As a piano student, fingerings are possibly one of the things I've struggled most with. When I first started having lessons, the simple fingering patterns for playing scales in both hands completely confused my brain. I got used to it pretty quickly, and it soon became intuitive. Nevertheless, fingerings remain the problem I most often need to consult my piano teacher about, and they are a source of minor disagreement between us.
I started having lessons relatively late, at the grand old age of 11. Before that, I had taught myself to play, and learnt or attempted to learn some quite complicated pieces. As a result of having no guidance I developed a few 'bad' habits in my technique. Some of these habits disappeared once I started having lessons, but one persisted for some time (and continues to persist even now, in a way). This was my unconventional choice of fingerings - not in scales but in actual pieces (I usually stuck to the textbook version of things for scales.)
I firmly believe that since everyone's physical shape is different, there can be no RIGHT fingering for a certain passage. I rarely find the 'official' fingerings printed in scores, if there are
any, satisfactory without at least some tweaking for my individual
comfort. What feels quite natural to someone with large hands and long fingers, for instance, might be impossible for someone with smaller hands, and that person might find it easier to use a fingering which the person with larger hands finds very clumsy and awkward.
However, there seem to be certain conventions in modern piano playing
that state that some fingerings, in some situations, are
simply...forbidden. Illegal. 'You can't do that. It's not an approved
fingering.' That's the feeling I get, anyway.
In any case, my teacher and I usually disagree about what fingering
is the 'most natural'. The fact is, there is no absolute 'most natural'
fingering because what is natural for one person's hand shape can be
extremely uncomfortable for another's. This is actually the scenario that crops up quite often with my teacher these days: he has huge hands (able to span an eleventh) while I can only span a tenth, which is quite a big difference even if it only amounts to one note on the keyboard.
However, one of the reasons I like to consult my teacher about fingerings is that often he DOES come up with a much simpler and more natural solution, which, for some reason, I would NEVER have thought of myself. I have a strange tendency to devise fingerings which are unnecessarily complicated. Often I will write a
fingering onto a score which felt quite natural at the time, only to go
back to it later and wonder 'why on earth did I do that?!' The fingering I find 'most natural' at a particular time for a particular passage I've learnt may feel completely wrong in a years time when I go back to that piece and try to play it again. This is especially the case in Bach.
Bach is not pianistic music. It was written in a time when pianos as we know them today didn't exist, and where keyboard technique was far removed from the flowing, velvety legato that came into existence in the Romantic era. The fingerings in Bach are atrociously awkward, and more or less defy everything that the Approved Textbook of Fingerings tries to tell you (I just made that up, by the way...)
Very early on in my piano education, I half-learnt the first movement of Bach's 2nd partita. Despite having very little knowledge of the conventions of piano technique at that point, I actually learnt to play it at a considerable speed SOLELY because I used 'illegal' fingerings. At that point, I hadn't learnt any of the conventions of fingering, so it didn't feel unnatural or even awkward to break the rules. But today, as a pianist who plays Chopin and Rachmaninov and can hardly approach a black note without using the 4th finger on it, when I return to that partita it just feels...wrong. I can't play it at all anymore. The fingerings are too unnatural compared to the 19th-century Romantic technique that has become intuitive to me.
That's not to say that I have COMPLETELY dropped my unconventional fingerings - quite the contrary. I'm now learning Bach's D Minor Concerto, and while my fingerings might not be as outrageous as they were when I learnt the partita all those years ago, they still spark a lot of controversy during lessons!
I would be really interested to know what other pianists/ piano teachers thing about 'illegal' fingerings. Are there any fingerings you wouldn't let a student use, and if so, how can you justify it, since you can't BE them and experience what it's like to play a particular passage with their fingers?
Friday, 7 December 2012
Saturday, 20 October 2012
musings on the technique of great composer-pianists
I often think that one can tell a lot about the technique of a pianist (who also happens to be a composer) by the music they've written for the instrument.
On second thought, though, this isn't actually true. A good example is Ravel, who wrote some of the most atrociously difficult piano music in the repetoire, yet by all accounts wasn't an outstanding pianist himself, although he must have been a decent one to be able to play pieces like Gaspard de la nuit and Jeux d'eau.
However, if there is one pianist whose piano music is an indicator of their own piano technique, it would have to be Rachmaninov. It's easier to judge how Rachmaninov's technique relates to his piano writing than it is for many other composer-pianists, since he fortunately left behind what is a fairly extensive collection of recordings for someone who was alive when recording was only a recent invention.
There are a couple of things one immediately notices about Rach's pianism.
Firstly, he appears to have had an extraordinary technique. He was voted 'greatest pianist of all time' in Limelight and I think this is entirely justified, judging from the recordings I've heard. His playing had an incredible clarity and precision, combined with a gorgeous tone. Technical difficulties which would cause many other pianists to sacrifice tone, balance or clarity for accuracy didn't bother Rachmaninov at all. On top of that, his interpretation was very tasteful and simple, and he never over-used the pedal (as many pianists - even brilliant ones - seem to do these days.) This cleanness and understatement was quite unusual for his time, and I suppose his technique could be considered the forerunner of 'modern' piano technique (as exemplified by pianists like Pollini and Brendel.)
Secondly, Rach famously had very big hands (apparently he could span a 13th), and his piano music often incorporates impossibly large stretches which would have been quite easy for him and for anyone else with big hands, but can pose serious problems for other pianists! As I've discovered, however, the effect of Rach's technique on his writing for piano goes far beyond huge stretches.
