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!)
Saturday, February 18, 2012
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).
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Some success is random
(Facebook friends: please visit http://maxlevinson.blogspot.com if you want to post a comment - thanks!)
I used to teach at Brown University, where students at various levels of piano playing could take lessons for credit. Although a small number were interested in music as a career, most were bound for medical school, law school, or financial services. I remember one girl in particular who really was quite gifted, but who had no intention of pursuing a career in music. I asked her if she had ever thought about it, and she said she didn't feel comfortable pursuing a career with no clear "path," no defined avenue towards success, whether defined in monetary or artistic terms. By contrast, a student interested in medicine could follow certain steps and feel confident of a career - the difficult part would be getting in to a good school and persevering through an extremely difficult educational process, but getting over those obstacles meant almost a guaranteed job.
I myself was recently complaining to a pianist friend about being passed over for an opportunity I thought would be good for me, and for which I thought I was qualified. This colleague is a wonderful pianist, a real artist, and for better or for worse an idealist: she thought I should simply concentrate on doing my best, and that, in the end, opportunities would find me. This has in fact generally been my modus operandi: focus on the art, and the career will follow. But I am starting to realize that this is not always quite true. Success in the arts seems to come from a mixture of producing great work *and* finding ways to make sure people notice. The question is how much of a percentage each of these two aspects play in making a successful career. I think I may have been overestimating the importance of the former.
Has it always been like this? Was Franz Liszt the greatest pianist of his era, or did he just have a good manager? I think that in fact management *did* play some role in his success, but from what we hear, he really was unbelievable. Vladimir Horowitz was of course blessed to have the benefit of great managers and the backing of record labels - but he really genuinely was a superlative pianist, arguably the greatest of the 20th century.
Perhaps there are a very few artists who are so extraordinary that they can have success without thinking about their careers (or without hiring someone to think about it for them). For example, could Martha Argerich or David Oistrakh or Renee Fleming possibly have been overlooked? Anyone walking through the practice room hallways of a conservatory would hear musicians like them and would take notice.
But beyond those top one thousandth of 1% are many worthy artists battling for a finite number of opportunities. Perhaps the top 1% talent-wise are all "good enough" to satisfy the public who buy tickets or download music, and within that 1% the difference between having 100 concerts a year and having 10 is public relations, marketing, and luck. In other fields, such as in pop music or in Hollywood, the number of "qualified" musicians or actors, those good enough for most of the public, is even larger, and hence having a successful career seems even more due to luck or chutzpah. (Of course there are some - the young Michael Jackson, say, or Meryl Streep - who really are special in their fields, but there are thousands of others who are more or less equal to each other in ability, but are separated by different amounts of good looks, or street smarts, or being the right place at the right time).
I don't think that audiences are dummies - if you had them listen to three pianists, one a good conservatory student, one a winner of a major international competition, and Martha Argerich, they could almost certainly pick out which was best. But I think that concert presenters nowadays are more and more nervous about taking a chance that audiences won't show up at all. (They are probably right to be nervous). Another colleague was telling me of his struggle with a series he runs (he is both an important pianist himself, as well as an organizer of a concert series). While he would like to invite only people he thinks are valuable artists that the public should hear, he also has to think about what will sell the largest number of tickets, so that his series can stay in business - and these people, who have the biggest "name" value, are not necessarily as good as the less-known people he may want to bring. But the cycle perpetuates itself - if a lesser known artist isn't booked for any concerts, he/she will continue to be a lesser-known artist. (In case you are wondering, I AM playing on the series he runs - but it is in a place where I am well-known, and a significant enough draw.) Several years ago, many concert series were struggling due to a financial crash (not this most previous recession, but an earlier one) and I thought that as a younger artist this could benefit me because while a concert series might not be able to afford Pollini's fee, they would be able to afford me. (Sort of how places like Wal-Mart do well in a recession). But my manager (at that time) said, no, actually, concert series who worried about money were even less likely to hire someone who might not sell-out their concert hall. (Is this like a car dealer who, in a recession, would elect to stop selling Hondas, and only sell Rolls-Royces? I guess the situations are not analogous).
It makes me yearn for the "purity" of sports, where the winner of a race is the one who runs fastest, and that's that. But even in sports it is not always as clear-cut as that: on a baseball team, for example, there may be a minor league pitcher who waits each season for the chance to prove himself in the big leagues, but the manager keeps calling up his teammates instead, because he likes their stuff better.
Well, if I can possibly form some constructive advice out of all of this: make the most of every opportunity. You never know who will hear you, who will be in the audience who has a brother whose wife runs a concert series or whose uncle has a record label... I can say from direct experience that I've gotten lots of opportunities in my career at moments when I least expected it.
