Last time we got own and dirty with the first part of William Albright's "Grand Sonata in Rag" which was very grand, also very exuberant, wild, silly, and many other things.
It's time for a bit of a rest. Here is the relatively halcyon second movement, subtitled "Ragtime Turtledove." It's the one movement I managed to record in its entirely before Christmas. It is also the piece I played on the radio about 10 days ago here in Central Illinois. That was on a studio keyboard, however. This is my own recording made on the same Steinway I'll play on the concert tomorrow evening.
After the last post I think we deserve a bit of a rest so I'll let you listen without comment except to remind you that Mr. Albright certainly has a sense of humor and that all of those apparent "wrong" notes are correct as far as I can tell.
II. Ragtime Turtledove by William Albright
Enjoy!
questions for discussion:
--What are the Rockettes doing there at the end?!?
--Why the sudden key shift shortly before they make their grand entrance? The director of our Conservatory used to call this a "Manilow"--suddenly jerking things up a half step for no apparently good reason. I think Mr. Albright is having a bit of fun.
--What is your favorite dissonance? Be prepared to defend your answer.
--Have a happy New Year's Eve tomorrow.
On to part three!
Monday, December 30, 2013
Friday, December 27, 2013
New Year's Eve at the Virginia (part one)
Let me share with you this terrific piano piece I'm playing at the Virginia on New Year's Eve. It's called "Grand Sonata in Rag" by William Albright. Technically, it is a classical piano sonata. I say technically, because--well, here is how it beings:
[listen]
That's not how Beethoven would begin a piano sonata, for sure. Sounds more like a saloon than a salon. And then, after a slight pause for suspense, out breaks:
[listen]
Again, not the best behaved sonata in the world. And that is at the root of it. This is a wild, exuberant excursion into the music of ragtime, something that respectable people and religious societies of a hundred years ago thought was the music of sin and/or having too good a time. Music and social movements go together, and there are always people on the bottom rungs of the ladder that the others look down upon as inferiors. And they have their music. At one time, this was it.
But there is more going on here. The first movement is called "Scott Joplin's Victory" and thereby hangs a tale.
Scott Joplin was a man who valued art, and dignity. He wanted his music to stand for both. In an era when ragtime, and the African Americans who played it, were looked on as refuse, he wanted to show the world that his music was worthy of honor, and a good listen. One of the ways he went about that was to ask that his music be played slowly. Most of his published rags contain little boxes that warn the pianist against playing the music too fast because "it is NEVER right to play ragtime fast."
See a problem with the raucous opening of our sonata? But don't worry, Mr. Joplin will have his turn.
You see, a sonata is a bit like an argument. First one side gets a chance to speak, then the other. Eventually there is a chance for them both to develop their arguments, or talk at once, which is often the case both with the Sunday morning shows and the sonata, and then finally the dust clears and the two sides are heard presenting their arguments for the last time.
Joplin will get to speak, but first we have to establish the other guys. Those other guys weren't just critics, they were pianists. Ragtimers themselves. They like their ragtime with a little more kick. And fast. You really can't get a bunch of pianists together in a room and not expect some of them to try to play as fast and as loud as they can just to show off. Joplin be darned.
So this first part of our narrative is going to be fast and wildly exciting. After a short first section, the parts just tumble out, one after another. You heard just a bit of the second section as the last example faded out. I'll leave the rest of that to your imagination.
Then in comes a third idea, which reminds me of a bit from The Nutcracker. Those jarring chords are just the way the composer wrote them!
[listen]
Then a chance to lose our balance by way of an odd time signature or two:
[listen]
At this point, the phrases are just tripping over each other to get out, sprawling headlong into the ragtime rush, and it will take a bit of good old oompah-oompah in the bass just to restore order:
[listen]
You'll notice that even here there is a bit of the bizarre. Those upper crunchy chords that jump out at you are just as the composer wrote them. Mr. Albright sticks those bone rattling harmonic jolts everywhere. He explained once to us that one of the things that drives his music is humor, and there seems to be plenty of it in supply here, making this at times a loving send-up of the genre. And with the headlong rushing tempo and measures with various beats lopped off the ends, the whole thing is getting a bit out of control. So Mr. Albright tries to calm things down the way a classical composer would calm things down, namely, with a little symmetry. It is time to return to the beginning, which is something a ragtime composer wouldn't do, but Beethoven would. Notice the end of that example I just played for you. Here it is again:
[listen]
It doesn't really work, does it? Establishing a feeling of repose, I mean. Not when you've got an opening theme like that. But then, subito, in strides Mr. Joplin, the epitome of cool. Maybe our composer has him confused with a guy named Tex:
[listen]
It isn't subtle, this change of tempo, and mood. It is as if the slow movement couldn't wait and began right in the middle of the fast one. It is pretty chic, though, and eventually, after a few episodes, culminates in a section titled "cakewalk in the sky:"
[listen]
This is actually the first section that sounds like Joplin maybe, just maybe, could have written it. It is also the end of the section. In comes the same music we heard at the very beginning, and then, slowly, inevitably.....
[listen]
Oh no! They're back! Those crazy New Yorkers with their New Yorkified ways! And the music is fast! and Loud! and people love it! Oh dear....
(by the way, I love that little gesture that near the end of the example (:32) that glues it to the next section. That little "tata tum tum." I've played a lot of Joplin and he seriously overuses that little rhythm as a way to get from section to section. It's a ragtime cliche that Mr. Albright cattily inserts here.)
Now there are two things still to check off our list if we want this to get certified as a sonata by the Sonata Association of America and one of them is there needs to be development. In other words we need to take at least one of the themes, namely that little rocket we heard right in example two, right up at the beginning of the sonata itself (after the slow introduction):
and develop the heck out of it, which basically means chop it up, slice it, dice it, play it in different keys, make it part of a horrific symphonic maelstrom:
[listen]
Now see if you can find those bits of thematic development in the midst of the storm:
[listen]
Ok, check. That is the hardest thing for people to listen for and the part they often find the least rewarding. But clever composers can be counted upon to do it anyway.
