This evening I was introduced, by my friend and colleague Roberto Poli, to an unusual and wonderful performance from 1911 of the Chopin Etude in C major, op. 10#1, by the pianist Vladimir de Pachmann. I have never heard anyone else perform the piece this way - it is much slower, more poetic, not at all a virtuoso showpiece. And my first reaction, after realizing how beautiful the piece was in this "outside the box" performance, was that this celebrated pianist would probably not be accepted to a conservatory after performing the piece in this way. It is too, well, out of the ordinary. I am going to post the performance below, as well as a good number of other recorded performances I found on youtube. First, see what you think of de Pachmann:
Now for a few of the more "standard" performances. I don't mean that as a criticism - these are amazing achievements, and beautiful for many reasons. But you will probably notice how similar Pollini, Lugansky, Ashkenazy, and Ohlsson are. It brings to mind the book I read recently by chef Jacques Pepin (see my previous blog post) where he explained that when he was younger, a chef at a great restaurant in Paris was trained so that he and all the chefs could prepare a dish in exactly the same way, so that a diner at the restaurant would not be able to tell who had prepared it that evening.
Pollini (generally thought of as the gold standard in this piece):
Lugansky (fantastic - to his credit, almost imperceptibly different from Pollini,but it does beg the question - why record the piece when such a similar interpretation already exists?)
Ashkenazy (some differences of articulation, but otherwise basically the same approach - but he proves here he can do it live, like a tight-rope walker without a safety net):
Ohlsson (another live performance, with the pitch nearly a half step sharp - I assume it is the recording rather than the instrument, suggesting that perhaps this has been *slightly* speeded up)
Now a couple of more "poetic" versions of the piece, from Claudio Arrau, Alfred Cortot and Wilhelm Backhaus. Cortot is often cited for his wrong notes, but I believe that in his time it was not yet possible to splice recordings so this is basically a live performance, and honestly the standard of "cleanliness" is simply much higher today than it used to be (sometimes at the expense of other priorities like imagination, risk-taking, etc). As for Backhaus, it is no-nonsense, perhaps a shade Teutonic, but really beautiful.
Cortot:
Arrau, both astounding technique and a beautiful sound:
Backhaus:
And the final three, all essential listening:
Richter is always recognizable - this is no-holds-barred, a bit rushed, anything but flowery - and it's live:
One more person who might be laughed at at a Conservatory audition, Georges Cziffra - but this is truly astounding technically (so that might win over the conservatory faculty) while being absolutely unique. It is probably closer in spirit to the Romantic approach in that the performer is unapologetically inserting his own ideas in to the piece. And this was the one where, alone in my room watching, I said out loud "Holy #$(*&#"
And finally, the pianist that all other pianists aspire to be, Martha Argerich. Probably my desert-island choice:
Now that you've seen all these performances, you might want to listen to de Pachmann again - is it refreshing to hear something different? Does it sound too slow to you now after hearing that everyone else plays it faster? And to those of us (I include myself) who make decisions about who should and shouldn't be accepted to conservatories, how can we make sure we don't close our minds to the beautifully unusual?
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Friday, March 2, 2012
We don't need no education
I just saw an eye-opening video of a lecture by Sir Ken Robinson, from the "TED" series. It is not a new video (in fact it is from 2006) but I would urge you to watch it. One of the major points here is that our education system doesn't necessarily foster creativity (in fact, he argues, it stifles creativity). The question on my mind is: how can we help children (and everyone) develop their flexible, creative, problem-solving sides? I have two children and while they are both intelligent, one is great at memorizing and creating systems for herself, while the other is more flexible in her thinking (and, incidentally, is lazier). I try to foster their creativity (knowing that this is useful for all fields, not just the arts) by encouraging them to draw, dance, play music, etc. Is that all I can do? I'd love to hear suggestions. Meanwhile, enjoy the lecture - it is well worth the 20 minutes of your time it will take to watch it.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Chefs
In honor of tonight's "Top Chef" finale (my favorite TV show) I thought I would share my observations about the last two books I read: Jacques Pepin's "The Apprentice: My Life in the Kitchen" and Anthony Bourdain's "Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly." Both are chefs made famous by TV, and both offer a lot of insight to someone like me, who loves food and enjoys cooking, but has never seen what REALLY happens in a professional kitchen. The books are quite different in tone, as you might expect if you have seen them on television: Pepin is warm, easy-going, and avuncular, while Bourdain is biting, sarcastic, and takes no prisoners (including himself - he is not at all self-serving, and subjects himself to the same criticism as everyone else).
What I gained, as a musician, from reading these books (and that is not the only reason I read the books, mind you) is the realization that we are not the only ones who experience ups and downs. Both chefs have experienced, in the broad sense, huge progress in their careers, but things did not go in a straight line, without the occasional miscalculation or string of bad luck. Neither was too proud to work in less-than-glamorous situations, even after being, for example, the official chef to Charles de Gaulle (as in Pepin's case). I have likewise experienced highs and lows, and just because I have played a recital in the Wigmore Hall doesn't mean I am unwilling to play a concerto with a student orchestra (schedule permitting). It worked for Pepin and Bourdain, and in the end the thing that shines through is that both of those chefs love to work, almost regardless of the restaurant.
My own grandfather worked as a chef, though I didn't get to know that part of his life too well before he died. I remember very vividly how much I love eating Oysters Rockefeller at his restaurant in California as a young kid, and I remember another time when he made escargots at home. If I ever have the time, I would love to take a serious cooking course at the Cordon Bleu or something like that. Maybe when the kids are grown up (and aren't only interested in macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets). But it does seem, based on what Bourdain says that one's hands can get pretty gnarly from repeated use of sharp knives, splattering oil, etc. So I'm not sure I should risk my career just to be able to make a great meal.
One of my first conducting performances was at a "Symphonies for Youth" concert organized by the Los Angeles Philharmonic, at their former home, the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. I was conducting my school's orchestra (I was 16 or 17 - the Crossroads Chamber Orchestra was no ordinary school orchestra, having produced the concertmasters and principal players of several major orchestras including the Chicago Symphony, Boston Symphony, New York Philharmonic, and many others) in a piece I had written (nothing special, mind you). The theme of the Saturday morning concert was "Cooking with Strings," an attempt to help kids understand music through an analogy with chefs and cooking. I was supposed to be a "real live chef" (unlike, say, Beethoven) and had to conduct the orchestra with a chef's hat on. I had been asked to conduct with a wooden spoon, but even as a teenager I just had to draw the line somewhere, and was allowed to use a baton. I don't know if the orchestra really respected me with my chef's hat on, but in any case I wasn't quite up to being respected by an orchestra even without a silly costume.
What I gained, as a musician, from reading these books (and that is not the only reason I read the books, mind you) is the realization that we are not the only ones who experience ups and downs. Both chefs have experienced, in the broad sense, huge progress in their careers, but things did not go in a straight line, without the occasional miscalculation or string of bad luck. Neither was too proud to work in less-than-glamorous situations, even after being, for example, the official chef to Charles de Gaulle (as in Pepin's case). I have likewise experienced highs and lows, and just because I have played a recital in the Wigmore Hall doesn't mean I am unwilling to play a concerto with a student orchestra (schedule permitting). It worked for Pepin and Bourdain, and in the end the thing that shines through is that both of those chefs love to work, almost regardless of the restaurant.
My own grandfather worked as a chef, though I didn't get to know that part of his life too well before he died. I remember very vividly how much I love eating Oysters Rockefeller at his restaurant in California as a young kid, and I remember another time when he made escargots at home. If I ever have the time, I would love to take a serious cooking course at the Cordon Bleu or something like that. Maybe when the kids are grown up (and aren't only interested in macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets). But it does seem, based on what Bourdain says that one's hands can get pretty gnarly from repeated use of sharp knives, splattering oil, etc. So I'm not sure I should risk my career just to be able to make a great meal.
One of my first conducting performances was at a "Symphonies for Youth" concert organized by the Los Angeles Philharmonic, at their former home, the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. I was conducting my school's orchestra (I was 16 or 17 - the Crossroads Chamber Orchestra was no ordinary school orchestra, having produced the concertmasters and principal players of several major orchestras including the Chicago Symphony, Boston Symphony, New York Philharmonic, and many others) in a piece I had written (nothing special, mind you). The theme of the Saturday morning concert was "Cooking with Strings," an attempt to help kids understand music through an analogy with chefs and cooking. I was supposed to be a "real live chef" (unlike, say, Beethoven) and had to conduct the orchestra with a chef's hat on. I had been asked to conduct with a wooden spoon, but even as a teenager I just had to draw the line somewhere, and was allowed to use a baton. I don't know if the orchestra really respected me with my chef's hat on, but in any case I wasn't quite up to being respected by an orchestra even without a silly costume.
Life interferes with Art: Beethoven on hold
As it is the last day of February (the 29th!) I am due to report on the progress of my Beethoven Sonata project. I am trying to learn one new Sonata each month, with the goal of having them all in my fingers in about a year-and-a-half. This month I decided to learn op. 31#1, a wonderful piece while not quite the life-altering experience of op. 111 or op. 57. It isn't quite as far a long as I'd like it to be, mostly because my progress was interrupted by some surgery. It wasn't a life-threatening procedure, though I was nervous anyway (first time to have any surgery), and I was not quite at 100% for a while.