I used to teach at Brown University, where students at various levels of piano playing could take lessons for credit. Although a small number were interested in music as a career, most were bound for medical school, law school, or financial services. I remember one girl in particular who really was quite gifted, but who had no intention of pursuing a career in music. I asked her if she had ever thought about it, and she said she didn't feel comfortable pursuing a career with no clear "path," no defined avenue towards success, whether defined in monetary or artistic terms. By contrast, a student interested in medicine could follow certain steps and feel confident of a career - the difficult part would be getting in to a good school and persevering through an extremely difficult educational process, but getting over those obstacles meant almost a guaranteed job.
I myself was recently complaining to a pianist friend about being passed over for an opportunity I thought would be good for me, and for which I thought I was qualified. This colleague is a wonderful pianist, a real artist, and for better or for worse an idealist: she thought I should simply concentrate on doing my best, and that, in the end, opportunities would find me. This has in fact generally been my modus operandi: focus on the art, and the career will follow. But I am starting to realize that this is not always quite true. Success in the arts seems to come from a mixture of producing great work *and* finding ways to make sure people notice. The question is how much of a percentage each of these two aspects play in making a successful career. I think I may have been overestimating the importance of the former.
Has it always been like this? Was Franz Liszt the greatest pianist of his era, or did he just have a good manager? I think that in fact management *did* play some role in his success, but from what we hear, he really was unbelievable. Vladimir Horowitz was of course blessed to have the benefit of great managers and the backing of record labels - but he really genuinely was a superlative pianist, arguably the greatest of the 20th century.
Perhaps there are a very few artists who are so extraordinary that they can have success without thinking about their careers (or without hiring someone to think about it for them). For example, could Martha Argerich or David Oistrakh or Renee Fleming possibly have been overlooked? Anyone walking through the practice room hallways of a conservatory would hear musicians like them and would take notice.
But beyond those top one thousandth of 1% are many worthy artists battling for a finite number of opportunities. Perhaps the top 1% talent-wise are all "good enough" to satisfy the public who buy tickets or download music, and within that 1% the difference between having 100 concerts a year and having 10 is public relations, marketing, and luck. In other fields, such as in pop music or in Hollywood, the number of "qualified" musicians or actors, those good enough for most of the public, is even larger, and hence having a successful career seems even more due to luck or chutzpah. (Of course there are some - the young Michael Jackson, say, or Meryl Streep - who really are special in their fields, but there are thousands of others who are more or less equal to each other in ability, but are separated by different amounts of good looks, or street smarts, or being the right place at the right time).
I don't think that audiences are dummies - if you had them listen to three pianists, one a good conservatory student, one a winner of a major international competition, and Martha Argerich, they could almost certainly pick out which was best. But I think that concert presenters nowadays are more and more nervous about taking a chance that audiences won't show up at all. (They are probably right to be nervous). Another colleague was telling me of his struggle with a series he runs (he is both an important pianist himself, as well as an organizer of a concert series). While he would like to invite only people he thinks are valuable artists that the public should hear, he also has to think about what will sell the largest number of tickets, so that his series can stay in business - and these people, who have the biggest "name" value, are not necessarily as good as the less-known people he may want to bring. But the cycle perpetuates itself - if a lesser known artist isn't booked for any concerts, he/she will continue to be a lesser-known artist. (In case you are wondering, I AM playing on the series he runs - but it is in a place where I am well-known, and a significant enough draw.) Several years ago, many concert series were struggling due to a financial crash (not this most previous recession, but an earlier one) and I thought that as a younger artist this could benefit me because while a concert series might not be able to afford Pollini's fee, they would be able to afford me. (Sort of how places like Wal-Mart do well in a recession). But my manager (at that time) said, no, actually, concert series who worried about money were even less likely to hire someone who might not sell-out their concert hall. (Is this like a car dealer who, in a recession, would elect to stop selling Hondas, and only sell Rolls-Royces? I guess the situations are not analogous).
It makes me yearn for the "purity" of sports, where the winner of a race is the one who runs fastest, and that's that. But even in sports it is not always as clear-cut as that: on a baseball team, for example, there may be a minor league pitcher who waits each season for the chance to prove himself in the big leagues, but the manager keeps calling up his teammates instead, because he likes their stuff better.
Well, if I can possibly form some constructive advice out of all of this: make the most of every opportunity. You never know who will hear you, who will be in the audience who has a brother whose wife runs a concert series or whose uncle has a record label... I can say from direct experience that I've gotten lots of opportunities in my career at moments when I least expected it.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
You're only as good as your last concert
(Note to friends reading this on Facebook: I'd love to have your comments - please visit the original post, at maxlevinson.blogspot.com to post a comment, rather than writing it here on Facebook).
