# 15 — PEDAL POINTS
I have loved listening to classical music for as long as I can remember, but in my childhood there were certain times when the music sounded scary and I had to fast-forward the CD player until the main melody returned again. And yes, I mean “scary” in the sense that I was uncomfortable and frightened, like how a young child might be afraid of the dark. Back then, I wasn’t sure how or why I felt that way. Now that my listening instincts are more properly developed and honed, I’m able to clearly identify such passages that once terrified me in my youth. Although those passages carried different musical phrases and sounded different, they all shared a common device in composition: the pedal point.
The pedal point is a musical section in which one note underlies a bunch of stuff in the upper registers/voices for a significant duration. The etymology of the term comes from the pipe organ: The organist would push down and sustain one pedal with his foot while playing all the higher notes with his fingers. However, this compositional device is not exclusive to organ music. It is most commonly found in the development sections of pieces, particularly anything that utilizes a sonata-allegro structure.
Brahms, Johannes (1833-1897). Sonata for Violin and Piano, Op. 108, mm. 84-89.
In the example above, the development section in the sonata-allegro form has a clear pedal point: The note A — which, in the key of D Minor, functions as the dominant — is sustained in the left hand while the upper two staves handle the more prominent musical motifs. That is just a six-measure excerpt, by the way; the pedal point continues all the way up to m. 130, where the recap begins and the music returns to the home key of D Minor.
The pedal point is a useful tool not only for reinforcing a specific note, but also for highlighting a specific section of a piece. However, in the case of the first movement in Brahms’ Op. 108, the pedal point is sustaining a “wrong note.” In addition, the development section is like an experimental laboratory for the composer’s genius and creativity; he can take the musical motifs from the opening exposition and twist them however he wants; he is “developing” those motifs in a section of unsettling instability and tension. Now, imagine all of that with an underlying pedal point. That’s a lot of dissonance right there, with an overwhelming abundance of clashing notes. Although a pedal point might seem like a source of stability, the sustained A doesn’t alleviate any discomfort because my ears established earlier that the home key is D Minor. The longer the note A is sustained, the further away my ears feel from home. Finally, after 46 measures of scary-sounding development, I hear the pedal point slowly dissipate and the opening melody return again at m. 130, like rays of sunshine pierce through the clouds and brush them aside to reveal the blue skies after a seemingly non-stop thunderstorm.
# 14 — MY FAVORITE VIOLINIST
On the Notes app of my phone, I keep a list of all the concerts I have watched and update it whenever I attend one. Within each entry I’ll include the performer’s name and repertoire, and I’ll add asterisks next to any noteworthy pieces or artists. One that remains fresh in my memory is violinist Clara-Jumi Kang’s performance of Beethoven’s (1770-1827) Violin Concerto, Op. 61 with the Pacific Symphony, which took place at the Renée and Henry Segerstrom Concert Hall in early 2020. Five years later to this day, I still remember it very well.
This concert was special for a few reasons. For starters, the year 2020 marked the 250th birthday of the German composer, and there was great anticipation of his oeuvre to be included in concert programs all around the world: Almost every orchestra had to include his Ninth Symphony in their season finale, several pianists recorded all thirty-two (32) of his sonatas… you get the idea. For me, I was looking forward especially to that Pacific Symphony concert since I had not listened to Beethoven’s Violin Concerto before. Back then, I also didn’t know of the guest violinist, so I was interested to hear what her playing would sound like. It was also nice that a close friend of mine could come with me to the concert so that we could both enjoy the music together. It’s the same type of sentiment from people who say, “Food tastes better when shared with others.” I know — I’ve given that comparison before, but I can’t stress enough how wonderful that feeling is! So, the lights dim, both Maestro Carl St.Clair and violinist Clara-Jumi Kang march onto the stage, they and the orchestra perform Beethoven’s Violin Concerto, and I have to say… I was blown away. If I had to condense my first impressions in one sentence, then it would have to be this: Clara Jumi-Kang’s cadenza in the first movement was perfect, the second movement sounds like a beautiful hymn I would hear in church, and the third movement is the happiest-sounding thing I can imagine.
Although my first introduction to her playing was through that Op. 61 and although I would like to tell you all about the entire work, I’ll focus mainly on her execution of the cadenza in the opening movement. Before that solo was about twenty minutes of music shared between the violinist and orchestra, so my ears became accustomed to easily hearing a sound created by so many musicians on the stage. It wasn’t quite as lush nor “in your face” as, say, the Germanic Romanticism of Mahler’s symphonies, but still — I felt as if I didn’t need to listen attentively (even though I really was) in order to successfully pick out the musical phrases and recognize the structural intricacies of the concerto’s sonata-allegro form. As soon as it was just Clara-Jumi Kang playing the cadenza, I immediately became drawn in to her playing; I felt myself slightly leaning forward in my seat just so that I could pay more attention to her performance. What she accomplished within that three-minute solo felt like a musical universe of its own — she took the entirety of the first movement’s musical form and condensed it down into a technically perfect performance of the cadenza, restating the main motifs with a touch of virtuosity. Her intonation was virtually flawless, especially during the double stops (playing two notes simultaneously on two different strings), and the depth and expression of her sound was incredible. I couldn’t believe how she managed to get her violin — a seemingly small wooden instrument — to sound so grand, majestic, and divine like that in such a beautiful concert hall for thousands of spectators.