But I DID get the notes learned fairly well (I was hoping to have the piece memorized, but no luck) since I worked hard on the piece at the beginning of the month, prior to my surgery. At the time, the little red devil whispering in my ear said "Why hurry - you have the whole month!" while the other part, fortunately, won over and convinced me to practice right away, while I could.
So the moral of the story is: take advantage of time when you have it. I have already admitted to being a terrible procrastinator, one who has succeeded too many times in getting things done at the last minute and so I am not quick to change this. And in the context of non-urgent tasks (see Stephen Covey) like my Beethoven project, it is all too easy to let those things slide when life interferes with realities like surgery or flight delays or any other unexpected events.
So I'm hoping to catch up in March (while also playing a lot of repertoire unrelated to this project) AND to keep forging ahead, maybe with an easier sonata like op. 14#1 or op. 49#2. We'll see how it goes - wish me luck!
But I DID get the notes learned fairly well (I was hoping to have the piece memorized, but no luck) since I worked hard on the piece at the beginning of the month, prior to my surgery. At the time, the little red devil whispering in my ear said "Why hurry - you have the whole month!" while the other part, fortunately, won over and convinced me to practice right away, while I could.
So the moral of the story is: take advantage of time when you have it. I have already admitted to being a terrible procrastinator, one who has succeeded too many times in getting things done at the last minute and so I am not quick to change this. And in the context of non-urgent tasks (see Stephen Covey) like my Beethoven project, it is all too easy to let those things slide when life interferes with realities like surgery or flight delays or any other unexpected events.
So I'm hoping to catch up in March (while also playing a lot of repertoire unrelated to this project) AND to keep forging ahead, maybe with an easier sonata like op. 14#1 or op. 49#2. We'll see how it goes - wish me luck!
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Chronological Survey of "Eroica" opening
I'm not sure if anyone else will find this interesting, but thought I'd share it: someone has compiled 20-30 different recordings (from 1952 to the present) of the Beethoven 3rd Symphony opening two chords. Most people would probably be struck by the variety of pitches used as E-flat major - some of them sound a half-step high to my ear, and in the 1980's you hear a few of the "period instrument" groups playing a half-step lower than a "modern" E-flat.
I think it's interesting to see, in this very brief and not exactly scientifically controlled experiment, how differently people can play the exact same two chords. And all of them, I'm sure, were doing what they thought best suited Beethoven.
I think it's interesting to see, in this very brief and not exactly scientifically controlled experiment, how differently people can play the exact same two chords. And all of them, I'm sure, were doing what they thought best suited Beethoven.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Alexis Weissenberg and overcoming first impressions
I have mentioned before in this blog that I appreciate both the control of being able to hear whatever I want, whenever I want, thanks to my iPod; AND giving up control of my listening to the local classical stations (WGBH 99.5 and sometimes WHRB 95.3), as I often discover pieces or performers I didn't know about. This happened a few days ago when I was in my car and heard a wonderful performance of the Chopin 2nd Piano Concerto slow movement, but didn't know who it was. It turned out to be Alexis Weissenberg, somewhat of a surprise to me since I had decided many years ago (decades in fact) that I didn't like his playing. As a kid I remember owning two LP's, one of some Bach ( I can't remember what it was) and the other a recording of the Brahms Violin Sonatas with Anne-Sophie Mutter. I didn't like either, and so I hadn't bothered to listen to him ever since.
Now having spent a short time perusing recordings of Weissenberg that people have uploaded to Youtube, I can say that he is great, but perhaps not 100% of the time. I heard some wonderful Chopin and Rachmaninov, but also a dry Bach Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue that lacked fantasy. But in any case I am glad for the discovery that, despite my first impression years ago, there is wonderful artistry to be heard from among his many recordings (Weissenberg died quite recently, on my birthday in fact - the New York Times obituary is here).
I know this is hardly news, but first impressions are powerful - maybe too powerful! I remember that the first time I heard the Mahler Fourth Symphony, I thought the 3rd movement was boring (granted, I was in middle school at the time). Now I love it so much that I would have it played at my funeral, if possible. (That probably won't work out since it requires a whole orchestra, but my other top choice for music at my funeral is the slow movement of the Schubert C major Quintet). I also remember, once upon a time, not liking the Richter's playing, or foods like avocadoes, ikura (salmon roe), or anchovies, all things I love now. But I wonder if there are other things to which I need to give a second or third chance - am I missing out on something because of a bad first impression?
A piece of practical advice: if you are a student auditioning for a conservatory, always start with your best piece. Many students seem to think they are somehow obliged to start with Bach (don't know where this idea came from), but if that isn't your best piece, start with something else. That first impression, even within a 15-20 minute audition can change the way we hear you the rest of the time.
Here is the Rachmaninov Sonata #2, 1st Movement, played by Alexis Weissenberg (who, as it turns out, bears some resemblance to Rachmaninov, I think!)
Now having spent a short time perusing recordings of Weissenberg that people have uploaded to Youtube, I can say that he is great, but perhaps not 100% of the time. I heard some wonderful Chopin and Rachmaninov, but also a dry Bach Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue that lacked fantasy. But in any case I am glad for the discovery that, despite my first impression years ago, there is wonderful artistry to be heard from among his many recordings (Weissenberg died quite recently, on my birthday in fact - the New York Times obituary is here).
I know this is hardly news, but first impressions are powerful - maybe too powerful! I remember that the first time I heard the Mahler Fourth Symphony, I thought the 3rd movement was boring (granted, I was in middle school at the time). Now I love it so much that I would have it played at my funeral, if possible. (That probably won't work out since it requires a whole orchestra, but my other top choice for music at my funeral is the slow movement of the Schubert C major Quintet). I also remember, once upon a time, not liking the Richter's playing, or foods like avocadoes, ikura (salmon roe), or anchovies, all things I love now. But I wonder if there are other things to which I need to give a second or third chance - am I missing out on something because of a bad first impression?
A piece of practical advice: if you are a student auditioning for a conservatory, always start with your best piece. Many students seem to think they are somehow obliged to start with Bach (don't know where this idea came from), but if that isn't your best piece, start with something else. That first impression, even within a 15-20 minute audition can change the way we hear you the rest of the time.
Here is the Rachmaninov Sonata #2, 1st Movement, played by Alexis Weissenberg (who, as it turns out, bears some resemblance to Rachmaninov, I think!)
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
A little love music for Valentine's Day
In honor of Valentine's Day, a couple of my favorite love-related pieces of music - what are yours?
Prokofiev "Romeo and Juliet" (here is the Balcony Scene), from the Mariinsky Theatre:
Schoenberg "Transfigured Night" (Juilliard Quartet, with Walter Trampler and Yo-Yo Ma)
Wagner-Liszt "Liebestod" (played by me)
Prokofiev "Romeo and Juliet" (here is the Balcony Scene), from the Mariinsky Theatre:
Schoenberg "Transfigured Night" (Juilliard Quartet, with Walter Trampler and Yo-Yo Ma)
Wagner-Liszt "Liebestod" (played by me)
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Pianists and public transportation
I have just returned home from a trip to Dublin, Ireland, where I had the great pleasure of playing a concert with many of my fellow winners of the Dublin International Piano Competition: Phillippe Cassard, Pavel Nersessian, Davide Franceschetti, Alexei Nabioulin, and Romain Descharmes, along with the founder of the competition, John O'Conor. (The two other winners, Antti Siirala and Alexej Gorlatch, couldn't be there). The first half included each pianist playing a short solo piece, and after intermission we returned as a group to play some pieces (arranged) for seven pianos. Here is a photo I took while the piano tuner was scrambling to get all of these 9-foot Steinway Model D's tuned:
It was a great time for us, performers of an often-solitary instrument who had a chance to play together.
I've been to Ireland about 15 times, I'd say, and the people I know are all very eager to be helpful. I usually stay in a friend's home (this time my friends Myles and Laurie), and if I ever need to go somewhere, there are people who are quick to offer me a ride in their car. But a few days ago I ended up taking the train (the "DART") to get from Dublin's Royal Irish Academy of Music (I'd been practicing) to the home where I was staying. And I realized that I LOVE taking public transportation, especially when I am away from home. I have very happily ridden the subway in London, Paris, Tokyo, Moscow, New York, Chicago. In fact I vastly prefer taking the train to riding in a taxi. When I left Dublin I very happily took a bus from the city centre to the airport - in fact I was happier doing that than I had been on the taxi I took from the airport when I arrived.
It made me wonder why. I think what I like about it is the independence. I grew up in Los Angeles, where most people I know go everywhere by car. When I came to Boston for school, the idea that I could hop on the Red Line and go wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted, was wonderfully liberating. But I wonder whether being a pianist has helped contribute to this preference for independence. Pianists, when playing solo piano repertoire, don't need to ask for anyone's opinion when making musical decisions (this of course is different when playing music for 7 pianos!) and when we take public transportation, it feels less like we are depending on someone else. (Of course this is partly an illusion, as we all depend on the driver of the train, and are subject to limitations of the train's schedule and route). I have noticed that different musical instruments tend to be correlated to different personalities, and pianists tend to be the loners, the eccentrics, the dreamers, the awkward nerds. And I bet I'm not the only pianist who prefers the independence of public transportation to the dependence of asking for a ride.
