Plus one, minus one

Plus one, minus one is a category of rhythm I define in the glossary What Might It Mean? An Uncommon Glossary of Musical Terms and Concepts for the Stuck, Bored, and Curious.  Published in 1999, I have repeatedly made use of its insights in preparing my current series of solo recitals celebrating my recovery from surgery in 2007 and my return to fully intense playing.  In the book I suggest that some problematic pianistic devices might not be so tiresome, so repetitive, so, well, boring, if subjected to that principle.

It works like this: Say there is a four-note broken chord repeated over more than one bar.  Rather than accentuate the beginning of each four-note figure, staggering the mental emphasis by either adding or subtracting one rhythmic unit from each successive repetition has the uncanny effect of livening 1) the fingers 2)the figure 3) the contrapuntal potential of the piece 4) the listener.

Thus instead of 1 2 3 4 / 1 2 3 4 / 1 2 3 4 / 1 2 3 4 one gets
                       1 2 3 / 4 1 2 / 3 4 1 / 2 3 4 /1 2 3 /4   or perhaps
                        1 2 3 4 1 / 2 3 4 1 2 / 3 4 1 2 3 / 4

I tried it today on Schubert.  It works like a charm.  The sound, previously predictable, became mysterious, almost magical, except for the fact that it is much more difficult -- i.e., more fun -- to play.

Allergic to Quarter Notes

Beethoven's inimitable parsing of duple meters into fives plus threes was the underpinning of the Orpheus Chamber Orchestra's dynamic reading of his Fifth last week in Carnegie Hall (See post of October 16).  It raises the question: Why do conductors lean so heavily on simplistic quarter note beats/?

If they are afraid the ensemble will otherwise fall part, they might try some more exciting alternative: perhaps the most amazing feat of the Orpheus was their refusal to be quarter-noted to death after what must be, for all the players combined, hundreds of deadly dull oversimplifications of the work.  Wouldn't it be to everyone's short and long term advantage to risk chaos in the interest of heightened energy?  The Orpheus players were empowered to lift the spirit of the whole symphony very high in defiance of musical gravity, resulting in liberated tempi and enormous joy.

I first got interested in this conductor vs. the beat question in studying the Beethoven Violin Concerto.  Listening to several recordings I found only one in which the real rhythmic grit of the piece was in evidence, and there only on the part of the soloist (Zino Francescatti!).  Eugene Ormandy stuck to his quarter-note guns while Francescatti articulated highly precise eighth notes (as in, "Beat me, Daddy, eight to the bar!" from the jitterbug era).  Perhaps the clash between their approaches made for an exciting result for some listeners. 

Playing for more than Pleasure

One of my greatest joys is listening to the playing of students who are in it for the deepest possible personal reasons.  Such a student was here today.

The playing, though not fluent because she does not have natural facility at the keyboard, is thoroughly transparent.  I can hear what she is hearing.

I asked her if she ever tells people about her piano lessons.  She does, in fact.  "And then," she said, "they want to hear me play.  No! No!  I don't play for other people; I play for myself."

Yet she does play for the other students and family members in this small community of like-minded empathetic listening that I have built up over the years.  And when she does so she surpasses herself every time.

Too many pianists play only for others, never for themselves.  That kind of playing quickly palls: it is too unattached, too abstract.  It is not felt; it does not matter.  Some artists live long enough to reclaim their innocent involvement in the sensuality of the instrument and to expose it in public.  In this post-recording era such artists are increasingly rare.

Orpheus Chamber Orchestra plays Beethoven's Fifth

I tuned in by chance to the live broadcast of the Orpheus Chamber Orchestra's Carnegie Hall concert opening their 40th season.  It was the middle of a modern vocal work, new to me and very original.  It turned out to be a world premiere of a compelling vocal work on Chinese texts by Augusta Reed.  After intermission they were to play Beethoven's Fifth for the very first time in their 40 years.  Did I really want to chance what would surely be an infinitely more dangerous challenge than any modern work?

Knowing the symphony fairly well I knew the answer would be revealed in the opening 3 notes.  They came, I heard, Orpheus conquered.

The performance lived up to the full  rhythmic integrity of those notes, not treated as perfunctory, though problematic, upbeats, but rather as signaling a vitality counter to the prevailing duple meter.  I was impressed by the playing and, in retrospect, reminded of the technical problem faced by conductors who must communicate an internal pulse to players of so many different instruments all at once--each player with her own internal pulse as well as each instrument family inviting a different formulation of rhythm, whether with bow or breath.  

In this conductor-less orchestra each player really played.  The tension was palpable, the drive infectious.  I'm so glad I stayed tuned.

Allegro Depending on the Situation

This is my new definition of Allegro moderato.  I learned it from Schubert's E-flat Sonata, Op. 122, last movement.   The 6/8 meter already makes it a puzzle, as allegro is most often associated with quarter-note meters. 

One can sustain a fairly even pace except for special circumstances in which the beat seems to require more deliberation.  Once I caught on to the possibility that this permission might be implied in the tempo indication it was much easier to let the music flow rather than feel obliged to maintain a steady pulse.

A Fine Piano

Today I celebrate the restoration of my century-old Mason & Hamlin AA grand. Short of writing a book, it would be difficult to describe what it means to me to have a truly fine instrument. 

My beginnings on the piano date from the age of 3 or 4 when a neighbor in Chicago gave me unlimited access to her upright.  It was heaven.  I fell in love with the sound, a love that has never abated despite ups and downs of all descriptions.

Needless to say, it is a pure Proustian affair.  I have surely carried around in my head and in my heart that sound transformed.  During most of the intervening years I was not a pianist, having taken up serious organ study when physical limitations made technical progress unlikely if not impossible, and having built my career in New York setting up a unique non-competitive chamber music program for amateurs.  In other words, I had become increasingly committed to the community of people whose desire to play exceeded their technical prowess.  That involvement continues, and now extends to including among my students a severely developmentally challenged, blind, autistic young man.

Trying to avoid the book that threatens this post, ahem:  My first realization in the presence of a beautiful instrument is how easily music becomes imaginary, literally.  This glorious ringing tone reveals a new dimension in every piece I play which, at the moment, includes some of the most intimate piano music ever written: Schubert's Moments Musicaux and the Eclogues of Dvorak.

Listening: "One of the most difficult skills"

Recent posts have been about listening.  In one I described the reactions of a seventeen-year-old upon first reading the Beethoven G minor Sonata.  That very day I received this message from her:

"I took piano lessons from Nancy for twelve years, and over the years I learned much more than how to look at little dots on a piece of paper and press a corresponding lever. Nancy encouraged and drew out from me emotional involvement and conscious thought about music, both in general and specific to certain pieces. Essentially, she taught me how to listen, one of the most difficult skills there is both to teach and to learn."

Recently I asked whether she had any friends who shared her love of Beethoven, Haydn, and Mozart.  Not surprisingly, the answer was no, despite the fact that many of them had studied piano.  Her explanation: They had had that music forced upon them.  She had come upon it out of deep involvement with contemporary music and with improvisation.  This girl, at nine, had told me: "I don't practice; I don't have time."   Clearly her relationship to sound was developing at a very deep level.