What's in a Minuet?

Wonderful question when you stop to think of how many thousands of the little beasties are roaming the musical universe!

I spent a glorious hour this morning going over just the first 8 bars of the Menuetto of Beethoven's Op. 10, No. 2 D Major Sonata with a young adult student whose ear is keen though his technical ability is limited by insufficient time at the piano.  Nevertheless, there it was in its full mystery:
the designation dolce as if to alert the player to ambiguity lying in ambush; the dash staccatos indicating some of that ambiguity poking its ugly nose out; the note values and articulation markings
adding to the confusion. 

Nothing straightforward about it, though I have never heard it played in its full mysterious glory.  To be honest, I don't think I have ever played it in its full mysterious glory.  Something else to look forward to!

What is Wrong with Modulation

There is a great difference between the notion of modulation -- i.e., changing from one tonality to another -- and the notion of destabilizing a given tonality by undoing the intervals that define it.  To modulate is to go from one stable setup to another via some recognized transitional chord progression.

This is entirely different from allowing the intervals made by the intruding sharp or flat convey their full power, not on the way to something more desirable, but in their own right.

I just finished playing the late Mozart F major Sonata in which the prevalence of two-part writing exposes those intervals.  I remembered distinctly how I used to play the piece in modulation mode.  Now, after focusing on cantabile, I pay much greater attention to the articulations which often delay moments of resolution in favor of the pregnant unease of a chromatic tone that has the power to change the modality--a much greater power than a shift from an identifiable "here" to an all-too-predictable "there."

A Choice Audience

What could be more fulfilling than to play to an audience of accomplished musicians of different generations, different genres, different occupations?

This was my privilege last night.  None of them famous, yet aware of and deeply respectful of each other, their engagement was total (including outright laughter at C.P.E. Bach, Beethoven, and Poulenc) and the conversation enriching.  Not a trace of competitiveness or one-upsmanship.

At one point we were recalling listening to Rubinstein, particularly the remarkable warmth he projected, drawing everyone in the room into the generosity of his playing.  Those of us who had heard him all agreed.  I believe the secret is in the listening.  He played listening to the music the way he wanted people to listen to him--the height of empathetic listening, since it extends its generosity into every single tone of the music.

This is why I teach empathetic listening as the core discipline.  Technique--whatever that turns out to be--and everything else follows from there.

Another Beethoven moderato!

Having come to the conclusion that the Variations on Rule Britannia had to be based on rhythmic modulation rather than on the more conventional technique of maintaining a steady duple beat from 2/4 into 6/8, I was astounded to observe the marking at the beginning:

"Tempo moderato"

That must be what the word implies in this context!  The way I play the piece is to maintain a steady eighth note between the theme and the mysterious first variation, going from there via sheer musical logic through the ensuing meters, moods, figures, and drama, finding convincing metric relationships but not leaning on an abstract beat to tie the work together.

More on Every Vibration

In order to deliver every vibration I have to be in the best shape, mentally and physically.  The better the music, the more potential those vibrations have to become forces in and of themselves, commanding attention, requiring quick response.

Though I listen attentively whenever I play (a good reason for not indulging in mindless technical exercises) that is not the same as delivering to others.  For that I have to devote the day to nothing else, just as if I were running a major race or competing in some grand tournament.

If you have music students you should encourage them to sit up close when a truly dedicated musician plays so that they feel the charge of energetic focus coming directly toward them.

Recordings do not do it.  Seats a half block away do not do it.  Up close.  Live.

Messe de Tournai

I am as impatient as anyone when the setting of the Mass goes on and on for no good reason.  I am impatient especially when the singing is desultory, e.g., when a motionless duple beat is imposed on  the counterpoint.

I am still laughing, yes, laughing, at the ending of the Gloria of last Sunday's singing of the Messe de Tournai, the first written setting of the Mass.  It was a festive occasion in the life of the parish of St. Ignatius of Antioch, but nothing prepared me for that Amen, that went on.... and on... and on... and refused to pronounce the ultimate "n" for the longest while.  Ordinarily I would have been annoyed.

I think it will turn into one of those liturgical moments that I will not forget. Thanks to James Kennerley for that superb singing.

A Young Listener Gets Tired

Yesterday I was privileged to have an 8th-grader among the audience for one of my in-house musics.  In anticipation of his coming I thought about what concert-going had been like for me as a young listener.  I recall being confused by the sheer amount of information coming at me: what was I supposed to do with it?  I recall also being bored with any and everything slow: undoubtedly a result of being half a block away from the source of the sound.

As part of my introduction to the event I told him I was preparing to throw millions of vibrations at him, one at a time, in the hope that he would catch them.  I encouraged him to sit in "the teacher's chair," close up, where he could also watch my hands.

I became aware of him paying incredible attention for a time, then getting tired.  Good for him, I thought:  a sign of real activity, not at all of boredom, not at all.

One of the pieces was a suite by W.F. Bach which involved tossing the hands around a lot in the most playful manner--difficult to do, fun to watch, and in total contrast to the movements in which the intense lyricism of single tones was almost unreal--incredible music that I had never heard anyone play or even mention.  Extreme.  Irresistible.  He was roused by that, happy to say.