My favorite aspects of Clara-Jumi Kang’s style are her razor-sharp sense of intonation and sparse use of vibrato. I can’t really think of any other violinist who just plays in tune so effortlessly, to be honest. She doesn’t slide, either. A few weeks ago I discussed how some violinists intentionally play a note slightly flat and then subtly slide up to the desired pitch — all for a bel canto effect. While that technique sometimes resonates well with me at the right moment, Clara-Jumi Kang’s directness with intonation is always a pleasure to hear. She is also careful with vibrato. When I listen to her playing, there is never a moment in which I get distracted and think, “She’s using too much vibrato.” It is fairly modest compared to that of her contemporaries, but she always does so in excellent taste. All of this praise about her style is not exclusive to Beethoven’s Op. 61, by the way. I’ve been listening to her recording of Brahms’ (1833-1897) Third Violin Sonata, Op. 108 with pianist Yeol Eum Son, who I also recently watched perform with Pacific Symphony on a separate occasion. Their rendition of that piece is fantastic, and I highly recommend you listen to it. Just listen to any music with Clara-Jumi Kang, for that matter.
Below is a video recording of her performance of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto with the Warsaw Philharmonic Orchestra in early 2020. No matter how good your headphones are, listening to a mere recording won’t do her playing any justice. This, however, is phenomenal. Clara-Jumi Kang’s playing in this video sounds exactly how I remember hearing it in Segerstrom Hall — the most beautiful, captivating sound on a violin I have ever heard. I’ll never forget that performance.
# 13 — Death Anniversaries
I’m aware that some of my recent blog writings have explored the reality of death. Just a little over a week ago I wrote a short blog entry titled “The Tragic Virtuosi,” in which I discussed some of the great musicians who died at such young ages. Before that writing, I provided a lengthy analysis of the concluding scene from “Watership Down” (1978); the principal character’s death and its consequences were all captured in a single, uncut shot. I suppose this discussion of a difficult topic began shortly after my dog’s passing, which occurred exactly seven weeks ago (also, seven blog entries ago). He holds a special place in my heart and always will, but since then I’ve had plenty of time to reflect on many of those in my life who have also passed away even long before him.
Now, let me do a quick sidebar here and mention birthdays. I’ve always celebrated them, whether it’s for myself or for a loved one, but I do so much more for my loved ones. What I’m about to describe is something that I don’t really see that much among my loved ones as we get older, but when I was a kid, I remember some of my classmates and friends had very negative outlooks on birthdays. The general sentiment they shared went something along the lines of, “Why do you say ‘happy birthday?’ What’s ‘happy’ about birthdays? They just mean you’re another year closer to death.” When I heard them say stuff like that back then, I thought they were sad and needed some friends (and I still think a little that way today). But now that I’m older and hopefully wiser, I’ve wanted to take that perspective and put a much more positive spin on the inverse situation of death anniversaries.
If those aforementioned people choose to have the glass-half-empty attitude about birthdays, then — by their logic, even though they are technically correct — they can also accept the reality of hope if they wish to do so. As birthdays bring them a year away from their birth, they also bring them a year closer to death, which I strongly believe will lead them to the afterlife. With death anniversaries, I used to have the instinct of grieving and mourning. In the case of my dog, Fitz, who entered the Eternal Life seven weeks ago, I could argue that his surviving family are seven weeks closer to being reunited with him. This logic can be applied to any kind of annual celebrations/observations, but the interpretation of such occasions may vary based on the individual’s outlook on life. No matter how much it might reflect tragedy, there will always be the hope of eventual reunion with the departed in the kingdom of heaven.
ENTRY TWELVE
THIS PIECE MADE RACHMANINOFF CRY…
In graduate school, I took a music course called “Introduction to Research and Bibliography” and the main assignment was — you guessed it — to assemble a comprehensive paper and presentation on any musical topic of my choice. It wasn’t necessarily for a doctoral dissertation, but the course was designed as a precursor to such demanding and far more important projects like that. A few weeks into the semester, my professor and I agreed that I should do a presentation and paper on Sergei Rachmaninoff’s (1873-1943) Fourth Piano Concerto, Op. 40 and explore the work’s complicated and lengthy history of its many revisions. As I did my research, I learned so much more than I could have ever expected. Not only did I compare the three different versions of the concerto; I also got some fascinating insight on the composer’s career throughout the last decades of his life.
We all know Rachmaninoff was a piano virtuoso. I mean, you should just try playing most of his compositions and you’ll know what I’m talking about. Anyway, he spent the first half of his musical career enjoying a perfect balance between performing and composing, often premiering several of his own works in solo recitals. It still blows my mind that in his programs he often included works by Chopin and other great composers before him. The year 1917, however, witnessed the Russian Revolution, and the composer’s home country became a land of social unrest and political turmoil. Amidst such turbulent times, Rachmaninoff and his family fled to Western Europe, where several nations began rebuilding after the conclusion of the first World War. What did these crazy times mean for Rachmaninoff? Well, he had to put all his composition projects on hold and instead focus on performing. Of course, he was still successful as a concert pianist and enjoyed touring throughout Western Europe and the United States, often performing his own concertos as a soloist in collaboration with the world’s most-renowned orchestras. One concert, in particular, became an emotional experience for him. Following a presumably successful performance of his own 2nd Concerto in C Minor with the London Symphony Orchestra (LSO) in 1938, he took a seat to enjoy the second half of the program as a mere spectator. In that second half was the premiere of an orchestral work Serenade to Music by Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958), who dedicated his composition to the LSO conductor Sir Henry Joseph Wood (1869-1944). Lots of big names in one concert alone: London Symphony Orchestra, Rachmaninoff, Vaughan Williams, and Maestro Wood. Imagine watching that. In fact, imagine you could see Rachmaninoff from your own seat… and you could see him shedding tears upon listening to Serenade to Music.