For the past few days I've been working on a section of the 2nd concerto (specifically, the first movement, pages 19-20 in the Schirmer edition.) Rachmaninov never skimps on virtuosity in the left hand as well as the right, and beautifully written though it is, I've been struggling particularly with the second half of page 19 (for some reason, I don't have any trouble with page 20.)
I've found that in order to make the very dense and complex textures of this writing actually sound good, it's necessary to have a virtuosic command of the pedal, a very refined spacial awareness of where every key on the piano lies, and a lot of strength and dexterity. These qualities seem like something Rachmaninov would have had in great quantity.
After working on pages 19 and 20 of the concerto this evening, as usual I finished my practice by playing Chopin's Etude op. 25 no. 12.
Since this etude is the perfect way to instantly put a piano OUT of tune, I've actually stopped playing it at the end of practice sessions since getting my piano tuned a few weeks ago. Playing this etude is the way I build and maintain the muscle in my arms, and I notice very quickly if I don't play it for a while, so the last time I attempted it (a few days ago), it was a bit of a disaster.
When I tried again today, however, something had changed. I found myself hitting a lot more of the right notes than before, and had a much stronger sense of spacial awareness and coordination.
I feel quite certain that the intensive practice I did earlier on Rach 2 has improved aspects of my technique I wasn't even aware were lacking. Maybe the reason is that through his piano works, Rachmaninov has passed on his own technique to anyone prepared to spend the time and effort required to develop that technique?
On second thought, though, this isn't actually true. A good example is Ravel, who wrote some of the most atrociously difficult piano music in the repetoire, yet by all accounts wasn't an outstanding pianist himself, although he must have been a decent one to be able to play pieces like Gaspard de la nuit and Jeux d'eau.
However, if there is one pianist whose piano music is an indicator of their own piano technique, it would have to be Rachmaninov. It's easier to judge how Rachmaninov's technique relates to his piano writing than it is for many other composer-pianists, since he fortunately left behind what is a fairly extensive collection of recordings for someone who was alive when recording was only a recent invention.
There are a couple of things one immediately notices about Rach's pianism.
Firstly, he appears to have had an extraordinary technique. He was voted 'greatest pianist of all time' in Limelight and I think this is entirely justified, judging from the recordings I've heard. His playing had an incredible clarity and precision, combined with a gorgeous tone. Technical difficulties which would cause many other pianists to sacrifice tone, balance or clarity for accuracy didn't bother Rachmaninov at all. On top of that, his interpretation was very tasteful and simple, and he never over-used the pedal (as many pianists - even brilliant ones - seem to do these days.) This cleanness and understatement was quite unusual for his time, and I suppose his technique could be considered the forerunner of 'modern' piano technique (as exemplified by pianists like Pollini and Brendel.)
Secondly, Rach famously had very big hands (apparently he could span a 13th), and his piano music often incorporates impossibly large stretches which would have been quite easy for him and for anyone else with big hands, but can pose serious problems for other pianists! As I've discovered, however, the effect of Rach's technique on his writing for piano goes far beyond huge stretches.
For the past few days I've been working on a section of the 2nd concerto (specifically, the first movement, pages 19-20 in the Schirmer edition.) Rachmaninov never skimps on virtuosity in the left hand as well as the right, and beautifully written though it is, I've been struggling particularly with the second half of page 19 (for some reason, I don't have any trouble with page 20.)
I've found that in order to make the very dense and complex textures of this writing actually sound good, it's necessary to have a virtuosic command of the pedal, a very refined spacial awareness of where every key on the piano lies, and a lot of strength and dexterity. These qualities seem like something Rachmaninov would have had in great quantity.
After working on pages 19 and 20 of the concerto this evening, as usual I finished my practice by playing Chopin's Etude op. 25 no. 12.
Since this etude is the perfect way to instantly put a piano OUT of tune, I've actually stopped playing it at the end of practice sessions since getting my piano tuned a few weeks ago. Playing this etude is the way I build and maintain the muscle in my arms, and I notice very quickly if I don't play it for a while, so the last time I attempted it (a few days ago), it was a bit of a disaster.
When I tried again today, however, something had changed. I found myself hitting a lot more of the right notes than before, and had a much stronger sense of spacial awareness and coordination.
I feel quite certain that the intensive practice I did earlier on Rach 2 has improved aspects of my technique I wasn't even aware were lacking. Maybe the reason is that through his piano works, Rachmaninov has passed on his own technique to anyone prepared to spend the time and effort required to develop that technique?
Thursday, 30 August 2012
Post-practice reflections: Speed versus musicality
In the past couple of days, I've been seriously considering what I want the final tempo of the 2nd movement of Rachmaninov's second piano concerto to be. The middle movement of Rach 2 has several quite drastic tempo changes. To me, these are extremely important. When I started learning the fastest, and possibly most technically challenging, section of this movement (right in the middle, leading up to the cadenza - marked 'Piu Mosso'), I had set a target speed on my metronome which, at the time, I thought the fastest REALISTIC speed I could achieve.
As it turned out, by the time I'd worked that section up to my target speed of crotchet = 70 bpm, I felt as if I could easily do it a bit faster. So I set a new target speed: 80 bpm.
I'd already made the decision that I wanted to take this movement very slowly, even in the faster sections. I wanted all the notes to be clearly audible, all the wonderful and bizarre chromatic harmonies to stand out. But once I'd perfected the 80 bpm speed, I suddenly realised that when I stopped playing with the metronome, the technical aspect was so effortless that I instantly sped up.