I've been to Ireland about 15 times, I'd say, and the people I know are all very eager to be helpful. I usually stay in a friend's home (this time my friends Myles and Laurie), and if I ever need to go somewhere, there are people who are quick to offer me a ride in their car. But a few days ago I ended up taking the train (the "DART") to get from Dublin's Royal Irish Academy of Music (I'd been practicing) to the home where I was staying. And I realized that I LOVE taking public transportation, especially when I am away from home. I have very happily ridden the subway in London, Paris, Tokyo, Moscow, New York, Chicago. In fact I vastly prefer taking the train to riding in a taxi. When I left Dublin I very happily took a bus from the city centre to the airport - in fact I was happier doing that than I had been on the taxi I took from the airport when I arrived.
It made me wonder why. I think what I like about it is the independence. I grew up in Los Angeles, where most people I know go everywhere by car. When I came to Boston for school, the idea that I could hop on the Red Line and go wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted, was wonderfully liberating. But I wonder whether being a pianist has helped contribute to this preference for independence. Pianists, when playing solo piano repertoire, don't need to ask for anyone's opinion when making musical decisions (this of course is different when playing music for 7 pianos!) and when we take public transportation, it feels less like we are depending on someone else. (Of course this is partly an illusion, as we all depend on the driver of the train, and are subject to limitations of the train's schedule and route). I have noticed that different musical instruments tend to be correlated to different personalities, and pianists tend to be the loners, the eccentrics, the dreamers, the awkward nerds. And I bet I'm not the only pianist who prefers the independence of public transportation to the dependence of asking for a ride.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Beethoven op. 111 progress report
Earlier this month I made public my goal to be able to play all of the 32 Beethoven Sonatas in about 2 years. With that in mind, I set myself the shorter term goal of learning the last of his Sonatas, op. 111 in C minor, over the month of January. It has not been easy! I am a pretty quick learner at this point - years of leaving things to the last minute have helped me hone my ability to learn fast. But even so, squeezing in the hours around all of my other responsibilities - for example, practicing for other concerts, teaching, taking care of my children, etc. - has been difficult.
But today, on the last day of January, while practicing in a lovely home in Dublin, I played through the entire piece. It is a privilege to know the piece much more intimately than when I started. And it is good to know that while a month of sporadic work has been enough to get the notes in to my fingers, it is nevertheless a piece that will, I'm sure, reveal more and more to me as I live with it longer. In fact this is why I started my Beethoven project with this piece - I am counting on the blessing of time to help me digest this piece more fully.
My students know that I love to say how tired I am of the sound of the piano, which is partially true (but not totally). One of the remarkable things about op. 111 is the way it sounds so unlike a piano piece to me. Perhaps it is fitting that it is his last piano sonata (although several important piano pieces, most notably the "Diabelli" Variations, were written later) as the first movement sounds to me more like a symphony and the second like a string quartet, the genre which seemed especially to captivate Beethoven in his later years. By the time this piece was written Beethoven was, I believe, totally deaf, and he was writing, perhaps, not for the earthly instruments we hear every day, but for the heavenly sounds he could hear in his own mind. It presents the wonderful challenge of creating this palette of colors on the piano.
Now tomorrow, my day is filled with a master class at the Royal Irish Academy of Music, a radio broadcast, and a rehearsal with some old friends (all former winners of the Dublin International Piano Competition) of fun, entertaining music for as many as 8 pianists at once (including arrangements of Flight of the Bumblebee, the William Tell Overture, and "Tea for Two.") It may not be op. 111, but it has its place too!
But today, on the last day of January, while practicing in a lovely home in Dublin, I played through the entire piece. It is a privilege to know the piece much more intimately than when I started. And it is good to know that while a month of sporadic work has been enough to get the notes in to my fingers, it is nevertheless a piece that will, I'm sure, reveal more and more to me as I live with it longer. In fact this is why I started my Beethoven project with this piece - I am counting on the blessing of time to help me digest this piece more fully.
My students know that I love to say how tired I am of the sound of the piano, which is partially true (but not totally). One of the remarkable things about op. 111 is the way it sounds so unlike a piano piece to me. Perhaps it is fitting that it is his last piano sonata (although several important piano pieces, most notably the "Diabelli" Variations, were written later) as the first movement sounds to me more like a symphony and the second like a string quartet, the genre which seemed especially to captivate Beethoven in his later years. By the time this piece was written Beethoven was, I believe, totally deaf, and he was writing, perhaps, not for the earthly instruments we hear every day, but for the heavenly sounds he could hear in his own mind. It presents the wonderful challenge of creating this palette of colors on the piano.
Now tomorrow, my day is filled with a master class at the Royal Irish Academy of Music, a radio broadcast, and a rehearsal with some old friends (all former winners of the Dublin International Piano Competition) of fun, entertaining music for as many as 8 pianists at once (including arrangements of Flight of the Bumblebee, the William Tell Overture, and "Tea for Two.") It may not be op. 111, but it has its place too!
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Music for normal people
I just started teaching a new course at Boston Conservatory, the first they are offering for adults via their extension division. It is one semester class, meeting once a week, called "Getting to Know the Piano Repertoire" and when I was explaining what I was doing to one of my undergraduate conservatory students, she helped me find the word to describe the students who would be enrolling in the course: "NORMAL people." At a conservatory, I spend most of my time working with students who have studied piano music for most of their lives - (abnormal people?). Even then I have to make an effort at times to imagine what it is like to hear about a piece for the first time, when I have performed it in concert 100 times. That, of course, is what teachers do all of the time, in all sorts of fields.
But it is always healthy for a performer, like myself, to come face to face not with musical colleagues but with the "normal people" who make up the audience of concerts. What do they think about when they hear music? What do they like or dislike? The great artist is not, of course, supposed to play in a way that panders to the audience, but he does need to consider what is valuable to them - it is about striking a proper balance between entertaining and challenging.
In any case, I enjoy helping opening people's eyes to things I already know and love. I admire the "normal people" in this course, some who appear to be working, some possibly retired, but all challenging themselves to learn something new, rather than sitting in front of the TV and coasting through life on the education they acquired in high school or college. In the last year or two I have begun to do more private teaching, including students who are 14 years old, and one who is over 70. It has helped me to see clearly how valuable playing the piano and getting to know great music, intimately, is to everyone, not just professional musicians themselves.
But it is always healthy for a performer, like myself, to come face to face not with musical colleagues but with the "normal people" who make up the audience of concerts. What do they think about when they hear music? What do they like or dislike? The great artist is not, of course, supposed to play in a way that panders to the audience, but he does need to consider what is valuable to them - it is about striking a proper balance between entertaining and challenging.
In any case, I enjoy helping opening people's eyes to things I already know and love. I admire the "normal people" in this course, some who appear to be working, some possibly retired, but all challenging themselves to learn something new, rather than sitting in front of the TV and coasting through life on the education they acquired in high school or college. In the last year or two I have begun to do more private teaching, including students who are 14 years old, and one who is over 70. It has helped me to see clearly how valuable playing the piano and getting to know great music, intimately, is to everyone, not just professional musicians themselves.
Friday, January 20, 2012
The problem with perfect practice?
I just read (and recommend) this blog post by Dr. Noa Kageyama, on the subject of practicing. About a year ago I gave a presentation to a group of Los Angeles piano teachers entitled "Making Practice Perfect" where I explored and shared various techniques that I find useful for myself and students. Dr. Kageyama points out, however, that the attempt to be "perfect" in the practice room can actually prevent us from learning. One such reason occurs especially in conservatory environments: we want to sound good to our peers in the hallway or the practice room next door, and will avoid working on pieces or passages we aren't so confident with. Or we might avoid taking a risk with tempo or musical idea, for example, because we will (probably) sound terrible, at least at first.
As a kid, one of my friends (now concertmaster of a major American orchestra) would sometimes go over to an older friend's house (he is now the concertmaster of another major American orchestra) to practice. My friend said it helped him focus and not screw around. But I wonder if it might have also made him avoid practicing brand new repertoire, say, or trying out new interpretive or technical ideas. Now mind you, he is a great (and successful) violinist so he obviously wasn't damaged by this much, if at all, but it makes me think that it's important, in practicing, not to focus on what others think, but to listen to ourselves and evaluate how we are doing.
To my Conservatory students: ignore everyone else practicing nearby! Your job is not to impress them in a practice room - your job is to do your best on stage, in a concert or competition or audition or recording studio.
On the other hand, I remember quite vividly the experience years ago as a Fellow at the Tanglewood Music Center that I often ended up practicing in a room near Leon Fleisher's office. Being within earshot of one of the world's greatest pianists definitely made me sharpen my focus, and I had the nervewracking privilege of having him come in once or twice to advise me on something he heard me doing.
As a kid, one of my friends (now concertmaster of a major American orchestra) would sometimes go over to an older friend's house (he is now the concertmaster of another major American orchestra) to practice. My friend said it helped him focus and not screw around. But I wonder if it might have also made him avoid practicing brand new repertoire, say, or trying out new interpretive or technical ideas. Now mind you, he is a great (and successful) violinist so he obviously wasn't damaged by this much, if at all, but it makes me think that it's important, in practicing, not to focus on what others think, but to listen to ourselves and evaluate how we are doing.
To my Conservatory students: ignore everyone else practicing nearby! Your job is not to impress them in a practice room - your job is to do your best on stage, in a concert or competition or audition or recording studio.
