It strikes me as a bit odd that issues raised in these posts go unquestioned.
There has to be more than one way to look at any of these birds of whatever color.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Schubert: Tones / Overtones
Here comes a weighty generalization: A pianist who has not been immersed in Schubert songs probably has no clue as to how he wrote for the piano.
A singer does not sing what most of us think of as notes. Anyone who has worked consistently--on a day-by-day basis--with a singer knows that there is more to it than that, as the overtones of the voice are subject to many variables, from atmospheric to sinus conditions. Playing the piano with a singer requires constant attention to balances within the sound as the shifting vocal overtones, sometimes high, sometimes low, invite new and unusual voicings of the piano part. It is inherently dramatic, never a matter of active song plus passive accompaniment.
Extending the sense of overtone-based sound to Schubert's solo piano works may seem like a leap into the void, but it is actually quite the opposite. For many of the most puzzling passages in Schubert are densely voiced so as to conceal melodic lines hidden in the inner voices. Unearthing them is a matter of listening to the whole sound, rather than trying to parse the passage theoretically.
No amount of theory can account for the constant changing of the human voice. Two experiences come to mind.
In a recital of a soprano doing Schubert at Alice Tully Hall some years ago the accompaniments, all very familiar to me, sounded entirely new. Then I realized that the singer had a particularly high-end overtone ring which the pianist was picking up and enriching. It was thrilling.
The other experience played out over a period of time: A usually sensitive professional student in a performance class I was coaching began to sound desultory. Upon questioning about his practice routine it turned out he had taken to working on an electronic keyboard so that he could play late into the night. I was amazed at how audibly this had dulled his piano playing. When, a few years later, he auditioned to take the course playing duos with a very fine clarinetist, his playing was totally transformed, this time in the right direction. Upon questioning, it turned out that in the meantime he had been working as a vocal accompanist. That would do it. His fine ear and quick response were completely restored.
A singer does not sing what most of us think of as notes. Anyone who has worked consistently--on a day-by-day basis--with a singer knows that there is more to it than that, as the overtones of the voice are subject to many variables, from atmospheric to sinus conditions. Playing the piano with a singer requires constant attention to balances within the sound as the shifting vocal overtones, sometimes high, sometimes low, invite new and unusual voicings of the piano part. It is inherently dramatic, never a matter of active song plus passive accompaniment.
Extending the sense of overtone-based sound to Schubert's solo piano works may seem like a leap into the void, but it is actually quite the opposite. For many of the most puzzling passages in Schubert are densely voiced so as to conceal melodic lines hidden in the inner voices. Unearthing them is a matter of listening to the whole sound, rather than trying to parse the passage theoretically.
No amount of theory can account for the constant changing of the human voice. Two experiences come to mind.
In a recital of a soprano doing Schubert at Alice Tully Hall some years ago the accompaniments, all very familiar to me, sounded entirely new. Then I realized that the singer had a particularly high-end overtone ring which the pianist was picking up and enriching. It was thrilling.
The other experience played out over a period of time: A usually sensitive professional student in a performance class I was coaching began to sound desultory. Upon questioning about his practice routine it turned out he had taken to working on an electronic keyboard so that he could play late into the night. I was amazed at how audibly this had dulled his piano playing. When, a few years later, he auditioned to take the course playing duos with a very fine clarinetist, his playing was totally transformed, this time in the right direction. Upon questioning, it turned out that in the meantime he had been working as a vocal accompanist. That would do it. His fine ear and quick response were completely restored.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
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In so doing you are supporting a way of thinking about music, about learning; you are locating yourself within a larger community of people seeking confident musical experience, both in private -- in reference to their own playing -- and in public -- responding to the performance of others.
The thoughts you find here are those of an artist / teacher / dedicated listener. Apparently a lot of people find the blog important enough to read it on a daily basis.
Why not subscribe? See www.tonalrefraction.net for details.
Thanks!
Hearing is Believing
When is an A-flat major chord in root position not an A-flat major chord?
Answer: When it has too many E-flats.
Before I knew anything I knew that some chords that looked right didn't sound right. Rather than call anyone's attention to the apparent lack of taste on the part of the composer--no matter which one: Beethoven, Schumann--I simply altered the voicing to conform to my idea of what sounded good.
Needless to say this questionable practice can't be maintained indefinitely if one aspires to be taken seriously as a professional pianist. What, then, is one to do?
Answer: Listen. Respond to how it actually sounds whether agreeable or not. Look for a context in which it might make acoustical sense: repeated E-flats in surrounding sonorities, for example.
Professional pianists have devised ways to deal with the situation, the most egregious being simply to bring out the melody suppressing everything else.
Answer: When it has too many E-flats.
Before I knew anything I knew that some chords that looked right didn't sound right. Rather than call anyone's attention to the apparent lack of taste on the part of the composer--no matter which one: Beethoven, Schumann--I simply altered the voicing to conform to my idea of what sounded good.
Needless to say this questionable practice can't be maintained indefinitely if one aspires to be taken seriously as a professional pianist. What, then, is one to do?
Answer: Listen. Respond to how it actually sounds whether agreeable or not. Look for a context in which it might make acoustical sense: repeated E-flats in surrounding sonorities, for example.
