When I am asked, "What do you think of our audience?" , I answer " I know two kinds of audiences only - one coughing and one not coughing".
That is the simplest answer. What else can I say?
That disappoints the people who ask me, for they want to hear me say,
"I have never had an audience like the one in your city here"'
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Peter Cincotti
Went for Peter Cincotti's concert today, in conjunction with the Sun Festival.
I came home entertained and with a very important lesson on Performance.
People always say that when you perform, you must be confident. But what exactly does that mean?
Does it mean you walk gingerly to the piano, and as if you're asking permission to play the piano?
Heck no! You walk to the piano, as if you have every right to, and play it like it's your favourite toy and the music notes are your friends.
I think this type of thinking is a key ingredient in a performance.
As Sano Izumi says, "Hard work pays off. All that is left is to believe in yourself."
I came home entertained and with a very important lesson on Performance.
People always say that when you perform, you must be confident. But what exactly does that mean?
Does it mean you walk gingerly to the piano, and as if you're asking permission to play the piano?
Heck no! You walk to the piano, as if you have every right to, and play it like it's your favourite toy and the music notes are your friends.
I think this type of thinking is a key ingredient in a performance.
As Sano Izumi says, "Hard work pays off. All that is left is to believe in yourself."
Friday, August 29, 2008
Teacher's Day 2008
It has been a LOOONG day... I don't recollect ever being this tired after a workday... my muscles doesn't seem to be responding to my will very well.... :P
But yet I am so deeply touched today that I must put down in words what I feel today.
It's Teacher's Day on Monday and since this week, presents have been coming in. While I can't deny that I am thrilled to receive such lovely presents, but what is actually meaningful to me is the reminder about the Human Touch in teaching, that teaching is really not about getting them to play scales or pieces etc... It's about treating them with respect and touching their lives and making a difference, no matter how small.
No matter how "hopeless" that student seems to be, you really should still treat them with respect and be patient with them. That's a teacher's duty. Remember that everyone is unique.
When people say that, sometimes it is the teacher that learns from the student, i can now vouch that this is true, not necessarily them giving me insights about music (which they certainly do!) but now they teach me how to be a human being, how to treat people. Today they make me realise, Everyone Is My Teacher. This is now my new motto. I remember last time Ven Hue Can also said something along those lines. She thanked us, her devotees, cos she said that we are her teachers too, that she is learning from us as well. Truly words of wisdom.
Getting a card from Joyce, who has since moved on to NAFA, really touched my heart. Aww I'm still remembered.
And the Swatch watch from Christina,.. I shall wear it like a badge of honour, not only that, but also to serve as a reminder that Everyone Is My Teacher :)
Ok the "paralysis" is affecting my flow of thought as well...
To be continued...........
But yet I am so deeply touched today that I must put down in words what I feel today.
It's Teacher's Day on Monday and since this week, presents have been coming in. While I can't deny that I am thrilled to receive such lovely presents, but what is actually meaningful to me is the reminder about the Human Touch in teaching, that teaching is really not about getting them to play scales or pieces etc... It's about treating them with respect and touching their lives and making a difference, no matter how small.
No matter how "hopeless" that student seems to be, you really should still treat them with respect and be patient with them. That's a teacher's duty. Remember that everyone is unique.
When people say that, sometimes it is the teacher that learns from the student, i can now vouch that this is true, not necessarily them giving me insights about music (which they certainly do!) but now they teach me how to be a human being, how to treat people. Today they make me realise, Everyone Is My Teacher. This is now my new motto. I remember last time Ven Hue Can also said something along those lines. She thanked us, her devotees, cos she said that we are her teachers too, that she is learning from us as well. Truly words of wisdom.
Getting a card from Joyce, who has since moved on to NAFA, really touched my heart. Aww I'm still remembered.
And the Swatch watch from Christina,.. I shall wear it like a badge of honour, not only that, but also to serve as a reminder that Everyone Is My Teacher :)
Ok the "paralysis" is affecting my flow of thought as well...
To be continued...........
Monday, August 25, 2008
Claudio Arrau: Insecurity and Dreams
=========================
The troubles that kept me from giving everything I had had to do with vanity. I wanted to please. And I was afraid not to please. Abrahamsohn worked continuously on that idea. How right he was. The less vain you become, the more creative you are. One gets to the point where one is courageous enough to displease, if it's called for by the composer. There are certain places in Beethoven, for example where he is almost brutal.
JH: The word vanity usually suggests arrogance or excessive self confidence. But I think you're talking about a type of shyness- vanity in the sense of worrying what others will think of you,and therefore not expressing yourself in a way that might antagonise or confuse.
CA: I don't mean vanity in the sense of being conceited, but of wanting to please. And that is of course due to insecurity.
JH: Would you say that , as a result of conquering this impulse to please , your piano sound changed?
CA: It becamse richer, more assertive. Everything had more meaning.
================================
JH: One of the things you've mentioned in writing about this period is learning to interpret your dreams.
CA: Oh yes. I kept a notebook. And I trained myself, when I had an important dream, to wake up and write it down. I developed this capacity to wake up and when I felt my subconscious wanted to tell me something.
The troubles that kept me from giving everything I had had to do with vanity. I wanted to please. And I was afraid not to please. Abrahamsohn worked continuously on that idea. How right he was. The less vain you become, the more creative you are. One gets to the point where one is courageous enough to displease, if it's called for by the composer. There are certain places in Beethoven, for example where he is almost brutal.
JH: The word vanity usually suggests arrogance or excessive self confidence. But I think you're talking about a type of shyness- vanity in the sense of worrying what others will think of you,and therefore not expressing yourself in a way that might antagonise or confuse.
CA: I don't mean vanity in the sense of being conceited, but of wanting to please. And that is of course due to insecurity.
JH: Would you say that , as a result of conquering this impulse to please , your piano sound changed?
CA: It becamse richer, more assertive. Everything had more meaning.
================================
JH: One of the things you've mentioned in writing about this period is learning to interpret your dreams.
CA: Oh yes. I kept a notebook. And I trained myself, when I had an important dream, to wake up and write it down. I developed this capacity to wake up and when I felt my subconscious wanted to tell me something.
Arrau : of his teacher Martin Krause
Krause inculcated a reverence for music, and for music as a calling. He accepted no payment from the Arraus (an example Arrau has followed later in life - he teaches without a fee) . Mindful of his own venerated teachers, Liszt and Carl Reinecke, he taught as one bequeathing a tradition, his students comprised a sort of guild apprenticeship.
Q: Did Krause have any special teaching methods?
A: He believed in practising difficult passages at different speeds, and in different rhythms and in different keys. And then staccato, leggiero, martellato- all sorts of combinations. In fact he always told us that you shouldn't perform a work in public unless you were able to play it ten times as fast and ten times as loud as it would have to be in performance 0 that you only gave the feeling of mastery to an audience if you had tremendous reserves of technique, so that it seemed you could play much faster if you wished, or much louder.
Q: When you began working with Krause, his most famous pupil was Edwin Fischer. Yet Fischer's attitude tward textual fidelity was much different from yours. And he wasn't as polished a technician. Krause must not have stamped his students from a mould.
A: He encouraged thenm to develop their own approach. one thing I remember about him is that he hated people who just played, senselessly. "Klimpern" [tinkling] he called it. And he always said that one should have a general culture base.
==========================
He had heard Brahms, Clara Schumann, Carreno, Busoni, Sophie Menter. And of course Liszt. He would speak of Liszt's way of breaking chords, and of trilling. He taught us several ways to break a chord: to start slowly, and then accelerate toward the highest note; or to make a crescendo to the highest note; or to make a diminuendo; or to do it freely, with rubato. but always so that broken chords would have a meaning coming from what went before.
==========================
Q: You have said that Krause had you play all the preludes and fugues from the WTC in different keys.
A: Yes in front of all the pupils in the conservatory, he would test whether one could play in another key - usually one very far away, not just one tone or one half-tone. He also insisted on having us memorize single voices. Bach in general was one of the bases of his teaching. In those days, of course, there was no doubt it was correct to play Bach on the piano.
Q: Did Krause have any special teaching methods?
A: He believed in practising difficult passages at different speeds, and in different rhythms and in different keys. And then staccato, leggiero, martellato- all sorts of combinations. In fact he always told us that you shouldn't perform a work in public unless you were able to play it ten times as fast and ten times as loud as it would have to be in performance 0 that you only gave the feeling of mastery to an audience if you had tremendous reserves of technique, so that it seemed you could play much faster if you wished, or much louder.
Q: When you began working with Krause, his most famous pupil was Edwin Fischer. Yet Fischer's attitude tward textual fidelity was much different from yours. And he wasn't as polished a technician. Krause must not have stamped his students from a mould.
A: He encouraged thenm to develop their own approach. one thing I remember about him is that he hated people who just played, senselessly. "Klimpern" [tinkling] he called it. And he always said that one should have a general culture base.
==========================
He had heard Brahms, Clara Schumann, Carreno, Busoni, Sophie Menter. And of course Liszt. He would speak of Liszt's way of breaking chords, and of trilling. He taught us several ways to break a chord: to start slowly, and then accelerate toward the highest note; or to make a crescendo to the highest note; or to make a diminuendo; or to do it freely, with rubato. but always so that broken chords would have a meaning coming from what went before.
==========================
Q: You have said that Krause had you play all the preludes and fugues from the WTC in different keys.
A: Yes in front of all the pupils in the conservatory, he would test whether one could play in another key - usually one very far away, not just one tone or one half-tone. He also insisted on having us memorize single voices. Bach in general was one of the bases of his teaching. In those days, of course, there was no doubt it was correct to play Bach on the piano.
Prodigy
Q: When Mozart was being shown off, he would identify chords on the piano from the other room. Would you perform tricks as well?
A: Yes they did that with me too. Someone would play bunches of notes, almost like modern music, and I could name every note from another room. And i would transpose preludes by Bach.