I've got a few extra minutes to blog, from my hotel room in Seoul. I am excited to be meeting an old friend for lunch, and I plan to insist that we have Korean food. But before that, I had something on my mind to share on the blog. We've played three concerts here in the last few days, plus a couple other performances (a radio show and a press conference that including 30 minutes of playing before the Q&A session). On Tuesday, we playing in a city called Goyang, and we wondered if we had ever been more exhausted for a concert. Jet lag is a big issue when we are dealing with a 14 hour time difference (my children are getting an education as we communicate by Skype and I show them that while they are getting ready for bed, it is quite sunny here on the other side of the Earth). Concert time (8pm usually) is 6am back on East Coast time - it's as if we've been up all night and then have to go play a concert first thing in the morning.
It made me realize that all the preparation in the world doesn't matter if it doesn't result in a good performance on stage, at the moment the audience is listening. The most often heard line from students at lessons is "It sounded better when I was practicing" but in a concert it doesn't matter how great it was in a rehearsal if it doesn't sound good in the performance. And while practicing is a major contributor to the success of a performance, it is not the only one - being in the right frame of mind, being physically warmed up, having energy: all these things are needed at that particular moment.
You are only as good as you are at the moment people are listening.
Of course that's not quite true, and all of us listen to music with certain preconceived ideas, even if we are trying to be objective: we listen attentively and forgivingly to a famous performer even when and if his performance is boring or messy, whereas the same performance by a student auditioning for conservatory might be rejected. At Boston Conseratory, where I teach, I sometimes see students playing in end-of-semester juries (basically, the final exam for pianists, where they play for the whole faculty) get good grades when they play badly because they played well in #other# juries (the unconscious thinking is "well, they are just having a bad day") and vice versa. We don't mean to do this - but it is hard not to.
But I know some musicians (students and even successful professionals) who don't practice in a way that will help them on stage, under the stress of hot lights and critics (or piano professors with pens and comment sheets to fill out). It is true that a basketball player should should 1000 free throws a week to prepare for the end-of-game moment where that free throw will mean the difference between winning and losing. But the practicing alone is not enough - he needs to figure out how to be at his best at the right moment.
I would imagine that the way to be our best at the right moment is not the same for every person. I'm curious to hear what different people do for themselves. For me, some of it is psychological self-counseling - if I can convince myself that I am the greatest pianist in history, I can get through the nervous moments without a problem. Some of it is being intensely analytical - I can play a passage accurately and evenly if I hold my hand a certain way, for example, or I can remember all the notes in a complex phrase if I become consciously aware of what harmonies are being used, etc. I think this is because on stage I tend to become more self-conscious, aware of every movement in my body, how every note sounds (and also of every flip of the printed program or unwrapping of cough suppressant in the 2nd balcony). By practicing in a way that I am more "self-conscious" off stage, I am more prepared for that experience on stage
But the concert last night in Guro (a concert hall in Seoul - the main concert is tonight, at the Seoul Arts Center) was much better than the one in Goyang - not because we were more prepared, but because we had more energy and focus. One more day of recovering from jet lag, and we were more able to concentrate and play closer to our potential. You may think that performing is a job that only requires a few hours of time, but in fact we have to spend days and weeks getting our minds and bodies ready to be our best at that one important moment.
By the way, parents: this process of learning to cope with stress and learning to prepare for pressurized situations is one of the most valuable lessons children (or anyone of any age) can learn from studying music.
I've got a few extra minutes to blog, from my hotel room in Seoul. I am excited to be meeting an old friend for lunch, and I plan to insist that we have Korean food. But before that, I had something on my mind to share on the blog. We've played three concerts here in the last few days, plus a couple other performances (a radio show and a press conference that including 30 minutes of playing before the Q&A session). On Tuesday, we playing in a city called Goyang, and we wondered if we had ever been more exhausted for a concert. Jet lag is a big issue when we are dealing with a 14 hour time difference (my children are getting an education as we communicate by Skype and I show them that while they are getting ready for bed, it is quite sunny here on the other side of the Earth). Concert time (8pm usually) is 6am back on East Coast time - it's as if we've been up all night and then have to go play a concert first thing in the morning.
It made me realize that all the preparation in the world doesn't matter if it doesn't result in a good performance on stage, at the moment the audience is listening. The most often heard line from students at lessons is "It sounded better when I was practicing" but in a concert it doesn't matter how great it was in a rehearsal if it doesn't sound good in the performance. And while practicing is a major contributor to the success of a performance, it is not the only one - being in the right frame of mind, being physically warmed up, having energy: all these things are needed at that particular moment.
You are only as good as you are at the moment people are listening.