Now, to be honest, I’m not quite sure how to accurately explain the premise of the orchestral work. All I know for sure is that the text of the music is loosely based on a scene from Shakespeare’s play The Merchant of Venice. Within that scene, the characters explore the concept of “music of the spheres,” a very early scientific explanation for the movement of the sun, moon, and planets. The fundamental observation is that their trajectories in the celestial skies are consistent and can be logically understood with the support of mathematics. Think about how moon phases occur at regular time intervals (months), so there ought to be an explanation for that, right? That, right there, is just one example of such curiosity long before the Enlightenment when the greatest scientists and mathematicians got all the answers. Well, most of them, at least. So, all of that pertains to the way we observe patterns in the celestial sky. At the same time, the way we recognize certain combinations of pitches as being aurally pleasing to the ear must also be mathematically explained. For example, if you play the notes A4 and A3, then you get the interval of a “perfect eighth” which sounds very consonant. On the other hand, play two notes only a semi-tone away from each other, and you get a painfully dissonant interval of a “minor second.” In the first example, with the “perfect eighth” interval, the two frequencies of the notes provide a mathematically pleasing proportion: A4 is 440 Hz and A3 is 220 Hz. It is a very, very far-fetched connection between the fields that we know today as astronomy (movements of objects in space) and physics (soundwaves and their frequencies), but that’s the basis of the “music of the spheres” phenomenon. I think. Anyway, I really like astronomy and would love to tell you more about this after I’ve done my due research, but I need to get back to the piece in discussion here.
Serenade to Music is a love letter to music, really. It’s not just the text itself that pays homage to such art, but it’s also the fact that Vaughan Williams dedicated the piece to Maestro Wood, who was celebrating his 50-year anniversary as a professional conductor. The music itself is beautiful, of course. It begins with an orchestral statement of the theme which would intermittently recur throughout the piece. Think of it like a sonata’s “rondo” form, in which the main theme returns after a contrasting musical episode. The theme of the Serenade unifies the whole work, while different lines and phrases of Shakespeare’s text are scattered throughout. You know what it reminds me of, actually? It reminds me of this piece by J. S. Bach (1685-1750) titled "Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” The cantus firmus, a fancy term to describe the actual hymn or tune, overlaps with the underlying orchestral theme that repeats several times. That “chorale prelude” style of musical form has much resemblance in Vaughan Williams’ Serenade to Music. Unlike the harmonic and structural strictness of the Baroque period, the Serenade is certainly much more Impressionistic, often exploring distant tonal centers during the musical episodes that interrupt the main orchestral theme. The overall work is in D Major, but occasionally the music will temporarily shift to these very distant keys such as B-flat Major or C-sharp Minor. It sounds just as colorful as you might expect from a lush orchestral work like this one. Vaughan Williams eventually completed a separate version of the Serenade for solo violin and orchestra, which I personally prefer, but the one that Rachmaninoff heard was the version for vocal ensemble and orchestra. Again, he cried after listening to its premiere. Here it is:
ENTRY ELEVEN
THE TRAGIC VIRTUOSI
The world of classical music has witnessed a handful of promising musicians whose careers were short-lived due to unfortunate circumstances. There is one who immediately comes to mind: Jacqueline du Pré (1945-1987), one of the greatest cellists to have ever graced the stage. As a pianist who frequently collaborates with cellists, I find myself consulting her recordings for inspiration. Not only did she play alongside the world’s finest orchestras; she was also married to and frequently performed with Daniel Barenboim, whose name — I hope — is known by us pianists (and, frankly, all musicians). Du Pré developed multiple sclerosis, a neurological disease that greatly reduced the sensitivity and strength of her extremities, particularly her hands and fingers. After more than a decade without any performances, she died at the age of 42.
Even earlier than her passing was the death of Dinu Lipatti (1917-1950), a Romanian pianist who I didn’t even know about until my film professor in college told me about him. When I looked up Lipatti’s name, a recording of Chopin’s Sonata No. 3 in B Minor, Op. 58 came up, and… not many other results appeared. I kind of expected that, given his career was at its peak during a time of limited and/or developing recording technology. I haven’t even come across any video footage of him playing at the piano. What I wasn’t expecting to learn of him, however, was his shockingly short lifespan due to Hodgkin’s disease. He was only 33 years old.
Although there are several more like them, the last of the tragic virtuosi whom I’d like to discuss is the American violinist Michael Rabin (1936-1972). During my annual physical exam a few years ago, my doctor mentioned that he used to be a serious violinist before ultimately going to med school, and he told me to “go listen to some recordings by Michael Rabin.” Doctor’s orders. I searched the violinist’s name, and — again — not many results showed up. Out of the few recordings that were available, there was only one of a piece that I was familiar with: the beloved “Meditation” from Jules Massenet’s opera Thaïs. The moment I hit the “play” button on that recording, the only expectation I had was what the notes will be since I knew the composition itself. I had no expectations of the sound quality, and certainly no expectations for what Michael Rabin’s interpretation would sound like. Heck, I didn’t even know of him until my own doctor mentioned his name. As soon as I heard the violinist’s first note, that sustained F-sharp, I instantly knew it would be a sublime performance. Throughout the rest of the recording, I slowly came to the realization that I had never heard any other violinist sound like that. Not only was his intonation flawless, but Rabin also employed such a bel canto style, making his instrument truly sound like a singing voice. The way he tastefully did the most subtle, upward glissandi to the long notes was just impeccable. For example, if the note on the score was a C-sharp, then he would purposefully play the note a hair flat for a millisecond and then gently “slide” up to the correct pitch. He did that sparingly throughout the piece, but those moments added so much more emotional depth to his interpretation. It sounded as if his violin was crying out a song in anguish with its final breaths, like a swan who sings his one and only song shortly before his death in Greek mythology. It very well could have been, because Rabin’s career as a performer would soon come to an end. During one of his performances shortly thereafter, he lost his balance and fell. That incident was the first of many indicators of a neurological condition which he would have to suffer with for the rest of his life. A few years later, with almost no new recordings nor many public appearances, he experienced an epileptic reaction inside his home, causing him to collapse and suffer a head injury upon impact from falling. He died at the age of 35 years. To my knowledge, the details of his neurological illness remain a mystery, but there is nothing mysterious about what could have been with such a promising musician like him. My eyes fill with some tears whenever I hear his playing. A real pity, really.
