HANDS TOGETHER PLEASE: The Pianist's Curse

     I have been following a lengthy, sometimes heated, discussion on the turn-of-the-20th century practice of mis-aligned hands, the left hand sounding slightly ahead of the right. The evidence in support of this theory is based largely, if not entirely, on recordings made at the ends of the careers of some legendary pianists who may or may not have sensed the import of these recordings. At the time, recording was a novelty, not the industry that it has become, and pianists very possibly were not thinking in terms of posterity, that they would be held up as an example of a particular style of playing. Still, there they are, these recordings, for us to ponder and marvel at.

    I personally love feeling a connection to the musical past. I don't dispute the notion that chords were often rolled for extra-expressive purposes, rolled without authorization from the composer. I do dispute the notion that composers accepted this as a given, calmly acquiescing to the casual whims of any flamboyant virtuoso who happened to pick up a score. Here's why: Brahms and the others knew how to put a wavy line in the score—they often did—so why not put more of them in if that is really what they heard? It seems to me that by not putting in more wavy lines, they are telling us not to roll those chords. 

    We have written accounts of distinguished musicians praising public performances for not deviating from the score. (Having attended a recital by Liszt, Clara Schumann remarks in a letter that she felt he relied too much on the score.) This tells me that, even though the practice may have been prevalent, it was not considered tasteful even at that time. It is definitely out of fashion today.  

    I think what we're talking about is the propensity for playing with the hands slightly askew, a sort of rolled effect, to telegraph how meaningful the music is, a sort of elbow to the ribs. This was a style of playing that was both tolerated and enjoyed by different groups of players/listeners. I used to do it spontaneously myself during the throes of adolescence to show how musical I was, not having heard anyone do it or being told to do it. It came quite naturally to me, unconsciously, as I played. But when I heard it back, I found it annoying. I thought it distracted from the music. I still think so. (Under the "Listen" tab above, listen to Adelina d' Lara for a good example of this style. I wonder what Madame Schumann would have thought.)

    I'm sure some pianists in the 19th century did it and some not. I would guess that Clara Schumann did not, as she was an advocate of the sanctity of the score and to my knowledge didn't write about this or make any indications in her editions. She virtually single-handedly changed the concert from a circus to the more serious piano recital we know today. So, for me, she has a certain authority. It seems to be about taste, which as we know changes.

     It was suggested in the discussion that the modern way of playing, without rolling chords at will, began with such pianists as Backhaus, Rubinstein and Arrau. Well, Backhaus studied with Eugene d'Albert and heard d'Albert play the Brahms concertos with the composer conducting. Rubinstein's education was supervised by Joseph Joachim, a close associate of Brahms. Arrau studied in Berlin with Martin Krause, a pupil of Liszt. So, I have to wonder what influenced their approaches to expressive playing. Why did they opt not to roll chords and perpetuate a style of playing that is now considered old-fashioned? I suspect they caught on to the notion that music could be still more expressive without the distraction of superfluous ornamentation, which is what a rolled chord is, an ornament. 

    I propose that those who enjoy this way of playing do so, keeping in mind that they might be thought eccentric by people who know the score. (I promise not to run screaming from the room.) Yet, others who do not know the score might find it charming. This would be along the lines of Gould's experiments in playing standard repertoire "wrong" or differently in order to get people to listen to familiar music with fresh ears.

The Evil Twins: Teaching Thumb-Crossings at the Piano

    In the previous post, we learned how to cross the thumb in an efficient way, that is, making use of forearm rotation. Now let's talk about coordinating the crossings between the two hands. Remember, in parallel scales, the crossings occur in each hand at different points in the scale. The hands are mirror images of each other. Even though they are called upon to play parallel passages, the movement is not always the same in each hand.

When there is a lack of coordination, it's that evil twin trying to make its sibling misbehave and do what it's doing. So, take a deep breath and read on. This sounds more complicated than it really is. (Review forearm rotation here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h1Gwvaw7SQk).

    Excellent coordination requires really only one thing: when the thumb makes its rotational crossing, notice what type of rotation is required in the other hand at the same time. Practice that. Simple. 

