Where two or three pianists are gathered in the name of Chopin, the question is bound to formulate itself thus: 'How do you finger the double chromatic thirds in the g-sharp minor study?' That question answered, your digital politics are known. You are classified, ranged. If you are a heterodox you are eagerly questioned; if you follow von Bulow and stand by the Czerny fingering, you are regarded as a curiosity...
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Hello. Now that I have your attention, I'd just like to
The first time I encountered the term "rhetoric" as applied
to a piece of music was on the back of a record jacket in college.
The critic referred to the "Emperor" concerto of Beethoven as a
"mighty piece of rhetoric." It seemed like an odd thing to say; I
might have even been slightly put out by the term. It ushers in to
the field of music a great deal that many music
lovers wish would be kept out. After all, rhetoric is not only
something which "belongs" to the field of the written or spoken
word, it is also an attempt to persuade, to argue, and thus it is
not the sort of aesthetic pastime in which a thing may be
appreciated for its intrinsic beauty. Instead it creates
controversy, and it attempts to move outside its frame and exercise
some control over the listener by demanding action. Can a piece of
music change your position on gun control? Should it try?
Practically everybody seems to have had some piano lessons in their
past. Often they didn't go well. This year for Christmas I'm going
to absolve you.
I've never been a fan of the term "Music Appreciation," mainly
because it sounds like it has a real PR problem.
Sounds like we're setting the bar a little low here, aren't we? We aren't hoping you'll actually like it, or be passionate about it, we're just hoping you'll build up a tolerance for it.
And yet, for decades, the terminology of choice in classrooms around the land to describe the curriculum to people who are often forced to have some kind of an encounter with music that does not come over the top-40 radio stations or is marketed at teenagers, is that strange little word: appreciate.
It sounds kind of academic, doesn't it? And just maybe, in the back of your mind, you are thinking about mom, who made you "appreciate" your vegetables when you were young or you wouldn't get any dessert.
Still, sad as that is, it isn't a unique philosophical use of the term. We are still trying to get people to appreciate each other, too. And the lack thereof, of being able to understand and at least tolerate other cultures, other viewpoints, and other needs, expresses itself in war and antagonism, power struggles, culture wars, and general mayhem. So in a way this apparently pabulum concept, when applied to music, isn't as bad as it could be--there are more pronounced symptoms in other areas of life. Getting you to appreciate something is also about more than just making some nice professor somewhere feel pleasantly useful. The stakes are higher than that.
I have a friend who teaches a course in film appreciation at the university, and always has to explain, on the first day, the difference between liking something and appreciating something. Liking something being what you do automatically, without thinking about it. You are instantly attracted to it, because it has properties in it that speak to you at this moment, where you are, and gratifies your senses, or your mind, or some temporary need, or jogs a memory, or sounds like other songs you already like, or gives you pleasure when you sing along, or your friends all like it too, or whatever. It may also confirm whatever musical prejudices you may have, and it gives you a taste of the familiar without asking you to encounter something you don't know very well and try to deal with that.
The problem with only liking or disliking something is that it has, in itself, no growth mechanism. You'll never explore any more than is immediately obvious to you, easily available (and even hard to avoid), part of your own generation, your own subculture, the groups you belong to, and so on. You may eventually grow to like many pieces of music, but they will all more or less resemble each other. The only way out of that vicious cycle is to either encounter other people and their tastes with something resembling an open mind, or to start with the music itself and try to figure out why so many other people like it, even if you don't. The trick with musical appreciations is that as your musical vocabulary grows, so does your ability to connect with a broad range of music, and to even like it in some way, strange as it might be. At first this ability will not be prominent, but, like compound interest, it eventually makes you rich. (note: intellectual interest rates don't go in the crapper like the ones at the bank!)
Last year one of our choral groups sang some fairly demanding (and fairly modern) literature, and the director was met with some expressions of disapproval for the choice of material. Of course, a large part of that was due to the fact that the music was difficult, and whenever people find something difficult, that first, frustrated reaction is to blame the music. This stems from the idea that most people have that the music should come to them, rather than that they might need to exert themselves, and in the process become something other than they were, in order to meet the music, and be changed by what the composer had to say. It requires us to stop behaving like little absolute monarchs and pack our bags and journey up the mountain, trusting that whatever we find when we get there will have been worth the traveling. Or if not that at least the travelling will have been worth the travelling.
I have to admit that at first the music did not make a great impression on me, either. I liked parts of it, which is to say that parts of it were immediately attractive, but having heard a performance of the entire work at a concert the semester before I was under the impression that it was rather long, and too monotonous, that is, inclined to too many slow tempos in a row. The performance itself may have had something to do with that impression, of course.
Over the semester the piece grew on me. This is usually the case with better pieces of music. Conversely, the ones that are not so great usually burst on the scene all at once, like gum that announces itself via sensory overload and then loses its flavor in five minutes. I usually find that a piece of music that makes an attractive first impression on me will wear out within a few days. But a piece that makes just enough of an impression that I'll want to hear it again, but no more, might turn out to really have something to offer for years to come.
