Artur Schnabel : Bach

Q: Do you agree that in playing Bach one should try to imitate the harpsichord, that is, its dynamic qualities, playing on different dynamic levels rather than with any crescendo or diminuendos?

A: I know; a war has been going on between musicologists for a long time over the issue as to whether crescendo and diminuendo is permissible in Bach's music, the Mannheim School having invented the expressions crescendo and diminuendo after Bach's time. But crescendo and diminuendo are not only expressions; they are elements of articulation and modulation, and if Bach's music were performed without articulation and modulation - or inflection, as in language - it would be unbearable, it would not be music. The same applies to legato and staccato. I am absolutely against the exclusive non-legato in performances of Bach's music.

There is no necessity to imitate the sonority of old instruments, for we have to assume that Bach chose those instruments only because better ones were not available. It is known that he wrote for four different instruments and that each time an improved instrument appeared he wanted even those of his works which were written for the previous instrument to be played on the improved instrument. These are facts.

Did you know taht the pianoforte was invented during Bach's lifetime? The first ones were built around 1710 in Padua, Italy. Some musicians hailed it with great enthusiasm, but the inventor was not succesful and few of these instruments were built. Bach saw an apparently poor imitation, the first one built in Germany in 1726, and found it unsatisfactory. In the last years of his life, Bach then saw a much improved model. So I think it is most important that Bach, during a substantial part of his life, knew about the invention and existence of the pianoforte and even played on it.

Artur Schnabel: Russian vs German Techniquea

Q: I often hear the expression 'German Technique' and 'Russian Technique'. Would you explain what you think of that.

A: You ought to ask your teachers who use these expressions. I don't know to what they refer. Do they use four fingers only in the one school and in the other, five - or what? Or do they play with their knuckles? What are they doing? I have never heard of it. I would be very interested to hear from you as to what the difference is.

Q: I have come across it in studying with Russian teachers. They speak of their approach being the Russian approach to piano playing, and they refer to playing with straighter and flatter fingers instead of round ones, resulting in more metallic or brittle playing than they associate with the German technique.

A: I cannot accept that there is anything specifically Russian about playing with straight and flat fingers. I lived in 30 years in Germany and even so I would not be able to say what the 'German technique' is. For in Germany all kinds of piano technique were taught - flat or round fingers, stretched out or drawn in, elbows fixed or waving, glued to the hips or far out, like a washerwoman's. Some put the tip of their nose on the keys, others looked at the ceiling. Which one was the 'German technique'?

In my opinion these unfrotunate distinctions and simplifications are really absurd. There is only one good technique, whether you ride a bicycle or swim or whatever else you do, and that is to attain a maximum of achievement with a minimum of effort. That applies to all physical activity.

Artur Schnabel: Amateur Musicians

Those who are professional musicians became professional, I would say, from necessity and not from choice. Some seem to be undecided, in spite of their sufficiently strong desire, because of specific conditions or their particular situation, when for instance their parents are not in favour of their becoming professional musicians.

I have known cases of amateur musicians who, up to their thirty-fifth or even fortieth year, were lawyers or doctors and then gave it up finally to become professional musicians - an activity in which they earned much less than they did as doctors or lawyers. Now they had no reputation at all but they were professional musicians and for the first time in their lives they were happy.

Artur Schnabel: Misc

Do you know that the teacher of Beethoven was Mr Christian Neefe? I don't think he was a great man. He was jsut available in Bonn. If all good musicians required a great man as a teacher, in order to be good musicians, there wouldn't be too many of them, I am afraid. That applies to all branches of teaching.

[PC: that's true, food for thought. while the teacher has the responsibility to teach well, you shouldn't put all "blame and responsibility" on the teacher, the student has the responsibility to "think for themselves" too]

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You might live in a small place where only 3 or 4 people agree with you on artistic values. Then you should neither think poorly of yourself nor of the people who do not share your insight. There is no reason for being arrogant, just a reason for being grateful and happy to have the privilege of understanding.

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Q: Do you plan to go back to Germany, and if not what is your reason?
A: A very simple reason. I don't want to go to a country to which I am only admitted because it has lost a war.
By not returning I don't punish the Germans, not at all. Moreover, the Germans are completely irrelevent. For my decision it does not matter how they feel, but rather how I feel.