Now we heard for home.
I told you earlier that a sonata was like an argument with two sides vying to see how would win. I might as well tell you now that the contest is rigged. The first one to speak always wins. (don't be that way: when we watch a movie the good guy always beats the bad guy but we are still immersed in the drama the entire time as if it were really a question.) In a sonata the two sides are heard in order at the beginning, and again at the end, which you might think would give some weight to the second fella, but by then it is being done in the key and the mood of the first theme, so the amicable understanding they have come to is really all about the second accommodating the first. And we get a nice sense of well-roundedness and symmetrical civility.
But unlike a sonata a rag doesn't end up where it started. It leaves the home key and never comes back. Funny thing about the rules being different that way. This being a "Sonata" you'd expect that if you heard from Mr. Joplin again at all, he would have given up and played his music fast and loud and in the same key as the other guys. Sonata accommodation and all that.
But...surprise! Our second theme, Mr. Joplin's "cakewalk in the sky" comes back for a bow, no compromises at all in mood or tempo, except that it is quite loud for a few moments, making its grand, overstated entrance, and then, once it safely has the floor, it abruptly becomes sweet and lovely, and leaves us with the a smile at the end.
[listen]
I've been a little busy this month, so I'll have to bring you a complete recording in January. For now if you want to hear the whole thing uncut, come to the Virginia Theater in Champaign, Illinois at 7pm on Dec 31st. And to think that this is only the first movement! I'll be back to blog about the rest next week.
[listen]
That's not how Beethoven would begin a piano sonata, for sure. Sounds more like a saloon than a salon. And then, after a slight pause for suspense, out breaks:
[listen]
Again, not the best behaved sonata in the world. And that is at the root of it. This is a wild, exuberant excursion into the music of ragtime, something that respectable people and religious societies of a hundred years ago thought was the music of sin and/or having too good a time. Music and social movements go together, and there are always people on the bottom rungs of the ladder that the others look down upon as inferiors. And they have their music. At one time, this was it.
But there is more going on here. The first movement is called "Scott Joplin's Victory" and thereby hangs a tale.
Scott Joplin was a man who valued art, and dignity. He wanted his music to stand for both. In an era when ragtime, and the African Americans who played it, were looked on as refuse, he wanted to show the world that his music was worthy of honor, and a good listen. One of the ways he went about that was to ask that his music be played slowly. Most of his published rags contain little boxes that warn the pianist against playing the music too fast because "it is NEVER right to play ragtime fast."
See a problem with the raucous opening of our sonata? But don't worry, Mr. Joplin will have his turn.
You see, a sonata is a bit like an argument. First one side gets a chance to speak, then the other. Eventually there is a chance for them both to develop their arguments, or talk at once, which is often the case both with the Sunday morning shows and the sonata, and then finally the dust clears and the two sides are heard presenting their arguments for the last time.
Joplin will get to speak, but first we have to establish the other guys. Those other guys weren't just critics, they were pianists. Ragtimers themselves. They like their ragtime with a little more kick. And fast. You really can't get a bunch of pianists together in a room and not expect some of them to try to play as fast and as loud as they can just to show off. Joplin be darned.
So this first part of our narrative is going to be fast and wildly exciting. After a short first section, the parts just tumble out, one after another. You heard just a bit of the second section as the last example faded out. I'll leave the rest of that to your imagination.
Then in comes a third idea, which reminds me of a bit from The Nutcracker. Those jarring chords are just the way the composer wrote them!
[listen]
Then a chance to lose our balance by way of an odd time signature or two:
[listen]
At this point, the phrases are just tripping over each other to get out, sprawling headlong into the ragtime rush, and it will take a bit of good old oompah-oompah in the bass just to restore order:
[listen]
You'll notice that even here there is a bit of the bizarre. Those upper crunchy chords that jump out at you are just as the composer wrote them. Mr. Albright sticks those bone rattling harmonic jolts everywhere. He explained once to us that one of the things that drives his music is humor, and there seems to be plenty of it in supply here, making this at times a loving send-up of the genre. And with the headlong rushing tempo and measures with various beats lopped off the ends, the whole thing is getting a bit out of control. So Mr. Albright tries to calm things down the way a classical composer would calm things down, namely, with a little symmetry. It is time to return to the beginning, which is something a ragtime composer wouldn't do, but Beethoven would. Notice the end of that example I just played for you. Here it is again:
[listen]
It doesn't really work, does it? Establishing a feeling of repose, I mean. Not when you've got an opening theme like that. But then, subito, in strides Mr. Joplin, the epitome of cool. Maybe our composer has him confused with a guy named Tex:
[listen]
It isn't subtle, this change of tempo, and mood. It is as if the slow movement couldn't wait and began right in the middle of the fast one. It is pretty chic, though, and eventually, after a few episodes, culminates in a section titled "cakewalk in the sky:"
[listen]
This is actually the first section that sounds like Joplin maybe, just maybe, could have written it. It is also the end of the section. In comes the same music we heard at the very beginning, and then, slowly, inevitably.....
[listen]
Oh no! They're back! Those crazy New Yorkers with their New Yorkified ways! And the music is fast! and Loud! and people love it! Oh dear....
(by the way, I love that little gesture that near the end of the example (:32) that glues it to the next section. That little "tata tum tum." I've played a lot of Joplin and he seriously overuses that little rhythm as a way to get from section to section. It's a ragtime cliche that Mr. Albright cattily inserts here.)
Now there are two things still to check off our list if we want this to get certified as a sonata by the Sonata Association of America and one of them is there needs to be development. In other words we need to take at least one of the themes, namely that little rocket we heard right in example two, right up at the beginning of the sonata itself (after the slow introduction):
and develop the heck out of it, which basically means chop it up, slice it, dice it, play it in different keys, make it part of a horrific symphonic maelstrom:
[listen]
Now see if you can find those bits of thematic development in the midst of the storm:
[listen]
Ok, check. That is the hardest thing for people to listen for and the part they often find the least rewarding. But clever composers can be counted upon to do it anyway.