Q: A striking characteristic of the young Mozart was his complete immersion in music. Andres Schachtner wrote of Mozart:" No sooner had he begun to busy himself with music than his interest in every other occupation was as dead, and even children's games had to have a musical accompaniment if they were to interest him; if we, he and I were carrying his playthings from one room to another, the one of us who went empty handed always had to sing or fiddle a march the while. Were you that single-minded as a child:
A: I think so. All I wanted was music. I was even fed at the piano. Otherwise it seems, I wouldn't eat. I used to play with my mouth open, and my mother used to put food in it. I was so preoccupied with the music I hardly noticed. Whenever food was put in my mouth, I chewed it so I could get rid of it.
Q: Schlichtegroll's necrology says of Mozart that "in general he was full of enthusiasm and was very easily attracted to any subject. " There are these stories of Mozart being taught arithmetic and making his calculations all over the floors and walls, writing numbers everyplace. Every activity he undertook consumed him. Were you like that?
A: I concentrated on what I was doing. Still today, whatever it is, even something very unimportant, I am totally there.
A: Yes they did that with me too. Someone would play bunches of notes, almost like modern music, and I could name every note from another room. And i would transpose preludes by Bach.
Q: A striking characteristic of the young Mozart was his complete immersion in music. Andres Schachtner wrote of Mozart:" No sooner had he begun to busy himself with music than his interest in every other occupation was as dead, and even children's games had to have a musical accompaniment if they were to interest him; if we, he and I were carrying his playthings from one room to another, the one of us who went empty handed always had to sing or fiddle a march the while. Were you that single-minded as a child:
A: I think so. All I wanted was music. I was even fed at the piano. Otherwise it seems, I wouldn't eat. I used to play with my mouth open, and my mother used to put food in it. I was so preoccupied with the music I hardly noticed. Whenever food was put in my mouth, I chewed it so I could get rid of it.
Q: Schlichtegroll's necrology says of Mozart that "in general he was full of enthusiasm and was very easily attracted to any subject. " There are these stories of Mozart being taught arithmetic and making his calculations all over the floors and walls, writing numbers everyplace. Every activity he undertook consumed him. Were you like that?
A: I concentrated on what I was doing. Still today, whatever it is, even something very unimportant, I am totally there.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Freedom to Fail
The freedom to fail
Shawn Johnson's coach permits mistakes, leading to success
By Alan Abrahamson
Posted Thursday, August 7, 2008 10:09 AM ET
Shawn Johnson candidly acknowledges that she can feel nervous when the spotlight turns to her at major gymnastics events.
As she says, who wouldn't feel nerves when everyone's watching?
But you wouldn't know it watching the 16-year-old from West Des Moines, Iowa, who is widely considered a favorite to win the women's individual all-around competition at the Beijing Games.
And here's why:
Shawn has the express permission of her coach, Liang Chow, to make mistakes.
And, in one of those great twists, it's precisely because she feels the freedom to make mistakes that she rarely makes big ones.
Before the U.S. Olympic Trials, in June in Philadelphia, for instance, Chow told Shawn, as her mother, Teri recalled, just two things:
Perform like a champion.
And don't be afraid to make a mistake.
After which Shawn went out and, just as she did at the 2007 world championships in the individual all-around, came out on top -- finishing with the best overall score at the 2008 U.S. Trials.
"I remember him telling me that," Shawn said. "It is almost just a relief. You're just trying to please the person who has taught you eveyrthing; you want to show them that you can be just as perfect as they've trained you to be. You're afraid to make mistakes. You're afraid to let them down -- even though you wouldn't.
"For him to have told me that, that as long as I went out there and did my best and he knew I had done my best, no matter what happened, he would have been happy -- it made me have a lot more confidence in myself because I knew if I went out there and made mistakes it wouldn't be the end of the world."
"I think that is so helpful to her, that he gives her permission to be imperfect, to be human," Shawn's mother, Teri Johnson, said, adding, "It's as simple as, 'Go do your best.' And, truthfully, that's all anybody can do."
In high-level sport, the mental edge often can -- and does -- make the difference.
Only the bounds of human ingenuity limit the ways in which coaches, trainers and others in the camp of an elite athlete seek that edge.
Chow's way is refreshingly simple.
It is based, he says, on a humanistic approach to the sport and to his athletes.
It is based, he says, on the idea of love.
Love? In gymnastics, perhaps the most rigorous of all competitive sports?
Growing up in China -- his return to the Beijing Games marks one of the most enchanting stories of the 2008 Olympics -- Chow said, "I had a very loving environment." So, at the gym that he and his wife, Liwen Zhuang, run in West Des Moines, they are committed to what he called a "fun, loving and supportive environment."
He said, "As many times as I talk to the girls -- I have eight or 10 girls in my group -- I tell them, 'You are all like sisters.'
Which means, he said: "It's not necessarily that I like you more than I like her, or whatever. And [one of the girls] might like, or might not like, sister one better than sister two. But we all have to help each other and enjoy each other."
That sort of approach resonates deeply with Shawn, who is -- for 16 -- keenly aware of her emotional environment. During the Trials, when she wasn't practicing or competing, she was reading; she read at least three books cover to cover during the Trials, noting her affinity for works by Dan Millman, perhaps best known for the best-seller first published in 1980, "Way of the Peaceful Warrior."
"In competition," Chow said of Shawn, "she knows I care about her seeking perfection. I care about how she hits her routines beautifully. But there is no pressure if she is making mistakes, from me or Li.
"We are just there to help prepare her so she can perform beautiful routines. She's a human being -- we have to realize that."
It is in the vault, in particular, that this approach is most easily seen for those who don't have a technical eye for gymnastics.
Shawn performs an extraordinarily difficult vault called a Yurchenko 2 1/2; she is the only American woman who even attempts it. Instead of sticking the landing, it's not uncommon to see her take a little step.
On purpose.
Better, Chow reasons, that Shawn should give in and allow that small step, if she feels she needs to, than obsess over the perfection of sticking it.
"She absolutely is allowed to make some mistakes," he said, adding, "She has a great personality ... she enjoys herself on the floor -- and in the gym, also. I can't say enough words, enough great things, about this kid. She is a loving person and very respectful.
"She is the world champion, the all-around champion. She is a huge star. But she is also like a normal kid, helping the younger kids, moving the mats, just like all the little things the other kids are doing. There are no exceptions for her.
"I'm very proud of what she does on the floor," he said. "But I am also very proud of her for who she is, as a real person."
Shawn Johnson's coach permits mistakes, leading to success
By Alan Abrahamson
Posted Thursday, August 7, 2008 10:09 AM ET
Shawn Johnson candidly acknowledges that she can feel nervous when the spotlight turns to her at major gymnastics events.
As she says, who wouldn't feel nerves when everyone's watching?
But you wouldn't know it watching the 16-year-old from West Des Moines, Iowa, who is widely considered a favorite to win the women's individual all-around competition at the Beijing Games.
And here's why:
Shawn has the express permission of her coach, Liang Chow, to make mistakes.
And, in one of those great twists, it's precisely because she feels the freedom to make mistakes that she rarely makes big ones.
Before the U.S. Olympic Trials, in June in Philadelphia, for instance, Chow told Shawn, as her mother, Teri recalled, just two things:
Perform like a champion.
And don't be afraid to make a mistake.
After which Shawn went out and, just as she did at the 2007 world championships in the individual all-around, came out on top -- finishing with the best overall score at the 2008 U.S. Trials.
"I remember him telling me that," Shawn said. "It is almost just a relief. You're just trying to please the person who has taught you eveyrthing; you want to show them that you can be just as perfect as they've trained you to be. You're afraid to make mistakes. You're afraid to let them down -- even though you wouldn't.
"For him to have told me that, that as long as I went out there and did my best and he knew I had done my best, no matter what happened, he would have been happy -- it made me have a lot more confidence in myself because I knew if I went out there and made mistakes it wouldn't be the end of the world."
"I think that is so helpful to her, that he gives her permission to be imperfect, to be human," Shawn's mother, Teri Johnson, said, adding, "It's as simple as, 'Go do your best.' And, truthfully, that's all anybody can do."
In high-level sport, the mental edge often can -- and does -- make the difference.
Only the bounds of human ingenuity limit the ways in which coaches, trainers and others in the camp of an elite athlete seek that edge.
Chow's way is refreshingly simple.
It is based, he says, on a humanistic approach to the sport and to his athletes.
It is based, he says, on the idea of love.
Love? In gymnastics, perhaps the most rigorous of all competitive sports?
Growing up in China -- his return to the Beijing Games marks one of the most enchanting stories of the 2008 Olympics -- Chow said, "I had a very loving environment." So, at the gym that he and his wife, Liwen Zhuang, run in West Des Moines, they are committed to what he called a "fun, loving and supportive environment."
He said, "As many times as I talk to the girls -- I have eight or 10 girls in my group -- I tell them, 'You are all like sisters.'
Which means, he said: "It's not necessarily that I like you more than I like her, or whatever. And [one of the girls] might like, or might not like, sister one better than sister two. But we all have to help each other and enjoy each other."
That sort of approach resonates deeply with Shawn, who is -- for 16 -- keenly aware of her emotional environment. During the Trials, when she wasn't practicing or competing, she was reading; she read at least three books cover to cover during the Trials, noting her affinity for works by Dan Millman, perhaps best known for the best-seller first published in 1980, "Way of the Peaceful Warrior."
"In competition," Chow said of Shawn, "she knows I care about her seeking perfection. I care about how she hits her routines beautifully. But there is no pressure if she is making mistakes, from me or Li.
"We are just there to help prepare her so she can perform beautiful routines. She's a human being -- we have to realize that."
It is in the vault, in particular, that this approach is most easily seen for those who don't have a technical eye for gymnastics.
Shawn performs an extraordinarily difficult vault called a Yurchenko 2 1/2; she is the only American woman who even attempts it. Instead of sticking the landing, it's not uncommon to see her take a little step.
On purpose.
Better, Chow reasons, that Shawn should give in and allow that small step, if she feels she needs to, than obsess over the perfection of sticking it.