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Q: Do you feel that ht playing of Beethoven is a touchstone by which any pianist should be judged?
A: No. I Think a pianist should be judged by whatever he plays.

Artur Schnabel: C major scale

C major scale on the piano, which is adhered to with greatest reverance - uses the RH thumb, the strongest finger, on the subdominant, with the LH on the dominant. This RH movement, 3-4-3, is certainly ingenious. But musical only for the LH; musical by accident. As it is built the LH start with the 5th finger, which in the case of C major scale is a 'priority'. The RH should compensate its disadvantage with only 4 fingers, thumb on 'G'. If played as ordered, RH alone - or worse, in unison with LH, the subdominant, touched with the strongest finger, might easily get a musically unintended accent on it, and thus lead to a crime against the harmonic system of centuries and make music the victim of standardization. Not ingenious, but just silly, is the order never to use your thumb on a black key. Why not, if the position of the hand makes it by far the best fingering?

Artur Schnabel: Bravura vs Musicality

Chopin's lovely studies are for some performers fascinating because of the opportunities they give for showing how they master the keyboard. Another type of performer is less interested in the keyboard as such. His desire is to project music purely - to let the mediator disappear. To succeed he must, needless to say, have full command of his instrument. There are performers who are almost equally gifted in both directions, and attracted to both. If it comes to the one-sided ones, it should not be a problem to decide who has got the better part.

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Q: In one of your books you say that you feel technical problems in piano playing should not be attached as such, that they should be worked out as you come to them in the music.
A: Yes, one should never make any music, not even sound one musical tone, without a musical intention preceding it.

Artur Schnabel: Perfect pitch

Q: Do you think having perfect pitch is an advantage or disadvantage?

A: It is an advantage, but no indispensable. Relative pitch is, however, sufficient and even more important. If you know with what tones a piece of music starts, you ought to know also all relations and modulations which follow. To have absolute pitch is, I repeat, a musical asset, but by no means the sign of a good musician.

Artur Schnabel: Leschetizky method

There is no Leschetizky method. It is a mere legend - an absolute fallacy. He never spoke, at least I never heard him speak, of technique. Several of his assistants and some of his pupils have published books on his method which are all diametrically opposed. Don't be misled by them. There was no method. His teaching was much more than a method. It was a current which sought to release all latent vitality in the student. It was addressed to imagination, taste, and personal responsibility, not a blue print, or shortcut to success. It gave them a task but no prescription.

Q: When they didn't produce what he thought was beautiful, did he think it didn't come from within or did he think they weren't prepared enough?

A: He thought your ears were untrained if your tone was not adequate. Also, much depends on one's standard of measurement. THere are those who can't stand a vigorous fortissimo; they are too touchy or too soft for it. Other people, if they hear a real pianissimo, miss the big, lush tone. Music requires thousands of tones and not one standard sonority. Technique is never an end. Mere dexterity is not sufficient - I can try it with an street boy, he will execute a glissando at once - and if he has enough sitting capacity, he will thunder octaves as rapidly as possible for a full hour. That has nothing to do with music. It is athletics. The blending of tones, the articulation of tones, has to be directed by the inner ear. Great physical efforts are not conducive to musical performance. Anyhow every physical accomplishment should be achieved with a minimum effort.

Artur Schnabel : Performing

If one is afraid of getting nervous about playing in public, one ought to look for a listener. It doesn't matter much who it is. One may ask a janitor to come and listen.
[PC: hmmm sounds exactly like what Dr House did :P )

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We all have to relax physically in order to perform with minimum effort and at the same time we have to concentrate mentally. I used to advise my pupils that all concentration, while they perform music, should begiin above the eyes; it should not involve the shoulders, because any tension in the shoulders will make it impossible to relax arms and hands completely.

Satisfaction is chiefly provided by uninterrupted concentration. But this uninterrupted concentration is practically never achieved, even when one is at home. In a concert hall it is almost unthinkable, for there are always noises, sometimes adverse acoustic conditions, the unaccustomed piano which is often unsatisfactory, or for other instrumentalists and singers their accompanists or partners - and the constant possibility of diversion by the presence of the audience. I have tried all my life to become independent of all this, more and more.