On all the recordings I've listened to the 'Piu Mosso' section is played incredibly lightly, nimbly, and the final part of it sounds almost more like a trill than proper passagework. When left to my own devices, free of the constraining metronome, I couldn't help but imitate this speediness now that I had the technique to.
Of course, different pianists DO take it at different tempos. I even went to the trouble of working out the tempos of my 3 favorite recordings: Rachmaninov took the fast section at a whopping 125 bpm, Yefim Bronfman at 115 bpm, and Van Cliburn (whom I admire specially for his slower interpretation) at 100 bpm.
Yet all of these pianist play the fast section much faster than I was aspiring to.
In my practice session tonight, I tried a number of different metronome speeds, ranging from my original target of 80 bpm to Van Cliburn's nimbler 100 bpm. I couldn't make up my mind which tempo was best. On the one hand, I wanted all the notes to be audible, and not to simply sound like a blur. On the other hand, it felt so much better to play fast, and this was my natural tendency as soon as I turned off the metronome. So I did a little experiment.
I played from a few bars before the start of the fast section at a tempo I found comfortable and thought sounded nice. When I reached the fast section, I let myself settle into the tempo that felt natural, and which I always reverted to when I wasn't consciously aiming for a particular speed.
Then I stopped and turned on the metronome, adjusting the tempo until it matched what I'd just been playing. It was 90 bpm - halfway between my target and Van Cliburn's tempo.
The issue of tempo choice is more complicated than just choosing an appropriate tempo for the fast section, however. There are, as I have already mentioned, several other tempo changes in this movement, and how they all relate to each other is vitally important. If I decided to change my target speed for one section, I have to adjust all the others to fit in with it - it's like a sort of tempo 'ratio'.
For now, I've decided that 90 bpm is my tempo of choice for the 'Piu Mosso' section, but the process has made me realise that I have to be careful about sacrificing my musical intentions for the sake of virtuosity. I'm not really interested in technique for the sake of technique. One needs technique to execute one's interpretation of a piece, but if the interpretation doesn't demand virtuosity, one has to know when to hold back.
P.S. On the spur of the moment I decided to video myself during my practice session this evening, which means I can now actually hear how the different tempos I was trying out affect the sound of the music and my degree of accuracy and so forth. I've never done this before, and it was very interesting. Here's a link to the video
As it turned out, by the time I'd worked that section up to my target speed of crotchet = 70 bpm, I felt as if I could easily do it a bit faster. So I set a new target speed: 80 bpm.
I'd already made the decision that I wanted to take this movement very slowly, even in the faster sections. I wanted all the notes to be clearly audible, all the wonderful and bizarre chromatic harmonies to stand out. But once I'd perfected the 80 bpm speed, I suddenly realised that when I stopped playing with the metronome, the technical aspect was so effortless that I instantly sped up.
On all the recordings I've listened to the 'Piu Mosso' section is played incredibly lightly, nimbly, and the final part of it sounds almost more like a trill than proper passagework. When left to my own devices, free of the constraining metronome, I couldn't help but imitate this speediness now that I had the technique to.
Of course, different pianists DO take it at different tempos. I even went to the trouble of working out the tempos of my 3 favorite recordings: Rachmaninov took the fast section at a whopping 125 bpm, Yefim Bronfman at 115 bpm, and Van Cliburn (whom I admire specially for his slower interpretation) at 100 bpm.
Yet all of these pianist play the fast section much faster than I was aspiring to.
In my practice session tonight, I tried a number of different metronome speeds, ranging from my original target of 80 bpm to Van Cliburn's nimbler 100 bpm. I couldn't make up my mind which tempo was best. On the one hand, I wanted all the notes to be audible, and not to simply sound like a blur. On the other hand, it felt so much better to play fast, and this was my natural tendency as soon as I turned off the metronome. So I did a little experiment.
I played from a few bars before the start of the fast section at a tempo I found comfortable and thought sounded nice. When I reached the fast section, I let myself settle into the tempo that felt natural, and which I always reverted to when I wasn't consciously aiming for a particular speed.
Then I stopped and turned on the metronome, adjusting the tempo until it matched what I'd just been playing. It was 90 bpm - halfway between my target and Van Cliburn's tempo.
The issue of tempo choice is more complicated than just choosing an appropriate tempo for the fast section, however. There are, as I have already mentioned, several other tempo changes in this movement, and how they all relate to each other is vitally important. If I decided to change my target speed for one section, I have to adjust all the others to fit in with it - it's like a sort of tempo 'ratio'.
For now, I've decided that 90 bpm is my tempo of choice for the 'Piu Mosso' section, but the process has made me realise that I have to be careful about sacrificing my musical intentions for the sake of virtuosity. I'm not really interested in technique for the sake of technique. One needs technique to execute one's interpretation of a piece, but if the interpretation doesn't demand virtuosity, one has to know when to hold back.
P.S. On the spur of the moment I decided to video myself during my practice session this evening, which means I can now actually hear how the different tempos I was trying out affect the sound of the music and my degree of accuracy and so forth. I've never done this before, and it was very interesting. Here's a link to the video
Saturday, 25 August 2012
Composer series: Alberto Ginastera
Several years ago, my piano teacher sent me an email with a link to this recording, saying "You should do this for your next competition!" (He was referring to the local eistedfford.)
At first, I thought he was joking. Me, learn this diabolical-sounding piece in time for the eistedfford? It seemed impossible.
When I had my next lesson, my teacher brought along a copy of the score. It looked as diabolical as it sounded: the right and left hand staves were in different keys, and the rhythms were completely incomprehensible. However, I managed to read it, really liked it, and decided to try learning it.