I may have gotten a bit of a head start here. Back in childhood I listened to Handel's Messiah and did not find the three hours of operatic singing with large string orchestras and slow tempi much to my liking (this was before historical performance research had kicked in so nobody was paying much attention to whether or not Handel himself would have performed the piece that way). But I decided the fault was mine since I had heard that it was a great work and I was therefore supposed to like it. So I stayed in my room and forced myself to keep listening to it. And over time, I started to like it (this is in contrast to creamed peas, which my mother made me eat every week for years and I still don't like!). Better still, I figured out what it was about it that I couldn't come to grips with my initial childish mindset, and grew from the experience. My attention span grew too, which helped, but I was able to concentrate better because I had something to concentrate on, rather than just how strange it all was. The amazing thing is that I not only love the piece, I am able to enjoy new pieces that I've never heard before from the same era because I can understand the musical rhetoric behind it--just like you are reading this article which you have never read before and understanding it because you know how to read in English.
I suppose that little exercise in musical humility served me well as I went off to music school and listened over and over to works I didn't know but which had so much to say once I figured out what it was. I listened for the way the musical argument unfolded, for the way the tunes were transformed, for the fascinating details that shed light on the whole, for the unique obsessions and techniques each composer brought to the table. That in turn may have helped me to learn about other cultures and ideas, and open up to different people. It is interesting how appreciation, when actively pursued, does lead to liking. It isn't the upset mother telling her ungrateful child "you'll appreciate me when I'm dead!" but appreciating proceeded by stronger adjectives like truly, or wonderfully. Eventually it can go from merely tolerating all the way up to experiencing the transcendent in the ordinary.
In the end it leads us back to that little equation about liking what we know and knowing what we like, only now there is more to know (better) and thus more to like, which means we spend more time liking things and less fighting them off, which I think makes us happier in the long run.
I don't remember actually ever having to write the classic essay on
what I did this summer on the first day back in school. So maybe as
recompense for having been denied this childhood rite of passage I'm
foisting it on you. You get to grade my paper. Be nice. With any
luck what I did was interesting enough you won't be sorry for the
I like to travel in small doses. Some time ago I became convinced that if I tried to earn my living as a traveling concert pianist I would be sorry. All of that living out of hotel rooms and being in a semi-permanent state of jet lag doesn't really hold that much appeal. But if I stay home too long I get restless, which is why this summer seems to have held a perfect balance.
I spent the first part of the summer preparing for a tour of Europe
with a choir in our town known as The Chorale. I've been
accompanying them for a few years, and this is the first
international tour they've done since I came on board. Normally we
go on hiatus after our concert in early May and resume in late
August, but this year those of us going on the tour kept up the
rehearsal schedule through May and into the middle of June when we
went on the tour. We were in three central European cities in 10
days, giving concerts in Budapest, Vienna, and Prague, and spending
every other waking moment trying to exhaust ourselves and see all of
central Europe at once. Although that could have been merely because
my wife came along and she's an ambitious traveler. There were a few
hours in every day that were not part of the group sightseeing
excursions. Down time, if you will. We weren't.
In Prague I concluded my three city jogging tour by running along the Moldau with the mist rising off of it. What an effect! We spent some time outside the doors of St. Vitus trying to listen to an organ improvisation, and another evening tooling around the old town trying to find an organ concert before settling in at a black light theatrical performance, something that is apparently unique to Prague. On the day of our final concert I was taken to the church of St. Francis to play a pipe organ that dates from 1702. Apparently I wasn't the first musical tourist to tickle its ebony; some fellows named Mozart and Dvorak tried it out in the 18th and 19th centuries, respectively. If you shake my hand you might get a little Mozart on you. This offer may not last; I've probably already washed my hands some 100 times since then and the product may already be a little diluted.
When we returned home in mid-June, I was ready for a tour of a
different sort. Much of July was spent with a group called the Gavin
Stolte Project, named after its founder. Basically, we're a
five-piece rock band, although we do a variety of styles, cover some
really popular songs, and do several original songs as well. We
played a couple of the parks in Champaign-Urbana, and a couple of
area bars. We'll be gigging throughout the year so if you live in
town you can probably catch us. I put GSP gigs on my google calendar
along with everything else whether it's a classical piano recital or
a bar gig, or you can find us on Facebook.
It sounds like it might be quite a stylistic shift, but if you knew
how I spend my Sunday mornings, shuttling between the traditional
and contemporary services, from Bach to rock sometimes within 30
seconds, you'd see I've gotten pretty used to it. I like a
Kristen and I are beginning August with a short anniversary trip to Madison, Wisconsin where one of the highlights will be the National Mustard Museum. They haven't asked me to give a concert there, and I don't know what I'd play anyhow. Does anybody know of any good mustard-related piano literature?
That reminds me how we started off our summer, taking an afternoon trip to Peoria to see the semi-final round of the World Championship of Old-Time Piano Playing. It reminds me because between contestants they were asking about our extensive knowledge of rags that related to various things like trains and beverages and so forth. Do I get points taken off for going out of chronological order and leaving this till the end?
I've been trying to put together another piano recital for the and of August but it will probably have to wait until fall (you may recall I gave a very challenging recital on my birthday around this time last year). Meanwhile I've been discovering the world of flashy French organ toccatas. They are surprisingly easy and crowd pleasing. They also give a nice break from the German renaissance literature I've been dipping into. There is a time for everything.
There is also a time for the weather to stop hitting the triple digits in the shade. It's something I look forward to with a return to the fall schedule. Hope you had a good summer. I'll see you in September.
You don't want to go to any parties where there are a lot of pianists. Apparently they only want to talk about fingerings.
