Bach, the not quite god

There is never a shortage of worshipful persons gathered around significant figures of the past, unreservedly declaring everything they have done without blemish and a clear summit in the progress of the human race.  In the case of Bach writers have gone particularly overboard, which is hard to do, it seems to me, considering what an incredibly accomplished composer he was.

Nevertheless, if you are a composer, it is helpful to know that even Bach didn’t always arrive at perfection the first time out, and that he often changed his mind, reworking music he wrote, even correcting mistakes. This statement of mine is in direct contrast to that of Phillip Spitta, his first major biographer, who was constantly declaring Bach’s unerring, unswerving, sure mastery from the start: That and Spitta's rampant nationalism make me want to gag sometimes. 

Which, again, isn’t to gainsay any of Bach’s massive achievement. It’s just that, the man himself apparently valued hard work above all else, saying that “anyone who works as hard as I did would get the same result.”

Ok, that might be a bit of a miscalculation in the other direction, but it still underscores something I’ve been noticing for a long time. Persons who are particularly accomplished in some area tend to stress the hard work required to get there. Persons who are not accomplished in something tend to talk in terms of talent and “just having it” and other magic. There might be a lesson in that.

The reason I was reminded of Bach’s work ethic is that there is a short chorale prelude, which just happens to be based on the same hymn tune. It is the shortest of what are commonly called the “great 18” or “Leipzig Chorale Preludes,” but as it happens, it was once even shorter. In fact, the first half of the Leipzig version exists in a shorter version in Bach’s “Little Organ Book.”  It is a setting of a single verse of the hymn and it takes only about 45 seconds to play. Apparently, Bach later decided to add on to it, setting a second verse.  Bach decided to move the hymn melody from the soprano to the bass, and change the surrounding texture. Essentially, it was another standard method of setting a chorale tune, which Bach then tacked on to the first portion with a bit of connective material, and a new piece was born, and a quite effective one, too.

At that point, actually, Bach had what has become known as the Weimar version of the chorale, because that was where he was working at the time, and only later revised it, even fixing a couple of places where the counterpoint (gasp!) was faulty. (I kid you not: the great Bach actually wrote parallel fifths in the first--or rather the second--version!) It wasn’t until a third reworking of the original chorale that he arrived at the Leipzig version that most organists play.

I’ll leave you with a recording of the second of these multiple versions, the one from Weimar, since I’ve taken a vow to learn all of the early versions before embarking on the later ones to study what Bach changed. 

Bach: Come, Creator, Holy Spirit    Bwv 667a

This is far from the only example of Bach doing something like this, and it is a reminder to composers who have come up with an idea for a piece that seems too short or too ineffective, that it often takes a second look, maybe even months later, to realize the potential in that initial idea (not to mention an accomplished technique). Despite all the nonsense you read about great composers envisioning their music whole and perfect right from the beginning, or knowing exactly what they want and how to get it, because any amount of floundering in the dark, even for a moment, would somehow make them less great, don’t buy it. And don’t try composing that way yourself. It stunts your growth. It is the result that matters in the end anyway. If you are so worried that people are going to find out you had to work hard to get it, burn your sketches or something! (worked for Mozart)

As a teacher of mine, who clearly revered these musical immortals, once said, “they weren’t gods.”

But I think they did OK anyway. You?

Subsidy

Haydn: Sonata in F no. 3, Hob. 9 -- Movement three: Allegro Molto

You are listening to well over a quarter of a million dollars.

It isn't that I enjoy putting monetary values on things or that I'm trying to parade wealth in front of you, but since you might have been lured into the idea that since this music is available to you simply by clicking a button it isn't worth very much, I thought we should pause and consider where this came from.

The reason that I chose this piece to post is that I happen to like the way I performed it. It is a short piece, and not very difficult. All the same, to be able to play those runs evenly, get those articulations so lively, and scale the dynamics so carefully requires a bit of practice.