ENTRY TEN
SONATAS FOR PIANO AND…
This one will be short and sweet. I’m currently listening to a recording of Rachmaninoff’s (1873-1943) Sonata for Cello and Piano, Op. 19, and I couldn’t help but scroll through the comments (on YouTube) to see what other listeners had to say about the music and/or the performers’ interpretation of it. Most of them were positive, but I was disappointed by the number of comments whose authors joked about how the piano part seems much more difficult than that of the cello. The main argument they suggest is that “the cellist only has to play one line of notes while the pianist plays gazillions of chords and their fingers will bleed by the end of the piece.” I’m certainly paraphrasing, but that’s the gist of it.
The problem with such comparisons is that the parts belong to two different instruments, each of which carries its fair share of difficulties. First of all, we pianists are blessed with an instrument that allows us to recreate the sound of a full orchestra, as I’ve said in quite a few of my previous blog posts at this point. It is actually expected that we will play many more notes in comparison to our musical partners whose instruments have limits. Cellists, for example, are stuck with C2 as the lowest note on their instrument (assuming, of course, they don’t do any extended technique methods like loosening the C-string). They also can’t play nor sustain more than two notes simultaneously because of how the four strings are shaped around the bridge. Wind instrumentalists and vocalists have it even worse — they can only play/sing one note at a time AND they have to practice breath control.
Another thing: We pianists don’t have to worry about playing in tune; heck, we hire tuners to work on our instruments. Cellists and all the others within the strings family are cursed with having to practice their intonation. If their fingers are ever-so-slightly out of position, then those wrong notes will stick out like sore thumbs. Oh, wait. I could also argue that it is a blessing for cellists and their strings siblings to take charge of their own intonation. For example, a great musician can deliberately start a note slightly flat and then subtly slide up for a more emotional effect in his sound. Did I mention that they can also increase their volume while sustaining a note? Wind instrumentalists and vocalists can also do that. When we pianists strike a chord or any note, we have no shot at comfortably sustaining it; the sound inevitably sinks like a stone in water. Again, all of these restrictions are possible in the absence of crazy extended techniques. In other words, all of this stuff is true if we play the instruments conventionally.
I barely scratched the surface of this topic, but my main rebuttal against those YouTube comments on Rachmaninoff’s Op. 19 is this: The cellist’s and pianist’s parts and responsibilities are different and should not be compared. It’s not as if the piece will sound 15% complete if the piano part is removed, as those comments imply. The piece doesn’t sound any less complete in the absence of one part over the other, for they both complement each other perfectly.
ENTRY NINE
MY FAVORITE DEPICTION OF DEATH IN FILM
The reality of death and the afterlife is something I wrap my mind around every day. Not to say that I wish death upon myself; rather, I approach such a topic with curiosity, hoping for a sense of relief and peace. A few weeks ago, I wrote about a dream that I had of my dog, Fitz. Even though it was comforting, his visit had me recalling some death scenes as portrayed in film. There is one that stands out: “Watership Down” (1978). It is an excellent movie and I highly encourage you to watch it, but below are my detailed thoughts on the conclusion. I will focus mostly on the technical aspects and use some film jargon, but my objective here is to connect my observations of the scene with my feelings and beliefs of death.
In the filmmaking process, there are several choices for how a director might want the audience to interpret the story. The editor and cinematographer have much responsibility here because of the myriad decisions they must make when it comes to how something should ultimately look. To keep things simple, let’s analogously explore the concept of photography and social media. I just cooked a super-delicious pasta and I want to take a photo of it. Should I zoom in closely to only the food, or should I zoom out and leave some space around the plate of food within the frame of the shot? At what angle should I take it? How much and what kind of light should I use? These are some of the important questions, especially if my goal is to garner as many likes and reactions as possible. Jokes aside, the art of filmmaking actually works the same way — the editors and cinematographers must decide how an action ought to be shown on the screen in order to draw out from the audience whatever emotional reactions the director wants.
“Watership Down” has one of the most beautiful endings not just in animation, but in all film. In fact, the concluding scene’s first shot alone, which lasts approximately 27 seconds, is enough to foreshadow the principal character’s impact on the overall story. It begins with a downward tilt, vertically scanning a tree and depicting the passage of time and seasons by showing the fall of leaves. At the end of the downward tilt is the final frame of this first shot, which shows three things: the base of the tree, a group of rabbits next to it, and a rabbit who appears to be alone. In the foreground is the elderly rabbit, Hazel, who is enjoying his last supper away from the others. In the background is the younger generation of rabbits who are enjoying peace and harmony around the warren, Watership Down, which Hazel had fought for earlier throughout the film. In the final few seconds of this same shot, Hazel slowly limps away through the right-hand side — thus exiting the composition of the frame in the process — and only the warren and its rabbits remain in the picture. Again, all of this was shown in one, uncut shot, about 27 seconds in duration. Although the story could end here, the subsequent shots will be necessary for exploring the consequences of death and how it will affect the departed and their loved ones. The rest of this scene will also provide emotional closure not only for Hazel, but also for us viewers.