"She absolutely is allowed to make some mistakes," he said, adding, "She has a great personality ... she enjoys herself on the floor -- and in the gym, also. I can't say enough words, enough great things, about this kid. She is a loving person and very respectful.
"She is the world champion, the all-around champion. She is a huge star. But she is also like a normal kid, helping the younger kids, moving the mats, just like all the little things the other kids are doing. There are no exceptions for her.
"I'm very proud of what she does on the floor," he said. "But I am also very proud of her for who she is, as a real person."
Saturday, August 02, 2008
Wyatt Earp
"Fast is fine. Accuracy is final. You must learn to be slow in a hurry."
-Wyatt Earp
I found this on a website on shooting... it applies to piano playing as well!
1. Safety- before speed or accuracy there must be safety. You'd be surprised at the dangerous / unsafe things untrained shooters do every day at the range or in the woods. When there is a shootingaccident all shooters suffer as the anti-gun nuts try and place more restrictions on those of us who use firearms safely.
2. Accuracy- If you can't hit what you are aiming at there is no useowning or using a firearm. One needs to train how to hit one or more targets multiple times from different shooting positions, preferably with some low light shooting thrown in as well since many defensive shootings occur during periods of low-lighting.
3. Speed will come naturally as you build up muscle memory. Trainingwith someone else who is proficient or training at one of the many fine training schools is a great way to realize your full potential for bothaccuracy and speed.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Artur Schnabel: Memorising & Composing
Q: Some teachers seem to feel that if a person memorizes easily and naturally without thinking about it a great deal, he should be made to think about it a great deal. And some teachers believe that only those truly memorize who write out all the music they learn.
A: That is really very advisable. But not for the purpose of memorizing, rather to establish more and more intimacy with music. I would definitely recommend that everybody who studies music should spend at least half an hour a day copying some music. Eventually, he would do it very quickly.
Q: Do it from memory?
A: Compositions he learned, he could write out from memory. But I thought really more of copying from music. Once a gifted music student has, for instance, copied on of the string quartets of Beethoven or, let me say, the first movement of a symphony, he will have benefited much morethan he ever divined. I think this is actually the quickest way to get into music. Of course, it should not only be a graphic activity. He should hear the music while he is writing it, should enjoy its beauty and greatness, and stop sometimes to delight fully in the happiness of having discovered something he had not noticed when he read or played it. He will notice much more when he writes it.
Today, I wish to recommend the copying of music strongly. And I also think that every musician should try to compose, even if he is so disgusted with the results that he destroys every composition immediately after he has written it. That does not matter. It is the activity and not the result which is so important
I never perform my own compositions, because when I have finished a composition my urge is to start the next composition. I cannot spend time practising my own compositions - and they are not too easy to play. I hardly know them: a composer does not know his own compositions. He only knows his next composition - which is forming and working in him.
I am sure Beethoven did not know his sonatas as well as we know them. After he had composed a sonata, it was finished - for him.
A: That is really very advisable. But not for the purpose of memorizing, rather to establish more and more intimacy with music. I would definitely recommend that everybody who studies music should spend at least half an hour a day copying some music. Eventually, he would do it very quickly.
Q: Do it from memory?
A: Compositions he learned, he could write out from memory. But I thought really more of copying from music. Once a gifted music student has, for instance, copied on of the string quartets of Beethoven or, let me say, the first movement of a symphony, he will have benefited much morethan he ever divined. I think this is actually the quickest way to get into music. Of course, it should not only be a graphic activity. He should hear the music while he is writing it, should enjoy its beauty and greatness, and stop sometimes to delight fully in the happiness of having discovered something he had not noticed when he read or played it. He will notice much more when he writes it.
Today, I wish to recommend the copying of music strongly. And I also think that every musician should try to compose, even if he is so disgusted with the results that he destroys every composition immediately after he has written it. That does not matter. It is the activity and not the result which is so important
I never perform my own compositions, because when I have finished a composition my urge is to start the next composition. I cannot spend time practising my own compositions - and they are not too easy to play. I hardly know them: a composer does not know his own compositions. He only knows his next composition - which is forming and working in him.
I am sure Beethoven did not know his sonatas as well as we know them. After he had composed a sonata, it was finished - for him.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
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.
[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.
=========================================
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.
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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.
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.
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.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
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.
[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!
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.....
...............
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.
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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.....
...............
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.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
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.
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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.
Monday, July 14, 2008
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.
More Articles in Arts »
Yo-Yo Ma: A Musician is like a Waiter
A well-known advertising campaign featured the slogan, “ I wanna be like Mike” – the idea being that if a kid used this product, he/she could become more like Michael Jordan. If an “I wanna be like Yo-Yo” campaign were proposed, and you could choose the ideal product for it, what would you pick?
A waiter’s outfit. Because I think being a good musician is very much like being a good waiter. You’re not the chef – the composer gets that outfit – but you need to be knowledgeable about what you’re serving in order to do your job well. You need to be present, but you also need to be discreet. If you do your job well, you can really add to the enjoyment of the overall experience.
A waiter’s outfit. Because I think being a good musician is very much like being a good waiter. You’re not the chef – the composer gets that outfit – but you need to be knowledgeable about what you’re serving in order to do your job well. You need to be present, but you also need to be discreet. If you do your job well, you can really add to the enjoyment of the overall experience.
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.
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.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
I Like Chopin (Gazebo)
Remember that piano
So delightful unusual
That classic sensation
Sentimental confusion
BRIDGE:
Used to say
I like Chopin
Love me now and again
CHORUS:
Rainy days never say goodbye
To desire when we are together
Rainy days growing in your eyes
Tell me where's my way
Imagine your face
In a sunshine reflection
A vision of blue skies
Forever distractions
BRIDGE
CHORUS
Friday, May 16, 2008
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Method & madness: The oddities of the virtuosi
Method & madness: The oddities of the virtuosi
What is it about elite pianists? Some are charmingly eccentric, others just insane. Michael Church looks at the oddities of the virtuosi
Wednesday, 12 March 2008
"It's like a horse before the race," said the great Vladimir Horowitz of his feelings before a recital. "You start to perspire, you feel already in you electricity. I am a general, my soldiers are the keys."
Marshalling their mountains of notes from memory, concert pianists need the skill of jugglers and the strength and stamina of athletes. Meanwhile, in their fusion of instinct and intellect, they must be supreme aesthetes. And they must do all this without safety nets: if their memory fails, or their fingers foul up, all they have is an unforgiving crowd. It takes an unusual person to put their life on the line like this. No wonder many pianists are oddballs; no wonder some go mad.Such thoughts are prompted by the recent release of yet more posthumous discs on the BBC Legends label of those wonderfully eccentric Russians Shura Cherkassky and Sviatoslav Richter; and by two other massive projects: the four-CD box plus book from Naxos entitled A-Z of Pianists; and the 80-CD box of the original Sony-Columbia recordings by Glenn Gould, who was both a god of the keyboard and more than a little mad. And these are just the tip of the iceberg: we can now survey an entire century of pianism's brilliant weirdness, thanks to the voluminous evidence that record companies are now putting out. Between eccentricity and madness lies a whole spectrum. When the Finnish pianist Olli Mustonen justifies his silent hand ballet over the keyboard with analogies to tennis and the Earth's curvature, we accept it as part of his fanciful virtuosity. When we learn that the Russian maestro Grigory Sokolov takes each piano apart before playing it, and notes his findings in a book, we see this as a facet of his infinitely subtle art. On the other hand, there are fine pianists who are close to the psychologically dangerous end of the spectrum, and one or two – no names, no writs – who have tragically dropped off the edge. It's safer to talk about the glorious dead.
When I interviewed Shura Cherkassky, then a sprightly octogenarian, in the hotel room he inhabited with a shockingly out-of-tune piano, I vainly tried to get him to talk about music; all he wanted to discuss was which Hawaiian shirt would make him most attractive to possible conquests. He had many pre-concert rituals, and could only perform comfortably if he had stepped on to the platform, right foot first. Yet his Chopin and Schumann had such panache that dozens of live recordings have been issued since his death.
I regret never having heard Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli live, but Testament's CD of his Royal Festival Hall concert in 1957, which includes a sound-check, almost fills the gap. He was a reclusive dandy who claimed to be an ace flyer, Ferrari-racer and piano-maker, and said he was descended from St Francis of Assisi; his cancellations far outnumbered his rare appearances. Yet what emerges on this CD is a surprise: he goes over and over phrases, tests every note for evenness of tone, and occasionally lets rip with that high-octane perfection that made him a legend – and to hell with his tenuous grip on reality.Horowitz's technique left rivals speechless, but he was such a tangle of terrors – at one stage, they forced him into a 12-year "retirement" – that he only found sanity in his Eighties. And he shared his agoraphobia with other players. Adolf Henselt practised 10 hours a day and was regarded as the pianistic equal of Liszt, but so great was his fear of crowds that he only managed one concert a year; for concertos, he would lurk in the wings while the orchestra played, until the time came for his terrified dash to the keyboard. Sviatoslav Richter felt comfortable on the stage, but at times he was unable to go anywhere else without clutching his pink plastic lobster.
Some pianists based brilliant careers on seeming mad, when they weren't, the most notable being the diminutive Viennese "pianissimist" Vladimir de Pachmann, aka "the Chopinzee", whose antics prompted George Bernard Shaw to write of his "pantomimic performance, with accompaniments by Chopin". Yet, if you listen to the Dal Segno CD of his piano-roll recordings made a century ago, you realise what a serious artist he was: as well as being a showman, he was a keyboard poet.In other cases, of course, the madness is all too real. Everyone who saw the film Shine knows the story of the Australian pianist David Helfgott, whose youthful promise was cut short by psychotic illness. The case of the British pianist John Ogdon was even more tragic. This titanic figure claimed at 19 that he stood in line with Beethoven, Brahms and Busoni as a pianist, and, starting with his win at the Tchaikovsky Competition in Moscow, went on to prove that this was true. In middle age, he was felled by schizophrenia. It's now for critics and psychiatrists to debate how that illness might have related to his majestic way with Liszt and Rachmaninov, and to his championing of new music.