Of course that's not quite true, and all of us listen to music with certain preconceived ideas, even if we are trying to be objective: we listen attentively and forgivingly to a famous performer even when and if his performance is boring or messy, whereas the same performance by a student auditioning for conservatory might be rejected. At Boston Conseratory, where I teach, I sometimes see students playing in end-of-semester juries (basically, the final exam for pianists, where they play for the whole faculty) get good grades when they play badly because they played well in #other# juries (the unconscious thinking is "well, they are just having a bad day") and vice versa. We don't mean to do this - but it is hard not to.
But I know some musicians (students and even successful professionals) who don't practice in a way that will help them on stage, under the stress of hot lights and critics (or piano professors with pens and comment sheets to fill out). It is true that a basketball player should should 1000 free throws a week to prepare for the end-of-game moment where that free throw will mean the difference between winning and losing. But the practicing alone is not enough - he needs to figure out how to be at his best at the right moment.
I would imagine that the way to be our best at the right moment is not the same for every person. I'm curious to hear what different people do for themselves. For me, some of it is psychological self-counseling - if I can convince myself that I am the greatest pianist in history, I can get through the nervous moments without a problem. Some of it is being intensely analytical - I can play a passage accurately and evenly if I hold my hand a certain way, for example, or I can remember all the notes in a complex phrase if I become consciously aware of what harmonies are being used, etc. I think this is because on stage I tend to become more self-conscious, aware of every movement in my body, how every note sounds (and also of every flip of the printed program or unwrapping of cough suppressant in the 2nd balcony). By practicing in a way that I am more "self-conscious" off stage, I am more prepared for that experience on stage
But the concert last night in Guro (a concert hall in Seoul - the main concert is tonight, at the Seoul Arts Center) was much better than the one in Goyang - not because we were more prepared, but because we had more energy and focus. One more day of recovering from jet lag, and we were more able to concentrate and play closer to our potential. You may think that performing is a job that only requires a few hours of time, but in fact we have to spend days and weeks getting our minds and bodies ready to be our best at that one important moment.
By the way, parents: this process of learning to cope with stress and learning to prepare for pressurized situations is one of the most valuable lessons children (or anyone of any age) can learn from studying music.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
How far should we go to "market" great art?
I wish I could blog more often, but I find it difficult to find the time. It is not unusual to have more time for such non-essential activities when I am away from home, which I am now - I am in Seoul, Korea, in the middle of a week of concerts with my friend and colleague, violinist Stefan Jackiw. The trip coincides with the recent release of our CD on Sony/Korea of the complete Brahms Violin Sonatas (we hope it will be released in the US and other countries soon). As a side note, it sure can be tricky to use Google (of which Blogspot is a part) when you are in another country, because it knows where you are and asks questions, in this case, in Korean. I know a few important phrases now in Korean (Do you speak English? Where is the bathroom? and a few others) but I certainly cannot read even a single letter.
It is always interesting to notice, as I play in different places, that classical music is marketed in a different way. Here in Korea we feel very appreciated, more so I would say than in the US or in Europe. For example, the presenter flew us business class and has put us in one of the very best hotels. I can assure you that this is not typical in the classical music business (unless you are in a major orchestra, where the players' unions in many case have successfully gotten their employers to give them the best possible accomodations when they go on tour).
Yesterday, a few hours after arriving at the airport after the long flight from New York at 4:30am, we went to give a performance/press conference. There were a good number of journalists in attendance, some from print, others radio or TV. This is the kind of reception that might have greeted Vladimir Horowitz in the US many decades ago, but I'm not sure how many of these things even a mega-star like Yo-Yo Ma might do in the US today. Beforehand Stefan and I each had to spend 20-30 minutes getting "hair and makeup". Of course, as red-blooded American men this is not exactly normal for us, but I have to say we both did look a lot better than normal. All of this, plus a closely organized question and answer session with the press, was in order to sell some CD's of Brahms. In fact, to some degree we are pushed around (in a helpful way) by our people at Credia, the Korean manager, as we are a part - just a part, mind you - of the marketing strategy for selling the CD's and our concerts this week.
(Stefan Jackiw - in normal everyday life, he doesn't always dress quite so well)
It would be nice if people came to concerts just because they want to hear great music played (I hope) with insight and passion. But the truth is that concert-goers need a little more of a push sometimes, and it seems that the Koreans understand the need for the extras (like hair and makeup) that make the product (us? Brahms? Art?) more enticing to the customers. It is like food - a delicious mess is not going to sell as well as something more beautifully plated. In fact, it may even seem to taste better. But does music sound better when we are wearing tuxedos? Or do the tuxedos just signal to the audience that something special is happening on stage, and they ought to pay attention?
