This morning my wonderful scientist-student, struggling to get the proportions correct in her Haydn D major sonata noticed something critical:
It begins with a prominent white key. all by itself, answered soon by a black key, again by itself, then two corresponding white keys. After the double bar, however, a recognizably similar figure comes in: black key, signalling that we are in deep trouble as the bizarre colors thrown off by these intrusive sounds bewilder the ear, thickening the plot at an alarming pace.
Knowing theory, as I do (she far less) and knowing abstract sonata-form structure, as I do, alas (she far, far less) I am less observant than she of the shock engendered by such radical procedures. Yet deep down I know that this power explains the surge of interest in the sonata form contemporary with the development of the piano.
It is a question of the acoustical impact of the short lever (black key) in contrast with the long (white key).
In the several conversations I had at a recent get-together of early music people none had ever heard of this dynamic aspect of piano playing.
Curious. Once aware of it the delight is endless of fooling around with fingering, hand position, attack and release impact, and so on. It certainly gets me up in the morning.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
The Sensation of Being in Tune
At a gathering of early music folks there will always be people who specialize in a cappella singing. I don't specialize in it; I am utterly fascinated by it.
The difference might be summed up in the title of this post. I believe that tuning voices involves a sensation of natural harmonics coming into focus. I have had better luck achieving this with amateurs who know nothing about singing and very little about music than with trained musicians.
I suspect the reason is that, once trained, musicians learn to expect what they will hear rather than allow themselves to hear what they actually do hear.
Perhaps this is reason so many early music people dislike the modern piano: they expect a D major triad to sound like a D major triad on some properly tuned harpsichord, while I am utterly fascinated with its chaos relative to, say, the E-flat major triad.
The difference might be summed up in the title of this post. I believe that tuning voices involves a sensation of natural harmonics coming into focus. I have had better luck achieving this with amateurs who know nothing about singing and very little about music than with trained musicians.
I suspect the reason is that, once trained, musicians learn to expect what they will hear rather than allow themselves to hear what they actually do hear.
Perhaps this is reason so many early music people dislike the modern piano: they expect a D major triad to sound like a D major triad on some properly tuned harpsichord, while I am utterly fascinated with its chaos relative to, say, the E-flat major triad.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Early Music, New Music vs. All Music
A friend recounted an exchange he once had with his six-year-old granddaughter: "What do you call a person who speaks two languages?" "Bilingual." "What do you call a person who speaks only one language?" "American."
I think this applies as well to music: Though I do not agree that all Americans speak only one language, I do think that many musicians speak only one musical language. I grant that it makes sense for a musician to know his or her limits and stick to genres in which they feel free to play as they wish. But too often that means that they listen only to music of that one genre and keep company only with like-musiced individuals.
To me, as an American, this seems counterintuitive. I want to understand all kinds of people, why not all kinds of musicians? I want to include all kinds of people as friends, so why not include all kinds of musicians as musical friends?
Some people find it strange that I care so deeply about the sound of the modern piano and, at the same time--well not exactly the very same time--caring deeply about the purity of a cappella vocal intonation.
Isn't it like learning to speak or at least comprehend more than one's own language?
I think this applies as well to music: Though I do not agree that all Americans speak only one language, I do think that many musicians speak only one musical language. I grant that it makes sense for a musician to know his or her limits and stick to genres in which they feel free to play as they wish. But too often that means that they listen only to music of that one genre and keep company only with like-musiced individuals.
To me, as an American, this seems counterintuitive. I want to understand all kinds of people, why not all kinds of musicians? I want to include all kinds of people as friends, so why not include all kinds of musicians as musical friends?
Some people find it strange that I care so deeply about the sound of the modern piano and, at the same time--well not exactly the very same time--caring deeply about the purity of a cappella vocal intonation.
Isn't it like learning to speak or at least comprehend more than one's own language?
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Just in...
Check out this review of the last in my current Haydn / Bartok series.
http://lucidculture.wordpress.com/2013/05/13/haydn/
http://lucidculture.wordpress.com/2013/05/13/haydn/
Inconstancy not Fickleness
I love it when a blog reader questions a term or disagrees with a post. Thanks!