And so to Glenn Gould. Not only was he a hypochondriac, but he had his own special chair. It had been made for him by his father when he was small, and he carried it round the world – it got progressively more dilapidated – like a metaphorical bit of blue blanket. The posture in which he played, the chair so low he was almost on the floor, was another way of replicating his infant relationship with the instrument, as was his humming and clucking, stamping and swaying, and flailing when a hand was free.
Gould never risked a handshake; his physical phobias caused trouble at Steinway, where an employee once dared to pat him on the shoulder. Gould decided he'd been injured, spent the next month in a body cast, and sued Steinway for grievous bodily harm. After nine years of superstardom, he turned his back on the concert platform to devote himself to recording, and became a recluse; if he did venture out, he dressed like a tramp.Sony's 80-CD box is a powerful reminder of why Gould had such an army of fans: he had a unique sound, and his playing could be as fleet and joyous as the wind, while always preserving needle-sharp clarity. One of these CDs contains a telling interview. As Gould parries, thrusts and provokes, you realise that though he lived on a different planet, his "madness" was that of a visionary who had the misfortune to be misunderstood.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Brahms 7 Fantasies
[ by Richard Goode]
JOHANNES BRAHMS
Seven Fantasies, Op. 116Born May 7, 1833, in Hamburg; died April 3, 1897, in Vienna.
Brhams completed the Seven Fantasies, Op. 116, in 1892, and they received their first complete Carnegie Hall performance on March 4, 1949, with Frank Glazer, piano. The first performance at Carnegie Hall of any of the Fantasies took place on November 29, 1902, with Ossip
Gabrilowitsch, who performed the Intermezzo in E Major, Op. 116, No. 4.Johannes Brahms’s “Paganini” Variations, Op. 35, completed at age 30, was his last large-scale keyboard work. His subsequent piano pieces were all cast in single-movement forms, most of them quite small. Far from being trifles, these were microcosmic “novels in miniature” wrought with jewel-like perfection, in which allusive intimacy rose to the truly oracular. One set of these Klavierstücke—the eight pieces of Op. 76—appeared in 1878, to be followed shortly after by the more extended Rhapsodies of Op. 79.
The Rhapsodies would have constituted Brahms’s early farewell to piano music had he persisted in his intention to retire from composition in 1890. However, the playing of a superb clarinetist soon lured him back to work, and 19 short piano pieces appeared in 1892–93, reaching print in four volumes as Brahms’s Opp. 116–119.
The present Op. 116 collection, titled “Fantasies,” comprises seven pieces and lasts some 22 minutes in performance. Brahms completed Op. 116 while summering at Ischl in 1892. Although the pieces may be played separately, Brahms unified the set by beginning and ending it with fiery Capriccios in the same key (D minor). Moreover, three leisurely paced pieces in succession (Nos. 4–6) share the note E as their key-center, suggesting a kind of slow movement, and the agitated main themes of No. 3 and the final No. 7 show a distinct family resemblance.
A burst of rage launches the opening Capriccio on its brief, breathless journey; later, abysses loom in passages where fateful bass descents that set the whole instrument aglow. The ensuing Intermezzo brings a plaintive minor-key melody over rocking rhythm. Purling filigree summons a nocturnal atmosphere, and a major-key transformation of the initial melody sings with openhearted ardor before the original plaint returns. Heroic derring-do invigorates the following Capriccio, cast in A-B-A form, with the rich-textured B-section reveling in a melody of noble grandeur.
No. 4 is again designated “Intermezzo,” although Brahms thought of titling it “Nocturne.” Opening with serene, introverted lyricism, it gradually sheds its reticence, as melody sings out over a rich bed of left-hand figuration. Enigmatic, fretful lilt marks the next Intermezzo, its melody stated in wistful, elusive fragments. Serenity and affection return in No. 6, where sonorous chordal outer portions surround a gently fluttering central episode. Agitated heroism dominates the final Capriccio, again in A-B-A form. The B-portion presents a tenor-register melody against a colloquy of upswoops vs. downswoops. The recurrence of A leads to an emphatic coda that crystallizes the opening music into crashing chords before winning through to triumph.
JOHANNES BRAHMS
Seven Fantasies, Op. 116Born May 7, 1833, in Hamburg; died April 3, 1897, in Vienna.
Brhams completed the Seven Fantasies, Op. 116, in 1892, and they received their first complete Carnegie Hall performance on March 4, 1949, with Frank Glazer, piano. The first performance at Carnegie Hall of any of the Fantasies took place on November 29, 1902, with Ossip
Gabrilowitsch, who performed the Intermezzo in E Major, Op. 116, No. 4.Johannes Brahms’s “Paganini” Variations, Op. 35, completed at age 30, was his last large-scale keyboard work. His subsequent piano pieces were all cast in single-movement forms, most of them quite small. Far from being trifles, these were microcosmic “novels in miniature” wrought with jewel-like perfection, in which allusive intimacy rose to the truly oracular. One set of these Klavierstücke—the eight pieces of Op. 76—appeared in 1878, to be followed shortly after by the more extended Rhapsodies of Op. 79.
The Rhapsodies would have constituted Brahms’s early farewell to piano music had he persisted in his intention to retire from composition in 1890. However, the playing of a superb clarinetist soon lured him back to work, and 19 short piano pieces appeared in 1892–93, reaching print in four volumes as Brahms’s Opp. 116–119.
The present Op. 116 collection, titled “Fantasies,” comprises seven pieces and lasts some 22 minutes in performance. Brahms completed Op. 116 while summering at Ischl in 1892. Although the pieces may be played separately, Brahms unified the set by beginning and ending it with fiery Capriccios in the same key (D minor). Moreover, three leisurely paced pieces in succession (Nos. 4–6) share the note E as their key-center, suggesting a kind of slow movement, and the agitated main themes of No. 3 and the final No. 7 show a distinct family resemblance.
A burst of rage launches the opening Capriccio on its brief, breathless journey; later, abysses loom in passages where fateful bass descents that set the whole instrument aglow. The ensuing Intermezzo brings a plaintive minor-key melody over rocking rhythm. Purling filigree summons a nocturnal atmosphere, and a major-key transformation of the initial melody sings with openhearted ardor before the original plaint returns. Heroic derring-do invigorates the following Capriccio, cast in A-B-A form, with the rich-textured B-section reveling in a melody of noble grandeur.
No. 4 is again designated “Intermezzo,” although Brahms thought of titling it “Nocturne.” Opening with serene, introverted lyricism, it gradually sheds its reticence, as melody sings out over a rich bed of left-hand figuration. Enigmatic, fretful lilt marks the next Intermezzo, its melody stated in wistful, elusive fragments. Serenity and affection return in No. 6, where sonorous chordal outer portions surround a gently fluttering central episode. Agitated heroism dominates the final Capriccio, again in A-B-A form. The B-portion presents a tenor-register melody against a colloquy of upswoops vs. downswoops. The recurrence of A leads to an emphatic coda that crystallizes the opening music into crashing chords before winning through to triumph.
Mozart Piano Sonata K.311
[source: Wikipedia]
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's Piano Sonata No. 9 in D major, K 311 (284c) (1777) is a sonata in three movements:
Allegro con spirito
Andantino con espressione
Rondeau (allegro)
A typical performance takes about 15 minutes.
The first movement begins with a swift and cheerful melody which lasts for several measures and leads into a passage of rapid sixteenth notes. The section ends with four strong chords, quickly leaping into the second theme (which is repeated). A brief section of the second theme is then repeated in a minor key. With a few soft chords the movement gradually transfers into the swift original melody and closes.
The second movement, being more relaxed, starts with a slow melody accented by soft cadences with the left hand. Gradually the bass progresses with a moving ostinato into the second theme. The main melody is played again, followed by a short minor section. The original key is then restablished as the second movement ends.
The energetic and robust third movement, being the most technically demanding of the three, begins with several accacciaturas, and a sixteenth note passage introduces the second theme. The main theme is repeated and enters into a minor section. A rapid chromatic scale takes the piece back to the major key at the conclusion of the sonata.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's Piano Sonata No. 9 in D major, K 311 (284c) (1777) is a sonata in three movements:
Allegro con spirito
Andantino con espressione
Rondeau (allegro)
A typical performance takes about 15 minutes.
The first movement begins with a swift and cheerful melody which lasts for several measures and leads into a passage of rapid sixteenth notes. The section ends with four strong chords, quickly leaping into the second theme (which is repeated). A brief section of the second theme is then repeated in a minor key. With a few soft chords the movement gradually transfers into the swift original melody and closes.
The second movement, being more relaxed, starts with a slow melody accented by soft cadences with the left hand. Gradually the bass progresses with a moving ostinato into the second theme. The main melody is played again, followed by a short minor section. The original key is then restablished as the second movement ends.
The energetic and robust third movement, being the most technically demanding of the three, begins with several accacciaturas, and a sixteenth note passage introduces the second theme. The main theme is repeated and enters into a minor section. A rapid chromatic scale takes the piece back to the major key at the conclusion of the sonata.
Mozart Piano Sonata for 2 pianos, K.448
ReviewMozart reserved the key of D major for happy compositions usually calling for a degree of virtuosity, as may be easily heard in his Sonata for two pianos. This is a work in the galant style, light, brilliant, yet refined. Mozart wrote it for a performance he would give with Josephine von Aurnhammer, who also appeared with him in his Concerto for two pianos and orchestra. This two-piano sonata is clearly meant for public use, rather than as a teaching tool like his pieces for four hands at a single keyboard.
The opening Allegro con spirito begins with a trilling fanfare, then immediately launches into a quick, bubbling theme, followed by a somewhat more chordal, low-key, second subject adorned with witty grace notes; a third section returns to the spirit and technique of the first part, but without quite quoting the earlier material until the very end. These are the building blocks of the sonata-form movement, which, after an exposition repeat, launches the development section with a descending version of the opening fanfare, sounding like the subject of a fugue. Mozart never really embarks on counterpoint, though, and after a very few bars he moves impatiently to the recapitulation.