On the other hand, I remember quite vividly the experience years ago as a Fellow at the Tanglewood Music Center that I often ended up practicing in a room near Leon Fleisher's office. Being within earshot of one of the world's greatest pianists definitely made me sharpen my focus, and I had the nervewracking privilege of having him come in once or twice to advise me on something he heard me doing.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Goldbergs are not enough - now for all the Beethoven Sonatas!?!?
I recently blogged, happily, about my successful project to learn the Goldberg Variations in a month, working gradually, one variation each day. A brief update: I am reviewing what I worked on and it will be a few more months certainly before I feel ready to let anyone hear it! But I try to remind myself that I learned it not for the purpose of performing it (a departure for me), and that if I do program the piece on a concert in the future that will be icing on the cake. (Well, I have to say I do like icing! And in a VERY tangential footnote: my manager got me a chocolate cake for my birthday last week from Magnolia Bakery in NYC and it was absolutely the best cake I have ever eaten. That is not an exaggeration.)
I am now embarking on a project that I hope will take not one month but 2 years - I want, finally, to know all 32 of the Beethoven Sonatas. I feel very much at home with about 12 of them. There are a few more that I have worked on (and one I have played in concert) but that really warrant a thorough reworking. And then there a dozen or more that I have never worked on at all. My intention is to share some of my reflections on this, perhaps once a month as I hope to get one Sonata in my fingers every month. I decided to work from the end, for now at least, so I'm working on op.111. I'll write again about that in a week or two.
I am saying it here, publicly, to help me stay on track! My friend Ali Binazir, a wonderfully tireless high achiever, recently alerted me to the existence of a web site that is supposed to help people keep up with their personal projects, whether losing weight, or exercising, or reading a book every week. The site is here: http://www.stickk.com/ I haven't tried using it, but they have some great ideas there, and a mechanism for enlisting support from others to help get your projects done.
My challenge, aside from finding the time to do this and the tenacity and endurance to follow through for many months of work, is to translate my big goal in to smaller daily goals. I find that the only way not to procrastinate is to have something VERY specific to do every day. Wish me luck, as I wish you luck on YOUR projects.
I am now embarking on a project that I hope will take not one month but 2 years - I want, finally, to know all 32 of the Beethoven Sonatas. I feel very much at home with about 12 of them. There are a few more that I have worked on (and one I have played in concert) but that really warrant a thorough reworking. And then there a dozen or more that I have never worked on at all. My intention is to share some of my reflections on this, perhaps once a month as I hope to get one Sonata in my fingers every month. I decided to work from the end, for now at least, so I'm working on op.111. I'll write again about that in a week or two.
I am saying it here, publicly, to help me stay on track! My friend Ali Binazir, a wonderfully tireless high achiever, recently alerted me to the existence of a web site that is supposed to help people keep up with their personal projects, whether losing weight, or exercising, or reading a book every week. The site is here: http://www.stickk.com/ I haven't tried using it, but they have some great ideas there, and a mechanism for enlisting support from others to help get your projects done.
My challenge, aside from finding the time to do this and the tenacity and endurance to follow through for many months of work, is to translate my big goal in to smaller daily goals. I find that the only way not to procrastinate is to have something VERY specific to do every day. Wish me luck, as I wish you luck on YOUR projects.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
A Goldberg a Day
About a year ago I saw the film "Julie and Julia," based on a book of the same title. The author of the book (and one of the title characters in the film) sets out on a journey to cook every recipe in Julia Child's "Mastering the Art of French Cooking," in the space of one year. I enjoyed the film (even though most would describe it as a "chick flick" - but I just love watching a show about cooking!), and it made me think about seemingly impossible tasks, that become feasible when divided in to manageable daily chunks.
So I decided, about a month ago, to try to learn Bach's "Goldberg" Variations, a monumental work that I have never really grappled with simply because it seemed too huge. There is a theme and thirty variations (followed by a repeat of the theme), and I realized that I could learn the piece in a month if I worked on one variation each day. Today, December 31, I am happy to report that I can now play through the piece - it isn't polished or consistent, and it certainly isn't memorized. It will take considerable work (and time living with the piece) to feel confident enough to play it for an audience. But (and this is VERY unusual for me) I can honestly say I don't care if I play it for an audience, not for the moment anyway.
For me this project has been important for a number of reasons. Normally I only really work on something when I have an external deadline, like a concert or a recording. That doesn't mean I don't learn new music - what I do is schedule a new piece for a concert at some future date, and that forces me to learn it. But I have a tendency to procrastinate (a byproduct of being a fast learner) and once in a while I have to back out of a repertoire plan because I don't leave myself enough time to learn something.
But I worked on the Goldberg Variations for *me*. I made my own deadline. This was really art for art's sake - no one is paying me to play this piece in a concert. As a young person growing up, many if not most of the pieces I learned were for this kind of purpose - artistic growth without immediate thought of practical or professional gain. But as I got older, got married, had children - I had to think more about how the hours I invest produce dividends not only for myself but for those under my care. After all, there are only so many hours in the day! Now I am obviously not talking about a total "sell-out" - I am still in an exceedingly impractical profession! But my day-to-day priorities have not been consistently focused on artistic goals for their own sake, but some mixture of artistic and career-related goals. For that reason, this little project, only a month (and only really requiring about 1 hour a day, sometimes a little more), has been a wonderful reawakening.
This was also important to me for another reason: to prove to myself that I could finish a big project without anyone else making me do it. I am by nature a bit of a "crammer" or perhaps a "sprinter" - I can accomplish a lot in a short intense period. But I have trouble with the "marathons," usually. I am glad to prove to myself that I can follow through with this one-hour-a-day - but EVERY day - project, culminating in accomplishing something significant.
So now, as we enter 2012, I am thinking about what big musical projects I have meant to tackle, and how I can divide them in to smaller, more manageable daily or weekly projects. If you are like me, a procrastinator, you should try the same! Would you like to read all the Shakespeare plays this year? Read one every week, and you'll be done in 9 months. Would you like to read all of "War and Peace"? If you read 30 pages a week (3-4 pages every day - not very much!) you'll be done in a year.
A side benefit to this project: I have been spending time in the mind of Bach every day for a month. It has been a wonderful gift to have this time. One of my teachers, Bruce Sutherland (about whom I have previously blogged), urged his students to play some Bach every day. I hadn't done that in years, focusing instead on whatever repertoire I needed to be working on for my concerts - when the concert included Bach I'd work on it, but otherwise I did not. I can say that Bruce was absolutely right - Bach has been good for my fingers and for my soul this past month.
Happy New Year, and stay tuned for my next project - once I decide what it's going to be...! And feel free to post your own project in the comments!
So I decided, about a month ago, to try to learn Bach's "Goldberg" Variations, a monumental work that I have never really grappled with simply because it seemed too huge. There is a theme and thirty variations (followed by a repeat of the theme), and I realized that I could learn the piece in a month if I worked on one variation each day. Today, December 31, I am happy to report that I can now play through the piece - it isn't polished or consistent, and it certainly isn't memorized. It will take considerable work (and time living with the piece) to feel confident enough to play it for an audience. But (and this is VERY unusual for me) I can honestly say I don't care if I play it for an audience, not for the moment anyway.
For me this project has been important for a number of reasons. Normally I only really work on something when I have an external deadline, like a concert or a recording. That doesn't mean I don't learn new music - what I do is schedule a new piece for a concert at some future date, and that forces me to learn it. But I have a tendency to procrastinate (a byproduct of being a fast learner) and once in a while I have to back out of a repertoire plan because I don't leave myself enough time to learn something.
But I worked on the Goldberg Variations for *me*. I made my own deadline. This was really art for art's sake - no one is paying me to play this piece in a concert. As a young person growing up, many if not most of the pieces I learned were for this kind of purpose - artistic growth without immediate thought of practical or professional gain. But as I got older, got married, had children - I had to think more about how the hours I invest produce dividends not only for myself but for those under my care. After all, there are only so many hours in the day! Now I am obviously not talking about a total "sell-out" - I am still in an exceedingly impractical profession! But my day-to-day priorities have not been consistently focused on artistic goals for their own sake, but some mixture of artistic and career-related goals. For that reason, this little project, only a month (and only really requiring about 1 hour a day, sometimes a little more), has been a wonderful reawakening.
This was also important to me for another reason: to prove to myself that I could finish a big project without anyone else making me do it. I am by nature a bit of a "crammer" or perhaps a "sprinter" - I can accomplish a lot in a short intense period. But I have trouble with the "marathons," usually. I am glad to prove to myself that I can follow through with this one-hour-a-day - but EVERY day - project, culminating in accomplishing something significant.
So now, as we enter 2012, I am thinking about what big musical projects I have meant to tackle, and how I can divide them in to smaller, more manageable daily or weekly projects. If you are like me, a procrastinator, you should try the same! Would you like to read all the Shakespeare plays this year? Read one every week, and you'll be done in 9 months. Would you like to read all of "War and Peace"? If you read 30 pages a week (3-4 pages every day - not very much!) you'll be done in a year.
A side benefit to this project: I have been spending time in the mind of Bach every day for a month. It has been a wonderful gift to have this time. One of my teachers, Bruce Sutherland (about whom I have previously blogged), urged his students to play some Bach every day. I hadn't done that in years, focusing instead on whatever repertoire I needed to be working on for my concerts - when the concert included Bach I'd work on it, but otherwise I did not. I can say that Bruce was absolutely right - Bach has been good for my fingers and for my soul this past month.