Continuing with the analysis of the final scene, the next few shots focus only on Hazel and the mystical “Black Rabbit of Death,” whom we might interpret as the Grim Reaper. When the Black Rabbit invites him to join the afterlife, Hazel turns to face his warren. The scene cuts to the next shot, which is essentially the same composition of the frame from the first shot, again showing Watership Down and its inhabitants. This suggests that Hazel’s visual perspective is aligned with ours; in other words, Hazel acknowledges the peaceful warren just as we are seeing it also. As foreshadowed, he is no longer in the picture this time — remember, he moved out of the frame during the final few seconds of the first shot, as I described earlier. In other words, if you compare the two shots at the 22-second mark (0:22) and the 70-second mark (1:10), the only difference is Hazel’s inclusion in the first shot. From our viewpoint, the next generation of rabbits continue to live peacefully despite the absence of Hazel later on. As Hazel gives one last look at his warren and his family, the voice of the Black Rabbit is heard saying, “You needn’t worry about them. They’ll be alright.” The scene returns to the shot of Hazel alone, who is comforted by the Black Rabbit’s words of reassurance and accepts his invitation to the afterlife. The final shots of the scene show Hazel’s spirit and the Black Rabbit flying in tandem around Watership Down before ultimately ascending to the heavens. Although the mystical spirit's presence and calling might have troubled Hazel, he embraced it in a state of peace and comfort, knowing that he led his own rabbits to a safe warren and that there will be “thousands like them” as the Black Rabbit promised him.
Hazel lived a fulfilling life and accomplished his mission, and so did my dog, Fitz. He was always loyal to me and my family, and he lived a great fourteen (14) years with us — doing everything from barking amidst our most joyous moments to comforting us in times of great distress. The film’s depiction of Hazel’s acceptance of fate and ascension to heaven is how I imagine my dog thought when it was time for us to say goodbye to him. Although my family and I spilled tears at the moment of his passing, I hope Fitz is now watching us carry on with our lives in peace and harmony. If it’s God will that I’m allowed there, then I can’t wait to give my dog a big hug when I enter the kingdom of heaven.
ENTRY EIGHT
IMPROVISATION WITH CHRISTMAS CAROLS
Last week, we discussed the topic of orchestral reductions and the pianist’s role regarding interpretation of such transcriptions. The main takeaway was the importance of re-imagination — taking all the individual orchestral parts and combining them into something that will support the soloist(s). Albeit most orchestral reductions are written down on a score for the pianist to follow, but it would be acceptable to make changes here and there for the sake of matching the original orchestral sound more closely. There is a clear element of creativity involved in that department, but this past week I have enjoyed dabbling with popular Christmas carols at the piano: “Silent Night” and “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” to name a few. I know how the songs go, but there are too many musical adaptations for me to keep track of. If anything, I certainly know how to sing the soprano part for these carols, no matter what choral arrangement the composer chooses. My vocal range is bass, but I still feel most comfortable singing the soprano part, because that melodic line is most recognizable for me (and for many others, I’m sure).
With these carols stuck in my head this past Advent season, I’ve extracted the soprano parts and played them on the piano. Each song has different verses (different text/lyrics), but the melodic consistency appeals to me because of its repetitiveness and simplicity. Let’s take “Silent Night” as an example. When I play it at the piano, I turn the song into a theme-and-variations type of transcription. In my re-imagination, the first verse is the singular soprano melody, played in the right hand. The next verse has that same melody in the right hand, but with the addition of supportive harmony in the left hand via chords and arpeggios. The third verse is a little more complicated, with some changes to the main melody by adding ornaments (trills, grace notes, etc.). At this point, after a few verses, I’ve developed a pretty decent understanding of the song’s structure: I’ve established the chord progression, rhythm, and melody; now I can take a few more liberties with the subsequent verses. In the fourth variation, I can have the hands switch roles by transferring the melody to the left and the accompaniment to the right. Or, I could be more daring with the chord progression while still somehow preserving the original melody.
No matter how the music sounds after many verses of improvisation, the creative process is ultimately grounded in how well I know the original melody’s rhythmic structure. In the case of “Silent Night,” each verse is twelve measures long with a meter signature of 6/8 (6 beats per measure, with beats 1 and 4 as the stronger pulses). This understanding gives me the freedom to gradually stray from the original theme while relying on my “internal clock" to keep track of how much of the verse I have left to play. By the umpteenth variation, the music might sound so out there and ridiculous that I’m not sure if the audience will even recognize any resemblance of the original “Silent Night” melody anymore. Even if I could be that creative with improvisation in the wonderful world of Christmas carols, I don’t imagine myself going that far away from the source material.
Merry Christmas, and I wish you a wonderful holiday season with your loved ones.
ENTRY SEVEN
ORCHESTRAL REDUCTIONS
One of the main aspects of collaborative piano is the use of orchestral reductions. A “reduction” is loosely defined as the combination of all orchestral parts, adapted for solo piano. These are most common for instrumental concerti (i.e. concerti for violin and orchestra), but can also be used for rehearsals in ballet and opera scenes. Let’s consider The Nutcracker, for example. In the second act of this beloved ballet comes the “Pas de deux,” a four-movement section in which two ballet dancers perform a mix of duets and solos. If they needed to practice their choreography with music, then it would be most practical to do so with a pianist who can play a simplified version of the original music. Despite the absence of a full orchestra and all its members, the pianist can imitate an orchestral sound and emphasize the important musical cues for the dancers to listen for as they practice. The real orchestra would, of course, be ready to perform as soon as the full ballet production is ready to be presented on the stage.