Well, at first it's a little like trying to pat your head and rub your tummy at the same time.  Exaggerate the movements, first in one hand then the other. Then put the hands together. Slowly. Deliberately. Breathe. Don't panic. Keep in mind that this is an underlying tool and becomes so tiny in speed as to be invisible. 

    

    Notice that in the video I add an in/out shaping to the scale. Ignore this at first until the coordination is well worked-in. Remember, my demonstration is greatly exaggerated. 

    

    Now exhale.

        

TEACHING PIANO AT THE EARLY GRADES: The All Important Thumb

     I had just begun my tenure as a university professor when after a concert I was ambushed by several local piano teachers. They had heard I "didn't believe in scales." They were outraged at the sacrilege. 

    "Well," I responded as I stepped back, pressing my hands against the cinderblock for support. "'Believe' is such a loaded word." My mind is racing to place their complaint in context. How had I gained this reputation as an infidel—and so early in my career? "My students tend to be advanced," I offered. "They come to me (presumably) already equipped with scales, so I don't teach scales and certainly don't want to hear them."

This seemed to quell the hysteria somewhat. But I was on a roll, now, and not about to release them back into the wild without more information. I pointed out that scales are necessary as an aspect of keyboard harmony and topography—and most importantly, how the thumb works in coordination with the other fingers. But once fluent with hands together at a moderate tempo in all major and melodic minor keys, relentless practicing of scales hoping for some miraculous technical advancement is a waste of time. Yes, waste of time. The scales we practice in "root"position rarely occur in concert music, if ever. We are better off extracting scales from repertoire we want to play and practicing those. My inquisitors are right, though, to question my pedagogy. For their elementary students, scales are imperative.

    So what is a scale? If we're going to teach scales, we should know what they are. An octave-worth of notes that move stepwise in the same direction? Yes. Two groups of notes that fall easily under the hand? Yes. (Getting warmer.) Two groups of notes played by fingers and are connected by the thumb. Connected by the thumb! What we need to teach when the time comes is how to efficiently manage the so-called thumb crossing from one group of notes to another. If I had to describe a single most important aspect of piano technique, it would be how to use the thumb, a technique that is often misunderstood and one that can be taught in the early grades. 

    The thumb is itinerant. It does not reside on the white keys alongside the fingers as we are sometimes told as children: "Every finger lives in its own house, including the thumb." Not true. Try it. This gesture crunches the hand into a ball, pulling muscles against each other. The thumb has two jobs: Playing its note and clicking the hand into the new position.

    Here is a demonstration. The thumb crossing appears at about 4:40. Forearm Rotation and Thumb crossing.

    Once the crossing is mastered in each hand separately ascending and descending, the hands need to learn to play together. The issue here, of course, is about coordination, which is another story. Here's a hint: The crossing occurs first in the right hand, then in the left. Make a nutshell example beginning on the  third note in each hand and ending on the sixth note. What does this look like? How does it feel? I know this sounds complicated, but it is really quite simple once the hands learn to work together.

    Stay tuned.

     

Teaching Piano: What Should Teachers Know?

  

   

In a piano forum on teaching, the question came up as to how much pianistic skill a teacher should have. Should the teacher be able to demonstrate any piece the student brings? Alas, I jumped in feet first, which is not easy with one foot in mouth, and declared if the teacher can't demonstrate, the student should ask for his money back. In retrospect, this does seem a bit harsh. Still, I have to ask, what is the reasonable expectation of the inquiring student.

    Should the teacher be able to play at performance level all of the teaching repertoire? Especially as the repertoire becomes more and more challenging? Certainly at the elementary and intermediate levels the teacher should be able to demo the material, at least in fragments. At the advanced level, though, should the teacher present only repertoire he has himself studied, perhaps performed? Sticky question. In my experience I have noticed that it is possible to be an effective teacher at the elementary and intermediate levels without being a concert pianist. Many of my university students came to me from non-performing teachers. The operative issue at any level is whether the teacher can explain or demonstrate technical and musical issues as they arise.