Happy New Year, and stay tuned for my next project - once I decide what it's going to be...! And feel free to post your own project in the comments!
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Alfred Brendel Master Class
This morning I attended a master class given by Alfred Brendel, at the New England Conservatory. As an alum of NEC, it has been exciting to see the growth in the school, which has (from my perspective) evolved from a first-rate school to a truly exceptional school (judging from the caliber of faculty and students there). Kudos should go to Bruce Brubaker, the Chair of NEC's Piano Dept, for arranging to have Brendel there (he gave a class yesterday as well).
The highlight for me was the fact that afterward I was able (briefly) to meet Brendel, shake his hand, and meekly ask that he sign a copy of one of his books, "Musical Thoughts and Afterthoughts." I have always admired Brendel, not only for his actual playing but also for his uncompromising, principled approach to music-making, putting the composer first and continually exploring and growing. As an example of Brendel's artistry, here is a video clip of him playing the 2nd movement from the A major Sonata of Schubert (D. 899):
In fact, one of the most memorable concert going experiences of my youth was hearing Brendel in an all-Schubert recital, one of four all-Schubert concerts he was giving in one week at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in Los Angeles. I was struck by the depth and commitment of his playing - not a note was played without purpose, without a wealth of exploration and consideration behind it.
Brendel made his career playing, primarily, a segment of the repertoire that is considered more "serious," which is to say Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert. He also has devoted considerable time to elevating the music of Liszt, who is sometimes seen as a less important composer than he is. But I am not aware of any performances of his of great Russian or French composers, and while somewhere at my mother's house is an old recording of him playing Chopin Polonaises, it is not his finest hour. His interest in playing the very pinnacle of great music (perhaps even a refusal to play "trifles") is something I have always identified with. I have more recently been able, happily, to develop an interest in music outside the great German/Austrian tradition, but for better or for worse I have spent most of my life focused on the same music as Brendel, and probably for some of the same reasons.
With all that in mind, I should restate how excited I was to meet this great artist. The masterclass itself was, however, not the "ideal" masterclass. I have learned that teaching a masterclass is not (or should not be) the same as teaching a lesson. Somehow the teacher needs to generalize certain ideas so that the whole audience can find a way to apply them in other situations - that is, not only, "this passage is too soft" but more generally "in Beethoven we need to notice the distinction he makes between 'piano' and 'pianissimo'" To his credit, Brendel was focused totally on the music at hand (two Beethoven pieces: the Piano Trio op. 1#1, and the String Quartet op. 132 - covering two extreme ends of Beethoven's career). He didn't make any effort to engage the audience - he was speaking to the performers about what they were doing, and if we the audience wanted to listen in, that was our business.
In both cases (I arrived late and didn't hear the first 30 minutes of the trio), the performers were all very fine students, who had mastered all of the technical requirements of the music, and had commendable ideas about the character and color of the music they were playing. Brendel in general did not talk in abstract terms about what the music was "saying," but instead expressed himself almost entirely in strictly musical terms - "play off the string" or "fix the balance so I can hear the melody more clearly." I know that his concept of these pieces is profound and insightful, and much more than just a collection of notes/dynamics/tempos, but he seemed to feel most comfortable discussing the music in musical terms - but, in the end, this is not so scintillating for an audience. NEC's most celebrated piano teacher for the past few decades has been Russell Sherman, who *can* of course be very specific, but has the gift of getting students to hear music as more than just music. (He was not my teacher, but I had the privilege of playing for him many times while he was teaching Music 180, the chamber music course at Harvard, which he taught for one year. I remember scratching my head when he asked a violinist colleague and me to play the 2nd movement of the Brahms A major Sonata "like the rotation of the spheres." But now, I have to say, that image has stuck with me, and it has encouraged me to "aim for the stars," so to speak, rather than only to think in technical terms).
In other words, the good news with Brendel is that HE knows the music inside and out and there is truly no B.S. in what he says. The bad news is that the only obvious benefit derived from his teaching is to somebody playing that specific piece under discussion (the performers playing on stage, and possibly those in the audience who may perform the same piece). This is fine for a lesson, but a public class - especially what may be a once in a lifetime opportunity to hear from this great artist - needs to have more, shall I say, platitudes and life lessons.
Brendel, perhaps as a show of modesty, sat in the audience in Jordan Hall, equipped with a clip microphone so we could hear him; the alternative would be to sit on stage, near the performers where we all could see him. By not doing so, he did focus our attention on the music, rather than on him - which seems fitting from an artist who always put the music ahead of his own ego.
One comment he made, however, WAS of a general nature, and is worth sharing. Referring to a passage where the performers were playing very literally, he asked them to make a little crescendo as the pitches were going up - then he said, "Not everything is written down - sometimes we have to follow the logic of the music." This struck me as a wonderful piece of wisdom coming from someone who has always been held up as an exemplar of adherence to the composer's score. In Harold Schonberg's classic book, "The Great Pianists," he lumps together Brendel and Pollini as part of a (then) new breed of "objective" pianists, who put their own "feelings" aside, according to Schonberg, in favor of following the printed score to the utmost. I have never felt that Brendel was holding back his emotions, or that he did not have a total investment in the music (I have, on the other hand, seen that at times from Pollini), and I think Brendel made an important point to those students (and all of us in the audience), that we do, sometimes, have to read between the lines.
By the way - this master class was presented free of charge. NEC seems to organize a large number of masterclasses, not only by pianists, and I believe that many if not all are open to the public. It was great to be there today - to some people I am a teacher, but I also know that I am and should always be a student as well. The blessing of being a musician - and the curse of being a musician - is that we are never done learning.
The highlight for me was the fact that afterward I was able (briefly) to meet Brendel, shake his hand, and meekly ask that he sign a copy of one of his books, "Musical Thoughts and Afterthoughts." I have always admired Brendel, not only for his actual playing but also for his uncompromising, principled approach to music-making, putting the composer first and continually exploring and growing. As an example of Brendel's artistry, here is a video clip of him playing the 2nd movement from the A major Sonata of Schubert (D. 899):
In fact, one of the most memorable concert going experiences of my youth was hearing Brendel in an all-Schubert recital, one of four all-Schubert concerts he was giving in one week at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in Los Angeles. I was struck by the depth and commitment of his playing - not a note was played without purpose, without a wealth of exploration and consideration behind it.
Brendel made his career playing, primarily, a segment of the repertoire that is considered more "serious," which is to say Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert. He also has devoted considerable time to elevating the music of Liszt, who is sometimes seen as a less important composer than he is. But I am not aware of any performances of his of great Russian or French composers, and while somewhere at my mother's house is an old recording of him playing Chopin Polonaises, it is not his finest hour. His interest in playing the very pinnacle of great music (perhaps even a refusal to play "trifles") is something I have always identified with. I have more recently been able, happily, to develop an interest in music outside the great German/Austrian tradition, but for better or for worse I have spent most of my life focused on the same music as Brendel, and probably for some of the same reasons.
With all that in mind, I should restate how excited I was to meet this great artist. The masterclass itself was, however, not the "ideal" masterclass. I have learned that teaching a masterclass is not (or should not be) the same as teaching a lesson. Somehow the teacher needs to generalize certain ideas so that the whole audience can find a way to apply them in other situations - that is, not only, "this passage is too soft" but more generally "in Beethoven we need to notice the distinction he makes between 'piano' and 'pianissimo'" To his credit, Brendel was focused totally on the music at hand (two Beethoven pieces: the Piano Trio op. 1#1, and the String Quartet op. 132 - covering two extreme ends of Beethoven's career). He didn't make any effort to engage the audience - he was speaking to the performers about what they were doing, and if we the audience wanted to listen in, that was our business.
In both cases (I arrived late and didn't hear the first 30 minutes of the trio), the performers were all very fine students, who had mastered all of the technical requirements of the music, and had commendable ideas about the character and color of the music they were playing. Brendel in general did not talk in abstract terms about what the music was "saying," but instead expressed himself almost entirely in strictly musical terms - "play off the string" or "fix the balance so I can hear the melody more clearly." I know that his concept of these pieces is profound and insightful, and much more than just a collection of notes/dynamics/tempos, but he seemed to feel most comfortable discussing the music in musical terms - but, in the end, this is not so scintillating for an audience. NEC's most celebrated piano teacher for the past few decades has been Russell Sherman, who *can* of course be very specific, but has the gift of getting students to hear music as more than just music. (He was not my teacher, but I had the privilege of playing for him many times while he was teaching Music 180, the chamber music course at Harvard, which he taught for one year. I remember scratching my head when he asked a violinist colleague and me to play the 2nd movement of the Brahms A major Sonata "like the rotation of the spheres." But now, I have to say, that image has stuck with me, and it has encouraged me to "aim for the stars," so to speak, rather than only to think in technical terms).
In other words, the good news with Brendel is that HE knows the music inside and out and there is truly no B.S. in what he says. The bad news is that the only obvious benefit derived from his teaching is to somebody playing that specific piece under discussion (the performers playing on stage, and possibly those in the audience who may perform the same piece). This is fine for a lesson, but a public class - especially what may be a once in a lifetime opportunity to hear from this great artist - needs to have more, shall I say, platitudes and life lessons.