What I am about to say is something that I wrote about in a previous blog post, but the piano is such a special instrument because of the myriad musical voices it can handle simultaneously. Thus, the solo performer has the potential to create a sound that imitates at least a small chamber music group (i.e. the “Italian Concerto” by J. S. Bach). For the bigger and fuller orchestral sound, we have Romantic-period composer Franz Liszt (1811-1886) to thank for that: He composed several solo piano transcriptions (which are insanely difficult!) based on operas such as Mozart’s “Don Giovanni.” There are many other great composers who wrote works in a similar style. Again, the art of transcribing ensemble music into solo piano is nothing new. However, the interpretation of it—especially in the context of rehearsing with others—is the challenge that confuses collaborative pianists, including me sometimes.
For instance, a lot of orchestral reductions don’t even come from the original composers. Thankfully, most of them are pianistic and indeed comfortable for the fingers, but man… quite a few of them are incredibly awkward to play. So awkward to the point where you can tell that the person who wrote it didn’t attempt to play it at the piano before publication. Another problem is that some of them, despite being playable, are just too dang hard. Well, I guess that’s kind of expected; after all, it IS a reduction of several orchestral parts for one pianist to be in charge of. Now, you might think, “But Matthew, the spotlight is on the soloist(s), so you can omit some of the notes while still preserving the important musical lines and melodies for them to listen for.” And I would promptly say to you, “You fell right into the trap of thinking it is okay to remove notes.” Seriously, it is best to play all the notes. Heck, you should add notes whenever possible. If there’s a loud melody that you think would sound better if you played it as a set of parallel octaves, then go for it. If there’s a note(s) that is tied over the span of several measures, then maybe you should ignore the ties and actually play the note(s) softly again to ensure that the sound doesn’t completely go out. That happens a lot in introductory passages, where double basses and cellos softly sustain a single note in support of an aria-like melody that is played by the soloist.
Now, that sounds oddly specific, and that’s the point — I only know that because I recently collaborated with a cellist in a performance of the Cello Concerto in D Minor, written by French composer Édouard Lalo (1823-1892). When I got that request to accompany that piece, I didn’t even bother looking at the score of the orchestral reduction. Instead, I immediately listened to a recording of the original piece and internalized the overall sound of it. Only after completing that all-important first step of listening did I then consult the music and realize which and when specific instruments were being imitated in the reduction. In essence, I went straight to the source material (in this case, a recording of the cello concerto with a full orchestra) and attempted to see the connections between what I heard in the recording and what I saw in the reduction. Whenever I found it appropriate and necessary, I added notes in an effort to preserve the orchestral sound as closely as possible. Overall, the most important aspect of playing a reduction is inspiring the soloist(s) by giving them a solid foundation of sound for them to enjoy and build their own music off of. That can’t be found solely from the reduction itself; it can only be discovered from absorbing the original work and truly listening to it. The collaboration between the pianist and the soloist(s) is a temporary partnership that helps the latter prepare for the ultimate, final step: the performance with the full orchestra.
ENTRY SIX
WRITING FROM THE HEART
I just had this dream. I was comforting my family upstairs as they were trying to get some sleep, just about an hour after putting our dog, Fitz, down. I needed to step away because they were emotional wrecks, so I went downstairs. Of course, I was sad while walking around and looking down at Fitz’s belongings, such as his bed, toys, and dishes for food and water. But, in the corner of my eye, I see Fitz’s body lying down on the mat next to the front door. For a split-second, I questioned why it was there, because I knew that we had left his body at the vet urgent care when we put him down. I didn’t think much of it any longer, and I instead knelt and hugged our dog’s body. In grief, I said some words of gratitude and love, because of how much Fitz helped and comforted us during his time here. Suddenly, I heard him growling; he’s alive! He had always growled like that whenever I hugged him too hard or for too long, so I was relieved that he still behaved like so in this shocking moment. I was enjoying my time with Fitz so much that I couldn’t think to immediately let my family know that he’s alive and well. I looked towards the stairs and saw that no one was coming downstairs, still. I was expecting my mom to make her way down the steps and exclaim in joy after seeing her son playing with her dog. Ultimately, no one in the family witnessed this brief moment of my reunion with Fitz, but it was indeed a special memory, which I strongly believe was made by God for me to enjoy in my sleep. I believe that He also gave me this dream for me to write about, so that the loving memories of Fitz will live now and forever.
ENTRY FIVE
THE PROBLEM WITH FRONT-LOADING
As a collaborative pianist, the holiday season is a particularly busy time with all the performances that wrap up the year: degree recitals, end-of-semester jury exams, winter recitals for younger students, gigs for religious services during the Advent season, and many others. Occasionally, I’ll get requests to accompany instrumentalists for their performances of pieces I’ve worked on before. The more recently I’ve played it, the more fresh the notes feel within my fingers and the less time I have to spend practicing it. For example, I could easily re-learn Beethoven’s “Spring” Sonata within a few days since I just performed it earlier this year. On the other hand, it would take me longer to “bring back” Brahms’ Second Clarinet Sonata, which I haven’t played in a couple of years. It seems like a lot of work, having to figure out how much time I’ll need to prepare something that I’ve played before; I’d need to consider how difficult the music actually is and also how recently I played it. There’s no exact science to these calculations, but at least I’m dealing with music that I’m familiar with.