And I've had plenty of it. I've probably spent at least 10,000 hours practicing the piano in my lifetime, even if only about 15 minutes of that made it into actually preparing this little number. The blood, the sweat, the tears--I don't know how you can tell what that cost, and I don't know how you can ever really determine whether that cost is worth it. In fact, if you are wondering that at all you are probably asking the wrong question. All I know now is that all the preparation is paying big dividends every time I sit down at the piano a few decades later. But honestly I can't really imagine life any differently for better or worse.

Then there is all that money my parents shelled out for piano lessons--childhood lessons, and then four years at the conservatory. Adjusted for inflated college tuition prices, I wouldn't be surprised if we weren't talking close to 200 grand right there.

After graduation I started to foot the bill. College wasn't getting any cheaper then, by the way. Almost another decade of grad school until I had become a doctor of the piano. No kidding. That's some serious money there.

Of course, we mustn't forget that the piano I'm playing this recording on  (a hundred year old Steinway B) cost a pretty penny. And the recording equipment, relatively cheap by comparison, is still around a thousand dollars by itself. I bought it in installments because for a while I was a broke graduate student before I became a slightly less broke professional musician.

Every second, every nuance had how many hours of lessons, how many teachers, how many previous recordings listened to or books read that went into their preparation? Incalculable.

I could make this a story about how hard I worked and how much I sacrificed and how you all owe me a big pile of money for getting to listen to this music. But let's not forget that vast committee of persons who made it all possible: parents, teachers; professors who taught extra lessons or cheap lessons or grad school deans and voice teachers who made a graduate assistantship possible and with it the chance to get more education. I owe my doctorate to those last two.

And the list fans out from there. The people who built the piano. And rebuilt the piano nearly a hundred years later. They have their store a couple of miles away. I mentioned the microphones and the recorder, but not the computer and the software and the web host and the people who designed the interwebs. Happy 20th birthday to the world wide web, by the way.

We probably should not forget the composer. I don't recall whether Mr. Haydn's authorship is in dispute over this one. But somebody had to set quill pen to paper and set this whole process in motion in the first place. Although, historically, the person(s)--another committee--who invented the piano started the enterprise a bit earlier (1700 or so).

It's not like I had to pay licensing fees to all these people--or any of them-could you imagine the vast wholesale to retail process that would be involved? And the markup would be outrageous!

Most of these folks made or are making a pretty good living doing what they did or do, so I don't feel bad about not chipping in. Mr. Haydn had his princely employment, and so have many others, who didn't really invent what they invented for the express purpose of my using it, or even with the slightest knowledge. It's stunning what an anonymous process all of this is. It's really like the butterfly in Brazil flapping its wings and starting a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico. Can you blame the butterfly?

And I have my means of making a living as well, which is why you needn't worry about paying for the pleasure of those 50 seconds which, at a cost per second, would hardly be economical if it couldn't exist in mass production, or at least for mass consumption.

But it isn't about the cost, really, and it isn't about numbers. It's funny how people think you can put dollar values on things that seemingly have a cost based on some reasonable calculation of knowable factors when it really just comes down to what somebody is willing to pay for it, not to mention how easy it is to be blind to all of the various costs that have been paid to bring it to you by people you'll never meet. It's also astonishing how easily people come to think that they got everything they got by working hard and forget all the other people who worked hard on their behalf.

So today's selection, like every other selection you've ever heard on Pianonoise, is brought to you by a committee. Pianonoise is not a multinational corporation, with lots of employees working around the globe to bring you the very latest and greatest in piano music from all times and cultures, though it might in some ways resemble that. It's just me. And a whole lot of people that contributed, in various stages of unknowing where it would lead and what the product would look like when it made it to the shelf--or the web player.

We won't be having a fund drive. Some of you have already contributed. For that, thanks. And the rest of you can share in this gargantuan undertaking by just listening. And reading. Or leave a comment or something. Nice to have you around.

