O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave…

You have to have a lot of faith in an orchestra to open proceedings with something as challenging as Copland’s Appalachian Spring suite. This is no warm-up for what follows; there is nowhere to hide; and you therefore need an ensemble at the very top of its form from opening bar to last. So… perfect for the Cheltenham Symphony Orchestra, then! And they were perfect for it, too: special praise going to the athletic percussion section (who would not be allowed to even think about relaxing until the interval) and flautist Catherine Billington… – and, of course, one of the greatest brass sections this side of Brighouse. But every single player deserves as much commendation – if only for the number of tears shed throughout. (Yes, I know I am a soppy bugger: but the instant creation of such matchless atmosphere would surely have softened the sternest heart. This really was that remarkable.)

David Curtis’ whole modus operandi stands atop a steadfast foundation of trust and such faith: the attention paid to his every gesture – however subtle – shaming more complacent orchestras (and conductors). But it is from this unassailable bedrock that all the other magic grows: including the uncanny ability to transport an audience as one in space and time. Early 19th-century Pennsylvania has never sounded – or felt – so appealing.

Copland’s ballet is, for me, one of the man’s (and the American century’s) greatest accomplishments: a masterpiece of subtle portrait and landscape painting that I don’t think he ever really surpassed (although Rodeo – to be played by the CSO in July – comes close for wit and bravado; but not, I think, quite the tenderness, the poignancy, found here…). And, no matter how many times I hear it, it maintains its freshness; its inventiveness. But it has to come from the heart (meaning courage and boldness; as well as emotion and compassion). Like this did….

R is for Rubato…

Note…

This post was written for – and originally published as part of – The Cross-Eyed Pianist’s A Pianist’s Alphabet series on 2 August 2016.

If there’s any excuse at all for making a record, it’s to do it differently, to approach the work from a totally recreative point of view… to perform this particular work as it has never been heard before. And if one can’t do that, I would say, abandon it, forget about it, move on to something else.

– Glenn Gould

R is for “robbed”. R is also for “rhubarb”. And, aged four, sat on a plump cushion, on top of my teacher’s piano stool, having just played the Minuet in G from the Associated Board’s edition of Eighteen Selected Pieces from ‘A Little Notebook for Anna Magdalena Bach’ with about as much feeling as the Honda production line in Swindon, I first came across what I initially thought was a portmanteau of the two. (By the way, I wouldn’t have known, then, what a “portmanteau” was, either. And I still have the very same copy perched on my piano, today: such is the rustiness of the current state of what I laughingly refer to as my “technique”.)

“Technically, that’s excellent,” said Mr Bury (or words to that effect); “but it could do with some rubato…” – and then, of course, he went on to explain and demonstrate what that was. And, although I have hunted it ever since, Snark‑like: at such a tender age, my emotional range was narrowly-focused. All I could see were Boojums.

My personal definition of the word is aural; rather than written or visual. Listen to the two (fantabulous) recordings of Bach’s Goldberg Variations which (the fantabulous) Glenn Gould made at each end of his career. The first, from 1955, lasts 38:34; and is a demonstration of pure technical genius. The second, from 1981 – at 51:18 – lasts exactly one-third longer – and transforms each variation from what could easily be a mechanical Baroque exercise (see above) to something of a romantic, yet contrapuntal, serenade: particularly the opening (and closing) Aria. The difference, I believe, is not in the time taken – although there is a definite contributory effect from the time taken between making the two recordings. Subtract the first from the second – although I have to admit, given my word limit (and being, ahem, robbed of time), this is a little simplistic (and may be over-egging the pudding a little): there are a few more repeats, as well… – and what you are left with (IMHO) is the very essence of rubato.

The tempi are not so much “robbed”; as generously donated. Or, as Michael Kennedy so wisely states in the 1980 edition of The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Music (which also sits atop my piano), rubato is…

A feature of performance in which strict time is for a while disregarded – what is ‘robbed’ from some notes being ‘paid back’ later. When this is done with genuine artistry and instinctive musical sensibility, the effect is to impart an admirable sense of freedom and spontaneity. Done badly, rubato merely becomes mechanical.

…and I’m sure you can easily evoke your own guilty parties with regards to that last comment. In fact, I wouldn’t be too surprised if you disagreed with my exemplar, above. (I’m sure Chopin would.) But, surely that’s what rubato is really all about – the individual, “instinctive” subjectivity (hopefully dredged up from your very soul, and bypassing most of your mind) that you can bring to any piece of music: whether it be from your emotions; or even from a desire to stress a melody hidden deep within a morass of complex notes (see, for instance, Prokofiev’s Second Piano Concerto).

In other words, rubato – whether applied to one note, or a thousand – is simply a symptom, an expression, of one’s own interpretation.

Q is for Quietude…

Note…

This post was written for – and originally published as part of – The Cross‑Eyed Pianist’s A Pianist’s Alphabet series on 18 July 2016.

Here I am alone with silence. I have discovered that it is enough when a single note is beautifully played. This one note, or a silent beat, or a moment of silence, comforts me.

