Professional vs. Amateur

An amateur musician asked me what it was like for me, a professional, to listen to amateurs play.  What a great question!

And complex.

I would have to say it all depends on the situation and what the amateurs' goal is.  If their goal is to imitate professionals I find it stale and lifeless.  But if their goal is to have as much fun as possible it is usually a trip to listen, mistakes and all.

When I worked with chamber musicians they were primarily amateurs and I encouraged them to let go of their inhibitions, to stop trying to sound like professionals (i.e., like some CD they had heard) and to react just to the sounds coming out of their instruments, flaws and all.

I learned so much about how composition works from listening in this way.  I only wish more professionals would trust their instincts and play this way.

The only thing that keeps them from doing so is competition in a conformity-driven world.

Variability vs. Reliability

Can you enjoy both?  Why not?

For example, I love the sound of unaccompanied voices singing in perfect harmony.  That is not a variable, though it is a function of the composition, diction, acoustics, and a few other, yes, variables.

But I love also the sound of the modern piano, by definition an infinitely variable phenomenon, almost impossible to replicate exactly from one piano to another, even from one day to another on a given piano.

It is only partly a matter of disposition.  It becomes a matter of social import.  If I must always have either one sort of sound or the other I limit the range of musical experience to which I open myself.

Perhaps that is why I rarely see the same faces at an early music performance as at a world premiere.

It's too bad, really.

When Is An Eighth Note NOT An Eighth Note?

The simple answer is when it is one of an unbroken chain of eighths in a Bach Cello Suite, as in the Courante of the C major.  Some of these eighths are articulated melodic values while others group into non-metric larger composites--arpeggios, for example, or melodic slides. The differences are not always clear, nor do they need to be.

That is why there are repeat signs: you get to do it twice, each time with a different twist on it.

When played strictly, without reference to shifting melodic and decorative purposes, the only thing that comes across is the bar line--clearly an error in Baroque music.

White Keys and Black Keys -- Again and Always

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.

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.

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?

Just in...

Check out this review of the last in my current Haydn / Bartok series.

http://lucidculture.wordpress.com/2013/05/13/haydn/