Now we heard for home.
I told you earlier that a sonata was like an argument with two sides vying to see how would win. I might as well tell you now that the contest is rigged. The first one to speak always wins. (don't be that way: when we watch a movie the good guy always beats the bad guy but we are still immersed in the drama the entire time as if it were really a question.) In a sonata the two sides are heard in order at the beginning, and again at the end, which you might think would give some weight to the second fella, but by then it is being done in the key and the mood of the first theme, so the amicable understanding they have come to is really all about the second accommodating the first. And we get a nice sense of well-roundedness and symmetrical civility.
But unlike a sonata a rag doesn't end up where it started. It leaves the home key and never comes back. Funny thing about the rules being different that way. This being a "Sonata" you'd expect that if you heard from Mr. Joplin again at all, he would have given up and played his music fast and loud and in the same key as the other guys. Sonata accommodation and all that.
But...surprise! Our second theme, Mr. Joplin's "cakewalk in the sky" comes back for a bow, no compromises at all in mood or tempo, except that it is quite loud for a few moments, making its grand, overstated entrance, and then, once it safely has the floor, it abruptly becomes sweet and lovely, and leaves us with the a smile at the end.
[listen]
I've been a little busy this month, so I'll have to bring you a complete recording in January. For now if you want to hear the whole thing uncut, come to the Virginia Theater in Champaign, Illinois at 7pm on Dec 31st. And to think that this is only the first movement! I'll be back to blog about the rest next week.
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
That was the Christmas when....
Merry Christmas morning to all of you!
I'm currently in a car on my way to the airport to visit relatives for a few days. The Christmas Eve Marathon at my church wrapped a little after midnight so I'm exhausted, running on about three or four hours of sleep. Probably. I'm guessing at my condition, actually, since I wrote this post a few days ago and had it posted automatically. At least robots are good for something.
And what did I get you this year? Why, it's a Scarlatti Sonata! K.513. Don't tell me you have that one already. If you do, you can trade it in for one of his other fine 554 sonatas. And sonata related accessories. Sounds like the perfect gifts for hard-core collectors with quite a bit of nearly everything.
But if you do trade it in for something else, you might miss the fortuity of this particular sonata for this particular occasion. Musicologist and Scarlatti specialist John Kirkpatrick thinks of these sonatas as "leaves from a diary" and suggests that the composer, who lived at the Spanish court, in the employ of the queen, and in the company of the royal family, may have left, embedded within the pieces, some of the moments of courtly life. The pomp, the celebrations, the festivities, the seasons of the year, and who knows what all else. It is, just as I mention in the last post, not a popular view with some musically inclined persons, and it is also really guesswork. Yet there is something in this particular sonata that has always made me want to associate it with Christmas, even though there is nothing in the score to suggest that this was what the composer intended.
The reason for it, I think, is that the piece begins in the manner of a pastorale, in a rocking, 12/8 rhythm, and the dotted gestures right at the beginning (play the first four notes a bit slower and you have the opening rhythm of "Silent Night" even if it is melodically upside down) suggest a whole slew of pieces that do overtly conjure up the rocking of the holy infant by his mother.
As the section progresses, things get more lively, and a celebration breaks out, which seems like the thing to do on Christmas morning. Perhaps that long first section is the transition from the mystery of Christmas Eve to the joy of Christmas morning. Then, as all Scarlatti sonatas do, the entire section repeats.
Structurally, Scarlatti's job is to get us away from the opening key and opening them into a new key and with new ideas, then repeat the whole process (literally, with a repeat sign), and then, in a second section, to take us back to where we started, in the originally key, but this time with both of the major musical ideas in that key. It is a musical round trip that makes up the stuff of most piano sonatas, and Mr. Scarlatti did it well over 500 times. But the odd thing here is that, while technically he holds to that overall frame, the tempo keeps increasing, and the music becomes every more boisterous. By the second section, all celebration breaks loose. In a scheme in which balance is the name of the game, this sonata sounds really asymmetrical.
In which case, it seems odd to repeat both portions of the sonata (the second of which is distinctly shorter than the first). Perhaps that was just a custom from which Scarlatti found it impossible to break away. Maybe it isn't so bad getting two chances to absorb all of the musical information. And to anticipate, the second time, how much fun is waiting for us when we get there.
Sonata in C, K.513 by Domenico Scarlatti
I'm currently in a car on my way to the airport to visit relatives for a few days. The Christmas Eve Marathon at my church wrapped a little after midnight so I'm exhausted, running on about three or four hours of sleep. Probably. I'm guessing at my condition, actually, since I wrote this post a few days ago and had it posted automatically. At least robots are good for something.
And what did I get you this year? Why, it's a Scarlatti Sonata! K.513. Don't tell me you have that one already. If you do, you can trade it in for one of his other fine 554 sonatas. And sonata related accessories. Sounds like the perfect gifts for hard-core collectors with quite a bit of nearly everything.
But if you do trade it in for something else, you might miss the fortuity of this particular sonata for this particular occasion. Musicologist and Scarlatti specialist John Kirkpatrick thinks of these sonatas as "leaves from a diary" and suggests that the composer, who lived at the Spanish court, in the employ of the queen, and in the company of the royal family, may have left, embedded within the pieces, some of the moments of courtly life. The pomp, the celebrations, the festivities, the seasons of the year, and who knows what all else. It is, just as I mention in the last post, not a popular view with some musically inclined persons, and it is also really guesswork. Yet there is something in this particular sonata that has always made me want to associate it with Christmas, even though there is nothing in the score to suggest that this was what the composer intended.