Of course, not every piece of music that I get asked to accompany is something in my repertoire list (even though that would be very convenient for me). If that were the case, then it would suck having to play the same pieces every year, limited to a small arsenal of collaborative pieces. After all, there is and will always be more music out there to learn. I spent a fair portion of this past Thanksgiving break at the piano, looking over the pieces that I’ll accompany for a student recital in the middle of December. Even though I’ll be playing for fourteen students — some of whom will be playing two pieces — I quickly discovered during my practice sessions that most of the music is not as daunting as I expected. 95% of it is brand-new to me, but honestly, it is not too bad. I can sight-read some of it. There are, like, five pieces that I will need to spend much more time on. As for the others — I won’t have to spend as much time on.
See, I made all of these discoveries about the difficulty of the music during my first time reading through all of it, but it’s kind of dangerous. I definitely got a head-start by practicing as early as possible, which is great, but now my practice plan is tainted with these thoughts of, “This piece is a lot easier than I thought; it turns out I don’t have to practice this one as much” or something along those lines. You could say that front-loading encourages procrastination, which is funny to think about since the latter is obviously discouraged. How ironic, isn’t it? You become so familiar with your own abilities that you ride dangerously close along the line that divides success and failure. In my case, as a musician, the main remedy to countering these tempting thoughts of neglecting easier pieces is consistency at the piano: Play through all of the music every day, no matter how easy some of it is. Of course the time allotted for each piece should never be equal. Like, don’t spend one hour on Sibelius’ Violin Concerto and one hour on Bach’s Minuet in G. On the other hand, don’t completely neglect the Minuet. The goal is to develop equal fluency with all music in the binder or tablet, but with a special emphasis on the more difficult pieces. Always add to the practice sessions; never subtract from them.
ENTRY FOUR
IS THE “MOONLIGHT” SONATA OVERPLAYED?
A friend of mine recently asked me, “What do you think of the third movement of ‘Moonlight’ Sonata?” It was certainly a welcomed question, considering she does not share the same rabid interest in classical music as I do. I said something along the lines of, “It is one of my favorite pieces ever written.” Of course I continued the conversation and inquired about how she came across this piece, and apparently it’s trending on TikTok with people showing off by playing the third movement. That’s wonderful; I’m glad that classical music at all seems to get the slightest bit of attention on social media platforms. But, the popularity of that work is nothing new. After all, the “Moonlight” Sonata has remained one of the most famous pieces ever since its creation in 1801. Formally known as the Sonata in C-sharp Minor, Op. 27, No. 2 “Quasi una fantasia,” I personally attribute the sonata’s popularity to its nickname “Moonlight.” This name originated not from the composer himself (Ludwig van Beethoven’s (1770-1827)), but from a music critic who believed the first movement evoked the imagery of the moon’s reflection on Lake Lucerne. Yes, the piece is technically titled “Sonata in C-sharp Minor, Op. 27, No. 2,” but everyone just calls it the “Moonlight” Sonata. And I’m okay with that. The name is short and simple, but also unique in the realm of classical repertoire.
However, from a musical standpoint, the third movement is what seizes the attention of listeners, especially the younger ones who are eager to learn it and eventually show off their technical brilliance and endurance at the piano. I believe it is “trending” on social media, too. In all seriousness, the sonata-allegro structure within the third movement certainly helps the listener follow along and understand what is happening in the music. To put it simply, there are two contrasting themes: the first is a lyrical melody that outlines a longer phrase, and the second is characterized by quick, repetitive chords. All the other stuff is a bunch of arpeggios and broken chords that give the piece its unrelenting, agitated spirit. The third movement of the “Moonlight” Sonata has got it all: the fame, the difficulty, the satisfaction of playing/practicing, and the easiness of listening to.
So the piece must be great, right? Well, if you search “Moonlight Sonata” on YouTube, then you’ll find a video that has a whopping 213 million views (holy bejeezus). I guess the piece is so great for that many people who wanted to listen to it. And that’s just on YouTube; I didn’t even bother looking up the statistics on other streaming services like Spotify, Amazon Music, etc. Now, consider this — because Beethoven’s masterpiece is incredibly well-known, not a lot of concert pianists include it in their programs. How ironic. After all, such pianists probably thought, “Why should I play a piece that everyone already knows and is probably seeking other music to listen to?” And from there, they presumably prepare relatively more obscure pieces that they believe “no one really knows,” like the Mazurkas by Karol Szymanowski (1882-1937). I’m sure those are great pieces, by the way; I just haven’t listened to them. Anyway, back to the “Moonlight” Sonata: Not a lot of concert pianists perform it on stage because of this strange misconception that everyone plays the piece. And, so what if that were true? There ought to be zero shame with sharing the “popular classics” in the concert hall. Thankfully, my former teacher Sean Chen (2013 Van Cliburn medalist) shared the same sentiment and allowed me to perform the “Moonlight” Sonata in one of my graduate degree solo recitals. In fact, he encouraged it.
There is a sad affiliation between classical music and elitism, as if the genre ought to be enjoyed only by certain demographics. If we really want to share the beauty of classical music with others, especially those whom we know are not particularly fond of such art, then we have to gracefully share with them something that they are much more likely to enjoy listening to, no matter how “overplayed” or how “overrated” we think the music is. It is up to the broader audience as to whether they enjoy it, but — more importantly and consequentially — the choice of music we share with them is up to us as scholars and/or performers.