The Andante begins with a seemingly simple yet highly adorned melody and flowing accompaniment that might serve nicely as an aria or duet in The Magic Flute or Così fan tutte. The theme of the middle section in this ABA movement is more spare, almost a lullaby. A quiet, tinkling delicacy pervades most of this movement, particularly upon the return of the A section, after a transition that is almost substantial enough to serve as yet another section.
Finally, the Molto allegro movement leaps off the page with a spirited tune that might be called "galloping" if it weren't so elegant. This is the recurring theme that binds together a rondo featuring an assortment of highly contrasting melodies, one of which -- heard early on and returning at the end -- includes a Turkish-style cadence that calls to mind Mozart's famous Rondo alla turca.
As an aside, this sonata was the one used in the scientific study that tested the theory of the "Mozart Effect," suggesting that Classical music increases brain activity more positively than other kinds of music. ~ All Music Guide
The opening Allegro con spirito begins with a trilling fanfare, then immediately launches into a quick, bubbling theme, followed by a somewhat more chordal, low-key, second subject adorned with witty grace notes; a third section returns to the spirit and technique of the first part, but without quite quoting the earlier material until the very end. These are the building blocks of the sonata-form movement, which, after an exposition repeat, launches the development section with a descending version of the opening fanfare, sounding like the subject of a fugue. Mozart never really embarks on counterpoint, though, and after a very few bars he moves impatiently to the recapitulation.
The Andante begins with a seemingly simple yet highly adorned melody and flowing accompaniment that might serve nicely as an aria or duet in The Magic Flute or Così fan tutte. The theme of the middle section in this ABA movement is more spare, almost a lullaby. A quiet, tinkling delicacy pervades most of this movement, particularly upon the return of the A section, after a transition that is almost substantial enough to serve as yet another section.
Finally, the Molto allegro movement leaps off the page with a spirited tune that might be called "galloping" if it weren't so elegant. This is the recurring theme that binds together a rondo featuring an assortment of highly contrasting melodies, one of which -- heard early on and returning at the end -- includes a Turkish-style cadence that calls to mind Mozart's famous Rondo alla turca.
As an aside, this sonata was the one used in the scientific study that tested the theory of the "Mozart Effect," suggesting that Classical music increases brain activity more positively than other kinds of music. ~ All Music Guide
Brahms: Drei Intermezzi (Op 117)
Occasionally unsure what title, if any, he should give a piece, Brahms came to use the term intermezzo as a rubric under which he could file anything that was not especially whimsical or fiery. The Three Intermezzi, Op. 117, do not require the technical facility necessary to perform many of his earlier works, but an incisive musicality is paramount for a proper understanding of these musical miniatures. The fact that they are all marked Andante also presents a problem for the performer, who must probe the details of each work and stress the contrasting elements.
All three Intermezzi of Op. 117 were written in the summer of 1892, the year of their publication. This is one of the rare cases in which Brahms gave a specific title for an entire set of pieces. Two of the three Intermezzi received their first performances shortly after they were written: No. 1 on February 18, 1893, and No. 2 on January 30 of the same year.
Prefaced by lines from Herder's translation of Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament, a Scottish lullaby, the first Intermezzo is in E flat major and cast in ABA' form. The central section, on E flat minor, obscures the 6/8 meter before returning to the major mode for the modified reprise of the first section.
A sonata-form movement in B flat minor, the second Intermezzo provides an excellent example of thematic transformation. The first theme, traced by the uppermost thirty-second notes in the arpeggios of the first two measures, becomes the second theme, played in the top notes of block chords 30 measures later. Because the rhythmic movement from note to note is changed and the textures of the two passages are very dissimilar, it takes a perceptive pianist to locate and bring out the transformed melody. Brahms chooses the relative major, D flat, for the second theme while the development section is built around the fluid arpeggios of the first theme. In the recapitulation, the second theme, truncated and transformed, vacillates between the tonic major and minor.
Brahms once referred to the third Intermezzo of Op. 117 as "the lullaby of all my grief." In C sharp minor, the piece is in ternary form (ABA'), with a central section on A major. Section A consists of two ideas, the first stated in parallel octaves. The entire complex is repeated, although the melodies are accompanied differently and some segments appear in a higher register. The move to A major for the B section creates a sense of relaxation as the leaping theme, again with right-hand octaves, provides a stark contrast to the linear, opening idea. A brief transition leads to the return of section A, re-harmonized and in a form more akin to its second half than to the beginning. ~ All Music Guide
All three Intermezzi of Op. 117 were written in the summer of 1892, the year of their publication. This is one of the rare cases in which Brahms gave a specific title for an entire set of pieces. Two of the three Intermezzi received their first performances shortly after they were written: No. 1 on February 18, 1893, and No. 2 on January 30 of the same year.
Prefaced by lines from Herder's translation of Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament, a Scottish lullaby, the first Intermezzo is in E flat major and cast in ABA' form. The central section, on E flat minor, obscures the 6/8 meter before returning to the major mode for the modified reprise of the first section.
A sonata-form movement in B flat minor, the second Intermezzo provides an excellent example of thematic transformation. The first theme, traced by the uppermost thirty-second notes in the arpeggios of the first two measures, becomes the second theme, played in the top notes of block chords 30 measures later. Because the rhythmic movement from note to note is changed and the textures of the two passages are very dissimilar, it takes a perceptive pianist to locate and bring out the transformed melody. Brahms chooses the relative major, D flat, for the second theme while the development section is built around the fluid arpeggios of the first theme. In the recapitulation, the second theme, truncated and transformed, vacillates between the tonic major and minor.
Brahms once referred to the third Intermezzo of Op. 117 as "the lullaby of all my grief." In C sharp minor, the piece is in ternary form (ABA'), with a central section on A major. Section A consists of two ideas, the first stated in parallel octaves. The entire complex is repeated, although the melodies are accompanied differently and some segments appear in a higher register. The move to A major for the B section creates a sense of relaxation as the leaping theme, again with right-hand octaves, provides a stark contrast to the linear, opening idea. A brief transition leads to the return of section A, re-harmonized and in a form more akin to its second half than to the beginning. ~ All Music Guide
Dances in Bulgarian Rhythm (6), for piano (Mikrokosmos Vol.6/148-153)
These six dances comprise the final works in Mikrokosmos, Bartók's masterful set of 153 pieces of progressively challenging piano compositions, meant primarily as an instructive collection for students. But, of course, the composer fully intended professional pianists to take them up, as well. These Six Dances in Bulgarian Rhythm are probably the most technically demanding works in the collection. Interpretively, too, they challenge the pianist both in his or her skills in keyboard coloration and in capturing the Bulgarian rhythmic folk idiom.
As most are aware, Bartók was a devoted collector and arranger of folk music. In this set he first touched on Bulgarian rhythmic elements in Bulgarian Rhythm I (No. 113) and Bulgarian Rhythm II (No. 115), and would return to the subject again in his arrangement for two pianos of No. 113, which appears as No. 1 in Seven Pieces from Mikrokosmos, for two pianos.
The first of the six dances here certainly displays a folk flavor, but one many will hear as Spanish, notably in the lively main theme. Still, that characteristic is partial and largely heard in the colorful, rhythmic exoticism of the thematic material. This dance lasts just under two minutes, and its light, glittering manner will appeal to most listeners' tastes.
The second dance opens with a driving, colorful rhythm, again invoking the spirit of Spain. Here, however, an Eastern European ethnic character is more in evidence, even if there is less a sense of the dance here. The music is more toccata-like, too, though full of color and lively rhythm. This piece lasts about a minute.
No. 150 features less rhythmic drive: although the music often goes at breakneck speeds, with frantic rhythms accompanying, the tempo slows and accelerates alternately, thus imparting an elastic sense to the flow of the music, thereby yielding contrast and much color. This one-minute gem has somewhat less an ethnic character than most of the others here.
The next dance, as Bartók pointed out, divulges a Gershwinian influence and is certainly one of the most jazzy pieces the composer ever wrote. The lively rhythms and early-twentieth century American jazz idiom give this minute-and-a-half work an attractive character that most listeners will find to their liking.
The penultimate dance is quite the opposite of the last: though it is lively and light, it exhibits a sunny, playful manner in its driving, rhythmic character, its music remaining, however, firmly on European ground. Lasting about a minute, this dance, like all the others, will both challenge the student and please the listener.
At two minutes, No. 153, the final dance, is the longest of the six and possibly the finest. The music is pure Bartók, much of it reminiscent of his writing in the finale of the Third Piano Concerto. The theme is lively and bright, and the rhythm brimming with energy, both elements combining to yield a colorful but slightly more serious-minded manner than exhibited in the other dances. ~ All Music Guide
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Martha Argerich
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Martha was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina on 5 June 1941, a year and a half before her countryman Daniel Barenboim. A kindergarten pupil when she was two years and eight months old, Martha was taunted by an older friend (he was five) who proclaimed that she couldn't play the piano. She went immediately to the piano and played a tune that the teacher had often played for the class. She played it by ear and played it perfectly. The teacher immediately called Martha's mother to report the incident: according to Argerich, she began her first piano lessons at five all because of this little boy who challenged her.
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As Maria Montessori phrased it, children live in an environment created by adults. Prodigious children may live in a world particularly ill-adapted to their own needs, repressed by their more powerful elders who undercut their will and constrain them. Some musical prodigies survive such dire circumstances and aggressively emerge from their perilous journeys as they approach maturity. Argerich was able to attain such equilibrium only gradually. Until she was approaching 25 she lived an unstable existence as a pianist, rebounding from depression to exaltation in an emotional state bordering on dysfunctional. Perhaps at the root of this anguish was the paradox that despite her love of playing the piano, she already disliked being a pianist.
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Throughout the Busoni competition, Martha never worked at the piano between rounds. She didn't want to practice if she wasn't going to get through. She merely waited to see if her name was announced, and when it was, she would go to work for the next round.