Brendel, perhaps as a show of modesty, sat in the audience in Jordan Hall, equipped with a clip microphone so we could hear him; the alternative would be to sit on stage, near the performers where we all could see him. By not doing so, he did focus our attention on the music, rather than on him - which seems fitting from an artist who always put the music ahead of his own ego.
One comment he made, however, WAS of a general nature, and is worth sharing. Referring to a passage where the performers were playing very literally, he asked them to make a little crescendo as the pitches were going up - then he said, "Not everything is written down - sometimes we have to follow the logic of the music." This struck me as a wonderful piece of wisdom coming from someone who has always been held up as an exemplar of adherence to the composer's score. In Harold Schonberg's classic book, "The Great Pianists," he lumps together Brendel and Pollini as part of a (then) new breed of "objective" pianists, who put their own "feelings" aside, according to Schonberg, in favor of following the printed score to the utmost. I have never felt that Brendel was holding back his emotions, or that he did not have a total investment in the music (I have, on the other hand, seen that at times from Pollini), and I think Brendel made an important point to those students (and all of us in the audience), that we do, sometimes, have to read between the lines.
By the way - this master class was presented free of charge. NEC seems to organize a large number of masterclasses, not only by pianists, and I believe that many if not all are open to the public. It was great to be there today - to some people I am a teacher, but I also know that I am and should always be a student as well. The blessing of being a musician - and the curse of being a musician - is that we are never done learning.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Bruce Sutherland
I found out today that my teacher, Bruce Sutherland, with whom I studied from age 7 until 16 or so, passed away a few days ago. He was a wonderful teacher, a loving and patient man, who inspired so many students with his love of music and his tireless pursuit of the highest artistic heights. There was nothing false or insincere about him, and any student of his learned to be, as he was, always at the service of the music.
I know he had success teaching students at various different levels of ability and a different ages. I studied with him at a crucial point in my development. Previously, I had studied with a great teacher who specialized (and continues to specialize) in teaching young children. Ann Pittel (to whom I also owe a great deal!) made music fun, and lessons often included running around the room, singing, dancing, etc. - all appropriate and necessary for a five year old, no matter how interested in or talented at the piano.
When it came time to move on, she had suggested a few possible teachers, and I knew right away that Bruce was the right teacher for me. But I was in for a bit of a shock: he was a real disciplinarian, and would not accept, even from a 7-year-old boy, a messy performance of, say, a Bach Invention or Sinfonia. To this post I am going to attach a youtube video of an interview I did about a year ago where I told a story about my lesson where we spent the whole hour on 3-4 measures. I won't repeat the whole story here in writing, but I can say that such a demanding teacher was not something I had expected!
More than any other single teacher, Bruce gave me my piano technique. (Although for some reason he spelled it "technic.") He taught me how to practice in a systematic way (introducing me to such instruments of torture as the metronome - which really has turned out to be a friend in my years of practicing) and while he was always generous with encouragement, he was never satisfied with any performance, in a lesson, in a studio recital, a competition, or anywhere, that included wrong notes.
He also helped us to listen to ourselves. I never liked doing it, but he included solfege as part of many lessons, as a way of training our ear and our reading ability. He introduced me to the playing of the great pianists both by playing their recordings for me (he had an enormous library of LP's and later of CD's) and by taking me to concerts with him. In that way he helped me not to compare myself to other piano students, but to try to live up to the playing of the great pianists of the world. When learning a Chopin piece, he had me study very carefully the recordings of Rubinstein, even having try once to "play along" with a recording. He said, "now you just had a lesson with Rubinstein!".
That illustrates to me an important part of Bruce as a teacher: he was humble, and was always continuing to learn. He would pass along his new discoveries or ideas to us, or share a new recording he had just heard. Not only did this make him a more and more interesting teacher, but it taught his students that we too must always be growing and learning.
As a teacher myself, I find that I borrow (OK, steal) from the things he would say to me. And it works! I was indeed fortunate to have him as a teacher, but also as a friend. He went above and beyond what my mother paid him for, which was weekly lessons, usually Friday night at 7:30pm. I spent many an afternoon after school at his house practicing (he had many pianos, and they were better than mine) and he would not infrequently drop in to correct a wrong note or suggest a fingering or musical idea. He came to every performance or audition of mine he possibly could, both while I was student and for the many years since, to show his support and to be able to offer useful advice. My mother didn't have any family in LA when I was growing up, and so he and his sister Mitzi would have us over on Christmas every year. They were like parts of my family. (Now mind you, Bruce and Mitzi are vegetarians, so that Christmas dinner wasn't quite traditional - but I loved to share the time with them!).
Anyone can tell you that Bruce would have given you the shirt off his back, and I am so grateful not only for what he gave me, but for the example he set.
A few years ago, he decided that he wanted, after dying, to leave his money and assets to a non-profit foundation he started, AMRON. This foundation will be administered through the Colburn School for the Performing Arts, and will allow Bruce to continue to help young, deserving musicians with important performance and study opportunities.
Here is that interview I did, on the subject of Bruce Sutherland:
I know he had success teaching students at various different levels of ability and a different ages. I studied with him at a crucial point in my development. Previously, I had studied with a great teacher who specialized (and continues to specialize) in teaching young children. Ann Pittel (to whom I also owe a great deal!) made music fun, and lessons often included running around the room, singing, dancing, etc. - all appropriate and necessary for a five year old, no matter how interested in or talented at the piano.
When it came time to move on, she had suggested a few possible teachers, and I knew right away that Bruce was the right teacher for me. But I was in for a bit of a shock: he was a real disciplinarian, and would not accept, even from a 7-year-old boy, a messy performance of, say, a Bach Invention or Sinfonia. To this post I am going to attach a youtube video of an interview I did about a year ago where I told a story about my lesson where we spent the whole hour on 3-4 measures. I won't repeat the whole story here in writing, but I can say that such a demanding teacher was not something I had expected!
More than any other single teacher, Bruce gave me my piano technique. (Although for some reason he spelled it "technic.") He taught me how to practice in a systematic way (introducing me to such instruments of torture as the metronome - which really has turned out to be a friend in my years of practicing) and while he was always generous with encouragement, he was never satisfied with any performance, in a lesson, in a studio recital, a competition, or anywhere, that included wrong notes.
He also helped us to listen to ourselves. I never liked doing it, but he included solfege as part of many lessons, as a way of training our ear and our reading ability. He introduced me to the playing of the great pianists both by playing their recordings for me (he had an enormous library of LP's and later of CD's) and by taking me to concerts with him. In that way he helped me not to compare myself to other piano students, but to try to live up to the playing of the great pianists of the world. When learning a Chopin piece, he had me study very carefully the recordings of Rubinstein, even having try once to "play along" with a recording. He said, "now you just had a lesson with Rubinstein!".
That illustrates to me an important part of Bruce as a teacher: he was humble, and was always continuing to learn. He would pass along his new discoveries or ideas to us, or share a new recording he had just heard. Not only did this make him a more and more interesting teacher, but it taught his students that we too must always be growing and learning.
As a teacher myself, I find that I borrow (OK, steal) from the things he would say to me. And it works! I was indeed fortunate to have him as a teacher, but also as a friend. He went above and beyond what my mother paid him for, which was weekly lessons, usually Friday night at 7:30pm. I spent many an afternoon after school at his house practicing (he had many pianos, and they were better than mine) and he would not infrequently drop in to correct a wrong note or suggest a fingering or musical idea. He came to every performance or audition of mine he possibly could, both while I was student and for the many years since, to show his support and to be able to offer useful advice. My mother didn't have any family in LA when I was growing up, and so he and his sister Mitzi would have us over on Christmas every year. They were like parts of my family. (Now mind you, Bruce and Mitzi are vegetarians, so that Christmas dinner wasn't quite traditional - but I loved to share the time with them!).
Anyone can tell you that Bruce would have given you the shirt off his back, and I am so grateful not only for what he gave me, but for the example he set.
A few years ago, he decided that he wanted, after dying, to leave his money and assets to a non-profit foundation he started, AMRON. This foundation will be administered through the Colburn School for the Performing Arts, and will allow Bruce to continue to help young, deserving musicians with important performance and study opportunities.
Here is that interview I did, on the subject of Bruce Sutherland:
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Confidence is Sexy
I actually Googled the title "confidence is sexy" and discovered that various people have written about this very same topic, though not (as far as I know) with reference specifically to classical music. I have to admit that the word "sexy" is a bit beyond the scope of what I want to write about, but it was hard to resist making the statement so directly.
Which almost goes straight to my point: when we express ourselves (musically, for example) with confidence, it always sounds better than when we express ourselves with doubt. This is true even when people say something ludicrous (musically, for example) but do it with assurance; and it is sadly true when people who have all the right reasons to play a piece a certain way do it without sounding quite sure of themselves. I knew a guy in college who always gave the impression he knew the answer to every question. He was, in fact, an intelligent and knowledgeable person. But whether or not he knew the right answer, he always *sounded* like he knew the right answer, and in many contexts that was good enough. One day, however, I happened to hear him in the middle of a conversation "...now Mozart, who was born in 1741..." and I realized something. He made that erroneous statement with the same unblinking confidence with which he said everything (including the times he was probably right - mind you, he was not a musician, but a Physics major), and for everyone else (not musically knowledgeable) he sounded like an expert. (Mozart was born in 1756).