Not only did I learn (and memorise) it, but I have since performed it several times (including in the eistedfford!)
So began my interest in the composer Alberto Ginastera, of whom I knew nothing at the time.
I can't really say very much about Ginastera, as the amount of repetoire by him that I'm familiar with is still relatively small. Instead, I'm just going to post links to my favorite pieces by him, and write a bit about each piece. I'll probably add to this list as I find new favorites :)
Danzas Argentinas (of course!) I now have the complete score of these little pieces, and have played through them (as well as hearing my teacher play them). One day I would very much like to learn all of them. The 2nd one reminds me of a well-known nursery rhyme or folk tune gone wrong... (interestingly, Ginastera used this same theme in one of his 'Piezas Infantiles')
Piezas Infantiles I looked up these pieces after reading about them, since I was curious to hear how Ginastera composed in his youth. They are absolutely gorgeous, and already show distinctive Ginastera trademarks.
Piano Sonata No. 1
1st movement
4th movement
Unfortunately there isn't a complete version of this on youtube that I like (I have Debora Halasz's recording of this, in my opinion it is the definitive one.) I discovered the last movement of this piece completely by accident while browsing youtube, and was absolutely blown away by it. I'd never heard anything like it (at least not in the realm of classical music), and I still haven't heard anything like it! The other movements are amazing as well.
I must confess I was heavily influenced (almost to the point of plagiarism) by the 5/8 descending fifths pattern in the first movement when writing a short piece for piano and percussion, earlier this year. It was just too good not to, erm, be influenced by!
Of course I bought the score for this fiendishly difficult sonata, in the hope that one day I'll manage to learn it... :S
Piano Concerto No. 1
1st movement
4th movement
I discovered this concerto through Emerson Lake & Palmer, who made a wonderful version of the last movement of it (which, incidentally, Ginastera himself thoroughly approved of.)
I dream of learning this concerto one day, but it will probably only ever be a dream.
Unfortunately I can't find the middle movements of this work on Youtube - at least, not played by João Carlos Martins.
At first, I thought he was joking. Me, learn this diabolical-sounding piece in time for the eistedfford? It seemed impossible.
When I had my next lesson, my teacher brought along a copy of the score. It looked as diabolical as it sounded: the right and left hand staves were in different keys, and the rhythms were completely incomprehensible. However, I managed to read it, really liked it, and decided to try learning it.
Not only did I learn (and memorise) it, but I have since performed it several times (including in the eistedfford!)
So began my interest in the composer Alberto Ginastera, of whom I knew nothing at the time.
I can't really say very much about Ginastera, as the amount of repetoire by him that I'm familiar with is still relatively small. Instead, I'm just going to post links to my favorite pieces by him, and write a bit about each piece. I'll probably add to this list as I find new favorites :)
Danzas Argentinas (of course!) I now have the complete score of these little pieces, and have played through them (as well as hearing my teacher play them). One day I would very much like to learn all of them. The 2nd one reminds me of a well-known nursery rhyme or folk tune gone wrong... (interestingly, Ginastera used this same theme in one of his 'Piezas Infantiles')
Piezas Infantiles I looked up these pieces after reading about them, since I was curious to hear how Ginastera composed in his youth. They are absolutely gorgeous, and already show distinctive Ginastera trademarks.
Piano Sonata No. 1
1st movement
4th movement
Unfortunately there isn't a complete version of this on youtube that I like (I have Debora Halasz's recording of this, in my opinion it is the definitive one.) I discovered the last movement of this piece completely by accident while browsing youtube, and was absolutely blown away by it. I'd never heard anything like it (at least not in the realm of classical music), and I still haven't heard anything like it! The other movements are amazing as well.
I must confess I was heavily influenced (almost to the point of plagiarism) by the 5/8 descending fifths pattern in the first movement when writing a short piece for piano and percussion, earlier this year. It was just too good not to, erm, be influenced by!
Of course I bought the score for this fiendishly difficult sonata, in the hope that one day I'll manage to learn it... :S
Piano Concerto No. 1
1st movement
4th movement
I discovered this concerto through Emerson Lake & Palmer, who made a wonderful version of the last movement of it (which, incidentally, Ginastera himself thoroughly approved of.)
I dream of learning this concerto one day, but it will probably only ever be a dream.
Unfortunately I can't find the middle movements of this work on Youtube - at least, not played by João Carlos Martins.
Wednesday, 15 August 2012
On memorising things
As a musician for whom memorising music is important, I'm fascinated by memory. As I've also realised, however, memorising isn't just for music.
Although my visual memory isn't very good, I have a highly developed memory for touch. I use this (muscle memory) to memorise music, but it can also take on a different and rather bizarre form. I often form a memory of a particular sensation, such as the pain of a badly bruised toe or the ache from the prick of a needle, and this can be randomly triggered so I actually experience that sensation again, long after it originally ocurred. I can't make this happen at will and I can't figure out what causes it, but it's quite fascinating.
A short while ago I decided to learn Russian, because I love Russian literature, music and so forth and thought it would interesting to learn the language too. I've previously dabbled in Latin and Greek (a long time ago!) and, more recently, French. What I've discovered is that there are lots of parallels between music and language.
Learning the Russian Cyrillic script (which consists of 33 letters!) is rather like learning to read written music; learning grammar is like learning theory - harmony, counterpoint and structure; and learning vocabulary is basically memorising. However, I'm a lot better at memorising music than I am at memorising words, and the reason is that there is a physical, spacial dimension to learning a piece of music.