I say apparently because I haven't been to any hot parties with a bunch of pianists lately (they don't invite me), and I only have the observation second-hand from a book I read several years ago. It seems the temptation to talk shop is just too much for these knights of the keyboard, and so they spend all night discussing whether 'tis better to put your thumb under the third finger or the fourth when executing a particular passage of a Beethoven Sonata in that well-known left hand run. I can understand this specialist geekery because a fellow organist and I spent an hour talking about the Leipzig chorales the other day.
I've spent some time in this space ruminating on the differences between professionals and amateurs. Perhaps this topic interests me because in some ways I seem to be on the fault line myself. As a pianist I am a trained professional, having logged hundreds of hours of lessons, advanced degrees, and concert experience. As an organist, though, by training, I am an amateur.
This is not to say I don't consider myself a fairly good organist. Since finishing my degree in 2006, I've probably spent as much or more time at the organ, tackling some of the most difficult literature for the instrument, and acquainting myself with the fascinating challenges that are unique to playing that instrument. But I've been doing it mostly on my own, which means trial and mostly error.
The most obvious difference between playing the organ and playing the piano is that there is a row of 'keys' for the feet. This pedal board contains two and a half octaves in range and can be put to a variety of intriguing uses. Many of the organ's best composers have seen employing the feet as a necessity, a challenge, and a love.
My fingers have benefitted from the experience of several eminent teachers, some of whom took it upon themselves to make certain I was not doing taking the path of least mental resistance, just throwing the fingers up on the keys in whatever order came to mind, but rather that my fingers were making an efficient course over the keys, that they knew their routes well, and that they could be relied upon when pressure was applied to the psychology of the player. Out in the wild of the concert hall it presents additional peril if the player suddenly substitutes a fifth finger for a fourth while gliding up the piano at high speed, or finds it necessary to use the same finger on consecutive notes, rendering an important melody line disjointed and broken. Hence the science of fingering, in which one takes the time to find, and to stick with, proven fingerings, at least until better ones can be found.
This has served me well with regard to the organ's keyboards. An additional amount of manual dexterity is required for an instrument which will not allow you to sustain a note merely by sticking your foot on an all-purpose foot pedal, but requires the actual presence of your finger in order for the note to sound. Making the music sound well often requires complex substituting of one finger for another while they are on the same key in order not to interrupt the flow of the sound. All of this has been drilled into me by years of professional attention. But with regard to my feet--there I have had to go it alone. Well, not quite alone.
A professionally trained organist would probably not admit to learning anything by way of Youtube. The last few years has certainly seen a seismic shift in the world of the organist. People whom you might not assume would embrace the latest technology have been doing it in droves, and the effect has been to demystify the character of the organist. For centuries the organist had been hidden up in the balcony, or off to the side, or, at the very least with his body hidden behind the console so the congregation could at most see his head, and now, suddenly, he or she can be seen everywhere. For me this has meant the opportunity to see just how the masters of their craft do it.
It's been a bit eye-opening. For one thing, I've caught at least one eminent organist stealing glances at the pedals every so often. As a student you are surely forbidden to ever ever look at the pedals, this being as big a sin as looking at the keys. But if you have the piece memorized, why not? This is akin to the kind of permission-giving that often takes place at a master class when a famed musician comes to your school and basically tells you it is alight to commit various things you were sure were unthinkable. The payoff in relieved loosening up and making assured music is incalculable. This by itself is worth the high price the school is paying to bring them. I mean, if so-and-so says it is alright, then surely it is alright!
Another has been in the area of legato. Smooth pedaling for me has often meant various combinations of alternating feet, one looping behind or in front of the other. Or, in the case of notes close together, placing the foot at a diagonal and playing one with the heel and the next with the toe or vice versa. Or even "foot substitutions" (I don't know if that is a technical term but it is with the fingers) wherein you hold down a note with one foot, then stick your other foot on the same note and release the first foot for further duty elsewhere. It is tricky business if you have to be somewhere fast.
What happens more often than I would have thought is that an organist will play several consecutive notes with the same foot. Part of this, I think, lies in the fact that many of these churches have very wet acoustics, and that a tiny space between pedal notes is not even going to be noticed--it may even be desirable for clarity. But another reason for it is the economy of motion with which a good organist approaches pedaling. If the feet are basically dangling off the bench, and the toes make only the smallest touch, there is very little time needed to get anywhere. But woe to the organist whose feet are planted on the pedals! It is like being stuck in quicksand. Mine have, alas, not been as agile as I would have liked--I am about as naturally coordinated as a park bench, appearances to the contrary, and so I naturally put my weight too far forward, and have had no good role models to show me otherwise. It is amazing what watching a few good organists can accomplish.
It is also amazing what one can accomplish without that important tutelage. A recording I made just a couple of years ago illustrates the point. Bach's chorale prelude "Come, Lord Jesus, Turn Toward Us" has a rather involved pedal part. Particularly at 1:11, where it sounds like a walking bass. I must have pulled out all my old tricks to get through it--foot over foot, heel to toe (without the graceful economy wherein you can hardly tell the organist is doing it), and foot substitutions. Some of these tricks are practiced by true professionals, and are the result of different schools of organ playing. Some of the differences can also be attributed to the fact that pedal boards are different sizes and shapes and one method of playing might not work in another situation. But as always, increased competence in one area leads to increased competence in another. My feet now have greater agility and flexibility and can seamlessly do what formerly could be done only with a lot of noisy advertising. Even though with enough will power one can still overcome a deficient technique, as in the present recording. I wonder if playing it would be any easier now? Because when you really develop your technique, it looks easy. Because it is easy.
