write a virtuoso piece for her in the same popular style.

It took him nearly two years to get round to it but - armed certainly with Paganini’s solo-violin Caprices and Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsodies and possibly with Sarasate’s Zigeunerweisen - he did complete Tzigane just in time for a recital Jelly d’Aranyi was giving with the pianist Henri Gil-Marchex in London in April 1924. It proved to be as sensational as it was obviously intended to be. Ravel assumes the style so self-consciously, parading the characteristic Hungarian rhythms and the gypsy scale from the beginning, and puts on such an obvious display of bravura violin technique that it couldn’t have been anything but breath-taking.

Another reason why Tzigane is so exhilarating is that the composer takes risks too. The first of them is a brooding slow introduction for unaccompanied violin which, lasting almost as long as the quicker section that follows, is a severe test even of Ravel’s genius for instrumental colour. The two main tempi - which have several themes in common and which are linked by an inspired transitional passage with harp acting as a fantasy cimbalom - represent the lassu and friss sections of the traditional Hungarian rhapsody. The similarly traditional acceleration at the end, after an unfailingly entertaining succession of gypsy-style fiddle tunes and virtuoso effects not very different from those of Sarasate’s Zigeunerweisen, is brilliantly effective.

The orchestral version of Tzigane was written in July 1924 and first performed by Jelly d’Aranyi with Gabriel Pierné and the Colonne Orchestra in Paris four months later.