I know that different pianists have very different techniques of memorising, and I can really only speak for myself when I say that I rely almost entirely on muscle memory. That is, I form a memory of the spatial relationships between intervals, the way the keyboard feels under my hands, how much I have to stretch my fingers or reach with my arms to hit the right notes, and so forth. Of course I also make conscious decisions - 'here I have to play this note and that will lead me on to this section' - that sort of thing, but these are only momentary, and help me get through 'change-over points' in the musical structure. Once I've memorised a piece, I don't have to think about it - it just plays itself, allowing me to put as much feeling and expression into it as I like. In fact, as soon as I start thinking about what I'm doing, I'm likely to forget. My fingers know where to go, and thinking is a distraction.
I've heard a lot of people say that muscle memory is unreliable, and shouldn't be used for long pieces. Some people seem to be able to visualise the score in their head, but I have a very poor visual memory and although I could easily sing any of the pieces I'm learning at the moment, knowing what a piece sounds like does not equate to knowing where to put your fingers.
I can't consciously memorise an extensive section of music, either: I do, however, do this for very small sections that I'm having trouble remembering because they signal an important harmonic change in an otherwise uniform pattern that could be repeated endlessly without ever moving on. I have been known to start 'looping' a section of music like this (a notable example being Chopin's Etude Op. 25 No. 12, which can pretty much go on forever if you keep taking the 'wrong turn'!)
I often find it helpful to say to myself 'I have to play a B flat here' or 'This progression is a series of arpeggiated diminished 7th chords' to memorise an elusive passage. Once I've got it right enough times, I develop a spacial memory of it anyway and no longer need to give myself clues.
Memorising Russian vocabulary is a completely different matter! Although I've switched my Facebook and Twitter accounts to Russian and stuck a picture of a Cyrillic computer keyboard to my laptop, I'm not really using Russian on a regular basis so I have to make an effort to ensure I can remember the words I've already learnt. A technique I've found useful is to think of an English word or set of words that sounds a bit like a Russian word I'm trying to memorise (the results are often hilarious.) Unfortunately this doesn't guarantee I'll remember what the word is meant to mean!
I'd be interested to know what techniques other people use to memorise things, whether it be music, a language, or something else entirely! And I'm particularly interested in what pianists think about muscle memory and whether it's a good thing or not.
Although my visual memory isn't very good, I have a highly developed memory for touch. I use this (muscle memory) to memorise music, but it can also take on a different and rather bizarre form. I often form a memory of a particular sensation, such as the pain of a badly bruised toe or the ache from the prick of a needle, and this can be randomly triggered so I actually experience that sensation again, long after it originally ocurred. I can't make this happen at will and I can't figure out what causes it, but it's quite fascinating.
A short while ago I decided to learn Russian, because I love Russian literature, music and so forth and thought it would interesting to learn the language too. I've previously dabbled in Latin and Greek (a long time ago!) and, more recently, French. What I've discovered is that there are lots of parallels between music and language.
Learning the Russian Cyrillic script (which consists of 33 letters!) is rather like learning to read written music; learning grammar is like learning theory - harmony, counterpoint and structure; and learning vocabulary is basically memorising. However, I'm a lot better at memorising music than I am at memorising words, and the reason is that there is a physical, spacial dimension to learning a piece of music.
I know that different pianists have very different techniques of memorising, and I can really only speak for myself when I say that I rely almost entirely on muscle memory. That is, I form a memory of the spatial relationships between intervals, the way the keyboard feels under my hands, how much I have to stretch my fingers or reach with my arms to hit the right notes, and so forth. Of course I also make conscious decisions - 'here I have to play this note and that will lead me on to this section' - that sort of thing, but these are only momentary, and help me get through 'change-over points' in the musical structure. Once I've memorised a piece, I don't have to think about it - it just plays itself, allowing me to put as much feeling and expression into it as I like. In fact, as soon as I start thinking about what I'm doing, I'm likely to forget. My fingers know where to go, and thinking is a distraction.
I've heard a lot of people say that muscle memory is unreliable, and shouldn't be used for long pieces. Some people seem to be able to visualise the score in their head, but I have a very poor visual memory and although I could easily sing any of the pieces I'm learning at the moment, knowing what a piece sounds like does not equate to knowing where to put your fingers.
I can't consciously memorise an extensive section of music, either: I do, however, do this for very small sections that I'm having trouble remembering because they signal an important harmonic change in an otherwise uniform pattern that could be repeated endlessly without ever moving on. I have been known to start 'looping' a section of music like this (a notable example being Chopin's Etude Op. 25 No. 12, which can pretty much go on forever if you keep taking the 'wrong turn'!)
I often find it helpful to say to myself 'I have to play a B flat here' or 'This progression is a series of arpeggiated diminished 7th chords' to memorise an elusive passage. Once I've got it right enough times, I develop a spacial memory of it anyway and no longer need to give myself clues.
Memorising Russian vocabulary is a completely different matter! Although I've switched my Facebook and Twitter accounts to Russian and stuck a picture of a Cyrillic computer keyboard to my laptop, I'm not really using Russian on a regular basis so I have to make an effort to ensure I can remember the words I've already learnt. A technique I've found useful is to think of an English word or set of words that sounds a bit like a Russian word I'm trying to memorise (the results are often hilarious.) Unfortunately this doesn't guarantee I'll remember what the word is meant to mean!
I'd be interested to know what techniques other people use to memorise things, whether it be music, a language, or something else entirely! And I'm particularly interested in what pianists think about muscle memory and whether it's a good thing or not.