Getting it that way is the hard part.
On the morning of April 18, 2001, I rolled out of bed and thought to myself, "I'd finally better get around to registering that domain name." I'd had the idea in the back of my head for a while, but the internet was starting to fill up, and, given that everybody else in the developed world was in the same pool, I figured I'd better jump on it if I wanted to be sure that some other strange person hadn't already thought of the mashed-up word Pianonoise. Turns out they hadn't.
That afternoon I bought some software and spent the next couple of hours trying to figure out this website creation/publication, thing. By evening, I had managed to publish my first page to the web. It was a single paragraph, of which I now do not have a copy. It expressed some surprise that anyone would have chanced across my little plot of cyber-real-estate and promised to improve my property when I figured out what I was doing. Over the next six weeks I tried to do just that.
On June 1, 2001, the first official post of Pianonoise.com went
live. It wasn't a whole lot. I'd spent most of that time fighting
with my software over the right size to display pictures and other
formatting issues. The site consisted of a home page which actually
looked a lot like this one except for the color scheme, already with
its trademark banner photo (I forget of what) and quotation of the
month, and that navigation bar down the left side which already had
clickable photographs. In 2001 it was one of the more visually
arresting sites on the web, which was perhaps odd for a site
dedicated to music. But I wanted it to look good as well as sound
good, and found it sort of irritating that most of the "how to build
a web site" sites counseled simplicity on the idea that web browsers
couldn't be relied on to display things the way you wanted them to
so you might as well not do anything interesting. I've never found
that an appealing philosophy.
Before that I'd done experiments with different colored pages,
different effects when going from page to page, crawlers, and
everything else I could think of to have fun with and make fun of. I
remember an impossibly long crawler below the banner once making fun
of the length of cable news crawlers, and another one that had the
"stock prices" of various composers. Once, after some story about
how the government was monitoring the web closely after 9/11 I wrote
to our then attorney general "Welcome, Mr. Ashcroft" below the
banner. That turned out not to be so funny when I reviewed my web
statistics for the month and found a lot of attention coming from
"US military" until I found out that a friend of mine was visiting
her father who was a retired military officer.
Sometimes I can indulge various other parts of my persona, what-ifs
regarding directions I could have gone in life. Sometimes I'll write
something potentially funny. My middle school journalism teacher
thought I was going to be the next Dave Barry (actually, it was Art
Buchwald, but she was older). Of course, I could have also been a
computer programmer (I spent many childhood afternoons that way) but
now I find I only know enough HTML code (what you tell the computer
to get it to display your web page the way you want it) to be
dangerous. My mother though I could also go into advertising. True,
i could be writing all of those goofy, whimsical commercials you see
out there, but I glad somebody else is doing it. One thing I have
been is a teacher--philosophically I'm still a teacher, but there
was a time when I had a raft of piano students. There were meant to
be, (and will be) resources or aids for
students, though the teaching section of the site is currently in
stasis. After moving to Illinois, I began having trouble finding
students who minded practicing occasionally.
Meanwhile, the experiment that is Pianonoise goes on, ten years later. It now contains close to 100 pages--some very long pages--of writings, and over 125 recordings. It has become rich in details, as well. At the top of every page is a quotation from something I've read over the last ten years. So, while the pictures testify to places I've been and things I've seen and experienced, the quotes remind me of where I've been mentally, of all of the thoughts that people have shared with me, living and dead. While Pianonoise is technically the work of one individual, it is, like all human products, the result of the efforts and influences of countless other people.
This year I've noticed a lot of blogs and Youtube channels that have come and gone, victims perhaps to one-time passions that have burnt out, or whose owners have shuffled off this mortal coil (one blog recently informed me that its author passed away last year from ALS). But we're still here. Let's celebrate--music and life.
"Go practice the piano!" our mothers would yell. So off we'd march. But once seated at the instrument, not all sounds gushing forth bore a family resemblance to the tunes our teachers had actually assigned. It was easy to fool mom. She was busy chopping onions in the kitchen and wasn't paying too close attention, so as long as she heard piano noises coming out of the living room you were probably safe. Once in a while, though, you might get a reprimand. "That doesn't sound like your lesson!"
It has taken me several years to figure out what I really ought to be doing when I am supposed to be practicing the piano. All of that goofing around I did during childhood wasn't all bad, however. There is a fine line between goofing around and creativity. Making up passages so your songs would be longer, or trying to play them in different keys or just making up something else because you had gotten tired (oh so quickly) of playing the same one again and again--all this has actually borne fruit, even in some of my gainful employment, to say nothing of my hobbies. But actually practicing is a skill that comes late to many of us, and to many more, not at all. It is a discipline, which is to say it is not easy, or natural. And to teach it in a way that does not make it seem like the killer of every possible ounce of joy in the known universe is probably also beyond the ability of most teachers.
Still, the art of practicing is an extremely important skill to have if you want to get anyplace as a musician. At one point I asked myself, "how do concert pianists practice?" to which the answer was simply "become one and find out!"
I have since spent thousands of hours with myself in the practice room, and found that, while I may not always be the best company, any piece of music worth the learning has a price--and often rewards with joys subtle and great at various stages in the process.