On the plane trip, I watched on one of the 50+ channels available on Korean Airlines entertainment system a video of Anne-Sophie Mutter, Seiji Ozawa, and the Berlin Philharmonic doing the Beethoven Violin Concerto at the Musikverein in Vienna. (Just the fact that this was one of the options - along with videos of Andras Schiff and Yevgeny Kissin - on a KAL flight should tell you something of the value Koreans place on classical music). The performance was part of the attraction for the audience (though it seemed VERY slow, and perhaps more about violin playing than about Beethoven), but as I watched I realized that a big part of the experience for the audience in attendance would be the gorgeous and historic concert hall itself, the spectacle of hearing the unofficial greatest orchestra in the world, and of course just looking at Anne-Sophie Mutter, who looked fantastic, and was dressed as glamorously as a Hollywood star at the Oscars.
(yes, this is the great violinist Anne Sophie Mutter, not a fashion model)
If the audience attended for some combination of all these reasons, I'm not bothered by that - the truth is that, in the end, they listened to the monumental Beethoven Violin Concerto, instead of spending their time and dollars on something more superficial. If people come to our concert in Seoul and/or buy the CD in part because we looked good in our makeup on TV, I won't complain. At least we are still playing great music.
Where it gets hard for me is when we have to play second-rate music, music that is kind of like candy - immediately appealing, but which does not have lasting interest, in order to sell tickets. I would say that many if not most concert presenters in America feel pressure to do this: put on programs of orchestras playing video-game music, for example, and avoid great works that are too long for the channel-surfing attention span of today's audiences. Is this the only way?
Although people are quick to point to the imminent demise of classical music, as it finds itself needing to "pander" to audiences who want Pops concerts more than "real" classical music, I know that this phenomenon is not at all new. We may remember Schubert today as the composer of masterpieces like the C-major Cello Quintet, "Die Winterreise" and the B-flat major Piano Sonata, but in order to try to eke out a living he *also* wrote trivial little piano pieces and pieces for piano duet, which were tuneful and easy to play, and hence more marketable. Brahms had the luxury of writing great, serious music in part because he had a huge financial success early in his career with the Hungarian Dances, which are wonderful, but certainly not the reason Brahms is remembered as a great composer. Maybe all of us have to find time both to get an audience *now* by doing a *tiny* bit of dumbing-down, but also to do the things that may have a small audience now but will be remembered and still relevant later.
What do you think?
It is always interesting to notice, as I play in different places, that classical music is marketed in a different way. Here in Korea we feel very appreciated, more so I would say than in the US or in Europe. For example, the presenter flew us business class and has put us in one of the very best hotels. I can assure you that this is not typical in the classical music business (unless you are in a major orchestra, where the players' unions in many case have successfully gotten their employers to give them the best possible accomodations when they go on tour).
Yesterday, a few hours after arriving at the airport after the long flight from New York at 4:30am, we went to give a performance/press conference. There were a good number of journalists in attendance, some from print, others radio or TV. This is the kind of reception that might have greeted Vladimir Horowitz in the US many decades ago, but I'm not sure how many of these things even a mega-star like Yo-Yo Ma might do in the US today. Beforehand Stefan and I each had to spend 20-30 minutes getting "hair and makeup". Of course, as red-blooded American men this is not exactly normal for us, but I have to say we both did look a lot better than normal. All of this, plus a closely organized question and answer session with the press, was in order to sell some CD's of Brahms. In fact, to some degree we are pushed around (in a helpful way) by our people at Credia, the Korean manager, as we are a part - just a part, mind you - of the marketing strategy for selling the CD's and our concerts this week.
(Stefan Jackiw - in normal everyday life, he doesn't always dress quite so well)It would be nice if people came to concerts just because they want to hear great music played (I hope) with insight and passion. But the truth is that concert-goers need a little more of a push sometimes, and it seems that the Koreans understand the need for the extras (like hair and makeup) that make the product (us? Brahms? Art?) more enticing to the customers. It is like food - a delicious mess is not going to sell as well as something more beautifully plated. In fact, it may even seem to taste better. But does music sound better when we are wearing tuxedos? Or do the tuxedos just signal to the audience that something special is happening on stage, and they ought to pay attention?
On the plane trip, I watched on one of the 50+ channels available on Korean Airlines entertainment system a video of Anne-Sophie Mutter, Seiji Ozawa, and the Berlin Philharmonic doing the Beethoven Violin Concerto at the Musikverein in Vienna. (Just the fact that this was one of the options - along with videos of Andras Schiff and Yevgeny Kissin - on a KAL flight should tell you something of the value Koreans place on classical music). The performance was part of the attraction for the audience (though it seemed VERY slow, and perhaps more about violin playing than about Beethoven), but as I watched I realized that a big part of the experience for the audience in attendance would be the gorgeous and historic concert hall itself, the spectacle of hearing the unofficial greatest orchestra in the world, and of course just looking at Anne-Sophie Mutter, who looked fantastic, and was dressed as glamorously as a Hollywood star at the Oscars.