Tuesday, 10 July 2012
Composer series: Rachmaninoff
I have the Sydney International Piano Competition to thank for my obsession with Maurice Ravel. It was during the 2008 competition that I first heard a piece of Ravel which left a huge and lasting impression on me, and I've written a blog post about my discovery of that composer which you can find here.
At the time of writing, I'm thoroughly immersed in the 2012 SIPCA and once again this year's competition is gradually causing me to fall in love with another great composer whom a few years ago I knew very little about - Sergei Rachmaninoff.
Towards the end of 2011, I happened to hear Rachmaninoff's 2nd piano concerto, in quite an unusual context (I heard it in an art gallery as part of an installation.) Up until that point, I'd never particularly liked the piano concerto genre. Orchestral sound was, and still is, one of my least favorite musical textures, and to me a piano concerto was far too orchestral to be pleasant to listen to. But when I heard Rach 2 for the first time, I guess something about it must have resonated with me, because I became very interested in it.
I visited that art gallery while on a road trip to visit my grandfather in Brisbane, and while I was staying with him I found a CD of Rachmaninoff's 2nd piano concerto and played it. By this time, I'd decided quite firmly that I wanted to learn that concerto - I even told Grandad so! I can't remember what it was about Rach 2 that made such an impression on me at the time, but later when I was back in Melbourne I bought the 2-piano score.
So began my interest in Rachmaninoff.
This increased when I heard his famous C-sharp minor prelude on ABC Classic FM. They were promoting a CD of Ashkenazy playing the complete Rach preludes. Ashkenazy is one of my heroes, and I instantly fell in love with the music - in fact, I was quite astonished by it. I must have heard that famous prelude before as it seemed familiar, but perhaps I'd never really listened to it properly. I immediately decided to order the CD (I discovered when it arrived that the booklet contained some lovely pictures of a very young Ashkenazy!)
When I listened to the complete preludes, I was struck by their originality. No other composer sounds like Rachmaninoff, just like no other composer sounds like Prokofiev. I'd never heard anything like it, and it touched me in much the same way Ravel does - like I was hearing music that expressed exactly what was in my soul. Even the harmonies and textures that Rachmaninoff uses sometimes remind me of Ravel. And I'm intrigued by Rachmaninoff's very distinctive way of using chromaticism to create subtle, sometimes barely perceptible harmonic changes that somehow tug at your heart and make you feel like you're either falling into an endless abyss or floating up to heaven, depending on whether the modulation is descending or ascending.
Over these past few days I've heard a lot of Rachmaninoff in the Sydney International Piano competition, and all of it has left such an impression on me that since yesterday I've downloaded and printed out the entire Etudes-Tableaux, op. 33 and op. 39, and the entire Moments Musicaux! I followed the score when one competitor played the entire Etudes-Tableaux op. 33, which was very informative. I've also tried sight-reading some of the Etudes and most of the Moments Musicaux, which was great fun.
I feel like every piece of Rachmaninoff I've heard played by the competitors in these past few days is haunting me, just like Ravel's Une Barque Sur L'ocean haunted me after I first heard it in SIPCA four years ago. Listening to this competition is a wonderful, immersive experience during which a young musician like me can disover extraordinary new repertoire, and I'm looking forward to Round 4 when the competitors will play chamber music. I'm especially eager to hear the Ravel piano trio (which I can still remember Tatiana Kolesova playing, beautifully, in 2008) and Shostakovich's trio.
To finish, here are some of my favorite pieces of Rachmaninoff to date (including Rach 2, which I am now learning the middle movement of). This list will undoubtedly grow, as I'm still discovering Rachmaninoff's music. At the moment it's all piano music as you can probably tell! However, I'm currently waiting for a CD of the complete Rach symphonies to arrive in the mail...
2nd Piano Concerto
Etude-Tableaux Op. 39 No. 1
Etude-Tableaux Op. 39 No. 5
Etude-Tableaux Op. 39 No. 8
Etude-Tableaux Op. 33 No. 2
Etude-Tableaux Op. 33 No. 3
Etude-Tableaux Op. 33 No. 5
Etude-Tableaux Op. 33 No. 8
Moment Musicaux No. 1
Moment Musicaux No. 2
Moment Musicaux No. 3
Prelude in B Minor Op. 32 No. 10
Prelude in G minor Op. 32 No. 12
Vocalise
Symphonic Dances - 1
The Isle of the Dead
Rhapsody on a theme of Paganini
Symphony No. 1 - 4th mvt
At the time of writing, I'm thoroughly immersed in the 2012 SIPCA and once again this year's competition is gradually causing me to fall in love with another great composer whom a few years ago I knew very little about - Sergei Rachmaninoff.
Towards the end of 2011, I happened to hear Rachmaninoff's 2nd piano concerto, in quite an unusual context (I heard it in an art gallery as part of an installation.) Up until that point, I'd never particularly liked the piano concerto genre. Orchestral sound was, and still is, one of my least favorite musical textures, and to me a piano concerto was far too orchestral to be pleasant to listen to. But when I heard Rach 2 for the first time, I guess something about it must have resonated with me, because I became very interested in it.
I visited that art gallery while on a road trip to visit my grandfather in Brisbane, and while I was staying with him I found a CD of Rachmaninoff's 2nd piano concerto and played it. By this time, I'd decided quite firmly that I wanted to learn that concerto - I even told Grandad so! I can't remember what it was about Rach 2 that made such an impression on me at the time, but later when I was back in Melbourne I bought the 2-piano score.