– Arvo Pärt

Why pick ‘quietude’ rather than simple ‘quietness’? Principally because I think the word has more resonance, more depth: it has a physical component, as well as one of simple silence. It is almost meditative. It is the deep breath (exemplified by Jessye Norman, perhaps) before the opening notes; and – if you’re fortunate – that precious, eternal, ethereal stillness between the final lifting of the fingers from the keys, the release of the sustaining pedal, and the subsequent applause. In both cases – even in a minimal amount of time – there is (can be, or perhaps should be) reflection, absorption, of the music inbetween.

Sometimes, music itself contains quietude (the most logical culmination of this being John Cage’s 4' 33") – although this may not necessarily mean indicated rests or pauses. Before I began to lose my hearing (which, for me, was not the descent into silence that some may expect – as Cage said, “what we hear is mostly noise”: and I experience almost constant tinnitus and occasional “musical hallucinations”), I was obsessed with a short piece, Secret Song No.6, by Peter Maxwell Davies: which, initially, appeared to begin with just a random selection of slow, sustained, intensifying single tones. Even sitting on the settee, simply staring at that page for long periods of time – in all-consuming stillness, apart from the melody weaving through my mind – trying to understand its implications, its meaning, how one could possibly interpret its ostensible simplicity – was liable to drive me crazy. It was only a sudden realization (an emergence) that “the silence between the notes is where the magic lies” which led me to some sort of comprehension, and the confidence to return to the piano, to let the music sing for itself. (Technically, it is not a difficult piece. Emotionally, I found it extremely challenging – if only because of the self‑examination it provoked. (Which one could argue is the purpose of all art…. Discuss.))

¶

Q is also for Quakers…

…of course; and, although I am by no means religious (except perhaps in my addiction to creativity), one of their most inspiring aspects (even for me: someone whose tastes evolved in large, echoey gothic buildings resonating with Byrd, Tallis, Howells…) is the silent worship – listening for that “still small voice”. Sitting in true peace – whether alone, or with others – can be a truly overwhelming experience. It is therefore not for everyone.

The voice of the hidden waterfall

And the children in the apple-tree

Not known, because not looked for

But heard, half-heard, in the stillness

Between two waves of the sea.

– TS Eliot: Little Gidding (Four Quartets)

Reading this back, I appreciate that some may find hints of mindfulness. To me, though, quietude is almost its antithesis – a momentary letting go; an untethering – although not ‘mindlessness’, per se. It is an absence of intrusion of both internal and external forces. It is a caesura – but one that you may only recognize when immersed in its fragility, its transiency, its elusiveness. What follows must be sound. The rest is silence.

I have assail’d her with musics…

I wrote recently that “It’s strange how life’s roads diverge… yet, sometimes, then cross, run in parallel, until they meet again at some glistening, memorable moment…” – and mentioned, amongst others, Martin Roscoe, Peter Maxwell Davies, and a “Yamaha CFX concert grand”.

Well, in some kind of parallel crystallization (although partly inspired by the above convergence), yesterday I took delivery of a Yamaha Clavinova CLP-525R – which includes “Complex sample sets, painstakingly borrowed from Yamaha’s flagship CFX concert grand…” – and from a retailer who (being based, then, just around the corner from my second childhood home of Blackburn Cathedral) also played a large part in my formative musical years. In fact, the copy of Farewell to Stromness I chose to baptize the piano with actually bears a Reidy’s price sticker on it… – as does, unsurprisingly, a great deal of the sheet music I own (apart from the seventy-year-old collections of Brahms, Bridge, Chopin, Mozart, etc. that I have inherited from my mum: a much better pianist than I).

As much as I would have liked to have claimed back the family Bechstein Model 10 upright from my son: firstly, my ears and hands are no longer worthy of such a wonderful instrument (and, more importantly, he is so much more musical than I, and can therefore give it the justice it deserves); and, secondly, we really don’t have the room! Additionally, with the Clavinova, I can pipe the sound directly to my hearing aids: which not only saves the rest of the household from the caterwauling of my (current) incredible rustiness; but enables me to hear its output more clearly. In fact – being able only to recall the aural and physical aspects of the Bechstein: so embedded, after thirty years of playing it (although I did borrow my sister’s Blüthner for a while, when my hearing originally started to fade, but I wasn’t quite willing to let go completely of my favourite pieces) – one of the astounding features of an electronic keyboard is the ability to adjust the feel and sonority to my own satisfaction (even on what is a relatively basic model)!

I was also surprised by how easily (yet inaccurately) technique came back to me, the first time I sat down and played: musical muscle memory is a great thing – as, of course, is my recently improved hearing. However, my hands appear to have shrunk – or, at least, their span – in the last few years: and Max’s awkward major ninth semiquaver (from middle B to C#) at bar 20 caused me no end of problems!

Practice, of course, should restore some of this flexibility – although the piano will, primarily, be an aid to relaxation: in much the way that listening is. I also hope, however, that such immersion will prompt a return to composition. We shall see.

For the moment, it is just wonderful to be able to riffle through my large collection of music, plonk it on the stand, and restore – however clumsily – relationships with once-familiar friends. A few Chopin mazurkas, later, I think! (And maybe a little Mompou, too…?)