(yes, this is the great violinist Anne Sophie Mutter, not a fashion model)If the audience attended for some combination of all these reasons, I'm not bothered by that - the truth is that, in the end, they listened to the monumental Beethoven Violin Concerto, instead of spending their time and dollars on something more superficial. If people come to our concert in Seoul and/or buy the CD in part because we looked good in our makeup on TV, I won't complain. At least we are still playing great music.
Where it gets hard for me is when we have to play second-rate music, music that is kind of like candy - immediately appealing, but which does not have lasting interest, in order to sell tickets. I would say that many if not most concert presenters in America feel pressure to do this: put on programs of orchestras playing video-game music, for example, and avoid great works that are too long for the channel-surfing attention span of today's audiences. Is this the only way?
Although people are quick to point to the imminent demise of classical music, as it finds itself needing to "pander" to audiences who want Pops concerts more than "real" classical music, I know that this phenomenon is not at all new. We may remember Schubert today as the composer of masterpieces like the C-major Cello Quintet, "Die Winterreise" and the B-flat major Piano Sonata, but in order to try to eke out a living he *also* wrote trivial little piano pieces and pieces for piano duet, which were tuneful and easy to play, and hence more marketable. Brahms had the luxury of writing great, serious music in part because he had a huge financial success early in his career with the Hungarian Dances, which are wonderful, but certainly not the reason Brahms is remembered as a great composer. Maybe all of us have to find time both to get an audience *now* by doing a *tiny* bit of dumbing-down, but also to do the things that may have a small audience now but will be remembered and still relevant later.
What do you think?
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
I love Bach even when it's played badly
Lately, I have had the pleasure of working on lots of Bach with my students. I wish I could take credit for the fact that so many of them are working on major Bach works at the moment, but in fact it just seems to be coincidence - I try to not impose my will too much on students when it comes to choosing repertoire, though I certainly do suggest things and, when given a menu of options, I do express my preferences. (I do encourage a variety or repertoire each semester, and some students are preparing for auditions where will be required to play Bach.) As a child, I loved Bach more than any other composer - I'm not even sure who was in 2nd place for me. At some later point, I came to appreciate that other composers might be equally great, while being different in their aesthetics and their aims.
What I've noticed over the years is that Bach's music sounds great, even when it is played badly. Or at least I can say that *I* enjoy it even when it is played badly. (I wonder if this might limit my ability to teach Bach well, since a bad performance still has its merits). This is not at all true of, say, Scriabin. A good performance makes the music sound great, but a bad performance makes it unbearable.
I would like to offer the following hypothesis (one which I admit is not well thought-out): one measure of how much we like something is whether we can still enjoy a mediocre form of it. For example, I love great Chinese food, but if I am in an airport and they have one of those "fast food" Chinese places, I won't eat there. On the other hand, I can eat Mexican food or Pizza no matter how sub-par it is. I think that is a measure of how much more I like Mexican food than Chinese food. Likewise with country music - I don't like it at all, except when I hear Patsy Cline or perhaps a few other really great singers. Now chocolate - I can eat almost any level of chocolate and be thrilled - whether it's truffles from the famous Sprungli in Zurich (where they won't sell it to you unless you promise to eat it within a couple of days) or last year's Halloween handouts.
What do you think?
What I've noticed over the years is that Bach's music sounds great, even when it is played badly. Or at least I can say that *I* enjoy it even when it is played badly. (I wonder if this might limit my ability to teach Bach well, since a bad performance still has its merits). This is not at all true of, say, Scriabin. A good performance makes the music sound great, but a bad performance makes it unbearable.
I would like to offer the following hypothesis (one which I admit is not well thought-out): one measure of how much we like something is whether we can still enjoy a mediocre form of it. For example, I love great Chinese food, but if I am in an airport and they have one of those "fast food" Chinese places, I won't eat there. On the other hand, I can eat Mexican food or Pizza no matter how sub-par it is. I think that is a measure of how much more I like Mexican food than Chinese food. Likewise with country music - I don't like it at all, except when I hear Patsy Cline or perhaps a few other really great singers. Now chocolate - I can eat almost any level of chocolate and be thrilled - whether it's truffles from the famous Sprungli in Zurich (where they won't sell it to you unless you promise to eat it within a couple of days) or last year's Halloween handouts.
What do you think?
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Follow up on previous blog post, re: recording
We finished the recording sessions a few days ago (that is something quite different from saying "we are finished with the recording" - there is a lot of editing for the producer and engineer to do, and of course there are the various commercial aspects of issuing the actual CD), but it has taken me a few days to recover and get to the blog. Among other things, I want to respond to the comments made in response to the last blog post.