Marth won the Busoni competition and immediately prepared to enter the Geneva competition. Suspicious of the nature of competitions and so unsure of her own role in them, she gave way to her eccentricites, refusing to play the Liszt rhapsody all the way through in the practice studio, not even from her own security. It hardly mattered. Martha won the competition as she had in Bolzano, garnering lavish press reviews as the victor in two renowned international music competitions, the Busoni and the Geneva, that had taken place just 3 weeks apart.
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After studying with Friedrich Gulda in Vienna, Marth went to Italy to study with Arturo Benedetti-Michelangeli, then returned to New York where she endured a devastating emotional crisis. For one year Marth completely withdrew from playing the piano and simply spent her days watching television. Some friends, among them Fou Ts'ong, the Chinese born pianist and husband of Zamira Menuhin, tried to help 21 year old Marth recover her identity as a pianist but without success.
In 1963 her mother encouraged her to enter the Queen Elisabeth competition in Brussels but of course this was an impossibility since Martha was no longer prepared by this time having been away from the piano for almost 3 years.
She did go to Belgium and the night before the competition said to herself "Well, now Martha, it is over for you. You have been a pianist, but now you are not."
The next morning she went to seek help from Polish born pianist Stefan Askenase. She went with the firm conviction that somehow she would tell him that since she knew languages, she would become a secretary. Once she had arrived at the Askenase home, she was greeted by his wife, a woman of great strength and fortitude who ultimately would help Martha change the course of her unpredictable professional life.
The next morning she went to seek help from Polish born pianist Stefan Askenase. She went with the firm conviction that somehow she would tell him that since she knew languages, she would become a secretary. Once she had arrived at the Askenase home, she was greeted by his wife, a woman of great strength and fortitude who ultimately would help Martha change the course of her unpredictable professional life.
She went everyday to talk with Mrs Askenase and soon started to believe that she could, little by little, begin to play again, all the while questioning what was wrong that held her in check. When finally she had broken through her bond of insecurity, she went to Warsaw to compete in the Frederic Chopion International Competition.
Eight difficult years had elapsed since Martha's success in the competitions in Bolzano and Geneva, years in which one personal conflict followed another but in Warsaw 1965 Martha reigned supreme over 85 young pianists all over the world. One would never have known that the young woman from Buenos Aires had recently been idle for 3 years watching television in New York, constantly considering whether to withdraw permanently from the piano.
As David Feldman has said, "In the lives of musical prodigies, the importance of balance - of the coordination of a totally appropriate set of conditions necessary for development - cannot be overemphasised. When motivational force comes from within the precocious child and is on the mark, it is a force to reckon with; when that force goes awry, it can be baffling and destructive."
Glenn Gould
[Herbert Gould, remembering his son's infancy]
As soon as Glenn was old enough to be held on his grandmother's knee at the piano, he would never pound the keyboard as most children will with the whole hand, striking a number of keys at a time; instead he would always insist on pressing down a single key and holding it down until the resulting sound had completely died away. The fading vibrations entirely fascinated him.
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Glenn had no difficulty directing his mind. He played multiple chess games blindfolded, memorised complex scores while talking on the telephone, and listened to two radios simultaneously while studying Schoenberg's difficult Opus 23. He aroused attention, however, when he appeard to fidget on stage during the orchestral tuttis of the Beethoven concerto in his first performance with the Toronto Symphony Orchestra. The critic had no idea that before leaving home for the concert Glenn had bid a loving farewell to Nicky, his shedding dog. By the time of the concerto's rondo movement, he realised his black trousers were covered in dog hair and was busying himself picking them off. All went well until he lost track of which tutti was in progress, but he quickly composed his thoughts and played well to the end: "I had learned the fist valuable lesson of my association with the T.S.O - either pay attention or keep short-haired dogs"
Bejun Mehta
For someone who would end up singing and for whom language and self-expression would be major themes, I was ironically nonverbal as a baby. I exhibited little interest in speech for most of my first year and a half, and my taciturnity was a subject of some discussion between my parents. Then one day, I suffered quite a fall from my high chair, smacking my head on the kitchen table on the way down. After the crying had subsided, bones were checked, and I was safely reinstated in the chair, my mother recalls that I immediately began speaking in complete, correct sentences. The baby-talk stage was essentially skipped. Apparently, I had been steeping in language and understanding all along, and had just been waiting and observing until I felt I had learned enough to commit to it myself; the blow loosed the floodgates. My mother relates that she and my father looked at each other in amazement at this leap - together, my parents and I were beginning to discover evidence of my accelerated faculties
Yo-Yo Ma
Yo-Yo Ma: "My parents, being musical, obviously hoped that I would love music. They were ambitious for me to do my best and set very high standards, and yet they were careful not to exploit me as a child prodigy. I am grateful for this. They seemed to understand that an early physical facility has to be combined with a mature emotional development before a healthy musical voice emerges.
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I had always kept my emotions bottled up, but at Meadowmount I just ran wild. The whole structure of discipline collapsed. I would leave my cello outside, not worrying if it might rain and run off to play ping-pong. I exploded into bad taste at every level. I took some white paint and decorated the stone walls with graffiti. When Galamian found out, he was horrified. I knew I had gone too far, and spent a whole day washing the walls.
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Yo-Yo struck out on his perilous journey to maturity, rebelling against the strict decorum of his childhood. He returned to Juilliard in the fall and clad in a leather jacket for his lesson with Leonard Rose, offered his teacher an outpouring of swear words. "But Mr Rose took it in his stride and saw me through that phase. All I was trying to do was to be accepted as one of the guys, and not be considered a freak."
At this critical time in his adolescence Yo-Yo began to doubt whether he wanted to become a professional musician. having played cello since he was four, he found it difficult to separate his personal identity from his musical one, "It seemed as if the course of my life had been predetermined and I very much wanted to be allowed a choice".
When he was sixteen, Yo-Yo went for the first time to study at Rudolf Serkin's summer school at Marlboro, Vermont. " I was there four summers and I think my love for chamber music really developed". He became engrossed in playing chamber music with his peers and has ever since believed that the basis of all music making is found in a chamber music approach.
Jacqueline du Pre
[Iris du Pre, Jackie's mother]
Jackie could sing in tune before she could talk. One day after her bath I was drying her on my lap and I started to sing "Baa Baa Black Sheep"; she began to sing with me - just the tune. After a short while I stopped singing but she continued right through the end.
Jackie's choice of the cello as an instrument was firmly established one afternoon when we were listening to various instruments being demonstrated in a Children's Hour programme. As soon as she heard the cello, she said "Mummy, that's the sound I want to make"
I began to write little pieces of music for her, pieces suitable for someone her age and ability. I illustrated them with small sketches around the sides and slipped them under her pillow while she slept. In the morning she would waken early, leap out of bed to get her cello and play the latest composition, before even bothering to get dressed.
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After her lessons she would usually go to see Mr Walenn and sit on his knee for a short chat. On one such occassion she interrupted the conversation by putting her head on one side and listening intently tothe chimes of the grandfather clock in his office. After a moment or two she said "Do you know that that clock is out of tune?" She has always had the most amazingly good ear.
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When, after a competitive festival in London, a concert was given by the prizewinner, at which Princess Marie Louise presented the prizes, I recollect very clearly that we had a disappointed and rather dejected daughter to cope with because the Princess was not wearing a crown.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Pablo Cassals
Throughout his career, Casals was plagued by stage fright. It struck first less than 2 months after his 14th birthday when he made his first real Barcelona concert appearance in 1891.
"My head was going round, fear gripped me fast, and I said, as I got up: What am I going to do? I cannot remember the beginning of the composition I am going to play!"
Stage fright before playing never left him throughout his long career. At each of thousands of concerts, the terror gripped him as it did on that first occassion. In his old age, stage fright often brought on angina attacks, but he was never defeated. He rose from his deathbed at 96 to play the cello one last time for himself and those who kept vigil
Yehudi Menuhin
A few days before his 13th birthday, Yehudi appeared in a demanding performance of three great concertos with the Berlin Philharmonic, conducted by Bruno Walter. The concert aroused such passion among the audience that management summoned the police to resore order. Albert Einstein came into the artists' room directly from the stage, hugged Yehudi and said "Now I know there is a God in heaven."
Lord Menuhin said, "All children have some gifts. But very few children have the good fortune to have the right background, the parents, the teachers, the opportunity, the encouragement, the love that I had."
Clara Schumann
The diary that Wieck (Clara's father) kept provides precise details of his highly disciplined teaching methods. During the first year of her instruction, he did not encourage her to learn to read music but rather to play be heart the small pieces he composed expressly for her use, piano music that encouraged the little girl to concentrate on physical position, musical phrasing, tone production and familiarity with the keyboard, aspects that accounted for the superb facility and ease at the instrument that she demonstrated to the end of her life.
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The young Felix Mendelssohn was the guest of honour at Clara's sixteenth birthday party on 13 Sept 1835 and presented her his newly composed Capriccio as a birthday present. At the height of the celebration, Clara performed the scherzo from Robert's new sonata at Mendelssohn's request. A few weeks after the birthday party, Frederic Chopin, now 25, arrived in Leipzig and spent an evening in the Wieck home. Robert Schumann was ecstatic to be with Chopin, his exact contemporary,.....
..... Concerto in A minor Op7, a work premiered in 1835 with Mendelssohn conducting the Gewandhaus Orchestra. At the premiere, both Clara and Mendelssohn broke with German performance tradition. She played from memory with her profile to the audience; he conducted with a baton facing the orchestra. Before this time, pianists always played from music in deference to the composer's notation and often performed with their backs to the audience, while conductors contrarily faced the audience and beat time noisily with whatever was in hand, objects ranging from a mace to a rolled parchment.
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.... she returned to Vienna to meet Franz Liszt and later confessed to Robert: "When I heard Liszt for the first time in Vienna, I hardly knew how to bear it, I sobbed aloud, it overcame me so." Early in Sept 1838, Clara returned to the stage of the Gewandhaus for a performance of Chopin's E minor Concerto and 3 piano transcriptions of Schubert songs by Franz Liszt, her new-found friend.