    So, in order to earn the right to keep the fee, we teachers arm ourselves with information. We know how to observe a good hand position, one in which the wrist is like a bridge between the hand and forearm. We know to watch for occasions in which the student stretches to an extreme in order to oblige the printed page, when in fact that is unnecessary and potentially harmful. (The score tells us how the music sounds, not how it feels in

our hands.) We notice when the student stumbles and, instead of advising only to practice slowly or in rhythms, look underneath the hood and decide what mechanism isn't working. (Is this the best fingering? Is the arm behind each finger as it plays? Is the thumb-crossing understood? Can the notes be grouped or shaped more efficiently?)

    Demonstrations are great and can be an inspiration to the student. My undergraduate teacher, Muriel Kerr, was an outstanding artist and when she demonstrated a passage, it inspired me to head for the practice room. But she didn't have the technical information on the tip of her tongue that I sometimes craved. She had been a child prodigy and likely didn't really know how she did it. So, demonstration alone is not the answer either. If there must be a choice, I'll take information over demonstration any day. Both together, though, well in that case we deserve double the fee.

    

    

Piano Scales: Fixing the Potholes

     A student writes: "I have noticed that if (during practice) scales or runs begin to feel a bit uneven or bumpy, this can often be corrected by playing the scale or run up and down four octaves at a moderate tempo while randomly stopping momentarily just before playing a particular note (i.e. stopping short and then continuing without any preconceived pattern in mind). The “stopped” finger (the one that would play next) is held back from playing for a quarter-note rest, and then I continue on for a few more notes before stopping again with another finger, etc."
     "My best guess," he continues, "is that the sudden stopping of a finger and then releasing it has the effect of contracting and then releasing opposing muscles that I was allowing to tense up.  This random-stoppage approach seems to add something to the rag-doll relaxation-and-shake-out approach to creeping tension."

Walking from note to note.

     Without seeing what he is doing, it is difficult to diagnose the unevenness of his scales. What he describes as a remedy strikes me as arbitrary and perhaps less reasonable than examining underlying causes. 
        Usually, "bumpiness" is the result of a misunderstanding of how the thumb works while crossing. When anticipating a thumb crossing, allow the thumb to hang—yes, hang—behind the next finger. It should hang more or less behind the finger that is playing. Also, he should allow the forearm to move at an angle behind the playing finger in the direction of the music. This puts the playing apparatus in a perfect position to play the thumb rotationally. (Select the tab "Demo" above and choose "Forearm Rotation" for a demonstration.)
     But first, he should make sure that he is really completing each note of the scale before going on to the next. This is an opportunity to review basic forearm rotation. If the weight of the forearm is really transferred to each note as if walking, and if his fingers are each "at rest" at the bottom of the key, evenness should come easily. Feel the rotation a little exaggerated at first, but then in speed don't think of it at all. I know, this is what confuses a lot of people. In speed we rely more on shaping and the "memory" of the sensation of completing each note.

     There are video demos under the iDemo tab above. For more on this and other topics have a look at:

                         Piano Technique Demystified

Voicing the Melody in Beethoven's Pathetique: Playing in the Sand

   In a recent piano class, I worked with a student on a performance of Beethoven's 'Pathetique' sonata, second movement. She was capable of producing an agreeable singing sound, though her attention seemed to be focused on the obsure, particularly in the opening measures. Or perhaps her attention, that is, her ear, was not focused at all. We heard in her performance a very nice rendering of the viola part, the accompanying sixteenth-notes. Yes, really. Nothing against the viola, but I'm almost positive that Beethoven meant for the first violin to dominate.

     I decided to use the occasion to talk about voicing chords, although there is another solution that is quite workable and perhaps more practical for some pianists on some pianos.

 

   I told her to picture herself at the beach, sitting at the shore line. Now, I told her, imagine your fingers making small indentations on the wet sand, allowing the fourth finger to go a little deeper. That's the feeling. Of course, we're talking about distribution of weight and both fingers have to move down at the same time. In this case, she needs to tilt her hand to the fourth-finger side. The problem is compounded by the fact that four is already lower than two, as two is on a black key. After working through another exercise, playing the melody note (C) slightly ahead of the accompanying note (Ab) (not my favorite device, though it can help), she began to get the sensation. 