First, I can tell you I am very eager and excited to see how it all turns out. Stefan Jackiw played absolutely great, and I felt good about my end of things. Producer Steve Epstein and Engineer Todd Whitelock were fabulous - the sound quality is amazing (makes me feel bad now for ever listening to anything on an Ipod or over my car stereo) and Steve was really helpful with directing our efforts towards the best possible final result. I think it is basically a good thing that neither Stefan nor I have a deep knowledge of the technical aspects of recording and editing. We just prepared as if we were going to play a concert, and we will let them figure out how to edit things together in to an "ideal" performance. (I don't want to re-address the issue of whether or not recordings are somehow dishonest - see the previous blog post for a little on that). The hardest part was probably getting energized for each and every take. In the end, I think we did four complete takes for all but one of the 10 different movements of Brahms Sonatas we recorded. The first take tended to be fresh and energetic, but after that first playback we inevitably heard things we wanted to do differently - maybe changing tempos, pacing, balance, color, articulation, etc. The second take was usually a bit more self-conscious as we worked on improving those aspects of the 1st take we didn't like. The third take was often the best one - we felt we were "covered" for most of the technically problematic passages and we had clarified our musical ideas, so we were able to "just play," without worrying too much about the end result. The fourth take was similar, but at this point we were definitely feeling mental fatigue.
I can only imagine how difficult it must be to be a film actor, who may need to film an intense scene of the movie over and over for a whole day, and somehow be enthusiastic and fresh about it every time.
Following that last take, we usually did a number of spots that for some reason were not "perfect." For me, there were two passages in one movement that I literally needed to do over 10 times before I got them right. For Stefan, there were little things that no one can hear in a concert hall, but the very sensitive microphones (like microscopes) pick up things that no one even in the first row of Symphony Hall would hear.
That is yet another reason that recording is not exactly like performing (see the previous blog post for more on that). When we play on the stage of any concert hall, we need to project what we are doing to the very last row. My teacher, Patricia Zander, reminded me repeatedly of the need to listen to myself from the "back of the hall," so to speak. In concert, we sometimes need to exaggerate musical ideas to convey them over large distances, and we need to play with at least a certain minimum of sound, even if the music is intended to be quiet, or else we won't be heard at all. With a microphone, however, we can play *extremely* quietly, and musical ideas can and should be somewhat more subtlely expressed. There are many passages in the Brahms Violin Sonatas which I have played somewhat clearly articulated (in order to "cut through" a reverberant concert hall acoustic) but which sounded too dry when I listened to my playback at the recording sessions.
With those things in mind, I think it would be safe to say some people are better "live performers" than "recording artists," and vice versa. Of course, a great musician does their best to adapt themselves to whatever circumstance they are in, but nevertheless I am sure all of us have our natural strengths and weaknesses. (I am in the planning stages of a course that I may teach at Boston Conservatory in the future, on Great Artists and their Recordings - at least one or two classes would be focused on comparing the same performers playing the same pieces in a studio recording and in a performance that was recorded live - for example, I have at least two recordings of Richter playing the Mussorgsky "Pictures at an Exhibition," one live, one in a studio, and they are vastly different!).
Now, in response to the comment from my Dad: just speaking for myself, I do listen to "live recordings" differently than I do to "studio recordings" ... and also differently than I do to a live performance. I think I would say that, yes, there is a certain excitement to a live recording, that is akin to the excitement of hearing a person live. On the other hand, since it has been released as a commercial recording, I also have a certain expectation of technical security - otherwise, why would the performer to consent to the performance being released as a recording? So I think I agree with exactly what you said.
I have never had a performance recorded and released as a commercial recording, but I have had dozens of performances recorded that were later broadcast on radio and/or internet (after, of course, I had signed something allowing them to be used for this purpose). I always hope that people hear it with the understanding that the performance was live (i.e. please forgive me for a few wrong notes!).
Chris, you know, I think I spoke a bit hyperbolically about never listening to whole CD's at a time. But it is true that I don't listen as well to a CD as I do to a live performance - something about the performer actually being there in person makes me feel that, as a courtesy, I should pay close attention. This is true for performances on all levels - if I hear Richard Goode in concert I am totally focused on his wonderful playing, but on CD my brain occasionally wanders, not because of his playing, but because of the (unconscious) awareness that I could always go back and listen to the CD again another time; and it is the same with a student auditioning for me on CD or DVD versus auditioning in person. Maybe if I had a room in the house which was just for listening to CD's, with perhaps just a comfortable chair and a remote control, no kids running in and out, no birds by the windows, no piles of papers silently asking me to sort them, no nearby Blackberry with blinking red light telling me about the emails and Facebook messages I had just received - then, I could really listen with full concentration to a CD at home.