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In Paris Clara met Hector Berlioz, a great admirer of Robert's music. The celebrated composer quickly became her ally. .... .....
When both Erard and Pleyel, the leading piano manufacturers in Paris, placed their best pianos at her disposal, her concert life was again underway.
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The young Felix Mendelssohn was the guest of honour at Clara's sixteenth birthday party on 13 Sept 1835 and presented her his newly composed Capriccio as a birthday present. At the height of the celebration, Clara performed the scherzo from Robert's new sonata at Mendelssohn's request. A few weeks after the birthday party, Frederic Chopin, now 25, arrived in Leipzig and spent an evening in the Wieck home. Robert Schumann was ecstatic to be with Chopin, his exact contemporary,.....
..... Concerto in A minor Op7, a work premiered in 1835 with Mendelssohn conducting the Gewandhaus Orchestra. At the premiere, both Clara and Mendelssohn broke with German performance tradition. She played from memory with her profile to the audience; he conducted with a baton facing the orchestra. Before this time, pianists always played from music in deference to the composer's notation and often performed with their backs to the audience, while conductors contrarily faced the audience and beat time noisily with whatever was in hand, objects ranging from a mace to a rolled parchment.
=============================
.... she returned to Vienna to meet Franz Liszt and later confessed to Robert: "When I heard Liszt for the first time in Vienna, I hardly knew how to bear it, I sobbed aloud, it overcame me so." Early in Sept 1838, Clara returned to the stage of the Gewandhaus for a performance of Chopin's E minor Concerto and 3 piano transcriptions of Schubert songs by Franz Liszt, her new-found friend.
===========================
In Paris Clara met Hector Berlioz, a great admirer of Robert's music. The celebrated composer quickly became her ally. .... .....
When both Erard and Pleyel, the leading piano manufacturers in Paris, placed their best pianos at her disposal, her concert life was again underway.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Daniel Barenboim: pianissimo
When you have learned and played a Debussy pianissimo, and when you then return to a Beethoven pianissimo, you nkow even better what the differences are, and you realise you are dealing with two entirely different sounds. With Debussy the pianissimo has to be bodiless, and with Beethoven, it has to have a physical core of expression and sound.
Daniel Barenboim: Philosophy in music
Spinoza has written of knowledge as not just an amalgamation of information : there is indeed a difference between experience and knowledge. Many problems, like nervousness before starting to play, have to do with too great a reliance on purely intuitive feelings, or empirical knowledge. once you know how something is constructed, how it reacts to the laws governing sound and phrasing, then there is less reason for nervousness. This does not mean that one can always control one's nerves, but there is a nervousness that springs from a fear of not being able to realise everything one wants to, and of course there is a nervousness which comes from insufficient knowledge. Mechanical repetition is a musical equivalent of superstition. You repeat something mechanically and feel more secure because you have done it three or four times. This is a fallacy, and illogical thinking.
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Einstein said that the most inexplicable thing about the universe is that it is inexplicable. One could almost paraphrase him and say that the most explicable thing about music is its inexplicability. After every observation and analysis there is always an element that remains incomprehensible. This is to me music's transcendental quality.
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If we are to understand the phenomena of nature, or the qualities of human beings, or the relationship to a God or to some different, spiritual experience, we can learn much through music. Music is so very important and interesting to me because it is at the same time everything and nothing. If you wish to learn how to live in a democratic society, then you would do well to play in an orchestra. For when you do so, you know when to lead and when to follow. you leave space for others and at the same time you have no inhibitions about claiming a place for yourself. And despite this, or maybe precisely because of it, music is the best means of escape fromthe problems of human existence.
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Einstein said that the most inexplicable thing about the universe is that it is inexplicable. One could almost paraphrase him and say that the most explicable thing about music is its inexplicability. After every observation and analysis there is always an element that remains incomprehensible. This is to me music's transcendental quality.
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If we are to understand the phenomena of nature, or the qualities of human beings, or the relationship to a God or to some different, spiritual experience, we can learn much through music. Music is so very important and interesting to me because it is at the same time everything and nothing. If you wish to learn how to live in a democratic society, then you would do well to play in an orchestra. For when you do so, you know when to lead and when to follow. you leave space for others and at the same time you have no inhibitions about claiming a place for yourself. And despite this, or maybe precisely because of it, music is the best means of escape fromthe problems of human existence.
Daniel Barenboim: Interpretation
Every masterpiece is open to any number of interpretations, as long as they do not falsify it. However, it is not possible to combine all interpretations in one performance, just as it is impossible to live more than one life. The interpreter can never perceive all the many details of the many possible interpretations. In any one performance he can only glimpse them.
We often become obssessed with one particular viewpoint or idea and thus become blind to its opposite. But to me, dualism, the paradoxical nature of things, is the very essence of music. It is not coincidence that the sonata form, which is based on this dualism, is one of the most perfect forms of expression. The structure of a classical sonata or symphony is based on this principle of dualism. It brings out the dramatic essence of music, which does not consist merely of loud or soft, of fast or slow, for music in itself is dramatic, even in its more epic forms such as the compositions of bach. The first subject may be more heroic, and the second subject more lyrical; it is the juxtaposition of these opposing elements that lends the music a feeling of tension and excitement.
We often become obssessed with one particular viewpoint or idea and thus become blind to its opposite. But to me, dualism, the paradoxical nature of things, is the very essence of music. It is not coincidence that the sonata form, which is based on this dualism, is one of the most perfect forms of expression. The structure of a classical sonata or symphony is based on this principle of dualism. It brings out the dramatic essence of music, which does not consist merely of loud or soft, of fast or slow, for music in itself is dramatic, even in its more epic forms such as the compositions of bach. The first subject may be more heroic, and the second subject more lyrical; it is the juxtaposition of these opposing elements that lends the music a feeling of tension and excitement.
Daniel Barenboim: Orchestra seating
I remember Kubelik telling me that I need to change the seating of the orchestra. Under Kubelik, the orchestra always sat with separated first and second violins. Then under Solti, the violins sat toegther on the conductor's left with the cellos to the right, on the outside. When I came, the violas sat on the outside instead, which made many musicians unhappy. The cellists were especially disappointed because they were used to sitting to the conductor's right and they felt they had more room and independence that way. I felt that the sound and balance in the strings were not right, however, and opted for the more traditional 'German' seating, with violas oustide and the cellos inside, facing out, giving a fuller picture of the bass.
I had always had doubts of dividing the first and second violins. FIrst of all, with the second violins on the conductor's right, they would be playing in the wrong direction - their instrument facing away from the audience. Second, the problem of the ensemble, especially in unison or octave passages, would be greater because of the difficulty in hearing from one side of the stage to the other. Later after we rebuilt Orchestra Hall to correct this deficiency, I became more convinced that the advantages of separaing the violins were greater than disadvantages. NOw the violins sit as he first suggested with cellos and violas between them and the basses behind the first violins. Actually the communication between the violins is better when they are seating opposite sides, because the passages of unisons or octaves you get the sound from the whole width of the stage, which makes up for any lack of direction. Most importantly, the proximity of the cellos and basses to the first iolins gives the whole string section a fuller and more harmonic sound, and in addition the violins sound rounder and more beautiful in the high register when the bass is next to them, almost like a support
I had always had doubts of dividing the first and second violins. FIrst of all, with the second violins on the conductor's right, they would be playing in the wrong direction - their instrument facing away from the audience. Second, the problem of the ensemble, especially in unison or octave passages, would be greater because of the difficulty in hearing from one side of the stage to the other. Later after we rebuilt Orchestra Hall to correct this deficiency, I became more convinced that the advantages of separaing the violins were greater than disadvantages. NOw the violins sit as he first suggested with cellos and violas between them and the basses behind the first violins. Actually the communication between the violins is better when they are seating opposite sides, because the passages of unisons or octaves you get the sound from the whole width of the stage, which makes up for any lack of direction. Most importantly, the proximity of the cellos and basses to the first iolins gives the whole string section a fuller and more harmonic sound, and in addition the violins sound rounder and more beautiful in the high register when the bass is next to them, almost like a support
Daniel Barenboim: Tempo
Singers, often ask me what tempo I am going to take. I answer that I cannot tell until I have heard them sing, and I often give the same silly but illuminating example: when you are going on vacation and have no suitcase, what do you do? Do you go and buy just any suitcase and then decide what you can put in it? Or do you first consider what you need to take - shirts, tennis racket, rollerblades whatever - and then buy a suitcase of certain size? most likely, you do the latter. The tempo is the 'suitcase;, and the music is the 'contents'. If the suitcase is too small, you can't fit in all your belongings, and if the suitcase too big, everything floats around. Once you arrive it does not matter if the suitcase is brown and round or square and black. The only thing that matters is whether you have what you need. The tempo is therefore to provide the correct speed for the content of the music; therefore it is the last decision I make.
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I think that there is something physical in one's feeling about tempo. You should feel uneasy when a tempo is not correct. This may apply to a particular moment, in a particular place, with a particular acoustic, tension and volume. in an over resonant church you are forced to take a slightly slower tempo than in a building with a dry acoustic, because the sound needs more time to come into being.
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The other extreme is that of slowness. If there is not enough intensity in the vibrato of the strings, or in the harmonic tensions of the music, even a relatively fast-moving tempo will sound too slow. When the tempo is right, all the different ingredients can correlate with each other in perfect harmony.
When you work at an opera house and rehearse with a singer at a piano, when the weight of the sound is considerably less than that of a full orchestra, you maturally take the music at a slightly faster speed. When the sound has weight, it needs time to move. The weight of the sound is a determining factor for the correct tempo. If you ahve an orchestra able to produce the necessary weight, you can take a certian tempo more slowly. With an orchestra lacking this weight the same piece has to be taken imperceptibly faster
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I think that there is something physical in one's feeling about tempo. You should feel uneasy when a tempo is not correct. This may apply to a particular moment, in a particular place, with a particular acoustic, tension and volume. in an over resonant church you are forced to take a slightly slower tempo than in a building with a dry acoustic, because the sound needs more time to come into being.