At first, if the piece is not too unfathomably difficult, I read it through. This stage can include the joy of discovery, particularly if your composer has planted little harmonic surprises, or turns of phrase on every other page so that you feel as though you are listening to a skilled conversationalist. At this point you are experiencing all of the effect of the piece and little of the hard work. But if the piece is too difficult to make continuous playing practical, proceed directly to stage two: rolling up the sleeves and getting to work.
There are a lot of people who don't like this stage very well. It often means playing the same measure or phrase over and over until every note, and every choreographed leap, is just right. The passage has to feel comfortable in the hands, and it has to make musical sense. Since a really fine composition will usually have many simultaneous details, there are a lot of small things to master. At this point we are also teaching the muscles what their routes are. I have heard it claimed that in the course of a piano recital a pianist will make some 600,000 decisions. The more of those that can be put on autopilot the better! How do you articulate each note? How loud is piano exactly? Forget the tempo, that will come with more practice. Can you make even a single measure feel like something you know well rather than something you have to suffer through each time? Never mind a measure: what about a single gesture?
Getting this kind of familiarity in the music pays off--eventually. In the meantime, it can go anywhere from mildly frustrating to fairly depressing. No wonder people would rather avoid it. Whole hours, or days (or weeks) of limping through the same passages, hardly noticing the improvement (unless, like myself, you have trained yourself to notice even the subtlest difference in the way your brain reacts to the information), constantly missing the same notes (make a note of those for special attention), spending all of your energy trying to do what the notes tell you when, if you ever manage to make the piece sound like music, it will be you telling the notes how you want them to sound--this is the pianist's dirty secret. Years ago a neighbor of mine asked how I practiced (interesting, because when the window was open he could probably have listened in). He figured I probably just played the pieces over and over. Not exactly....
How long this stage lasts depends greatly on the difficulty of the piece. But it is always too long. And there is always a point at which I wonder when it will be over. I've gotten used to this. I even plan for it. For a fairly short piece of moderate difficultly, for instance, it will probably take about three days to learn. And so on. And at some point (as I tell myself often) there will come a point when the details will have assembled themselves with enough familiarity and control that I need no longer focus on them so much and I can begin to use my energy to consider larger issues of interpretation, when the piece starts to sound like music, and you can try making it say something instead of merely trying to get the recipe of notes right. This is a good time to be alive. It is also a lot less mentally tiring when you have passed on to this third stage, and you can practice longer without getting so mentally worn out. You may not yet have the piece memorized, but it is familiar, which is at least half-way there.
One of the long-familiar signs of this earlier stage (and also a sign when it has gone away) is how tired I get after practicing for even an hour. If I have been exposing myself to new notes and new musical information, my brain is practically a hive of activity. I can almost feel it buzzing about. I have trouble using words or thinking clearly at times, as if in a cloud. And I can also get very sleepy. The other day I ingested an entire short piece at one meal and I felt an overpowering urge to sleep at the end. It reminded me of what my computer is always telling me: you must reboot in order for the latest updates to take effect.
It might not seem intuitive, but I think sleep is a very important part of practicing. After a nap, the notes are always much more clearly in the mind. This also brings up the importance of practicing a piece well in advance of when you intend to play it (something I get to do less often these days when there is such a volume of music to deal with).
I once did an interesting experiment in college. I practiced a brand new piece of music very diligently for two hours. Then my mother came to take me home to spend the weekend (my parents lived 45 minutes away from the school). I should note that I did not take my laundry home. That evening, sitting at home, I tried to imagine the piece I had worked on several hours ago. No use. I could barely remember anything. But the next day, a little bit emerged. By the third day, I could remember whole passages and see the thing pretty clearly in my mind. I had not touched the piano all weekend, but by Sunday night, it was as if I had been practicing hard for three days. It confirmed a theory I had about the importance and independence of the brain. It always seemed to take three days to memorize things. I wondered how much practice had to do with it. I came away thinking that the brain can incorporate new routines without us, provided we've told it what to do, and convinced it that it is important to learn it by constant reinforcement of the same regimen and through repetition. Then you have to wait for the film to develop! (My apologies to the young folks who don't know what I'm talking about.)
Once the piece is in the mind and the fingers it would seem victory is assured. After all, as I would tell myself, gritting my teeth, "The piece is already written. The composer can't make it any harder than it already is, and I can keep working until I get it. That puts the odds in my favor!" But it always helps to remember that, nearing the end, there is always a stage of frustration while the piece, nearly perfect, doesn't quite come out. At this stage I am usually playing it through several times a day, trying to get it to "gel." At that point little errors creep in, or don't quite go away, little fissures develop in places I thought were airtight, and often mistakes occur in different places every time. This used to horrify my colleagues the week of their recitals because they hadn't quite prepared far enough in advance, and hurried, harried, last minute practice has a way of making the situation seem worse. This indicates that you still don't know the piece as well as you should, and to add insult to injury, by this time you are sure that you ought to be in full command of it by now, that it's already taken far too long to prepare, and that you should be ashamed of yourself for not achieving perfection already for crying out loud!
If you get to the point where the piece is going very well, there are still three things to remember: there is a big difference between playing the piece flawlessly by yourself when you've already been practicing it for an hour (I call this the 'student' stage because they would always tell me "It went better at home" and I would say "of course it did!" with no trace of sarcasm), being able to sit down with no warm up at all and just nail the piece right away (also alone), and lastly, being able to play it while nervous and dealing with distractions, preferably at what feels like 4 in the morning. This last bit of honesty helps me prepare to play the weekly offertory at the 8 o'clock service, and also prepare for concerts in places with a significant time difference since nothing makes certainty uncertain like messing with the basic makeup of your biological clock.