Artur Schnabel: On Mozart

... how do you explain that all children play Mozart so well? "

Schnabel answered: Children have at least one very important element in common with Mozart, namely purity. They are not yet spoiled and prejudiced and personally involved. but these are, of course , not the reasons why their teachers give them Mozart to play. Children are given Mozart because of the small quantity of the notes; grown-ups avoid Mozart because of the great quality of the notes - which, to be true, is elusive!

Artur Schnabel: On pianos

I got a Bechstein piano. They were, in Germany, what Steinway is in the United States and Bosendorfer in Vienna. The Bechstein was for certain musical purposes an ideal instrument. Why the best pianos made in Germany, in Austria, in France and the US differ, is a fascinating question. I have come to the conclusion that it must have been the personality of the locally most successful, most respected, most influential pianiast of an earlier generation which decided the character of the instrument. His style, repertoire, ambitions presented a model, created a fashion, acquired validity. I estimate that three quarters of the piano music publicly performed in Germany before 1900 belonged to the pre-Wagnerian epoch. Pianos were built in accordance with the sonority requirements of that music ( as understood by the pianistic 'commander in chief' ). Three quarters of the music performed in the States belonged to the post-Wagnerian epoch, demanding more 'extrovert' qualities of key- and sound-boards. It is desirable and, I think also feasible gradually to abandon these provincial distinctions of pianos and to provide a type good for any musical climate.

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Q: Could you tell us something more about the differences between the pianos you used in Europe and liked so much and our instruments here?
A: Those pianos had less of a personality. I would say that the quality which distinguishes the piano from all other instruments, is its neutrality. On a piano a single tone cannot be beautiful; it is the combination and proportion of tones which bring beauty.
You are forced to produce at least two or three tones in order to create a sensous impression or to give a sensation of music to the ear, while almost other instruments (except percussion) or the voice can give you a sensuous pleasure even from a single tone. Around 1910 it was considered "modern' to say that the piano is a percussion instrument.....
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He can produce all kinds of tones; not only louder or softer, shorter or longer, but also different qualities. It is possible on a piano to imitate, for instance, the sound of an oboe, a cello, a French horn. Bit it is not possible to imitate the sound of an oboe on a flute, or a clarinet on a violin; these other instruments always retain their own characteristics. That is why I said that the distinction of the piano is in its being the most neutral instrument.

The Bechstein piano fulfilled this demand for neutrality better than any other piano I have known. You could do almost anything on that piano. The Steinway - or rather the Steinway of 20 years ago, for it has changed somewhat since that time- was a piano which always wanted to show something. You see it had much too much of a personality of its own.

At first when I wanted to produce something like the voice of a bird on a Steinway, the piano always sounded to me like the voice of a tenor instead of a bird. For many years I had the feeling that the Steinway piano did not like me. An absurd idea, but I had that feeling.

It would not take the kind of treatment I gave a piano, so I conclude that the Steinway is more limited. The Bechstein piano enabled me to show effects not possible on a Steinway. The tone of the Steinway vibrates much more; also there are technical reaons: it has a different action.

When you push a Steinway key very lightly and slowly down, it will stop before it has reached the bottom and requires a certain pressure, a second pressure to go down all the way.
By now I am so used to it that it hardly irritates me. At first, it disturbed me greatly: for in order to produce a fortissimo, you can play lightly, but whenever you want to play a pianissimo you have to use a great deal of weight as otherwise the key would not go down. It certainly seems perverse.

Artur Schnabel: Quiet Hands

Leschetizky's wife, Madame Essipoff, a then famous piano virtuoso took care of my pianism. I had to play studies and exercises, chiefly Czerny's. She used to put a coin on my hand, a silver coin, and if I played on Czerny study without dropping it, she gave it to me as a present. In the meantime, I have changed my way of handling the piano so radically that now if I were to play only a few tones the coin would drop. I don't think that the "static" hand is a recommendable technique for the expression of music. For very young beginners, however, it might, temporarily, be the only method.

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I don't believe in finger playing. The fingers are like the legs of the horse. If its body wouldn't move, there wouldn't be any progress; it would always remain on the same spot.

Review: Daniel Barenboim playing WTC @ Carnegie

Daniel Barenboim performing at Carnegie Hall on Saturday.
By ALLAN KOZINN
Published: January 23, 2007


The two books of Bach’s “Well-Tempered Clavier” contain an immense amount of music. Their 48 preludes and fugues touch not only on every major and minor key, twice, but also on just about every way an 18th-century musician might have conceived and executed either form.