.....
......
The other extreme is that of slowness. If there is not enough intensity in the vibrato of the strings, or in the harmonic tensions of the music, even a relatively fast-moving tempo will sound too slow. When the tempo is right, all the different ingredients can correlate with each other in perfect harmony.
When you work at an opera house and rehearse with a singer at a piano, when the weight of the sound is considerably less than that of a full orchestra, you maturally take the music at a slightly faster speed. When the sound has weight, it needs time to move. The weight of the sound is a determining factor for the correct tempo. If you ahve an orchestra able to produce the necessary weight, you can take a certian tempo more slowly. With an orchestra lacking this weight the same piece has to be taken imperceptibly faster
Daniel Barenboim: Intonation
One of the most delicate subjects in this area is intonation, and I had my share of problems with intonation at the beginning of my conducting days. Having grown up playing the piano, I did not always notice i f something was not quite clean from the point of view of intonation in the orchestra. I knew what was not quite clean if a wrong note was played, and obviously I heard that chords were out of tune, but I could not always indicate which instrument was too low and which too high.
If you do not hear a chord very clearly or very cleanly, just say what you are thinking at the moment - that this is too high and that is too low - you may be right, and then you will know if this is the case for the next time. or you may be on the wrong track altogether and tell a musicain that he is too low and he may say "I was not too low, if anything I was too high". You musn't be afraid of saying something wrong, because that is how you will train yourself. And this is how I learned. I was not embarrased, if I heard something unclean, to say, this is too low.
At the beginning it often happened that a player replied: 'What do you mean , too low" I was far too high!" Then I would say, "Yes, you are right". This is how you train your ears. But you must be open about it, and not afraid of making mistakes. It is rather like learning a strange language. If you are afraid of making mistakes you will never learn to speak it.
If you do not hear a chord very clearly or very cleanly, just say what you are thinking at the moment - that this is too high and that is too low - you may be right, and then you will know if this is the case for the next time. or you may be on the wrong track altogether and tell a musicain that he is too low and he may say "I was not too low, if anything I was too high". You musn't be afraid of saying something wrong, because that is how you will train yourself. And this is how I learned. I was not embarrased, if I heard something unclean, to say, this is too low.
At the beginning it often happened that a player replied: 'What do you mean , too low" I was far too high!" Then I would say, "Yes, you are right". This is how you train your ears. But you must be open about it, and not afraid of making mistakes. It is rather like learning a strange language. If you are afraid of making mistakes you will never learn to speak it.
Daniel Barenboim: Orchestras and Conductors
If you were to ask a first-class orchestral player, he would say that few conductors have any influence on the orchestra. They play the tempi indicated by the conductor, adding the nuances or the balance he wants, and that is the end of it. But with a good conductor, musical contact can be so strong that the musicians react to the slightest movement of his hand, his finger, his eye or his body. I f the orchestra is at one with the conductor, they play differently if he stands up straight, or bends forward, or sideways or backwards. They are influenced by every movement. The conductor’s up-beat, moreover, has an influence on the first sound. If his up-beat has no authority, the sound is dead, unless the musicians ignore him completely. If they cannot or do not want to play for him, feeling that he has nothing to impart, they will just play the Beethoven symphony the way they have played it a thousand times before. But if they respect him, they will be with him from the up-beat, which as a direct influence on the first note, whether it should sound hard or soft, on the way it is sustained and to what extent it should vibrate.
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When Sergiu Celibidache said that none, or very few of his colleagues could read scores, a lot of people got cross. But they were taking what he said at face value. What he meant was that many conductors cannot hear the sound, the dynamic or balance of the orchestra during their reading. When you look at a score and at a certain point it says crescendo, then the whole orchestra plays crescendo from pianissimo to fortissimo. Now if the second flute, which is not unimportant and the kettle drum, the trumpets and the trombones all start the crescendo at the same time, as is pointed out in the score, you can hear this. But for that you need knowledge and the ability to read, in order to realise a crescendo in an orchestra, the instruments cannot all start at the same time. The crescendo must be organised in such a way that everything can be heard, the full capabilities of every instrument have to come through. A conductor must be able to think acoustically, and that is very difficult.
For instance, in the beginning of Wagner’s Die Walkure. The cellos and double basses play five semiquavers and a crotchet all marked forte, and after that the second beat is subito piano. You cannot just lay forte and then the subito piano. The forte must rise so that you get the effect of a precipice before the subito piano. This is all part of the reading: the first two crotchets are forte, and the third piano. Everything can be learned in detail except the intensity. The intensity of a forte or a piano, the strength with which you play a forte before getting through to the subito piano is something that cannot be learned.
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Absolute pitch is a help in correcting false intonation. Intonation does not exist in a vacuum, since it is often influenced by correct or incorrect balance. A note may be too high or too low, or a chord may sound unclean because it is wrong from the point of view of balance. Or the overtones may suddenly be too weak or too loud in the chord, or the sound is not homogeneous. In a woodwind chord and instrument like the oboe can sometimes be very penetrating and harder than the others, and that automatically sounds wrong and unclean. You may then get the impression that the oboe is too high, but in fact it is only too hard. With orchestras you know really well, you can correct these things during the normal rehearsal time. They present no problems to me in Chicago and Berlin.
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When Sergiu Celibidache said that none, or very few of his colleagues could read scores, a lot of people got cross. But they were taking what he said at face value. What he meant was that many conductors cannot hear the sound, the dynamic or balance of the orchestra during their reading. When you look at a score and at a certain point it says crescendo, then the whole orchestra plays crescendo from pianissimo to fortissimo. Now if the second flute, which is not unimportant and the kettle drum, the trumpets and the trombones all start the crescendo at the same time, as is pointed out in the score, you can hear this. But for that you need knowledge and the ability to read, in order to realise a crescendo in an orchestra, the instruments cannot all start at the same time. The crescendo must be organised in such a way that everything can be heard, the full capabilities of every instrument have to come through. A conductor must be able to think acoustically, and that is very difficult.
For instance, in the beginning of Wagner’s Die Walkure. The cellos and double basses play five semiquavers and a crotchet all marked forte, and after that the second beat is subito piano. You cannot just lay forte and then the subito piano. The forte must rise so that you get the effect of a precipice before the subito piano. This is all part of the reading: the first two crotchets are forte, and the third piano. Everything can be learned in detail except the intensity. The intensity of a forte or a piano, the strength with which you play a forte before getting through to the subito piano is something that cannot be learned.
=================================================
Absolute pitch is a help in correcting false intonation. Intonation does not exist in a vacuum, since it is often influenced by correct or incorrect balance. A note may be too high or too low, or a chord may sound unclean because it is wrong from the point of view of balance. Or the overtones may suddenly be too weak or too loud in the chord, or the sound is not homogeneous. In a woodwind chord and instrument like the oboe can sometimes be very penetrating and harder than the others, and that automatically sounds wrong and unclean. You may then get the impression that the oboe is too high, but in fact it is only too hard. With orchestras you know really well, you can correct these things during the normal rehearsal time. They present no problems to me in Chicago and Berlin.
Daniel Barenboim: Different piano schools
There have been different piano schools. There was the so-called German school, which stemmed to a great degree from Theodor Leschitizky in Vienna. Under various guises, one could count such a variety of pianists as Artur Schnabel, Edwin Fischer, Wilhelm Backhaus, Walter Gieseking and Wilhelm Kempff. And there was the very famous Russian school, which was well known throughout the world through the great Soviet virtuosi such as Emil Gilels and Sviatoslav Richter and earlier on through Rachmaninov and Vladimir Horowitz and others. And before both of these there was a French school, which was more limited, but which gave us Alfred Cortot and Yves Nat – to my mind a great pianist but much underestimated outside France; and the great Italian school that went from Busoni to Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli and Maurizio Pollini. Each of these schools had, in a certain sense, a connection to Liszt. None would have been possible without this grandfatherly person. To my mind, the Hungarian-Slavic side of Liszt was developed by the Russians; the elegance of Liszt’s playing went to the French school, and the slightly more intellectual side to the German and the Italian schools. When you analyse these piano schools you can almost see the different stages of Liszt’s life; Budapest with the connection to the East, Rome in later years, Weimar and of course Paris.
The German branch, which came to us through Busoni and Arrau in more recent days, was probably influenced by the side of Liszt that was interested in Wagner and in the transcriptions of the Beethoven symphonies and the songs, most of which were by Schubert. The Russian branch was more concerned with the virtuosity; the pure, pianistic side of Liszt was developed there with a much greater sense of freedom in rubato, a great ability to bring out hidden voices in the chords of the piano – the prime example of this was the Polish pianist Josef Hofmann – and a great capacity to develop a sense of perspective in piano playing. In this school you feel a much greater dynamic range between the melody and the accompaniment. You very often hear the melody being played in a good healthy mezzo forte or forte and the accompaniment pianissimo, whereas the German school balances the accompaniment and the melody within a very narrow area. This is only on e of the Russian school’s characteristics, which was then carried over into the modern Soviet school.
The German branch, which came to us through Busoni and Arrau in more recent days, was probably influenced by the side of Liszt that was interested in Wagner and in the transcriptions of the Beethoven symphonies and the songs, most of which were by Schubert. The Russian branch was more concerned with the virtuosity; the pure, pianistic side of Liszt was developed there with a much greater sense of freedom in rubato, a great ability to bring out hidden voices in the chords of the piano – the prime example of this was the Polish pianist Josef Hofmann – and a great capacity to develop a sense of perspective in piano playing. In this school you feel a much greater dynamic range between the melody and the accompaniment. You very often hear the melody being played in a good healthy mezzo forte or forte and the accompaniment pianissimo, whereas the German school balances the accompaniment and the melody within a very narrow area. This is only on e of the Russian school’s characteristics, which was then carried over into the modern Soviet school.
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