Still, in the immortal words of the advertisers, it is quite a deal, isn't it?

[Sic]

Our community choir is performing their spring concert this weekend, which includes a performance of the Faure Requiem. To mark the occasion, I thought I would post the complete organ works of Gabriel Faure:






There, that ought to cover it.

Faure was a church organist most of his life. And, for some reason, is among the ranks of composers who have decided to completely ignore that instrument, at least in terms of solo literature. But he loved writing for the piano and wrote quite a bit of wonderful music for the instrument (on Monday I posted one of his piano works).

I don't know exactly what it was about the organ that made Mr. Faure feel so uninspired; perhaps the rigidity of the official views on liturgically appropriate music had something to do with it. A Wikipedia article suggests it had more to do with the instrument itself. In any case, Faure played the organ every Sunday for years. What he played is a good question. Did he simply improvise everything and not write anything down? Confine himself to the works of others? Apparently he felt that his church position was just a job, and he saved his creative energies for something else.

Anyhow, I'd still like to post something French and unusual, so I thought I'd pick on another composer of the period, Jules Massenet. Last year I discovered a short piece of his on the interwebs. I think this little Prelude in C might qualify as the complete works of Massenet. Aside from being alive at the same time the two men don't have much in common besides ignoring the organ as a solo instrument.

Here it is:  Prelude in C   by Jules Massenet

There are times that one author, quoting another, and finding an error or omission in the source material, makes his audience aware of this fact by use of the bracketed term [sic]; thus it was, as if to say "that's the way I found it, folks, don't blame me." One curious effect of the strange collision of tones in the fourth measure (11 seconds into the present recording) is that I want to bracket it and write [sic] above it, saying "Look, I know it sounds like a wrong note, but the composer wants it that way; it's not my fault." It's a curious dynamic, because many times a composer writes a dissonance that, even if it sounds a little odd going by, turns into something wonderful by the end. But this may well be an example of a dissonance that doesn't really work. And so I'm issuing this curious little piece by the typically operatic composer with a little distancing. I don't really like this chord. And I'm not so sure about the one near the end, either. (it's at 1:45, and I'll give it this: it is a very interesting chord)

On the other hand, maybe I am being picky. Many people who point out flaws in other persons' grammar are. And sometimes they are even wrong. One book I read recently pointed out a flaw that wasn't there by anointing it with [sic]. Said infraction was of the its/it's rule. If you don't know how that one works (neither does anyone else) it is the one instance in which you do not put an apostrophe before the 's' if it is a possessive. That's because you would also have to do it for a contraction, and the way to tell whether the word is a contraction of "it is" or whether it owns something is not to use the apostrophe for one of them. It is the single case of the apostrophe s rule not being applied, and it throws everybody, including the esteemed author of the book in question.

So if you take your dissonance without cream and sugar you might wonder why I'm making such a fuss; besides, it goes by so quickly. On the other hand, some of us have much more dainty ears than others. I once had a woman ask me why I played so many wrong notes (she wasn't being rude, but you had to be there) and I think failure to appreciate these moments of intentional musical spice was the culprit.

All the same, I like to explore new and interesting bits of our expanding musical universe. If you do as well, you might not mind the two minutes it takes to listen to this orphan prelude. Then you can stun your friends by mentioning that the composer of Thais and other operatic episodes once upon a time wrote a short piece for solo organ, and that it sounds somewhat operatic as well, and has all the flavor of an Romantic character piece, which is the kind of thing you don't hear every day on the organ anymore.

Just remember, I warned you about that chord.

The Case of the Missing Measures

This one is for composers.

I’m getting ready to post an early sonata by Haydn over at Pianonoise (click Listen). This is from the finale of the Sonata no. 6, or no. 13, depending on which catalog numbering system you are using.

Here’s the question: what is the difference between this phrase and this one?

I know, it’s me picking on a tiny detail again. Still, I find it fascinating, and if that makes me a geek, so be it. Frankly, I think it is also why we are listening to Haydn after a couple of hundred years.