The reason for it, I think, is that the piece begins in the manner of a pastorale, in a rocking, 12/8 rhythm, and the dotted gestures right at the beginning (play the first four notes a bit slower and you have the opening rhythm of "Silent Night" even if it is melodically upside down) suggest a whole slew of pieces that do overtly conjure up the rocking of the holy infant by his mother.
As the section progresses, things get more lively, and a celebration breaks out, which seems like the thing to do on Christmas morning. Perhaps that long first section is the transition from the mystery of Christmas Eve to the joy of Christmas morning. Then, as all Scarlatti sonatas do, the entire section repeats.
Structurally, Scarlatti's job is to get us away from the opening key and opening them into a new key and with new ideas, then repeat the whole process (literally, with a repeat sign), and then, in a second section, to take us back to where we started, in the originally key, but this time with both of the major musical ideas in that key. It is a musical round trip that makes up the stuff of most piano sonatas, and Mr. Scarlatti did it well over 500 times. But the odd thing here is that, while technically he holds to that overall frame, the tempo keeps increasing, and the music becomes every more boisterous. By the second section, all celebration breaks loose. In a scheme in which balance is the name of the game, this sonata sounds really asymmetrical.
In which case, it seems odd to repeat both portions of the sonata (the second of which is distinctly shorter than the first). Perhaps that was just a custom from which Scarlatti found it impossible to break away. Maybe it isn't so bad getting two chances to absorb all of the musical information. And to anticipate, the second time, how much fun is waiting for us when we get there.
Sonata in C, K.513 by Domenico Scarlatti
Monday, December 23, 2013
What does this Mean, then?
A couple of weeks ago I tipped my hand and posted what I'll be playing for Christmas Eve. If you haven't heard it, here it is. If you already have, thanks for listening, and here it is again. One of the difficulties that "classical" music has with the public is that requires a lot from the listener and contains a lot of unfamiliar musical "information." One way to deal with this is to listen to a piece several times so that you become familiar with it and find yourself enjoying it like a conversation with an old friend. So here it is (again):
Introduction and Variations on a Ancient Polish Carol by Alexander Guilmant
Another way to deal with all of that information is to divide and conquer. Knowing how the piece is structured makes it more understandable. In this case it is a series of variations. Those variations are on a tune that may be familiar to you, in which case, that will also help.
The first thing you will hear, though, is the blustery introduction, grand and dramatic, and opening in a minor key. Only a few seconds later it switches to major, and repeats what becomes the opening phrase of the carol. After tossing giving us several hints about what tune we are about to hear, things begin to simmer down, and just when you think things are about to get peaceful--he really sets the stage for a nice tranquil presentation of the tune (at 1:02)---
It's nice and loud! Which is something I mentioned last time and something I'm going to elaborate on today.
Meanwhile, you hear the tune, all 35 seconds of it, in full organ. Then, after a conclusive held chord and a short pause comes the first variation (at 1:37) in which the tune is in the bass, and descending notes are in the treble. After this section comes a soft meditative one (at 2:15) in which the harmonies slither a bit and get interesting. Then, the final variation (3:04), which is full of running notes and musical jubilation. And that's pretty much it except for the big ending.
If you're counting, that means we only had three variations, which shouldn't tax anyone's patience very much. The whole piece is under four minutes long.
That describes the blueprint of the piece, but it doesn't tell us what the piece is about. Now right away we've wandered into one of those huge debates in which there are two passionate sides convinced the other hasn't got a clue. To exaggerate, there are some who see stories in every piece of music, and others who believe music means nothing at all beyond a collection of satisfying notes. In a nutshell, I've always believed that suggesting the latter is as much as to say the sole reason for writing is to pay attention to grammar and perhaps things like rhyme, assonance, meter, and so on, but no more. And yet, in writing, words always point to something beyond themselves, though at the same time good writing does put words together in a way that causes a harmonious blend of the constituent parts themselves. That just isn't the whole enchilada.
Maybe I'm playing into the notes-alone argument here, but it seems as if the easiest time to search for what a composer may have had in mind besides the marks on the page is when he does something unorthodox. And what could be more unorthodox than to introduce the tune "Infant Holy, Infant Lowly," a lullaby, fortissimo?
In fact, one performance of this piece, one I heard on Youtube when I was looking for something to play by Mr. Guilmant, left out this rather startling bit of dynamic usage. The performer decided to tone down the composer's dynamics and registrations, and to do things much more quietly. I am going to suppose he may have done this because
1) he thought the composer had lost his mind; or
2) he decided that the entire reason for the strangely loud dynamic was that the composer was planning to play the piece at the conclusion of a church service, when the church would be very noisy with the sound of people leaving, and talking loudly to each other, and decided he needed to bellow in order to be heard above the din. Since this was for a recording in a "concert" situation, this performer did not need to resort to such shouting.
This last was indeed the first thing that struck me as a possibility, but I have wondered since whether there might be more than mere practicality in mind. It seems to me that clever composers often manage to do things both for practical reasons and for reasons of effect, or meaning, and to marry the immediate need with a larger plan.
After all, it isn't just the end of the service that is going on, here. It's midnight on Christmas Eve--or maybe it's 1 am (if it was a midnight mass). In any case, Christmas has truly arrived, and what is called for isn't just a cozy snow season and baby in a manger, but a shout--an announcement that HE IS HERE! and that Advent has been fulfilled and the waiting is over! Merry Christmas, everybody!
(which is a great feeling if you've been waiting for it. But we don't like to do that. A famous experiment wherein children were given one marshmallow which they could eat now or were promised two more if they could wait until the adult left the room for a few minutes and came back, showed who few of us like to wait, no matter the reward. Years later, it was found that the ones who could wait also had much higher SAT scores. Surprise!)
In that context it makes sense. If you are sensitive to the rhythms of the church year, and you understand, in our no-waiting, one marshmallow society, that we've been building up to this moment for a month, not to collapse from exhaustion when it is over, but to celebrate its arrival, then you will want to shout the glad tidings along with the organist.