So began my interest in Rachmaninoff.
This increased when I heard his famous C-sharp minor prelude on ABC Classic FM. They were promoting a CD of Ashkenazy playing the complete Rach preludes. Ashkenazy is one of my heroes, and I instantly fell in love with the music - in fact, I was quite astonished by it. I must have heard that famous prelude before as it seemed familiar, but perhaps I'd never really listened to it properly. I immediately decided to order the CD (I discovered when it arrived that the booklet contained some lovely pictures of a very young Ashkenazy!)
When I listened to the complete preludes, I was struck by their originality. No other composer sounds like Rachmaninoff, just like no other composer sounds like Prokofiev. I'd never heard anything like it, and it touched me in much the same way Ravel does - like I was hearing music that expressed exactly what was in my soul. Even the harmonies and textures that Rachmaninoff uses sometimes remind me of Ravel. And I'm intrigued by Rachmaninoff's very distinctive way of using chromaticism to create subtle, sometimes barely perceptible harmonic changes that somehow tug at your heart and make you feel like you're either falling into an endless abyss or floating up to heaven, depending on whether the modulation is descending or ascending.
Over these past few days I've heard a lot of Rachmaninoff in the Sydney International Piano competition, and all of it has left such an impression on me that since yesterday I've downloaded and printed out the entire Etudes-Tableaux, op. 33 and op. 39, and the entire Moments Musicaux! I followed the score when one competitor played the entire Etudes-Tableaux op. 33, which was very informative. I've also tried sight-reading some of the Etudes and most of the Moments Musicaux, which was great fun.
I feel like every piece of Rachmaninoff I've heard played by the competitors in these past few days is haunting me, just like Ravel's Une Barque Sur L'ocean haunted me after I first heard it in SIPCA four years ago. Listening to this competition is a wonderful, immersive experience during which a young musician like me can disover extraordinary new repertoire, and I'm looking forward to Round 4 when the competitors will play chamber music. I'm especially eager to hear the Ravel piano trio (which I can still remember Tatiana Kolesova playing, beautifully, in 2008) and Shostakovich's trio.
To finish, here are some of my favorite pieces of Rachmaninoff to date (including Rach 2, which I am now learning the middle movement of). This list will undoubtedly grow, as I'm still discovering Rachmaninoff's music. At the moment it's all piano music as you can probably tell! However, I'm currently waiting for a CD of the complete Rach symphonies to arrive in the mail...
2nd Piano Concerto
Etude-Tableaux Op. 39 No. 1
Etude-Tableaux Op. 39 No. 5
Etude-Tableaux Op. 39 No. 8
Etude-Tableaux Op. 33 No. 2
Etude-Tableaux Op. 33 No. 3
Etude-Tableaux Op. 33 No. 5
Etude-Tableaux Op. 33 No. 8
Moment Musicaux No. 1
Moment Musicaux No. 2
Moment Musicaux No. 3
Prelude in B Minor Op. 32 No. 10
Prelude in G minor Op. 32 No. 12
Vocalise
Symphonic Dances - 1
The Isle of the Dead
Rhapsody on a theme of Paganini
Symphony No. 1 - 4th mvt
Saturday, 23 June 2012
Learning Oiseaux Tristes
A few years ago - I'm not sure exactly when, but it seems like a long time ago - I started learning a piece of Ravel (with the guidance of my piano teacher.) Although Ravel is by far my favorite classical composer, most of his piano music is so hard that I hadn't been able to tackle any of it yet.
The piece I was learning was Oiseaux Tristes from the Miroirs. I can't remember why I chose this piece, but it is relatively short and quite slow, so it probably seemed less daunting to me than some of the other works. I was also very familiar with it from having listened to Robert Casadesus's Complete Piano Works of Ravel literally hundreds of times.
As a result, I plunged into learning the Oiseaux with a very clear idea of how it was meant to sound, and didn't need to pay much attention to a lot of the written-in time changes, dynamics and unusual rhythms because they were already firmly embedded in my mind. In fact, I only realised how strange the timing is quite recently while re-working the piece - I'd never noticed before that there are two time signatures in the right hand, for example!
So, I managed to learn almost all of Oiseaux Tristes, or at least familiarise myself with how it felt to play it. But there were two things that prevented me from working it up to a performance standard.
One was the very fast demisemiquaver passage that begins the climactic middle section of the piece. I'd be playing the whole thing through, going quite well, then I'd hit that passage and have to suddenly stop and haltingly play it at quarter-speed, completely disrupting the flow. I just couldn't figure out how anyone could play that passage - it seemed completely impossible to me, and I felt like giving up.
Slightly less terrifying, but still off-putting, was the 'ad lib' section near the end. More recently, I decided to learn this section properly, and succeeded. But that first demisemiquaver passage in the middle of the piece continued to stop me in my tracks every time.
A couple of weeks ago, my piano teacher Stephen announced that he was planning his annual students concert, and asked me what I wanted to play. I had no idea! There were only 3 weeks left till the concert, but I didn't want to just play all the same things I'd been working on for ages and already performed once or twice. I racked my brains.
One night I randomly decided to sit down at the piano and play through some of the pieces I particularly love, but haven't learnt properly, or can only play bits of. This is something I do every now and then to make sure I don't forget what I DO know of these works.
One of the things I played was the Ravel Miroirs. As I was playing Oiseaux Tristes, I suddenly thought, 'I could work this up and play it at my teacher's concert!' Why I thought of this I have no idea, but the idea stuck and at my next lesson I played the piece for Stephen, taking the opportunity to beg for assistance with the monstrous demisemiquaver passage that had been hindering my progress for so long.