You noticed it too, right?

The second phrase is shorter than the first by three measures. This gesture, which lasts two measures, fizzles out, and has to be started again (which is a dramatic way of saying he repeats it), is hurled headlong into the next gesture without pause. And this repetition isn't the only casualty. In the first example, this measure right at the end is repeated. In the second, it isn’t.

So what’s the difference?

Lots.  I don’t have a letter from Haydn, but I think this is what’s going on here: the first phrase is from the first section of the piece. In classical period music, balance is important. Balance can be most easily achieved by repetition, not to mention the notes are going by in a hurry and it helps to get our bearing by hearing small gestures twice before going on. But in the second instance, pulled from the piece a minute or so later, we’ve already heard the first section twice, plus a bit of middle-of-the-movement development. Now it’s time to head for home, and in this concluding section Haydn leaves out the repetition. We've already heard these gestures several times (if you include the standard repeat of the entire first section), so our ears don’t really need the reminder, and cutting the extra measures serves to streamline the plot, move the action forward a bit, and move the center of gravity to the next phrase, which begins with that lovely high G and continues splashing its way all over the keyboard to the end of the piece (sort of).

Classical balance, we've been told a hundred times in theory class, is important. But so is drama. And drama doesn't work very well if you have to repeat everything every time there is an opportunity. Drama works better if, after the plot and characters have been established and you are careening toward the final curtain, the action speeds up a little. Or a lot. Don’t tell us what we've already heard twice before. Just refer to it. And get on with it.

It’s curious how often master narratives we are told about the overall tendencies in musical production are belied by the music itself. Classical tendencies unfold one way; romantic, quite the opposite. And here, of course, in the field, in an actual piece of music, we have both. Which is not really that odd, and neither is shortening the return to the opening to sustain the drama. Importantly, what’s needed to qualify as repetition is there. We hear again what we need to identify it as the return to the opening, to bask in the familiar, and to recognize that signpost in the piece’s unfolding. A casual listener probably wouldn't even notice a difference; yet, somehow, our interest has been sustained by leaving out what was once essential material, and now is just getting in the way. A good composer can tell the difference.

Ninety-nine composers out of a hundred wouldn't bother with a detail like this. But then, with so much music having been written and continuing to be written, we can’t listen to everybody, can we?

Take note, composers.

Oh--I suppose you wouldn't mind hearing the whole piece now.

Haydn: Sonata 6 (or 13) in G (either way) fourth movement: Allegro Molto

Now and Again

In contrast to the last four Mondays on this blog, in which a little music furnished a lot of commentary (Schumann's "Of Strange Lands and People, which is about 90 seconds if you repeat both halves; the first blog was all about one chord), today I'm going to offer more music and say only a bit about it.

Gabriel Fauré wrote 13 beautiful Nocturnes for the piano, of which this is the fourth. I want you to pay particular attention to the simple tune at the beginning. Often, in classical music, the opening tune functions a bit like a topic sentence in an essay. It tells us what the piece is going to be about, and as the tune returns, it is transformed, re-imagined, varied. If you lose sight of that tune you miss a lot of what happens later. It can be like knowing the principal character in a play or novel; watching what happens to that person under different circumstances, and how they are able to cope, or not.

In this piece, except for some very subtle similarities, the opening tune really doesn't seem to play that much of a role in what follows. Instead we are treated to several different musical ideas, and the whole vast emotional arc of the piece unfolds in its absence.

But in the end, the tune returns. It is the same melody, and virtually the same accompaniment. Or is it?

My question to you is, after listening to all of what happens in the middle, does it still sound like the same tune? Does it feel the same?

Architecturally, the piece is balanced. What we hear at the beginning is what we hear at the end. But emotionally, does it go somewhere? Where?

I can't give you the definitive answer to this question, for two reasons: one is that everyone will hear this differently, and the other is that, as delicious an emotion as the return of the melody provides for me, I can't describe it.