First, I can tell you I am very eager and excited to see how it all turns out. Stefan Jackiw played absolutely great, and I felt good about my end of things. Producer Steve Epstein and Engineer Todd Whitelock were fabulous - the sound quality is amazing (makes me feel bad now for ever listening to anything on an Ipod or over my car stereo) and Steve was really helpful with directing our efforts towards the best possible final result. I think it is basically a good thing that neither Stefan nor I have a deep knowledge of the technical aspects of recording and editing. We just prepared as if we were going to play a concert, and we will let them figure out how to edit things together in to an "ideal" performance. (I don't want to re-address the issue of whether or not recordings are somehow dishonest - see the previous blog post for a little on that). The hardest part was probably getting energized for each and every take. In the end, I think we did four complete takes for all but one of the 10 different movements of Brahms Sonatas we recorded. The first take tended to be fresh and energetic, but after that first playback we inevitably heard things we wanted to do differently - maybe changing tempos, pacing, balance, color, articulation, etc. The second take was usually a bit more self-conscious as we worked on improving those aspects of the 1st take we didn't like. The third take was often the best one - we felt we were "covered" for most of the technically problematic passages and we had clarified our musical ideas, so we were able to "just play," without worrying too much about the end result. The fourth take was similar, but at this point we were definitely feeling mental fatigue.
I can only imagine how difficult it must be to be a film actor, who may need to film an intense scene of the movie over and over for a whole day, and somehow be enthusiastic and fresh about it every time.
Following that last take, we usually did a number of spots that for some reason were not "perfect." For me, there were two passages in one movement that I literally needed to do over 10 times before I got them right. For Stefan, there were little things that no one can hear in a concert hall, but the very sensitive microphones (like microscopes) pick up things that no one even in the first row of Symphony Hall would hear.
That is yet another reason that recording is not exactly like performing (see the previous blog post for more on that). When we play on the stage of any concert hall, we need to project what we are doing to the very last row. My teacher, Patricia Zander, reminded me repeatedly of the need to listen to myself from the "back of the hall," so to speak. In concert, we sometimes need to exaggerate musical ideas to convey them over large distances, and we need to play with at least a certain minimum of sound, even if the music is intended to be quiet, or else we won't be heard at all. With a microphone, however, we can play *extremely* quietly, and musical ideas can and should be somewhat more subtlely expressed. There are many passages in the Brahms Violin Sonatas which I have played somewhat clearly articulated (in order to "cut through" a reverberant concert hall acoustic) but which sounded too dry when I listened to my playback at the recording sessions.
With those things in mind, I think it would be safe to say some people are better "live performers" than "recording artists," and vice versa. Of course, a great musician does their best to adapt themselves to whatever circumstance they are in, but nevertheless I am sure all of us have our natural strengths and weaknesses. (I am in the planning stages of a course that I may teach at Boston Conservatory in the future, on Great Artists and their Recordings - at least one or two classes would be focused on comparing the same performers playing the same pieces in a studio recording and in a performance that was recorded live - for example, I have at least two recordings of Richter playing the Mussorgsky "Pictures at an Exhibition," one live, one in a studio, and they are vastly different!).
Now, in response to the comment from my Dad: just speaking for myself, I do listen to "live recordings" differently than I do to "studio recordings" ... and also differently than I do to a live performance. I think I would say that, yes, there is a certain excitement to a live recording, that is akin to the excitement of hearing a person live. On the other hand, since it has been released as a commercial recording, I also have a certain expectation of technical security - otherwise, why would the performer to consent to the performance being released as a recording? So I think I agree with exactly what you said.
I have never had a performance recorded and released as a commercial recording, but I have had dozens of performances recorded that were later broadcast on radio and/or internet (after, of course, I had signed something allowing them to be used for this purpose). I always hope that people hear it with the understanding that the performance was live (i.e. please forgive me for a few wrong notes!).
Chris, you know, I think I spoke a bit hyperbolically about never listening to whole CD's at a time. But it is true that I don't listen as well to a CD as I do to a live performance - something about the performer actually being there in person makes me feel that, as a courtesy, I should pay close attention. This is true for performances on all levels - if I hear Richard Goode in concert I am totally focused on his wonderful playing, but on CD my brain occasionally wanders, not because of his playing, but because of the (unconscious) awareness that I could always go back and listen to the CD again another time; and it is the same with a student auditioning for me on CD or DVD versus auditioning in person. Maybe if I had a room in the house which was just for listening to CD's, with perhaps just a comfortable chair and a remote control, no kids running in and out, no birds by the windows, no piles of papers silently asking me to sort them, no nearby Blackberry with blinking red light telling me about the emails and Facebook messages I had just received - then, I could really listen with full concentration to a CD at home.
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