Until then, there are shepherds on a hillside, puzzled, asking themselves, with wonderful King Jamesian superfluity, "What does this mean, then?" And confused astrologers, seeking a point on a map by follow a hot ball of gas to God-knows where. And a lot of other people just going about their business, not knowing, or caring. But then....
There we are, in its midst. And if that isn't worth a shout, what is?
Even above the noisy throng.
Introduction and Variations on a Ancient Polish Carol by Alexander Guilmant
Another way to deal with all of that information is to divide and conquer. Knowing how the piece is structured makes it more understandable. In this case it is a series of variations. Those variations are on a tune that may be familiar to you, in which case, that will also help.
The first thing you will hear, though, is the blustery introduction, grand and dramatic, and opening in a minor key. Only a few seconds later it switches to major, and repeats what becomes the opening phrase of the carol. After tossing giving us several hints about what tune we are about to hear, things begin to simmer down, and just when you think things are about to get peaceful--he really sets the stage for a nice tranquil presentation of the tune (at 1:02)---
It's nice and loud! Which is something I mentioned last time and something I'm going to elaborate on today.
Meanwhile, you hear the tune, all 35 seconds of it, in full organ. Then, after a conclusive held chord and a short pause comes the first variation (at 1:37) in which the tune is in the bass, and descending notes are in the treble. After this section comes a soft meditative one (at 2:15) in which the harmonies slither a bit and get interesting. Then, the final variation (3:04), which is full of running notes and musical jubilation. And that's pretty much it except for the big ending.
If you're counting, that means we only had three variations, which shouldn't tax anyone's patience very much. The whole piece is under four minutes long.
That describes the blueprint of the piece, but it doesn't tell us what the piece is about. Now right away we've wandered into one of those huge debates in which there are two passionate sides convinced the other hasn't got a clue. To exaggerate, there are some who see stories in every piece of music, and others who believe music means nothing at all beyond a collection of satisfying notes. In a nutshell, I've always believed that suggesting the latter is as much as to say the sole reason for writing is to pay attention to grammar and perhaps things like rhyme, assonance, meter, and so on, but no more. And yet, in writing, words always point to something beyond themselves, though at the same time good writing does put words together in a way that causes a harmonious blend of the constituent parts themselves. That just isn't the whole enchilada.
Maybe I'm playing into the notes-alone argument here, but it seems as if the easiest time to search for what a composer may have had in mind besides the marks on the page is when he does something unorthodox. And what could be more unorthodox than to introduce the tune "Infant Holy, Infant Lowly," a lullaby, fortissimo?
In fact, one performance of this piece, one I heard on Youtube when I was looking for something to play by Mr. Guilmant, left out this rather startling bit of dynamic usage. The performer decided to tone down the composer's dynamics and registrations, and to do things much more quietly. I am going to suppose he may have done this because
1) he thought the composer had lost his mind; or
2) he decided that the entire reason for the strangely loud dynamic was that the composer was planning to play the piece at the conclusion of a church service, when the church would be very noisy with the sound of people leaving, and talking loudly to each other, and decided he needed to bellow in order to be heard above the din. Since this was for a recording in a "concert" situation, this performer did not need to resort to such shouting.
This last was indeed the first thing that struck me as a possibility, but I have wondered since whether there might be more than mere practicality in mind. It seems to me that clever composers often manage to do things both for practical reasons and for reasons of effect, or meaning, and to marry the immediate need with a larger plan.
After all, it isn't just the end of the service that is going on, here. It's midnight on Christmas Eve--or maybe it's 1 am (if it was a midnight mass). In any case, Christmas has truly arrived, and what is called for isn't just a cozy snow season and baby in a manger, but a shout--an announcement that HE IS HERE! and that Advent has been fulfilled and the waiting is over! Merry Christmas, everybody!
(which is a great feeling if you've been waiting for it. But we don't like to do that. A famous experiment wherein children were given one marshmallow which they could eat now or were promised two more if they could wait until the adult left the room for a few minutes and came back, showed who few of us like to wait, no matter the reward. Years later, it was found that the ones who could wait also had much higher SAT scores. Surprise!)
In that context it makes sense. If you are sensitive to the rhythms of the church year, and you understand, in our no-waiting, one marshmallow society, that we've been building up to this moment for a month, not to collapse from exhaustion when it is over, but to celebrate its arrival, then you will want to shout the glad tidings along with the organist.
Until then, there are shepherds on a hillside, puzzled, asking themselves, with wonderful King Jamesian superfluity, "What does this mean, then?" And confused astrologers, seeking a point on a map by follow a hot ball of gas to God-knows where. And a lot of other people just going about their business, not knowing, or caring. But then....
There we are, in its midst. And if that isn't worth a shout, what is?
Even above the noisy throng.
Friday, December 20, 2013
caesura
Last week I was visited by some microscopic bugs. They came in the night and were already holding forth by the time last Friday's blog posted (you can set them for future publication). This caused a bit of a pause in my activities.
...Which are quite numerous this time of year as you might imagine. Nevertheless, my body did what it has done on several occasions in recent years when illness is involved. It said, in effect, you're worn out. You need a rest. Take a pause from all that stress and action. I insist.
That's pretty much the only way I'll stop sometimes. And it knows that. It might have had something to do with why I got sick in the first place. And so the Fall semester, that long out of control tobbagan ride, came to a crashing halt.
While I was convalescing I was trying to relax, not to worry about all the concerts and deadlines coming up. That has a funny way of stressing a person, particularly when there is no way to prepare for them. Even thinking about them was out of bounds to my nervous system. Just be. Make a break. Start over on the other side, mentally.