The preludes range from comparatively simple, arpeggiated strolls through straightforward chord progressions, to grandly structured, ornate proclamations. And the fugues, each an elegant puzzle, tour the solutions composers used to make these exercises in mathematical perfection into expressive music.

Playing both books over a weekend and making each prelude and fugue leap off the page is a tall order. But Daniel Barenboim has never been thwarted by self-doubt, and to celebrate the 50th anniversary of his Carnegie Hall debut — and perhaps to give a fresh push to his recent Erato recording of the complete work — Mr. Barenboim undertook a marathon, playing Book I on Saturday evening and Book II on Sunday afternoon.

A listener never knows what to expect from Mr. Barenboim’s piano recitals. He personalizes his performances to the point of perversity at times, but in a field so clogged with cookie-cutter players, there’s something to be said for that, not least because Mr. Barenboim is as likely to play with insight and beauty.

He touched both those extremes in these recitals. He was at his most rewarding either in fleet, light-textured readings (like his accounts of the Preludes in D and D minor from Book I and the Prelude and Fugue in C from Book II), or in forceful, crisp performances in which every line stood out clearly within the contrapuntal texture (as in the starkly chromatic Prelude in E flat from Book I and the Fugue in F from Book II).

Appealing as well were nuanced interpretations in which Mr. Barenboim imposed a scale of dynamics — sometimes gradual, sometimes sudden — that would have been impossible on the harpsichord. His reading of the C sharp minor Prelude from Book I, for example, was flexible and introspective, and the D major Prelude from Book II, with its fanfarelike figuration, took on a sense of high drama, with the slowly unfolding fugue offsetting it.

Often Mr. Barenboim’s fluid dynamics and tempos created an orchestration of sorts, as if moving the music from the harpsichord to the modern piano weren’t enough of a leap for him.

But engaging performances of this kind were sprinkled between solipsistic readings so quiet and introspective that you had to wonder whether Mr. Barenboim had forgotten that he was playing for an audience in a huge hall, or odd dissections (like the Prelude and Fugue in E flat, from Book I) in which emphases and tempo changes were exaggerated and labored. Other movements lacked even these peculiarities and were merely soporific.

In a program note Mr. Barenboim plays down the importance of the early-music movement’s research into how Baroque works were played in their day, saying that understanding what was done is less important than understanding why. Few period-instrument players would dispute that. Perhaps Mr. Barenboim should consider this: If you’re going to replace the performance style of a work’s own time with your own interpretive notions, will it be clear to your listeners that more is gained than lost? He accomplished this some of the time, but not consistently.

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Bartok: 2 Romanian Dances

The Two Romanian Folk Dances (Két Román Tánc in Hungarian) are a piano work written by Béla Bartók, based on songs of the Romanian Folklore. Written in 1910, they date from the beginning of his interest in folk music — his first work showing strong folk influence, the String Quartet No. 1, is from just two years before. However, the Dances show that he has already seamlessly incorporated folk idioms into his musical language.

The first dance (Allegro vivace) is rhapsody in form, though with a recurrent main theme. This theme, which provides the melodic, textural, and rhythmic foundations of the work, is first heard pianissimo in the murky depths of the keyboard. The middle section, Lento, presents an evocative modal melody against a various tremolo harmonies in the bass. This section fades away, and, after a long and increasingly frenzied crescendo, the main theme returns in triumphant fortissimo octaves. Unusually for Bartók, major and minor chords are used extensively in this piece.

The second dance (Poco allegro) begins with a brief introductory passage, which sets the mood of the piece — a strange mix of humour and severity. The main theme, based loosely on a Romanian jeering song, is presented three times in succession. After a violent transition, the material from the opening returns, though somewhat warped. The main theme returns, yet more frantic; after another brief interlude, it returns again, this time marked Più mosso, febrile (“more motion, feverishly”). The remainder of the piece is a mishmash of cheerful motifs showing Balinese influence, sudden contrasts which range from amusing to disconcerting, and majestic passages in double octaves. Although the form of this dance defies classification, it is nonetheless remarkably directed, unified, and satisfying.