Fauré: Nocturne no. 4 in Eb

Time! Time!

Some elements from services at Faith this weekend:

EMILY: "Does anyone ever realize life while they live it...every, every minute?"

STAGE MANAGER: "No. Saints and poets maybe...they do some.”

                                    --"Our Town" by Thornton Wilder, Act III

Wondrous Gift   by   Evelyn Stell*

Prayer of Confession:
Gracious God, we confess our slowness to embrace the gift of life you offer.  You offer springtime to our souls, but we prefer the winter of coldness and indifference. We continue in guilt and self-doubt, rather than rejoicing in knowing your love for us.  We forget that we have been baptized into the death and resurrection of Christ.  Afraid to die, we cannot fully live.  Forgive us our coldness, self-doubt, forgetfulness and fear, we pray.  Amen.


----
Evelyn Stell's music (posted with permission) is available from Fagusmusic.com.   Her blog is at www.forthinpraise.co.uk

The Courage to go to Lunch

Groan.  (Lift).  Groan.   (Lift).   Groan.

That could be the sound of me lifting weights at the gym. Or it could be my mental state when I practice the piano. Either way, it's not pretty.

Lots of people have found this out. Practicing is not usually that much fun. No wonder, every fifteen seconds, someone in North America quits taking piano lessons.


I completely made that up. But it doesn't seem that far off, somehow. Anyway, practicing is hard work, or it should be. And it never seems like the result will be worth it. Pity the poor persons who weren't prepared for just how difficult it would be and how long it takes to reap any rewards. Pity me.

That's right; even now, every time I start on a new piece of music I marvel at how much fun it isn't. Even now that, after years of effort and increased skills I can often learn a new piece of music in just a few days, even now the hours seem long, and the frustration always needs to be kept at bay.

But for all that, I have something truly strange to impart to you. I have trouble giving it up.

We are all programmed to pursue pleasure and avoid pain. Practicing is pain much of the time, so why do it? And many of us would rather watch television and THEN we'll get around to practicing. Or we'll go out with our friends and THEN we'll practice.

For me, it's a job, and a way of life. I hit the practicing room virtually every morning, conditioned by long years at the conservatory of music. My practicing has gotten much more efficient, cutting hours from the time it takes to get where I'm going. But I wonder sometimes if, instead of stretching the pain quotient over longer time it doesn't just hurt more intensely in the time it has left to torture me.

Because eventually I'll get to the part where practicing is fun. The piece starts to come together and sound like music. I live for that. I've learned to recognize its coming. But I still can't rush it. My mind still has to assimilate all that information, like time lapse photography. I still have to sleep on it.

Which means that eventually I have to stop practicing and get out of the way and let my brain consolidate what I've learned. It takes a couple of days, usually. I need to back off, go to lunch, go home and do something else and let my subconscious work in its own good time, trusting to the results. Funny that quitting practice should actually be a hard thing, but it is.

I started a new piece today; I spent nearly four hours on it. It's in pretty good shape for the first day. But it won't be ready until I've slept on it a little and given my brain a chance to think about it at leisure and from many angles. Sometimes, when I go back to work it's thought of a new fingering or a new way to phrase something. Or the passage I was still having trouble with when I stopped practicing yesterday is suddenly not nearly so hard because I know which notes to focus on or I am thinking in gestures and the notes are taking care of themselves. It's amazing the sorts of things it comes up with, this silent partner of mine, working in secret, on its own schedule, without apparent effort.

If I don't give it enough of a conscious push first, though, it won't realize how important the new information is. That's the importance of working hard. But at some point, conscious work reaches a point of diminishing returns and one has to recognize that and not waste time. Now when I go home and watch television I am actually still practicing; my conscious investment is being matched by the hidden part of my being. Fascinating.

And humbling. And very cool. And if you understand how that works, then working hard and hardly working are actually two very important stages in the same process. Just make sure you get them in the right order!