     And that's what it is, a sensation. I showed her how to apply the principle to various triads, featuring each voice. It's fun and an essential skill for all pianists.

     Alternatively, it's possible to play the viola and cello lines in the left hand for the first measure and a half. This can give the anxious player a leg up. I do think, though, it's preferable to play these opening one-and-a-half bars as printed because immediately after it becomes necessary to play the parts as printed. Still, as the melody continues, voicing in the right hand is easier because the combinations of notes place most of the top notes on black keys.

Piano Voices from the Past

      

A student recently brought Brahms's Op. 117, No. 1, the first of three "lullabies of my grief," as the composer described them. This first one always strikes me as being like a barcarolle, waves gently slapping the sides of a small boat. Of course, the image of a baby rocking in a cradle will also do nicely—perhaps hanging from a bough? (There is, though, an undercurrent of melancholy.) 

     We decided that it wasn't necessary to do much at all in terms of

rubato; the notes played evenly in a slow two (slight pulse on one, less on two) with a singing tone would suffice. Normally, I suggest that advanced students workout for themselves the inner meanings, not that music can really communicate specific thoughts. Creating moods, though, is the creative domain of the introspective pianist and sometimes visiting the distant past by means of recordings can draw out a personal point of view. 

     Carl Friedberg was a student of Clara Schumann and mentored by Brahms, himself. Here's his recording of said piece, age 81.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i4-oOizOgVU

PIANISTS IN PERFORMANCE: WHAT SHOULD I THINK ABOUT?

      Have you ever experienced in performance what I call mind chatter? This is an interruption in the logical flow of musical thought. It can occur without even noticing; the focus of the playing seems intact, but there is some peripheral distraction. This is akin to being in a theater thoroughly entranced by a film, yet at the same time aware that someone has come in and sat down next to you.

     This concept came up the other day during a lesson in which the student found herself caught somewhere between reading the score and playing from memory. I pointed out that memorizing was the surest way to make the music a part of her psyche. It does not matter in performance whether the score is present or not. But if it is present, the player has to know when and where to look, where on the page is the passage in question. This, then, becomes part of the thought process. 
     

    The great harpsichordist Wanda Landowska, a musician who many thought had a direct line of communication with Bach in the great beyond, was once being interviewed by some eager young 

Wanda Landowska

admirer. "Oh, Madame Landowska, when you play I feel the presence of Bach himself. The music speaks to me in such a special way. Tell me, please, what do you think about when you perform?" To which the great lady replied, "The notes, dear, the notes."
      

     Well, yes, first the notes. But probably not in isolation. The notes are connected to an idea of their relationship to one another and to some concept of how smaller ideas add up to the whole of the piece. When we sit down to play, we must start with the big ideas. In speed, it is impossible to conceive of individual notes. It is better to be like the orator who speaks off the cuff, who embraces his audience with his full attention and speaks warmly and enthusiastically of the big ideas he finds compelling, rather than the public speaker who, not really wanting to be there, reads with precision from a printed speech. Of course, in addition to being inspiring, we pianists are required to be precise, too.
     Once when performing the fugue in Beethoven's Op. 110 sonata, I became aware, suddenly, that in addition to feeling the mounting excitement of the passage, I heard an inner voice chanting, "come on, Beethoven." This was a sort of cheering section, encouraging me on to victory. This had never happened before, but I suspect it had to do with an underlying apprehension of playing a fugue from memory, even though I had already done it many times. I'm happy to report that we were victorious, Beethoven and I.
     Every performer is different, just as each occasion can inspire different results, but I think it comes down to this: Whatever we can latch on to that keeps us in the groove, that keeps us focused on the expression of the music, that is fair game; whatever works. But beware the voice that asks what's for supper. Slap him down and get back to the matters in hand.

