Maurice RAVEL: Concierto para piano y orquesta en sol mayor; Concierto para la mano izquierda en re mayor; Valses nobles et sentimentales. Krystian Zimerman; Orquesta de Cleveland; Orquesta Sinfónica de Londres; Pierre Boulez. Deutsche Grammophon 449213-2 [55'45"]

Pianist Krystian Zimerman, a child prodigy who gave his first concert at age 6, may have gotten an early start, but he has, in a sense, proceeded very slowly. He records infrequently and performs in concert on a limited schedule, and thus there is always excitement and anticipation when he does go into the studio.

Considering the acclaim his Debussy Nocturnes recording has received, this release in particular stirred hopes of another great artistic achievement.

Those hopes are fulfilled. Of course, lumping Debussy and Ravel together as if they share all the same qualities misses the generational and temperamental differences that in fact make them quite distinct. Although Ravel distanced himself from the Impressionist style in favor of Neo-Classicism, Impressionism often remained a factor in his orchestrations and treatment of sonority. He achieved his effects, however, not with some gauzy imprecision, but through an accumulation of fine details. The technically gifted Zimerman, a very «clean» player, and the detail-oriented Boulez are thus well-suited to Ravel's piano concertos, both from the early 1930s.

Fears that they might downplay the jazzy aspects of the G major Concerto prove unfounded. The first movement, where those elements are strongest, doesn't exactly swing, but neither is it rigid, and the freer sections come off well. The harmonies, of course, are written in, and the relative restraint of the Cleveland Orchestra players with some of the «blue» motifs helps keep it from sounding like ersatz Gershwin. The lovely slow movement was supposedly inspired by Mozart's Clarinet Quintet, but sounds more Chopinesque. The fanfare that opens the finale �and much that follows� suggests Stravinsky. But it's all utterly Ravel, of course. Zimerman's superb control of dynamics and even touch makes the virtuoso part sparkle.

The Concerto for the Left Hand was written for a pianist (Paul Wittgenstein) who had lost his right arm in World War I, and Ravel gave him a spectacular part that covers the breadth of the keyboard in a mixture of dazzling arpeggiated runs, nobly dramatic chords, and melodies plunked out by the thumb. The opening of the one-movement work is hushed and mysterious, solemnly rising up from the depths of the orchestra and gradually swelling in a massive crescendo that gives way abruptly for the solo entrance of the piano. The structure is divided into four tempos, giving it a multi-movement character.

Zimerman conquers the considerable challenges of the part and imbues it with great poetry and sensitivity. Boulez's work with the London Symphony Orchestra on this track is considerably more sympathetic than his crude, practically brutal rush through it on his 1972 version with the Cleveland Orchestra and pianist Philippe Entremont.

Between the two concertos comes Boulez's interpretation (with the Clevelanders) of Ravel's orchestration of his Valses nobles et sentimentales. The conductor's undeserved reputation for dry, detached readings is amply refuted in this rubato-laden performance, which captures both the sentiment and the irony inherent in its eight short movements.

We've just finished Grammy season. Here's an early contender for multiple nominations next year.

Rating: 8.5

This program was recorded over two years with two separate orchestras, no doubt due to the busy schedule of Boulez, a jet-setting conductor if ever there was one. He is something like a French Glenn Gould � very gifted when the music inspires him, but when he is less inspired, he really lets you hear his resentment.

This CD's only weak point is a biting and unforgiving rendition of the Valses nobles with the Cleveland Orchestra, conducted as if Boulez really didn't like the music, in the manner of his earlier, equally upsy-downsy Ravel interpretations. Happily, the two concertos are excellent, in good part due to the poetic gifts of Zimerman, who also has a fine grasp of the dance rhythms essential in Ravel. The Cleveland virtuosos are much lighter and idiomatically French, unlike a previous DG release in which Boulez bizarrely imposed the Berlin Philharmonic onto a Ravel program with leaden results.

The Concerto for the Left Hand is played atmospherically yet clearly, on an Elgarian emotional pitch, and Zimerman's highly resonant piano matches them brilliantly. Despite Boulez's unevenness, this is still a remarkable release.

This recording has received rapturous reviews and, indeed, the idea of combining the talents of the virtuoso Zimerman and the one time enfant-terrible composer/conductor, Boulez is intriguing. The result is, as one might expect, electrifying. The sound is first class adding further lustre to a most exciting listening experience.

Ravel's G Major Concerto was first performed in 1932. It is a brilliant cocktail of varied influences: jazz, in the outer movements, mixed with Saint-Saëns, Liszt and Mozart. In the outer movements Zimerman brings his usual rhythmic verve and lucidity; thrilling power balanced by a fluid limpid beauty in the quieter sections. Boulez provides a brilliant accompaniment coaxing virtuoso playing and immaculate phrasing rounded by telling little nuances. Notice how well the exquisite harp passage in the first movement is realised (with the aid of clearly captured ppp sound from the DG engineers). I always tense up before the start of any performance of the ravishingly beautiful Mozart-like Adagio expecting much and hoping not to be disappointed. Although Zimerman's phrasing and shading is lovely enough, I felt he was a little detached, lacking that expressive poignancy that Michelangeli brought to this most beautiful of Ravel's creations and Boulez's accompaniment might have been that shade warmer.