If this whole litany of obstacles and objections makes you want to go out right now and practice, you need serious help! And if, by chance, you found it tedious and dull, just imagine what all that practicing is like. But then, listeners are spoiled. You get to hear the end results with none of the suffering. Sometimes I like to go to concerts (when I can), partly for that reason. Or even to listen to my own recordings sometimes, well after the fact. You see, I forget so easily....
Conventional wisdom has it that there are people who would rather die than have to perform in public. According to that often quoted study, in which fear of public speaking is number one and fear of death is number two, there are a whole lot of you who feel that way. Which is interesting, because it makes being a performing musician seem more heroic than, say, risking death to put out a fire. It does seem a little hyperbolic to take that kind of accolade, but when I'm having a bad day, I'll use that to try to feel better about myself.
I used to tell my students that the nice thing about playing the piano was that if you missed a note nobody got seriously injured--you or the audience (despite all the exaggerated rhetoric critics like to launch about the detrimental effects of poor pianism on their sensitive ears). It isn't like figure skating where you can fall on your tail bone after a triple axel gone wrong, or gymnastics, where you can fall on your head. But this kind of verbal soft pedaling doesn't do a thing for a person facing a stage, and audience, and an hour or two with nowhere to hide. There is something in our psychology that is so afraid of looking bad in front of other people that our bodies get it confused with a survival response, as if our lives depended on it. Of course, occasionally, our careers might. Although, most of the time, most of the people, don't notice our mistakes. Abe Lincoln was right.
If you are dealing with nerves on a regular basis, however, one of the things that you start to notice is that the blamed things aren't consistent. Some times you will be so full of nervous energy that everything speeds up. You are listening faster, more carefully. Rapid runs that have a couple of bumps in them sound like the world fell apart because you didn't articulate that c# cleanly in the middle of all of those 32nd notes rushing up the keyboard, but when you listen to a recording of the performance later, it sounds fine. Mere mortals don't hear those kinds of mistakes. So long as no hummingbird critics attend the performance, nobody else will either.
It's an odd state to be in, but it seems to help control the subtlest details, which can make for a nice musical performance, although it generally feels pretty hellish at the time. I never used to think my performances were any good under those circumstances, but there is a simple reason for it: if the standards are up high enough, nobody's performance will pass muster. Ever. Hitting the right notes and the right rhythms is only the beginning. There are a thousand other ways to not measure up. A hummingbird performer will notice a thousand details that didn't make it, and stay up all night after the recital remembering them all. I should know. If there's another performance of the same material coming up, I suppose that isn't all bad. Take notes: refine. Suffer again.
On the other hand, our bodies are always reacting to a complex of other influences, like what we ate, whether we slept well, got exercise, are at one end of the cycle of energy and exhaustion or the other--keeping the science of being at peak fitness for a given performance just out of reach much of the time (besides not being able to schedule everything optimally). Sometimes the way the body deals with an upcoming performance is not to speed up but to slow down. Before the performance one is liable to be tired and apathetic. Usually that goes away shortly before hitting the stage, to be replaced by the aforementioned panic, but not always. A teacher of mine said this is the worst kind of nerves. He may be right: an apathetic self-defense may mean you aren't paying as much finely-tuned attention to all the details that make up a good performance. It is difficult, however, to judge on stage whether you are performing well or not.
For most people, the biggest nightmare about nerves is the debilitating kind: the ones that make you shake uncontrollably. I've had those. There is a very interesting dynamic at work, though, even in the midst of the kind of nerves that cause near panic: if you know your material well, very very well, it becomes the one place you can go to seek comfort in the midst of the chaos around you. You literally hang on to the piece as it progresses. Your muscles feel good doing the same things they've done hundreds of times; repetition of a well-ingrained pattern becomes a refuge in the stress. Fighting off distractions and living inside the piece is the only way to make it through. Sometimes you are hanging on for dear life. You can't literally do this, of course: one of the most difficult things about nerves is they can make you seek to control or constrict your limb movements, and if you are playing something that goes fast or leaps around, you have no choice but to let go. You can't hang on. You have to trust that your hands know what they are doing.
It is always great to feel that you are in control enough to be in the moment and in control of the material so that you can react to it as you are playing it on stage, but a great deal of what comes out in a performance happened in the practice room months earlier. Considering each phrase, memorizing each pattern for the hands and preparing a well-worn checklist for the mind, then the sheer number of repetitions of each small movement cause the muscles to remember their routes well. So well, in fact, that there have been times when I have absolutely panicked during a performance, sure that I was going to succumb to a pianists' greatest fear, memory loss, only to find, a second or two later, that my fingers were going on without me, doing what I had programmed them to do. The feeling of relief was immense, and helped me to reboot my mind and get it re-engaged in the performance. These are tiny dramas that the audience doesn't notice because the flow of the music is never actually interrupted, though they cause the performer much grief.
Which is why, of course, if you want to know how to deal with nerves, the best answer is to prepare, prepare, prepare your material so well that you can go on despite distractions, or panic, or forgetting (consciously, at least) half the details. You have to be able to play without your mind involved, and your mind has to be able to go on without your fingers. And you should know the large picture so you can keep going when the details go out the window, and know the details so well that they won't. This is redundancy, like having four engines on a jet in case three fail during the flight. You should be able to play the piece in the shower (without moving the piano in there), or with the score in your lap, or on the kitchen table without the music, or on all sorts of terrible pianos.