That didn't last very long. Every organization I work for has at least one Major Holiday Related Production. This year the Children's Chorus had five (I didn't have to play for all of them: they replaced me with a lousy 100-piece orchestra one of the times. Talk about no job security! I would grouse, amused. And I would be told something saccharinely sweet about it taking 100 people to replace me). Our church always has two, one for the choir to do the annual musical Sunday, and another for the Great Big Holiday Extravaganza Church Play with Music. That was last Sunday.
Every time I get sick I count the days before the weekend which is generally when I have my most essential bouts of activity. This time it was in the wee hour of Friday. That didn't leave a lot of time before the GBHECP with M. And one definitely can't miss that. For one thing, as with most (or all) of my jobs, I have no backup. The only person in the building who could have played the piano was thirty feet away corralling the kids (which includes making exaggerated motions and singing loudly when it is time to come in so that they will eventually join in before it is time to stop singing. I refer to the younger set only).
Fortunately this turned out to be one of those 24-hour deals that leave exhaustion in their wake for about a week. Which allowed me to crawl to the piano on Sunday and do what needed to be done. I called in dizzy for the first half of the three hour choir rehearsal that evening, but otherwise made it through the weekend intact, which gave me a few more days to get my groove back for the next push, more weekend services, a few rehearsals, and Christmas Eve.
Into the mix is a New Year's Eve concert I'm just now getting to practice for and which you'll hear about next Friday after I'm blogged out about Christmas. It's going to be a lot of fun. But first, a pause in the proceedings to relax and announce a pause in the proceedings. Even during a season such as this it is essential for a musician to be able to stop for a moment. Only a moment, perhaps. And then, mostly in the mind. But that is where it is most important.
In micro, this is also an important skill for pianists. When you do not need to exert pressure, you don't. When your fingers do not need to be extended, they relax. When you are between gestures, you make a break between them. Otherwise you stress your muscles and your playing sounds like a run-on sentence.
My teacher in college told me, as we were about to study a major piano concerto, that he was going to show me how to make these mental breaks. I think he forgot about his promise later on, but I learned anyhow. Or the lessons were so integrated I didn't notice. In any case, I figured it out. You can play long stretches of complex passage work with ease, or at least without getting hand cramps, if, and only if, you can find ways to relax in the midst of all that frenetic activity. In micro, and in macro.
So consider this a little pause from the rush of life, as chronicled in this blog, as well as in your own. I'll be back at it on Monday, pondering a selection for Christmas Eve, celebrating Christmas in pianosong on Wednesday (the blog will post automatically while we are flying over Missouri on our way to visit relatives) and back here on Friday to discuss my activities on New Year's Eve. I wish you a Merry, and illness-free, rest of your holiday season.
...Which are quite numerous this time of year as you might imagine. Nevertheless, my body did what it has done on several occasions in recent years when illness is involved. It said, in effect, you're worn out. You need a rest. Take a pause from all that stress and action. I insist.
That's pretty much the only way I'll stop sometimes. And it knows that. It might have had something to do with why I got sick in the first place. And so the Fall semester, that long out of control tobbagan ride, came to a crashing halt.
While I was convalescing I was trying to relax, not to worry about all the concerts and deadlines coming up. That has a funny way of stressing a person, particularly when there is no way to prepare for them. Even thinking about them was out of bounds to my nervous system. Just be. Make a break. Start over on the other side, mentally.
That didn't last very long. Every organization I work for has at least one Major Holiday Related Production. This year the Children's Chorus had five (I didn't have to play for all of them: they replaced me with a lousy 100-piece orchestra one of the times. Talk about no job security! I would grouse, amused. And I would be told something saccharinely sweet about it taking 100 people to replace me). Our church always has two, one for the choir to do the annual musical Sunday, and another for the Great Big Holiday Extravaganza Church Play with Music. That was last Sunday.
Every time I get sick I count the days before the weekend which is generally when I have my most essential bouts of activity. This time it was in the wee hour of Friday. That didn't leave a lot of time before the GBHECP with M. And one definitely can't miss that. For one thing, as with most (or all) of my jobs, I have no backup. The only person in the building who could have played the piano was thirty feet away corralling the kids (which includes making exaggerated motions and singing loudly when it is time to come in so that they will eventually join in before it is time to stop singing. I refer to the younger set only).
Fortunately this turned out to be one of those 24-hour deals that leave exhaustion in their wake for about a week. Which allowed me to crawl to the piano on Sunday and do what needed to be done. I called in dizzy for the first half of the three hour choir rehearsal that evening, but otherwise made it through the weekend intact, which gave me a few more days to get my groove back for the next push, more weekend services, a few rehearsals, and Christmas Eve.
Into the mix is a New Year's Eve concert I'm just now getting to practice for and which you'll hear about next Friday after I'm blogged out about Christmas. It's going to be a lot of fun. But first, a pause in the proceedings to relax and announce a pause in the proceedings. Even during a season such as this it is essential for a musician to be able to stop for a moment. Only a moment, perhaps. And then, mostly in the mind. But that is where it is most important.
In micro, this is also an important skill for pianists. When you do not need to exert pressure, you don't. When your fingers do not need to be extended, they relax. When you are between gestures, you make a break between them. Otherwise you stress your muscles and your playing sounds like a run-on sentence.
My teacher in college told me, as we were about to study a major piano concerto, that he was going to show me how to make these mental breaks. I think he forgot about his promise later on, but I learned anyhow. Or the lessons were so integrated I didn't notice. In any case, I figured it out. You can play long stretches of complex passage work with ease, or at least without getting hand cramps, if, and only if, you can find ways to relax in the midst of all that frenetic activity. In micro, and in macro.
So consider this a little pause from the rush of life, as chronicled in this blog, as well as in your own. I'll be back at it on Monday, pondering a selection for Christmas Eve, celebrating Christmas in pianosong on Wednesday (the blog will post automatically while we are flying over Missouri on our way to visit relatives) and back here on Friday to discuss my activities on New Year's Eve. I wish you a Merry, and illness-free, rest of your holiday season.