The Concerto for the Left Hand dates from the same period, 1930-31. It was commissioned by the one-handed pianist Paul Wittgenstein. Again the Jazz elements are prominent but this score is much darker more sardonic than its companion G Major Concerto. It is cast in one continuous movement with the Spanish influences of the G Major Concerto much more pronounced. Its more sinister rhythms have been likened to Nazi jackboots but this is essentially a shifting and brilliantly coloured Kaleidoscopic work, by turn quirky, swaggering, brooding and sentimental recalling many of Ravel's previous compositions. This is a supremely confident and bravura performance, powerful and sensitive by turn. Just listen, for instance, to Zimerman's polished and supremely articulate concluding cadenza and the devastating effect of Boulez's crushingly heavy main climax.

I would not hesitate to say that Boulez's reading of the notoriously difficult-to-bring-off-well Valses nobles et sentimentales is the best I have ever heard. The brilliant colours of the more vivacious waltzes are nicely contrasted with the paler pastel shades of the more dreamily romantic dances. Boulez judges the pacing, weighting and lilting rhythms with consummate skill; the Cleveland players responding with playing of great sensitivity and immaculate phrasing. Boulez lingers over a phrase just enough to emphasise romance but never long enough to make sentimentality cloy. His Assez animé is featherweight dainty and delicately feminine; his ebullient Moderé irresistibly inviting. The subtly haunting Epilogue: Lent that mistily recalls preceding themes and both sums up and, in a way, bids a fond farewell to the era of the elegant ballrooms is a triumph.

As my wife will confirm, with eyes rolled heavenward, I'm fond of recalling My Two Conversations with Pierre Boulez. In 1971, when I was a freshman at Oberlin, Boulez came to the school to conduct the Conservatory orchestra in a program that included The Rite of Spring. Due solely to my enterprise in locating a bass trumpet, an obscure instrument that appears in the last seven minutes of Le Sacre, I got to play. After the first rehearsal of the relevant passage, Boulez glanced in my direction and noted, matter-of-factly: �Ze bass trumpet eez too soft�. I didn't say anything. We ran through it again. This time, the maestro commented: �Ze bass trumpet eez too loud�. Again, I didn't say anything. And those were My Two Conversations with Pierre Boulez...

More significantly, those 28 years ago, I had a chance to watch Boulez work with young musicians, and to witness his legendary ear in action � his ability to detect a wrong note buried in a complex passage, or the slightest imperfection of intonation. That devotion to an exacting and transparent presentation of the score is apparent on this DG release, but there's nothing cold or clinical about these readings. As expected, the performances are rhythmically alert and precise, with flawless instrumental balances, but they are also smiling and affectionate. Zimerman is an ideal soloist for Boulez to collaborate with. He has all the requisite technique, but also a deftness to his playing that makes these performances a true delight. The G-Major Concerto's Adagio assai evokes Ravel's Mozartean model with an unadorned melodic purity, even as the musicians savor the tonal ambiguities that disturb the music's placid surfaces. Zimerman, too, knows when to step out of the spotlight and serve an accompanying role, as during the lovely extended English horn solo that graces the final pages of that movement. There's effortless virtuosity from pianist and orchestra alike in the finale. The Concerto for the Left Hand is equally satisfying, especially the insistent tread of the Allegro section, during which dissimilar rhythms are juxtaposed ever so perfectly. The soloist sounds utterly unstressed in the difficult cadenza � it's hard to believe that he's actually keeping that right hand out of service.

There are plenty of admirable recordings of the piano concertos, including two from Charles Dutoit in Montreal � one with Pascal Rog� from the 1980s and a more recent, vivid account with Jean-Yves Thibaudet. For older versions, there are Samson Fran�ois's spontaneous readings, dating from 1960 (with Andr� Cluytens conducting, available now on EMI's �Great Recordings of the Century� series) and Philippe Entremont's on a Sony �Essential Classics� CD. Entremont is supported by Ormandy/Philadelphia in the G-Major Concerto and by a younger Pierre Boulez leading the Cleveland Orchestra for the D-Major. The latter performance is an attractive one, and shows that Boulez's conception of the work hasn't changed much in 24 years. But Zimerman is so absolutely simpatico with the conductor's musical priorities that the older recording, ultimately, has to be an also-ran.

Valses nobles et sentimentales is also characterized by a rhythmic surefootedness: the pulse is never lost, even when Boulez is flexible with tempo. These are warmhearted, sensitive performances, and the Cleveland Orchestra plays wonderfully, particularly the woodwinds. The music sounds relaxed but never, of course, sloppy. One might miss, in fact, a kind of giddiness present in some versions �Tortelier (on Chandos), for instance� or the feeling of nostalgia that Dutoit brings to the work. But, overall, I like the affective territory that Boulez covers here.

The execution by both world-class orchestras is unassailable, and the recorded sound is outstanding, with great clarity �even the murky beginning of the Concerto for the Left Hand� and an excellent sense of space. The piano is naturally scaled, with body and power. The timings for two of the pieces, and the complete disc, are wildly inaccurate, but... so what? Top recommendation.