The way to deal with nerves is to know your message and what you are communicating. I am often afraid that, notes or not, that I won't have something worth while to say, which to me is worse than messing up a few notes. Dry, technically correct, unmoving performances seem worse than saying something and occasionally getting your tongue tangled in the passionate process.
That is also, by the way, why I put up with the ordeal of nerves in the first place. There are always people who think that I must not be nervous (frequent comment after a performance: "You looked like you were having so much fun up there!"). In fact, I am nervous most of the time, though, if I am playing for a small, uncritical audience I may be a bit less nervous than if I am playing at Carnegie Hall. However, the difficulty of what I am playing usually has more to do with that. A few months ago I was as nervous as I have been in years playing an offertory in church simply because the piece was quick enough and featured enough independent melodic lines (blast that Bach!) that I imagined if I got "off" I wouldn't be able to recover easily and would probably get completely lost and have to start again (disaster!) It was the most frightening three minutes I've known in a while! (Of course, being eight o'clock in the morning probably didn't help either.)
That, in fact, may be the biggest problem with nerves. They focus us on ourselves, and on our fear that we will fail in our attempt. What we ought to be focusing on is the music and what the composer wants to get across in combination with our own interpretive ideas about we think the piece has to say. It is a privilege and a joy to be able to share great music with others, and it is important to do it, early and often. That is why I go through the ordeal of nerves. I have done it frequently enough to recognize the process of being nervous, the kinds of nervousness, and to even regard playing music while nervous as a necessary part of learning the music--I expect the onslaught, and prepare for it. No assuming that if I can play the piece well when I am practicing that I am somehow ready to do it on a stage! At the conservatory we had a weekly class in which we played our recital pieces for each other to test them before our recitals in a state of performance anxiety to see how our renderings fell apart when pressure was applied--it was like putting pottery in the oven to bake it. These days if I can't arrange a pre-performance I make a recording. I am always extremely nervous with the microphone on, even though I can do several takes and even edit out wrong notes in many cases. It is an irrational fear (as are nerves in general) and I use it to my advantage so that the piece when played live will be better than it was if I didn't go through ordeal by microphone. I find it always improves the performance. So do live performances. The piece always goes so much better the day after a recital (sigh).
It is the music, in the end, that makes it worth braving the fire for. Sharing that music, letting is speak to someone other than ourselves, which can only be accomplished by actually playing it for people, will always be accompanied by nerves, even if you've learned to deal with them. But not to take that risk is no alternative. It seems safer, but that safety comes at the price of losing our ability to communicate with one another, and thus, part of our humanity.
Troll Youtube these days and you are bound to find endless stores of professional recordings somebody decided to share from their CD collection without asking the people who sank all that time and money into making the CD in the first place, and in some cases without even telling us who is playing on the recording. But there is an alternative.
There are people who, of their own volition, or with the help of friends, have posted their own recordings from their own church's organs. Now, we all know that just about anybody can stick a camera in front of themselves sitting in front of some instrument in their living room and send forth a poor rendition of their favorite tunes for anybody who gets stuck listening to them. Sometimes the camera is at a poor angle as well and we end up seeing rather too much of what we would rather not see and trying to forget the screeching sound of the high frequencies accompanied by gallons of room noise. But not all these folks are just some schmoes, nor is the recording equipment substandard. Some of them are quite good, professional organists with jobs at churches with some pretty serious pipe organs. That's who I'm talking about here. The reason I am talking about them is I find it unfortunate that the folks getting all the hits are the ones doing all the copyright violating when the actual artists themselves, trying to communicate directly with their audience (and voluntarily; that is, they are giving their recordings away themselves without having someone giving them away for them)--often these folks are getting very little attention at all. Let me introduce you to four of them I found on the internet recently:
Kerry Beaumont is organist at the Coventry Cathedral in England. I've never been there (I've never been to England at all unless you count Heathrow Airport and I don't) but from the videos you can see what a spacious place it is. Coventry (like most cathedrals) has two organs, a small portative and the large main organ whose pipes are on display on the walls of the cathedral, which is quite an alternative to hiding most of them in a pipe room or rooms. Mr. Beaumont's videos are getting around 200 hits in contrast to the thousands of hits some of the CD-collection-posters are getting which makes me think of a mom and pop store trying to compete with Walmart. The mom and pop items may be of higher quality but folks are still going to go to the place with the highest visibility, which is usually the result of quanitity--CD collectors post thousands of recordings, which is a bit more than most organist have time to post in the average year. The CDs are also going to be of higher quality, since someone spent years practicing the pieces, and then they spent a year editing the thing to make it perfect as well as spending hundreds of man hours (and dollars) on other aspects of the product, though very often the sound quality of posts like Mr. Beaumont's--not to mention the performances themselves--aren't all that far behind. And there are things you won't get on the CDs. One is a chance to see the artists at work; another is the chance to communicate with them via the comment board. Besides getting to see all of those pipes you can watch Mr. Beaumont improvise. He seems to be working his way through the Psalms (the texts of which scroll by during the improvisations), although the most recent post is from last year. Perhaps Mr. Beaumont has gotten discouraged from lack of attention to his efforts and has decided not to bother anymore. Or he's just too busy at the moment. In any case, there are 14 videos up presently and I recommended you take a look and a listen.