Legato at the Piano: The Pianist as Illusionist

In a discussion on legato, a contributor to a piano forum opined that she didn’t accept the notion that the piano is a percussive instrument. This is like not accepting the notion that the earth is round. I have my faults, certainly, but I’ve learned to accept and deal with the laws of physics. When my head stopped spinning I thought to myself, well, she is probably lost in that world where we artistic types often go, the world of wishful thinking. I responded: “My piano has hammers that strike strings. What does your piano have?” I heard back: "Good point. My piano has a choir inside, with an organ to accompany it. Sounds like yours has a wrecking crew. What the heck, to each his own." This was a good response, I thought, and quite funny. And food for thought.

That writer has identified the place where opinion and fact collide.

Or to put it in more useful terms, where imagery and practice collide. On the one hand, imagery is great. It can help us to conceptualize a desired result and for some pianists, some of the time, that may be enough. But if it isn't enough, what then? For me, knowledge wins out over fancy; I want to know how.

Legato on the piano is an illusion at best.  The piano is a percussive instrument, no ifs, ands or buts. Some of the advice offered in the forum discussion was right on the money, i.e., a finger legato is about over-holding one note until the next note is depressed. (We're speaking of lyrical passages, not quick passage work.) There is another important factor, though, and that is how the finger connects with the key. For a finger legato, always play from the key, not from above the key. This cushions the attack and makes the connections seem more legato. Since "quality is determined by the number and prominence of overtones," the faster and "weightier" you strike the key, the more the upper, more dissonant partials are set in motion, making an even more percussive sound. Isn’t physics a great science?

Consider  playing succeeding notes in or under the decay of the

preceding note. This will give a very nice simulation of legato; it also implies a dimenuendo, which may not be called for. In any case, take care to consider where in the phrase hierarchy each succeeding note belongs. After a long melodic note, for example, listen well to how the phrase continues. Does the phrase require a new impetus? Or should it sound like a continuation of the long note? Is the phrase rising dynamically or falling? Music is not a democracy; not every note gets an equal vote.

Finally, perhaps more importantly, it's the legato pedal, sometimes referred to as syncopated pedal, that needs particular attention. The pedal gives us the ability to over-hold a particular note while moving away from it, thus creating a sense of legato. The way in which the key is depressed is still important. With the pedal down, strike the next note with just enough weight to override the reverberating sound, to give the illusion of connectedness, the new note floating above the din.

Another contributor to the forum remarked, somewhat haphazardly, that everyone plays legato all the time and it isn’t necessary to practice it particularly. He maintained, “if it isn’t legato, it’s staccato.” At first I opted to let this go as, well, sloppy thinking, but it began to eat away at me.

Does everyone play legato all the time, even in Czerny studies

(shudder), as he says? We know that up to Mozart’s time the default articulation was detached, changing with Beethoven, who reportedly quipped that “Mozart’s playing sounded like so many chickens dancing on the keys.” Since Beethoven’s time, pianists have worked to develop a singing style, a legato touch. I think here the operative word is worked. I decided that arbitrarily putting one finger down after another thoughtlessly won’t necessarily produce the illusion of legato. It’s important to consider: 1) over-holding slightly; 2) the manner of attack, i.e., from the key, not from above; 3) where the note comes in the musical hierarchy of the phrase; 4) how to use the pedal.                                         
      

Armed with this information, when imagery isn't sufficient, we can perhaps use the laws of physics to our advantage and bring that world of wishful thinking closer to a musical reality.

Is the Score Sacred?

     An article on treatments of Liszt's piano music discusses the practice of "modifying the score,... sometimes carried out by pianists, of altering a notated musical work by such devices as thickening textures, changing registers or adding pianistic elaborations." 

     Liszt apparently considered the score to be, if not sacred, at least something to be taken seriously. This is why he reportedly used the score when playing his own music in order to show that it was a composed, serious piece, not an improvisation. In fact, it was the norm during that period to use the score. Performance practices at the time also emphasized improvisational skills, which no doubt invited some virtuosi to add their own embellishments to published music. But this, it seems to me, is more about taste—or lack thereof.