Friday, December 13, 2013
Roar!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
This has nothing whatsoever with organ playing, being a church organist, being a musician, anything having to do with the piano or any other vaguely musical device. Well, there is a first time for everything.
I'm not the sort of person who looks forward to very many holiday traditions. A lot of traditions happen because people are just too busy to do anything new and fall back on what they did last year because it is easier. A good deal of what we do at our church falls into this category. We even sing the same three Christmas carols on Christmas Eve every year. I try to play something different on the organ or the piano every year; change things up a bit. Not to mention that there are tons to the 85th power of music--even good music--for Christmas.
But here's one thing that I do enjoy every year. Not the Christmas carol parodies, or the Night Before Christmas parodies, or all the radio stations playing Sleigh Ride 45 times a day for a month and a half. It's something our Bible study group does the last week of the semester. We go to the local Toys (reverse R) Us and boy toys for kids who might not get any this year because their families are on hard times.
It's kind of fun. We mill around the star, a half dozen youngish adults, having fun playing with the toys, making sarcastic comments about some of the latest and greatest, glad to see the classics are still around, trying to choose the right toy for purchase this year. It's funny how you end up trying to get the perfect toy for someone you will never meet.
One year it was a soccer ball. I think I got a stuffed bear another year. I took a pass on the remote control shark that floats through the air and scare people who come around the corner. That was way out of my budget. But it was so cool!
This year I went with a dinosaur. Not just any dinosaur, mind you. This one was over two feet tall! With a very pink tongue! And scary all the same, even if he had just swallowed a vat of Pepto Bismol.
I vowed I would get a smart gift, like a puzzle or a chess set, the next time. For an older, perhaps brainy, child. But in the meantime I got to sneak up on people and roar at them. Yeah, I know. Very dignified. Funny, I don't actually remember being that enchanted with dinosaurs when I was four. Maybe I'm making up for it.
There were seven of us on this little adventure and we got quite a diversity of toys, as you can see below. I, as the photographer, am not pictured. But I let my dinosaur stand in for me. He's third from the right. I know he doesn't look very scary in the picture, but just you be traveling down some dark alley late at night and find him out looking for a midnight snack!
Of course, we had to part with our gifts as soon as we paid for them. They go in a large bin at the front of the store. My dinosaur hadn't even gotten a name yet. I guess I'll leave that to the recipient. Then I got a sad lesson about dignity. It doesn't last long. There was my mighty, scary dinosaur, robbed of his, the mighty T-Rex, king of exactly nothing, stuffed into a plastic bag, laying on his side, only the feet sticking out!
Sooner or later it happens to all of us. I hope my dinosaur had a sense of humor about it.
Then we went next store to the Barnes and Noble, looked around a bit, ordered drinks at the in-store Starbucks, where I had my annual Peppermint Mocha, the only thing I order at Starbucks all year, usually. And we hung around, in conversation until closing time, when they basically kicked us out! That's also part of the tradition.
We've been at this for eight or nine years now. In a couple of years we'll move away. But it's a nice holiday tradition while it lasts.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Page Turn
If you've been reading this blog you know I sometimes write about some rather strange topics. Starting a series on what makes a good accompanist, I spent two entries on giving pitches to choirs (what's to know? you simply play the starting note for each part one part at a time and then they sing. Nothing to it. Well...)
Soon I'll get around to some of the most important issues for accompanists, the ones that happen while you are actually playing! First, however, another bit of minutiae--important minutiae though it is, involving the turning of pages.
Actually, I should mention this is a curiously popular topic around here. I have a humorous yet informative article over on pianonoise.com on the art of the page turn for people who are not pianists, or who are helping other pianists, and it is one of the most popular pages on the site. It's recently been mentioned on classsicfm.com and in the online version of the British newspaper The Guardian.
I have a policy of rehearsing as hard as I perform, and have for years been making a practice of trying to maximize the page turn whenever I have to do it myself while playing. The fact is, that much of the time, if not the vast majority of the time, accompanists wind up doing most of their own page turning. That is certainly going to be true during rehearsals. It is usually true during performances as well, and I like to be prepared for any emergency caused by anything like an unwarranted amount of zeal when turning the page to a gust of wind or a poor excuse for a music rack. I also try every way possible to not have to leave out notes during a page turn, particularly the important ones. All this keeps me continually on my toes during rehearsals.
Which might be the only reason I managed to get through what happened to me on Saturday. I don't know how it started, but the next thing I knew the music was tottering off the stand, and into the piano. Now, I have a patented method for turning a page wherein my right hand leaves the keyboard and suddenly shoots up to the page like a frog catching flies with its tongue and I whip the page to the left in one snapping motion-- just like most accompanists. I then zip back down to the keyboard in time to play the next chord with my right hand. Got that? The sequence is play--whoosh! (page turn)--back to the keyboard, play the chord. Then I shoot my hand back up to the music again, which has not been able to keep up with my sudden moves, and has taken the time while I was playing the next chord to saunter leisurely across to its resting place. Only if the music is new, as it often is, what has happened is that the music has ricocheted--softly, we hope--back, and is thinking about either flipping right back to where it was, or else inconveniently coming to rest at some funny angle so I can't read the music. In any case, the book just doesn't want to stay open. So a beat or two later my hand shoots back up to the music and I make whatever adjustment is necessary. Occasionally I have to do it a couple of times. This is all predicated on the fact that I can't spend two beats waiting around for the page I've set in motion to actually arrive where I've sent it. I have music to play. Therefore my patented two-step, or three or four step, ninja moves.
Some of these octavos are rather thick, and heavy, which might explain the music's behavior. It apparently developed some excess momentum and continued into the piano, still upright, and then, a moment later, slid down out of the piano to rest on my legs.
The reason I am having trouble recalling exactly what the music was busy doing in those moments is because I was using all of my available bandwidth at that point imagining various disaster scenarios and how to deal with them. Someone who witnessed the episode remarked how calm I appeared during the whole thing and I explained that I have learned that in such situations one has no time at all to panic; everything you have must be concentrated on how to fix the situation you are in.