'It's easy,' Stephen explained, demonstrating (while I shook my head in disbelief). 'You just put a thumb under here.'
I tried it and voila! It actually was easy. I was astonished! How could something so simple have eluded me for so long, meanwhile preventing me from learning this piece that I loved so much?! A week later I found I could play through the once-terrifying demisemiquaver passage without a glitch.
Today I performed Oiseaux Tristes for the first time, in my teacher's concert. It was part of a diverse selection that included Bach and Bartok. To start with I was only going to play the Bach from memory, but two days before the concert I tried playing the other pieces from memory and found that not only could I do it, but my performance was much better as a result. So I decided to play all three pieces from memory.
Performing the Ravel was quite a new experience for me. Usually I feel oddly detached when I'm performing, as if my fingers are a machine over which I have no control and are completely disconnected from my brain. I played a movement from Bach's 1st keyboard partita (which you can hear here) right before the Ravel, which made it even weirder, as I was definitely playing the Bach in 'auto-pilot' mode. But when I started playing the Ravel, I forgot about the audience, and the fact that I was performing - forgot about everything except the music. It was very intense and emotionally draining. While this is something that often happens when I'm playing at home without any performance pressure or nerves, it's never happened in a performance before.
Inevitably I didn't play it perfectly, and I would very much like to make a 'studio' recording of this work later on (along with a video) so I can get a perfect take. In the meantime, here is the recording of today's performance of Oiseaux Tristes......
(Below is a photo of me playing on the day. Judging from the position of my hands I'd guess that I'm playing the last few bars of Oiseaux Tristes, but I could be completely wrong!)
The piece I was learning was Oiseaux Tristes from the Miroirs. I can't remember why I chose this piece, but it is relatively short and quite slow, so it probably seemed less daunting to me than some of the other works. I was also very familiar with it from having listened to Robert Casadesus's Complete Piano Works of Ravel literally hundreds of times.
As a result, I plunged into learning the Oiseaux with a very clear idea of how it was meant to sound, and didn't need to pay much attention to a lot of the written-in time changes, dynamics and unusual rhythms because they were already firmly embedded in my mind. In fact, I only realised how strange the timing is quite recently while re-working the piece - I'd never noticed before that there are two time signatures in the right hand, for example!
So, I managed to learn almost all of Oiseaux Tristes, or at least familiarise myself with how it felt to play it. But there were two things that prevented me from working it up to a performance standard.
One was the very fast demisemiquaver passage that begins the climactic middle section of the piece. I'd be playing the whole thing through, going quite well, then I'd hit that passage and have to suddenly stop and haltingly play it at quarter-speed, completely disrupting the flow. I just couldn't figure out how anyone could play that passage - it seemed completely impossible to me, and I felt like giving up.
Slightly less terrifying, but still off-putting, was the 'ad lib' section near the end. More recently, I decided to learn this section properly, and succeeded. But that first demisemiquaver passage in the middle of the piece continued to stop me in my tracks every time.
A couple of weeks ago, my piano teacher Stephen announced that he was planning his annual students concert, and asked me what I wanted to play. I had no idea! There were only 3 weeks left till the concert, but I didn't want to just play all the same things I'd been working on for ages and already performed once or twice. I racked my brains.
One night I randomly decided to sit down at the piano and play through some of the pieces I particularly love, but haven't learnt properly, or can only play bits of. This is something I do every now and then to make sure I don't forget what I DO know of these works.
One of the things I played was the Ravel Miroirs. As I was playing Oiseaux Tristes, I suddenly thought, 'I could work this up and play it at my teacher's concert!' Why I thought of this I have no idea, but the idea stuck and at my next lesson I played the piece for Stephen, taking the opportunity to beg for assistance with the monstrous demisemiquaver passage that had been hindering my progress for so long.
'It's easy,' Stephen explained, demonstrating (while I shook my head in disbelief). 'You just put a thumb under here.'
I tried it and voila! It actually was easy. I was astonished! How could something so simple have eluded me for so long, meanwhile preventing me from learning this piece that I loved so much?! A week later I found I could play through the once-terrifying demisemiquaver passage without a glitch.
Today I performed Oiseaux Tristes for the first time, in my teacher's concert. It was part of a diverse selection that included Bach and Bartok. To start with I was only going to play the Bach from memory, but two days before the concert I tried playing the other pieces from memory and found that not only could I do it, but my performance was much better as a result. So I decided to play all three pieces from memory.
Performing the Ravel was quite a new experience for me. Usually I feel oddly detached when I'm performing, as if my fingers are a machine over which I have no control and are completely disconnected from my brain. I played a movement from Bach's 1st keyboard partita (which you can hear here) right before the Ravel, which made it even weirder, as I was definitely playing the Bach in 'auto-pilot' mode. But when I started playing the Ravel, I forgot about the audience, and the fact that I was performing - forgot about everything except the music. It was very intense and emotionally draining. While this is something that often happens when I'm playing at home without any performance pressure or nerves, it's never happened in a performance before.
Inevitably I didn't play it perfectly, and I would very much like to make a 'studio' recording of this work later on (along with a video) so I can get a perfect take. In the meantime, here is the recording of today's performance of Oiseaux Tristes......
(Below is a photo of me playing on the day. Judging from the position of my hands I'd guess that I'm playing the last few bars of Oiseaux Tristes, but I could be completely wrong!)
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