     What of the music of other composers? We know that Bach tended to write out ornamentation 
because of his lack of faith in the taste of virtuosi of his day. We know, too, that Beethoven was very particular about the notation of his scores. Contemporary accounts of his playing, however, report that his interpretations could vary considerably as to tempi. But nowhere, to the best of my knowledge, are there reports of flights of improvisational fantasy in the performance of his own published works. And he was apparently a highly skilled improvisor.

     

Such issues as redividing between hands, changing fingering, or even making a very slight change to the notes for technical convenience, in my view do not constitute changing the score, given that these changes don't alter the musical intent. The score tells us how the music should sound, not how it feels in our hands.

     In our own time, improvisation is not something the audience expects or clamors to hear. Today's audiences presumably come to hear what the composer wrote and not marvel at the improvisational skill of the pianist. So for me, the score is the thing, particularly in the Baroque and Classical periods. Play the music the composer wrote but don't wear it like a straight jacket.

ARM WEIGHT (repost)

       A student writes: "I wonder if you might be willing to explain exactly what arm weight is. Or maybe the better question would be to ask what arm weight is not. I remember someone saying that using arm weight does NOT involve pushing into the keyboard. Someone else says that it is a deadweight drop.  Surely we can't be expected to play in some limp manner."

     No, we cannot play the piano in a "limp manner." We rely on various fulcra to support the fingers: knuckles, wrist, elbow. If one of these collapses, the whole system tends to break down, or at least falter. The playing apparatus consists of a connection from the finger tip that is playing to the elbow. The wrist, which remains flexible, makes a relatively flat bridge between hand and forearm.     

     And yes, it's correct that we do not "push" into the keyboard.  Once the key has been depressed, only God can change it, so there is no point whatsoever to continue applying weight into the key after reaching the point of sound. 

     The idea of a "deadweight drop" is problematic as a playing concept because at the point of sound the arm cannot continue moving downward, collapsing, which is what happens when thinking "deadweight." It is ludicrous to think that continued up and down arm movements can produce quick and efficient playing. The
deadweight concept is however quite useful in teaching the playing apparatus what it feels like to let go of weight, as in for example, learning what it feels like to make a leap.

At Ease

     Tobias Matthay writes about the visible and invisible in piano technique. Arm weight is one of the latter and one of the most important concepts to understand. To put it as briefly and simply as I can, it is the amount of weight it takes to produce the desired sound on one note and be able to stand on the note as if "at ease" there, not pressing and not lifting. In other words, we drop into the key to the point of sound and stop there. It's like sitting in a chair. One is at ease, supported, yet not relaxed in the real sense of the word. If we really relax, we fall out of the chair or

off the piano bench. So, the process of learning the sensation of arm weight at the piano is learning how much is required—no more, no less. It is a process of training the playing apparatus what it feels like to complete a note and be at rest on the key. 

     Once the arm weight is established in a single key, that weight is transferred from note to note by means of forearm rotation, which is an underlying tool and not the end result. Forearm rotation is not, repeat, not how we propel our hands laterally up and down the keys in speed. 

     This is an important study and not one I can't describe in print without perhaps creating more confusion. For a video demonstration of examples in chapter one of Piano Technique Demystified, visit https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzp_6Wwk7Jk&list=PLO34vd9-3xY69WwhJGTHqcLvxhTQnbkml&index=1. Or for a more succinct demonstration visit https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h1Gwvaw7SQk.

Demos

 
   I'm happy to announce that there are now video demos of the examples in Piano Technique Demystified: Insights into Problem Solving. They are organized by chapter and can be found on YouTube at: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLO34vd9-3xY69WwhJGTHqcLvxhTQnbkml.

The Forearm and the Piano: A Crucial Relationship

     

   I once remarked in a piano forum that it was impossible to play the piano without using forearm rotation. It seemed to me to be a statement of the obvious, and I expected responses along the lines of "duh." Well, to my surprise and dismay, a rather accomplished pianist (and teacher!) chimed in "you've been brainwashed," and stated that it is in fact quite possible to play the piano without using the forearm. 