Which is how, within a second of the music's falling off the piano, I had realized that up ahead in the music there was a place where the singers answered the piano motive and that all I was doing at that point was playing an octave D in the left hand for an entire four beat measure. If I could make it that far I would have my right hand free to grab the music and put it back up on the rack. In the meantime it was imperative that I not breathe too heavily or make any sudden moves. That music needed to stay where it was, balanced precariously on my legs.
At that point I needed to play the next 8 bars or so from memory. This is a situation in which you do not ask yourself whether you happen to have the music memorized; you simply do it. I had been rehearsing the music with the choir for several weeks and can report back reasonable success. I'm not sure whether I missed any notes during the whole incident!
After a great span of time had passed--probably upwards of 7 seconds--the coming of the great octave D arrived and I was able to put the music back up on the rack with my right hand, then to notice, annoyed, that it was on the wrong page, and then, somehow, to effect two page turns over the next three measures in order to get the music back to where it should have been in the first place.
For full effect I should probably mention that the conductor likes her tempi crispy and that the piano part was not especially easy, particularly at high speed. I should also confess that some of the notes in the section that followed were not technically approved by the composer's union because, determined to stay focused though I was, having had my accompanying life flash before me did nonetheless make it hard not to mentally stammer a little. I paraphrased a few things which would not have assaulted the ears of the populace, but were not necessarily what was written before me. Nevertheless, we finished the piece, I heaved a mental sigh, and we went on to a piece that was longer and harder, and I took extra care on the page turns.
Soon I'll get around to some of the most important issues for accompanists, the ones that happen while you are actually playing! First, however, another bit of minutiae--important minutiae though it is, involving the turning of pages.
Actually, I should mention this is a curiously popular topic around here. I have a humorous yet informative article over on pianonoise.com on the art of the page turn for people who are not pianists, or who are helping other pianists, and it is one of the most popular pages on the site. It's recently been mentioned on classsicfm.com and in the online version of the British newspaper The Guardian.
I have a policy of rehearsing as hard as I perform, and have for years been making a practice of trying to maximize the page turn whenever I have to do it myself while playing. The fact is, that much of the time, if not the vast majority of the time, accompanists wind up doing most of their own page turning. That is certainly going to be true during rehearsals. It is usually true during performances as well, and I like to be prepared for any emergency caused by anything like an unwarranted amount of zeal when turning the page to a gust of wind or a poor excuse for a music rack. I also try every way possible to not have to leave out notes during a page turn, particularly the important ones. All this keeps me continually on my toes during rehearsals.
Which might be the only reason I managed to get through what happened to me on Saturday. I don't know how it started, but the next thing I knew the music was tottering off the stand, and into the piano. Now, I have a patented method for turning a page wherein my right hand leaves the keyboard and suddenly shoots up to the page like a frog catching flies with its tongue and I whip the page to the left in one snapping motion-- just like most accompanists. I then zip back down to the keyboard in time to play the next chord with my right hand. Got that? The sequence is play--whoosh! (page turn)--back to the keyboard, play the chord. Then I shoot my hand back up to the music again, which has not been able to keep up with my sudden moves, and has taken the time while I was playing the next chord to saunter leisurely across to its resting place. Only if the music is new, as it often is, what has happened is that the music has ricocheted--softly, we hope--back, and is thinking about either flipping right back to where it was, or else inconveniently coming to rest at some funny angle so I can't read the music. In any case, the book just doesn't want to stay open. So a beat or two later my hand shoots back up to the music and I make whatever adjustment is necessary. Occasionally I have to do it a couple of times. This is all predicated on the fact that I can't spend two beats waiting around for the page I've set in motion to actually arrive where I've sent it. I have music to play. Therefore my patented two-step, or three or four step, ninja moves.
Some of these octavos are rather thick, and heavy, which might explain the music's behavior. It apparently developed some excess momentum and continued into the piano, still upright, and then, a moment later, slid down out of the piano to rest on my legs.
The reason I am having trouble recalling exactly what the music was busy doing in those moments is because I was using all of my available bandwidth at that point imagining various disaster scenarios and how to deal with them. Someone who witnessed the episode remarked how calm I appeared during the whole thing and I explained that I have learned that in such situations one has no time at all to panic; everything you have must be concentrated on how to fix the situation you are in.
Which is how, within a second of the music's falling off the piano, I had realized that up ahead in the music there was a place where the singers answered the piano motive and that all I was doing at that point was playing an octave D in the left hand for an entire four beat measure. If I could make it that far I would have my right hand free to grab the music and put it back up on the rack. In the meantime it was imperative that I not breathe too heavily or make any sudden moves. That music needed to stay where it was, balanced precariously on my legs.
At that point I needed to play the next 8 bars or so from memory. This is a situation in which you do not ask yourself whether you happen to have the music memorized; you simply do it. I had been rehearsing the music with the choir for several weeks and can report back reasonable success. I'm not sure whether I missed any notes during the whole incident!
After a great span of time had passed--probably upwards of 7 seconds--the coming of the great octave D arrived and I was able to put the music back up on the rack with my right hand, then to notice, annoyed, that it was on the wrong page, and then, somehow, to effect two page turns over the next three measures in order to get the music back to where it should have been in the first place.
For full effect I should probably mention that the conductor likes her tempi crispy and that the piano part was not especially easy, particularly at high speed. I should also confess that some of the notes in the section that followed were not technically approved by the composer's union because, determined to stay focused though I was, having had my accompanying life flash before me did nonetheless make it hard not to mentally stammer a little. I paraphrased a few things which would not have assaulted the ears of the populace, but were not necessarily what was written before me. Nevertheless, we finished the piece, I heaved a mental sigh, and we went on to a piece that was longer and harder, and I took extra care on the page turns.
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