My recent use of the word "fickleness" to characterize many Dowland songs really was not accurate. I would change the word to inconstancy, a much more accurate characterization of the connection between form and content and also of more complex human behavior.
Inconstancy would be well depicted in the usage to which I referred in the Dowland, i.e., a seemingly repeated figure that, in fact, undergoes hidden variation upon "repeat" so as to form an elision with the following material. The hidden variation inevitably involves a shift of emphasis, usually both melodic and rhythmic.
The same reader asked if it is really true that I get up at 4:30 a.m. to publish my posts. Rest assured I do not. The 4:30 a.m. is Pacific Standard Time, 7:30 a.m. Eastern. I usually schedule the posts a few days in advance of their actual appearing and choose the hour so that the reader may start the day with the blog along with their (gluten-free) toast and tea.
My recent use of the word "fickleness" to characterize many Dowland songs really was not accurate. I would change the word to inconstancy, a much more accurate characterization of the connection between form and content and also of more complex human behavior.
Inconstancy would be well depicted in the usage to which I referred in the Dowland, i.e., a seemingly repeated figure that, in fact, undergoes hidden variation upon "repeat" so as to form an elision with the following material. The hidden variation inevitably involves a shift of emphasis, usually both melodic and rhythmic.
The same reader asked if it is really true that I get up at 4:30 a.m. to publish my posts. Rest assured I do not. The 4:30 a.m. is Pacific Standard Time, 7:30 a.m. Eastern. I usually schedule the posts a few days in advance of their actual appearing and choose the hour so that the reader may start the day with the blog along with their (gluten-free) toast and tea.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Making It Happen - One Tone at a Time
The trouble with muscle memory is that it presumes a disengaged mind. I just undertook the incredibly difficult task of relearning to articulate my toes - yes, toes, as a result of a physical condition that had gradually reduced their independence and my control over them. I had to retrain my muscle memory by literally holding onto some toes so that the others could tell that they had the power to move independently. Sounds bizarre, but it worked.
It struck me how similar that is to the way most people learn to play the piano. Put this finger here and that finger there and then everything will be reliably in place and you won't have to think about it.
Yow.
There are two things wrong with that approach:
It leaves out hearing altogether.
It leaves out all trace of variability as a good, even welcome thing.
Children who learn this way inevitably fall apart in recitals when they are playing on strange pianos: different touch, different acoustics, different everything.
It struck me how similar that is to the way most people learn to play the piano. Put this finger here and that finger there and then everything will be reliably in place and you won't have to think about it.
Yow.
There are two things wrong with that approach:
It leaves out hearing altogether.
It leaves out all trace of variability as a good, even welcome thing.
Children who learn this way inevitably fall apart in recitals when they are playing on strange pianos: different touch, different acoustics, different everything.
Friday, May 17, 2013
A Fine Audience
Last night I had the privilege of performing Haydn and Bartok in my home for a wonderful audience of passionate listeners.
It was the recital on which I played my favorite Haydn Sonata. Before playing I informed them that of the three Haydn works one scared me, another was my favorite, and the third was completely untried and would receive its first performance that evening.
The release of being listened to so well made the whole experience participatory: I never played my favorite sonata better. The G minor (No. 44) went to the farthest extremes of despair before establishing a plausible equilibrium. The terrifying piece turned out to be humorous without inhibition. The first performance, new to all of us, exceeded any notion I had had of its potential.
There is much to be said for a close-up audience feeling its own presence, participating fully. It completely informs performance, in fact, it completes performance.
It was the recital on which I played my favorite Haydn Sonata. Before playing I informed them that of the three Haydn works one scared me, another was my favorite, and the third was completely untried and would receive its first performance that evening.
The release of being listened to so well made the whole experience participatory: I never played my favorite sonata better. The G minor (No. 44) went to the farthest extremes of despair before establishing a plausible equilibrium. The terrifying piece turned out to be humorous without inhibition. The first performance, new to all of us, exceeded any notion I had had of its potential.
There is much to be said for a close-up audience feeling its own presence, participating fully. It completely informs performance, in fact, it completes performance.
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