    Setting aside for a moment the absurd notion that the forearm is not attached to the hand and not part of the playing apparatus, I suggested an experiment. Drop your arm to your side, I said. (Presumably the forearm and fingers would join in the gesture.) Now do only one thing: raise the apparatus up from the elbow. No, just raise the arm and do nothing else. I call this the karate-chop position. I challenge you to play the piano in that position.

    Well, there was agreement that it would in fact be necessary to turn—rotate— the hand toward the thumb in order to actually land on the keys in, say, a five-finger position. As we play, I continued, the forearm remains active in various ways, both obvious and so subtle as to be virtually invisible. Understanding how it aids in effortless virtuosity is at the core of our study. All of this, of course, would be too detailed for discussion in the forum. However, you, gentle reader, have the option of clicking on the tab iDemos at the top of the page. You could also have a look at "Piano Technique Demystified: Insights into Problem Solving." (I know, a shameless plug.)

    Finally, our discussion showed that it is possible to play the piano with little or no understanding of what is actually taking place underneath or within a technique. Without understanding forearm rotation, though, there will likely be some limitation—reduced facility, fatigue, discomfort, inaccuracy. Given the option of knowing or not knowing, I choose to know, and in so doing use the playing apparatus in the way it was designed to be used. 

                Piano Technique Demystified: Insights Into Problem Solving

Leaps: Easy-Peasy

  

Frederick Chopin

     A student brought in this soulful nocturne, Op. 27, No. 1, the companion to the famous D-flat, No. 2 of the same opus. He observed that it's not as simple as it at first appears. Naturally, I took up my post as devil's advocate and asked what if we knew at a glance what the piece required technically, would it appear simple? This is another way of saying nothing is difficult if you know how, and learning how is, fortunately, the purpose of this blog.

     My student pointed to the leaping left hand in the  three-four section marked appassionato: 

Chopin Nocturne, Op. 27, No. 1
(Click on example to enlarge.)

When leaping, always be sure to notice
 if there's water in the pool. That is, practice the landing.

The first issue to consider is how to group the left-hand triplets. Instead of thinking 10ths, start each group with the thumb and continue thinking octaves. Always when leaping back and forth take care to group notes in such a way as to avoid feeling as if the arm is going in two directions. In speed this can cause a jamming of the forearm, a condition I call lockjaw of the arm (lockarm?) In this case we start with the thumb to 5 and allow the hand to fall back from 5, passively, to the new thumb. In measure 5 of the example, it's possible to take that last left-hand E-flat in the right hand, although not really necessary. Remember, there is a continual broadening (sostenuto). On the downbeat of measure 6, I take the left-hand A-flat with the right hand.

     But wait! There's more! My student had another question. What about the forte section before that? Where the stretto begins? This is another left-hand leaping issue:

Chopin Nocturne Op. 27, No. 1
(Click on example to enlarge.)

Leaping is easy when you have a running
 start,  when you consider how to do it.

   This one is a little harder to describe in words without demonstrating, but I'll try. Notice that most of each measure lies more or less under the hand, if we also shape to the wider intervals as they occur. These notes may be considered a group. The octave represents a separate voice and lies outside of the group of triplets. The technique is a combination of a leap from the octave by means of a pluck, or springing action, and a slight rotation toward the thumb. That is, the 5th finger is like a hinge from which the 3rd finger rotates toward its landing place on the F-double sharp. The feeling is of 5 moving to 3. Once the hand is balanced with 3 on its note, it plays the neighboring notes in succession before opening to accommodate the ever widening intervals played by the thumb. Take care that the hand doesn't remain in an open position.

     The last left-hand note in measure one sends the hand to the following octave by means of a pluck and a rotation. This time 3 is the hinge, which allows the hand to open to the left and land on the octave. The feeling is 3 moving to thumb. Give the octave a little time. By that I mean go to it as if you plan to stay on it, which of course you won't. 

Legato at the Piano: Is There an Illusionist in the House?