Professional pianists have devised ways to deal with the situation, the most egregious being simply to bring out the melody suppressing everything else.
Friday, November 9, 2012
Agitato: The Moonlight Sonata
My deep fascination with this work is made all the more compelling by how beloved it is by people of all ages, including very young children.
Many below-the-surface aspects of the work make it worthy of continued study beyond its evident technical challenges. One of its biggest conundrums is the marking of the last movement: Presto agitato. As noted in a dictionary (Koch's Lexicon, an early 19th century music dictionary), agitato cannot mean fast, as there are many words to indicate speed and qualities of speed. So what might it mean?
I observe agitato to mean that what seems to be strictly duple rhythm is not, but that it contains undercurrents of three, sometimes five, or perhaps both at once. Looking at the sixteenth-note broken chord figures in that movement it is striking that they begin after a sixteenth rest. That means that there are 7 beats of sixteenths minus one sixteenth note; i.e., 27 not 28 notes in the passage. Try playing the figure in sets of three against the clear duple eighths in the left hand. You and the (night and the) music will become instantly agitated, I assure you.
Last spring when I performed this way listeners commented that I played it faster than most people. I am sure that this is not the case, but I am prepared to believe that it felt faster.
A recent performance of the work in Avery Fisher Hall was faster than I have ever heard it played. Was it agitated? Not in the slightest.
Many below-the-surface aspects of the work make it worthy of continued study beyond its evident technical challenges. One of its biggest conundrums is the marking of the last movement: Presto agitato. As noted in a dictionary (Koch's Lexicon, an early 19th century music dictionary), agitato cannot mean fast, as there are many words to indicate speed and qualities of speed. So what might it mean?
I observe agitato to mean that what seems to be strictly duple rhythm is not, but that it contains undercurrents of three, sometimes five, or perhaps both at once. Looking at the sixteenth-note broken chord figures in that movement it is striking that they begin after a sixteenth rest. That means that there are 7 beats of sixteenths minus one sixteenth note; i.e., 27 not 28 notes in the passage. Try playing the figure in sets of three against the clear duple eighths in the left hand. You and the (night and the) music will become instantly agitated, I assure you.
Last spring when I performed this way listeners commented that I played it faster than most people. I am sure that this is not the case, but I am prepared to believe that it felt faster.
A recent performance of the work in Avery Fisher Hall was faster than I have ever heard it played. Was it agitated? Not in the slightest.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Schubert / Dvorak Series
Currently I am presenting a series of in-house programs featuring works by Schubert and Dvorak. The next program features the Schubert A minor Sonata, Op. 42, his F minor Impromptu, and Scottish Dances, as well as two Humoresques of Dvorak, and his Scottish Dances. The next performances, Saturday November 10 and Sunday November 18 take place in a private location in New York City. If you would like more information please send an email to nancygarniez@tonalrefraction.com.
Music to Scale, continued
Returning to Schubert's Moment Musical, No. 2, I would like to consider its rhythmic resonances.
The piece is in 9/8 with a characteristic alteration of dotted-eighth/sixteenth/eighth followed by a dotted half. It is tempting to rush the third eighth into the following long note, though the slurring indicates at times an articulation of the long note separate from the group. This would imply movement not forward but resisting forward--a kind of melodic stasis.
Consider what seems to be the melody: C D-flat C D-flat. What if the real motion is from the first C to the second (long) D-flat, not from the second C to the long D-flat? It changes everything, absolutely everything. What seems to be still is made to move--again, like Degas's dancer. What seems to move is actually resisting motion.
Such powerful reversals of customary rhythmic logic depend entirely on the pianist's knowing that every ear in the room can follow and will be unable to resist internalizing this profound contradiction.
When I play this piece in my living room for a small audience, as I did just last month, I know that it is a matter of life and death, not in any sentimental or abstract way. It requires of me that I face every element that creates tension--I prefer the German word, Spannung, which evokes an image of "from here to there"--and the musical elements that create that tension challenge the core of my vital self to a kind of quiet that transcends my will.
Once the contradiction is set in this special internalized motion every long duration is charged beyond measure.
The piece is in 9/8 with a characteristic alteration of dotted-eighth/sixteenth/eighth followed by a dotted half. It is tempting to rush the third eighth into the following long note, though the slurring indicates at times an articulation of the long note separate from the group. This would imply movement not forward but resisting forward--a kind of melodic stasis.
Consider what seems to be the melody: C D-flat C D-flat. What if the real motion is from the first C to the second (long) D-flat, not from the second C to the long D-flat? It changes everything, absolutely everything. What seems to be still is made to move--again, like Degas's dancer. What seems to move is actually resisting motion.
Such powerful reversals of customary rhythmic logic depend entirely on the pianist's knowing that every ear in the room can follow and will be unable to resist internalizing this profound contradiction.
When I play this piece in my living room for a small audience, as I did just last month, I know that it is a matter of life and death, not in any sentimental or abstract way. It requires of me that I face every element that creates tension--I prefer the German word, Spannung, which evokes an image of "from here to there"--and the musical elements that create that tension challenge the core of my vital self to a kind of quiet that transcends my will.
Once the contradiction is set in this special internalized motion every long duration is charged beyond measure.
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