Rob Stefanussen's channel might be the most flat out interesting of the four, and he is the only one getting nearly as many hits as some of the third party CD recording folks. I would imagine Mr. Stefanussen and I both know that is largely for non-musical reasons. Rob plays on a virtual organ he built himself. With the help of some complicated wiring, four synthesized keyboards and a pedal board, and software that gives him access to the recorded sounds of every key and stop from some of the world's great organs, he is able to sound as though he is playing at Notre Dame cathedral even though he is in his own living room. I won't begrudge him this; he is a very fine organist with the chops to deserve playing on those organs for real if given the chance. Meanwhile he is putting out recordings that have a high quality sound. There may be a certain amount of extra-musical pyrotechnics involved: for instance, a recording of Bach's "Wachet Auf" I just listened to interspersed shots of sunrises and swans for no apparent reason except to keep the audience from zoning out, but the playing is first rate so I don't really mind that much. It is not as though he surrounded himself with first-rate musicians to make his own meager playing sound better or spends most of his time talking about how great he is as many showmen have tended to do. So if most of the attention he is getting is because of the unusual parentage of his instrument, or if his videos play a bit to the folks who need a visual show because they can't concentrate on the music, that's not all bad--he deserves the attention, however he got it. Frankly, as long as the music is given a chance to speak for itself, unabridged, unadulterated, and played well, we can forgive a little magic, can't we, purists? Also, you can skip the visuals and just listen to high quality mp3s versions of each video. Mr. Stefanussen has been featured in an article about his fascinating organ setup called "Organist is phantom of his own living room" (please, can we knock off the phantom comparisons? If the pipe organ makes you think of the Phantom of the Opera every time you hear it, you need to get to know it better) and keeps up a lively correspondence with his listeners on Youtube.
Gerard van Reenen
is Dutch and has a much smaller audience. Where Stefanussen embraces
the latest technology when it comes to instrument making, and Kerry
Beaumont plays modern sounding improvisations, Mr. van Reenan seems
entirely devoted to music of 200 or more years ago. He is in
possession of a clavichord, one of the forerunners of the piano
(though less well known than the harpsichord. The clavichord was
made for small rooms only and is very expressive though it puts
forth little sound). One of the most interesting thing about his
channel is a collection of the early piano sonatas of Mozart. For
many people music and musicians are like exotic foreign lands. I
admit having this experience while listening to the clavichord
renderings of the Mozart sonatas, pieces I know well on the modern
piano but have rarely if ever heard on this older instrument. The
interpretations are slow as molasses by comparison with most modern
performances, though the player explains why they are slow as
molasses, and also why they are so soft (and if you really listen to
them you find that they work well this way). Generally I wish
persons who post recordings would communicate more about the music
and about the music making process--and themselves. Often with CD
collections posters there is next to no documentation--so as not to
leave a trail, probably! With artists operating legally there is a
better chance you will learn something of value about the music,
though many performers are by nature not given to verbal effusions;
added to the fact that the internet is a veritable Babel of
different languages. Mr. van Reenan's remarks are limited, but his
few words are well-chosen (and in a second language to boot; thank
you for that!) It is certainly worth hearing the wonderful organs of the north
countries as well, and experiencing his enthusiasm as he plays.
is Dutch and has a much smaller audience. Where Stefanussen embraces the latest technology when it comes to instrument making, and Kerry Beaumont plays modern sounding improvisations, Mr. van Reenan seems entirely devoted to music of 200 or more years ago. He is in possession of a clavichord, one of the forerunners of the piano (though less well known than the harpsichord. The clavichord was made for small rooms only and is very expressive though it puts forth little sound). One of the most interesting thing about his channel is a collection of the early piano sonatas of Mozart. For many people music and musicians are like exotic foreign lands. I admit having this experience while listening to the clavichord renderings of the Mozart sonatas, pieces I know well on the modern piano but have rarely if ever heard on this older instrument. The interpretations are slow as molasses by comparison with most modern performances, though the player explains why they are slow as molasses, and also why they are so soft (and if you really listen to them you find that they work well this way). Generally I wish persons who post recordings would communicate more about the music and about the music making process--and themselves. Often with CD collections posters there is next to no documentation--so as not to leave a trail, probably! With artists operating legally there is a better chance you will learn something of value about the music, though many performers are by nature not given to verbal effusions; added to the fact that the internet is a veritable Babel of different languages. Mr. van Reenan's remarks are limited, but his few words are well-chosen (and in a second language to boot; thank you for that!) It is certainly worth hearing the wonderful organs of the north countries as well, and experiencing his enthusiasm as he plays.
Organist James Pollard (from Amsterdam) seems to be more reserved about comments--he has an organist post which I presume is in Amsterdam, and largely limits his playing to the standard repertoire--but not quite. I came across a video that uses Hauptwerk virtual organ technology to play a wedding march he created which uses "A Whiter Shade of Pale" during the entrance of the bride (maybe he and I could exchange stories of interesting things we've been asked to play at weddings). If you thought organists were technophobes who were buried in the past and could only play Bach, shunned contact with people, and weren't friendly, there is something in each of these persons to challenge those notions, I think. Who would assume that pipe organists were embracing the latest technology? Or using the internet. But here we are.
I'm jealous. Isn't it great?
I'm jealous. Isn't it great?