Now when it comes to a statement like that, there is a right answer (1756) and a wrong answer (1741). But when it comes to a musical performance there are many things which are frankly not right or wrong but simply more convincing or less convincing. And nothing bores me more than a "correct" or "dutiful" performance of a piece of music that lacks conviction.
I don't think this releases me or any performer from the necessity of exploring, in as much depth as possible, the intentions of a composer, the conventions of his musical era, etc. The most convincing and best performances will, in the end, be those which best bring Beethoven's or Chopin's music to life, and I know that Beethoven and Chopin were much greater musicians than me. I know I will be more successful when I try my best to play their music "their way". (This is easier said than done - figuring out "their way" is in many senses my whole life's work).
But I have seen some musicians, some very fine musicians, play in too "reverential" a way, as if the music were a museum piece to be treated only with laboratory gloves in an airtight room. You cannot play Schumann or Tchaikovsky without getting your hands dirty, so to speak. The music is not to be admired only, but to be loved, sculpted, caressed.
I am not an expert on pop music, and I don't listen to it very much. But recently I was listening to the radio and had some observations. I have noticed that I find famous women who sing pop music much more attractive (sexy?) than they would be if they weren't singers. Of course this is in part because (despite what you may think of men's interest only in women's looks) it is more sexy to be successful than to be nobody. But specifically in pop music, I think the the singers express thoughts and ideas that most people, in their everyday lives, are a little afraid (*lacking in confidence*) to say: sentiments as gentle as the Beatles' "I want to hold your hand," or as over-the-top as R. Kelly's "I don't see nothing wrong / With a little bump and grind." (Haha, C.S.K., I know you are reading this and laughing). But aside from the lyrics, it is the assured stage presence and vocal projection of Christina Aguilera or Aerosmith that make them successful with the millions who buy their CD's, the people who perhaps wish *they* had the guts to say, publicly, what these singers sing about, out loud.
Where I am unsure (uh-oh, that wasn't a very sexy thing to say!) is how to draw the line between confidence (attractive) and arrogance (not attractive). Personally, I am annoyed by the hip-hop performers who seem to focus 90% of their lyrics on saying how incredibly awesome they are. But some of these are quite successful (just not with me). I can say more definitely that I cannot think of even one successful musician who sounds reticent on stage - he or she may experience fear or self-doubt or shyness in "real life," but on stage it is like Siegfried slaying the dragon - no worries, no doubt, no problem.
(Illustrations:
Steve Tyler of Aerosmith - if he weren't a singer, would this guy be attractive to women?
But here he his on stage - with that confident swagger, no wonder the girls go nuts!
Christina Aguilera - okay, she'd probably be considered gorgeous anyway, without being a pop star. But also note how totally confident she is in concert:
Which almost goes straight to my point: when we express ourselves (musically, for example) with confidence, it always sounds better than when we express ourselves with doubt. This is true even when people say something ludicrous (musically, for example) but do it with assurance; and it is sadly true when people who have all the right reasons to play a piece a certain way do it without sounding quite sure of themselves. I knew a guy in college who always gave the impression he knew the answer to every question. He was, in fact, an intelligent and knowledgeable person. But whether or not he knew the right answer, he always *sounded* like he knew the right answer, and in many contexts that was good enough. One day, however, I happened to hear him in the middle of a conversation "...now Mozart, who was born in 1741..." and I realized something. He made that erroneous statement with the same unblinking confidence with which he said everything (including the times he was probably right - mind you, he was not a musician, but a Physics major), and for everyone else (not musically knowledgeable) he sounded like an expert. (Mozart was born in 1756).
Now when it comes to a statement like that, there is a right answer (1756) and a wrong answer (1741). But when it comes to a musical performance there are many things which are frankly not right or wrong but simply more convincing or less convincing. And nothing bores me more than a "correct" or "dutiful" performance of a piece of music that lacks conviction.
I don't think this releases me or any performer from the necessity of exploring, in as much depth as possible, the intentions of a composer, the conventions of his musical era, etc. The most convincing and best performances will, in the end, be those which best bring Beethoven's or Chopin's music to life, and I know that Beethoven and Chopin were much greater musicians than me. I know I will be more successful when I try my best to play their music "their way". (This is easier said than done - figuring out "their way" is in many senses my whole life's work).
But I have seen some musicians, some very fine musicians, play in too "reverential" a way, as if the music were a museum piece to be treated only with laboratory gloves in an airtight room. You cannot play Schumann or Tchaikovsky without getting your hands dirty, so to speak. The music is not to be admired only, but to be loved, sculpted, caressed.
I am not an expert on pop music, and I don't listen to it very much. But recently I was listening to the radio and had some observations. I have noticed that I find famous women who sing pop music much more attractive (sexy?) than they would be if they weren't singers. Of course this is in part because (despite what you may think of men's interest only in women's looks) it is more sexy to be successful than to be nobody. But specifically in pop music, I think the the singers express thoughts and ideas that most people, in their everyday lives, are a little afraid (*lacking in confidence*) to say: sentiments as gentle as the Beatles' "I want to hold your hand," or as over-the-top as R. Kelly's "I don't see nothing wrong / With a little bump and grind." (Haha, C.S.K., I know you are reading this and laughing). But aside from the lyrics, it is the assured stage presence and vocal projection of Christina Aguilera or Aerosmith that make them successful with the millions who buy their CD's, the people who perhaps wish *they* had the guts to say, publicly, what these singers sing about, out loud.
Where I am unsure (uh-oh, that wasn't a very sexy thing to say!) is how to draw the line between confidence (attractive) and arrogance (not attractive). Personally, I am annoyed by the hip-hop performers who seem to focus 90% of their lyrics on saying how incredibly awesome they are. But some of these are quite successful (just not with me). I can say more definitely that I cannot think of even one successful musician who sounds reticent on stage - he or she may experience fear or self-doubt or shyness in "real life," but on stage it is like Siegfried slaying the dragon - no worries, no doubt, no problem.
(Illustrations:
But here he his on stage - with that confident swagger, no wonder the girls go nuts!
Friday, July 23, 2010
the multi-purpose musician
I am nearing the end of 5 weeks at the Killington Music Festival, where I spend a good portion of each summer - in no small part because my wife, Allison Eldredge, is Artistic Director. It is more clear to me here than anywhere else that having a successful musical career, at least in my case, depends on having a wide range of skills. I have had to play a number of solo piano works (presumably the area in which I am most qualified, and certainly the most experienced); several chamber works; give a lecture on Schumann; teach private piano lessons; coach chamber music groups; help organize things "behind the scenes" (like setting rehearsal schedules for the various faculty concerts, putting together student chamber music groups - I do a little of this in support of my wife, who is the one actually in charge of these things); and conduct the orchestra.
That last one - conduct an orchestra made up of students at the festival (last week I conducted a group mostly made up of faculty) - is the area where I am in some sense least experienced (I have been conducting here for the last couple of years - I've been playing and teaching for much longer), but I've noticed that many of the other things I have been doing have helped prepare me for the task of conducting. Of course the most important ingredient in being a great conductor is being a great musician, and I have been working to become a great pianist for several decades, with the aid and inspiration of wonderful teachers and colleagues. But I've noticed that teaching also has helped me to be a better conductor - in both cases, you are doing what you can to take what you hear and improve or refine it. There are some differences, of course - as a conductor you start by showing what you want, before they have even played a note, and only afterwards, if that doesn't work, do you have a discussion of what you are trying to achieve.
I am glad that I have had the experience also of *playing* in orchestra, though it was a long time ago. Growing up, I was both a pianist and cellist, and as a cellist had great teachers (Eleonore Schoenfeld and Gabor Rejto among them), and played principal cello in a few orchestras (mostly orchestra at my school, Crossroads School in Santa Monica, CA). When I finished high school I didn't feel I could be successful playing two instruments, so I ended up focusing on the piano, which had always been more my instrument in any case. But the experience of playing cello in orchestras and in many chamber music groups has really helped me now that I am involved with orchestras (and chamber groups) but in a different capacity.
But while this decision to "specialize" when I went to college seemed right at the time, I am seeing how clearly my life has actually required me, after all, to do a multitude of things. (And this is only in my professional life - I also take my responsibilities as a husband and father very seriously, and these things require time and effort as well). I don't know if I would be happy if, for example, I had the chance to earn a living solely on the basis of playing solo piano recitals, or solely as a faculty member at a conservatory. I haven't had the chance to do this - my career has always been a patchwork of many activities, though the different activities do help and in some ways complement each other.
The relative novelty of conducting (for me) makes it seem like I could be happy doing *only* that. But I think it also can be a happily "diverse" career because it does require so many different kinds of activities - combining the skills of a performer, coach, lecturer (but not too much - I don't think orchestras like it!), organizer, and perhaps more. We'll see how it goes.
One more note about the parallels between conducting and teaching: all we can do, in either case, is improve what we are starting with. I'm sure I'd seem like a great conductor no matter what, if I were standing in front of the Boston Symphony, just as when my most gifted students win competitions I look like a great teacher. But in fact my hardest tasks are often unrecognized: getting an average student to sound very good is harder than making a great student sound a little greater.