      

    A pianist writes asking for clarification regarding my views on producing legato at the piano. I have in the past startled the unwary by stating that legato on the piano is in fact an illusion. The piano is a percussion instrument. Sorry. That's a fact. It's about physics. (I shall now take cover under my very sturdy Mason and Hamlin BB, built in 1926 and weighing more than 1000 pounds.)
          We can create whatever imagery we like in order to help with our illusions—imagination is good—but the fact remains, a hammer hits a wire. That's percussive—not quite on the order of a snare drum, but, well you get the picture. The wire vibrates, which in turn causes the air around it to vibrate sympathetically. This vibrating air is what tickles our ears.

    A young pianist in a forum once pounced on me for stating that the piano was a percussion instrument. She remarked that I could, if I wanted, have a cadre of carpenters with hammers banging away inside my piano, but she had instead the Mormon Tabernacle choir and the strings of the Philadelphia Orchestra in hers. I thought this was quite funny and a very good description of how imagery can help us shape the quality of the sound we want to hear. Physics be damned.
     Some pianists, even distinguished ones—I'm thinking now of Alfred Brendel—feel that by wiggling the finger on the key surface after striking it, a sort of pitched vibrato occurs, a violin-like effect. The hope is, as I understand it, that the sound will have more warmth and perhaps seem more connected to the next pitch. I'm sorry to have to report that only the key wiggles in its bed; the hammer has done its job and moved away. Once the  hammer has struck the string, only God can change it, that is, until we release it. Some may argue that it's the intention of the attack that counts. If the key is depressed with the intention of vibrating afterwards, the sound may be affected. This argument seems weak to me.
     Side note: Years ago (meaning half a century), I had the opportunity to hear my piano teacher, Muriel Kerr, play the Brahms 

Jascha Heifetz, violin

C Minor Piano Quartet with Heifetz, Primrose and Piatigorsky. For my younger readers, they were the superstar string players of the 20th century. It was my first time hearing the work, and I was, of course, stunned by its drama and lyricism. Not long after that, I found myself engaged for a 

William Primrose, viola

performance of the same piece and, looking at the score for the first time, I noticed that the piano starts with a forte octave tied over two bars with a diminuendo to piano for the entrance of the strings.  This diminuendo must take place in tempo, an Allegro non troppo. So I puzzled over how to make a quicker diminuendo. You've probably already guessed the answer. 

Gregor Piatigorsky, cello

Inexperienced as I was, though, I had to ask Miss Kerr. She was glad to oblige, and with a giggle, struck the octaves and allowed them to ring for most of the first measure, then  released the keys part way and fluttered the pedal for the 

Muriel Kerr, piano

remaining three beats, releasing the keys even more. It was a perfect diminuendo from forte to piano in exactly the right amount of time, controlled by the pianist. No need to bother God about it.
      Now back to our regularly scheduled topic.
      I have written about producing the illusion of legato on the piano by, for example, playing into the decay of each successive note. This is perhaps the closest we can come to the sort of legato a string player can manage, or a singer. Of course, though, this approach produces a pronounced diminuendo, which is not always the desired effect. 
     My correspondent quotes Samuil Feinberg's book, which  "argues that the acoustical illusion of legato has actually more to do with joining together the initial sounds (the immediate sound of the attack), rather than their decay, because if not, he argues, all legato would be diminuendo. And so then, how do you create illusion of legato in a crescendo cantabile line." This is the question we deal with on a daily basis. Feinberg solves this dilemma by "joining the beginnings of each sound, or at least the memory of it."
     Exactly right. Music is not a democracy. Every note does not get an equal vote. Feinberg is right. I call this the hierarchy of notes. We must have the musical idea of the line in mind as we play the first note. What are the dynamic relationships?  In a lyrical crescendo, each attack of each successive note must be louder in relation to the initial attack of the previous note. 
      I think the manner of attack is the most important issue in a moving legato line, that is, play from the key, minimizing downward speed of the key. This removes much of the "attack," but we can still control the dynamic with weight. When Feinberg states that legato is the result of "joining initial sounds," I think he is referring to hierarchy, or put another way, the audible shape of a line. If we take care to control each dynamic ascent in the right relationship to the initial attack of the previous one, controlling the speed of descent into the keybed, a convincing facsimile of legato occurs. Imagine a string of beads in which each bead is graduated from smaller to larger in carefully managed increments.