That last one - conduct an orchestra made up of students at the festival (last week I conducted a group mostly made up of faculty) - is the area where I am in some sense least experienced (I have been conducting here for the last couple of years - I've been playing and teaching for much longer), but I've noticed that many of the other things I have been doing have helped prepare me for the task of conducting. Of course the most important ingredient in being a great conductor is being a great musician, and I have been working to become a great pianist for several decades, with the aid and inspiration of wonderful teachers and colleagues. But I've noticed that teaching also has helped me to be a better conductor - in both cases, you are doing what you can to take what you hear and improve or refine it. There are some differences, of course - as a conductor you start by showing what you want, before they have even played a note, and only afterwards, if that doesn't work, do you have a discussion of what you are trying to achieve.
I am glad that I have had the experience also of *playing* in orchestra, though it was a long time ago. Growing up, I was both a pianist and cellist, and as a cellist had great teachers (Eleonore Schoenfeld and Gabor Rejto among them), and played principal cello in a few orchestras (mostly orchestra at my school, Crossroads School in Santa Monica, CA). When I finished high school I didn't feel I could be successful playing two instruments, so I ended up focusing on the piano, which had always been more my instrument in any case. But the experience of playing cello in orchestras and in many chamber music groups has really helped me now that I am involved with orchestras (and chamber groups) but in a different capacity.
But while this decision to "specialize" when I went to college seemed right at the time, I am seeing how clearly my life has actually required me, after all, to do a multitude of things. (And this is only in my professional life - I also take my responsibilities as a husband and father very seriously, and these things require time and effort as well). I don't know if I would be happy if, for example, I had the chance to earn a living solely on the basis of playing solo piano recitals, or solely as a faculty member at a conservatory. I haven't had the chance to do this - my career has always been a patchwork of many activities, though the different activities do help and in some ways complement each other.
The relative novelty of conducting (for me) makes it seem like I could be happy doing *only* that. But I think it also can be a happily "diverse" career because it does require so many different kinds of activities - combining the skills of a performer, coach, lecturer (but not too much - I don't think orchestras like it!), organizer, and perhaps more. We'll see how it goes.
One more note about the parallels between conducting and teaching: all we can do, in either case, is improve what we are starting with. I'm sure I'd seem like a great conductor no matter what, if I were standing in front of the Boston Symphony, just as when my most gifted students win competitions I look like a great teacher. But in fact my hardest tasks are often unrecognized: getting an average student to sound very good is harder than making a great student sound a little greater.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
quick thoughts on conducting
It has been a while since my last blog post, and rather than look for a good long stretch of time when I can write, I will be brief (more brief than usual). Perhaps Twitter has helped me realize that the value of a blog post is not automatically related to its length.
I have been preparing for some conducting performances that I have coming up in July. I studied conducting as a kid, but didn't really stick with it and found I needed to focus on my piano playing. But slowly over the last few years I've been having a few opportunities and I've enjoyed it.
I want to make a quick observation or two about the process of preparing to conduct. I have noticed that I spend a relatively larger portion of my time figuring out *how* the piece is supposed to sound (in as vivid detail as I can - I play at the piano through every section's part, sometimes alone, sometimes with other parts, and when I can manage it I play everyone's part at once; and I also try to imagine my mind exactly the sound I would hope for in the piece, from each instrument). I do spend some time also figuring out how I expect to convey my ideas (baton technique, rehearsal strategy - I definitely need more experience to learn more about both of these!), but compared to my work as a pianist I spend much less on the "actualization" and much more on the "idea." That is, I probably spend 40% of my time as a pianist focusing on ideas and 60% on conveying those ideas (for example making sure I play the right notes). As a conductor, I spend 90% of my pre-rehearsal hours on making sure my ideas are clear (this is more pain-staking than it may sound). Of course, when I get to the actual rehearsal, I have to spend about 100% of my energy on getting the ideas to actually come out from the orchestra.
But I think many pianists (and other instrumentalists) focus too much on the "conveying" of ideas and not enough on what the actual ideas are. They sit down and start practicing, but it's not clear even to themselves what they are trying to achieve. I am much more efficient and effective with my practice time when I practice with a purpose, when I know what sound I have in mind.
Just one more quick note: Youtube is a fantastic resource for a conductor who wants learn from (or steal from) the great conductors.
I have been preparing for some conducting performances that I have coming up in July. I studied conducting as a kid, but didn't really stick with it and found I needed to focus on my piano playing. But slowly over the last few years I've been having a few opportunities and I've enjoyed it.
I want to make a quick observation or two about the process of preparing to conduct. I have noticed that I spend a relatively larger portion of my time figuring out *how* the piece is supposed to sound (in as vivid detail as I can - I play at the piano through every section's part, sometimes alone, sometimes with other parts, and when I can manage it I play everyone's part at once; and I also try to imagine my mind exactly the sound I would hope for in the piece, from each instrument). I do spend some time also figuring out how I expect to convey my ideas (baton technique, rehearsal strategy - I definitely need more experience to learn more about both of these!), but compared to my work as a pianist I spend much less on the "actualization" and much more on the "idea." That is, I probably spend 40% of my time as a pianist focusing on ideas and 60% on conveying those ideas (for example making sure I play the right notes). As a conductor, I spend 90% of my pre-rehearsal hours on making sure my ideas are clear (this is more pain-staking than it may sound). Of course, when I get to the actual rehearsal, I have to spend about 100% of my energy on getting the ideas to actually come out from the orchestra.
But I think many pianists (and other instrumentalists) focus too much on the "conveying" of ideas and not enough on what the actual ideas are. They sit down and start practicing, but it's not clear even to themselves what they are trying to achieve. I am much more efficient and effective with my practice time when I practice with a purpose, when I know what sound I have in mind.
Just one more quick note: Youtube is a fantastic resource for a conductor who wants learn from (or steal from) the great conductors.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
CORRECTION
I mistakenly attributed the quote in my previous blog post to the painter Wassily Kandinsky. Thank you to my friend Alan Fletcher for pointing out that this was in fact said by the 19th century art critic and essayist, Walter Pater ("all art constantly aspires towards the condition of music." (From a book entitled, "The Renaissance." You can see it in context here - it is about 4 or 5 paragraphs down).
I think I remembered it as Kandinsky because it seems to fit him: his paintings aim for a level of abstraction that is typical of music (except for program music, like the "Pastoral" Symphony or "Peter and the Wolf," or music with a text, i.e. vocal music).
I think I remembered it as Kandinsky because it seems to fit him: his paintings aim for a level of abstraction that is typical of music (except for program music, like the "Pastoral" Symphony or "Peter and the Wolf," or music with a text, i.e. vocal music).
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
love by association
The painter Kandinsky said "All the arts aspire to the condition of music." My understanding of this is that he saw music (particularly "absolute" music, i.e. music without a story attached to it, or words) as the most pure of the arts, one which is focused only on beauty and proportion and aesthetics, that does not rely on or refer to the outside world for its worth or comprehension. That is, a Bach Brandenburg Concerto is beautiful and worthy without having to know a single thing about its context in history or J.S. Bach's biography or the role of 18th century composers in society. Many of Kandinsky's paintings were completely abstract, as music often is (or can be). In other words, a painting such as the one pictured above (this one is entitled, "Transverse Line" from 1923) is not "about" something (unlike, say "Washington Crossing the Delaware," below:)
I don't think people should need (or want) a lecture before hearing a Beethoven Symphony. But it is naive to think that we only understand or appreciate music for its intrinsic musical qualities. Much of what we love about certain pieces of music (or dislike about other pieces of music) has to do with what we associate with them. For example, when we hear songs that were popular in our childhood, it can put us in a good mood simply by bringing us back to that time. Recently my children were in an ice-skating show where they skated to music by various current pop musicians. When I hear these songs, it brings a smile to my face not because the music is particularly good, but because I immediately recall the fun they had.
In college, a friend of mine from India recounted a story where an experiment was done in a class he was taking. Students were played various types of music, and asked to write down their associations with the music. Heavy metal might evoke responses like "bikers" or "leather and spikes." When they played some Indian classical music,
his associated emotions were things like "summer in Bengal", but his non-Indian friends were writing things like, "hippies," "drugs," and "the 60's." Similarly, when I hear Mexican Ranchera music, I cannot help but start to taste freshly fried tortilla chips and pico de gallo, since many of the restaurants I loved going to as a kid would have a jukebox playing this kind of music.
I wonder what people "associate" with classical music. I of course have my own associations, created over a years of living with this great music, playing concerts, going to concerts, etc. But just as Mexican music makes me think of food and Indian music made my friend's schoolmates think of drugs, perhaps many people have strange associations with classical music which are not really based in the actual "meaning" of the music. Do they associate it with stuffiness, or boredom? Do they associate it with the wealthy, or the elderly? I have the feeling that many people do, and this is unfortunate because it really has little to do with the music.
If in fact people have these unconscious reactions the classical music, what can we do to help them "see the light"? Some presenters have tried ad campaigns along the lines of "Classical is Cool" or have presented concerts where the performers are dressed somewhat casually, rather than in tuxedos and evening gowns. Does this work? Does it have an unintended negative effect? (One of my college roommates, not a musician, said that formal dress from the performers helped him to understand that this was something important and special, and deserved close attention, whereas a piano recital given in jeans and a t-shirt would make him listen less carefully.).
Any ideas? (Facebook readers: please visit the blog, maxlevinson.blogspot.com to post a comment).
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