ENTRY THREE
ON REPEAT: MASTERFUL COMMAND OF COUNTERPOINT
You’ve probably heard of this phenomenon called the “Mozart Effect” — babies who regularly listen to the music of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791) will grow up to be bright and intelligent individuals. There are some scientific studies out there that discuss the topic, but I bring this up because Mozart’s works are arguably the most well-known in classical music. You can ask any stranger if that person has heard (imagine yourself humming the opening notes of “Eine kleine Nachtmusik”), and 99 times out of a 100 that person will immediately sing or hum along with you. And that’s the point: Mozart’s music is easily sing-able. His works are the cornerstone of the Classical period, which is generally dated 1750-1830. Composers of this era wrote music with the intention of making it more accessible to broader audiences, no matter how musically inclined the recipients were. After all, music had already branched away from sacred spaces, and composers sought to make a living by commissioning their own works for performers to present at public venues. What exactly constitutes a piece to be “more accessible” to broader audiences? Well, I alluded to it earlier with the “sing-able” aspect, but the music must have a clear melody. When you think of “Eine kleine Nachtmusik,” there’s no way you hum the bass notes or the other low voices that provide the harmony; your instinct, hopefully, is to hum the melody. Let’s explore another piece from a visual standpoint. If you looked at the score of the first movement of Mozart’s famous Piano Sonata in C Major, K. 545, then you can easily see the melody sitting pretty in the treble stave while there’s a bunch of chaos going on in the lower stave. Pretty simple, right? Melody clearly on top, supported by the harmony in the form of broken chords or arpeggios (also known as Alberti bass).
Now, I hope that you’ve enjoyed reading about the characteristics of the Classical period, but I’m sorry to say that this post will actually focus more on the complexities of its predecessor. Unlike Mozart’s music, which is charmingly straightforward and simple, the earlier Baroque period championed this compositional style called “counterpoint,” which refers to the combination of two or more lines in music. Technically, Mozart’s Piano Sonata in C Major uses two lines (voices), but the purposes of each are quite different and are unfairly balanced: one is supportive while the other is independent. Now, the concept of counterpoint certainly existed for centuries prior, but it was really only until the Baroque period (1600-1750) when the “rules” and “guidelines” of contrapuntal composition were refined to its highest level. And we have Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750) to thank for that. There is an overwhelming amount of music to pick from J. S. Bach’s oeuvre, but I’ll limit this discussion to one particular piece: the “Italian Concerto”, which is inspired by the concerto grosso of Antonio Vivaldi (1678-1741). This orchestral genre features several orchestral tutti, the sections in which all instruments play the main theme, so to speak. These sections are regularly interrupted by brief episodes when different performers take turns playing their solos — showcasing their virtuosity and their instruments’ capabilities. Bach takes this concept and condenses it for one keyboardist to play. The single performer can play several notes simultaneously, but the difficulties lie in voicing out the more important lines and melodies as they show up throughout the piece. At least in Vivaldi’s vision, there was an orchestra of several musicians, each of whom was in charge of his own musical line. Most of Bach’s keyboard music, on the other hand, demanded that the one performer recreate the grandeur of a full orchestra while carefully abiding by the composer’s own rules of proper counterpoint.
But, as listeners, how do we fairly judge great performances of such music? There are so many voices going on at the same time, and we can’t keep track of them all. It’s like “multi-tasking,” which is impossible; the scientific conclusion is that humans are capable of rapidly switching between doing different tasks independently. Similarly, when we converse in a group setting, people take turns in the discussion. If I were in a virtual meeting with my doctoral committee, and for some reason all three dissertation advisors were simultaneously giving their feedback to me, then I would have no idea how to proceed. At the best, I could hope to drown out two panel members’ voices and instead concentrate on listening to the third member’s feedback. Had I recorded the meeting, then I could replay the audio two more times and pick out the feedback from the other two panel members. And I think that is the perfect way for me to describe how we can “decide” what makes a recording of a Baroque piece so great. Currently, I’m listening to pianist Andrey Gugnin’s recording of J. S. Bach’s Partita for Solo Violin in E Major, BWV 1006, transcribed for solo piano by Sergei Rachmaninoff (1873-1943). The original work by Bach is fantastic, and I recommend Arthur Grumiaux’s rendition. I encourage you to listen to the original work first, just so that you can establish the aural palette and set that as a reference in preparation for the additional listening sessions to follow.
Unfortunately, Rachmaninoff did not transcribe all movements of Bach’s Partita for solo piano; he only did so for the Prelude, Gavotte en Rondeau, and Gigue. When you get to Gugnin’s recording, you’ll notice that Rachmaninoff “counterpoint-ifies” it up. Yes, he adds even more voices to a work that already has as much polyphony as is allowed on a solo violin. The first few notes are just a pianistic duplication of the original work, but then out of nowhere you get the addition of that second line in the lower register. And from there, chaos ensues — new melodies coming and going everywhere. But if you listen carefully on repeat, your ears may start to subconsciously focus on listening for specific voices. However, solely recognizing those is just the first step in this question of how well the performance is executed. After that, then you have to go back to some of the even more basic questions: Does this phrase in this voice resolve properly? Is the main melody audible? Do the notes clearly outline the direction of the phrase? However many questions you might have, just multiply that by the total amount of lines/voices that are present within the piece. And FINALLY, once you’ve answered all of that, then go back to the beginning of the recording. Replay it again for the umpteenth time. Are the voices fairly balanced? Can I now easily hear the counter-melodies because of how incredibly bored I’ve become of hearing the main melody over and over again? Maybe I should go back to listening to Arthur Grumiaux’s recording. Once you’ve reached this point of apparent insanity and overthinking, due to repetitive listening and weirdly enjoyable over-analysis of the same recording, then you know that it is a great one worth hearing again. Here it is:
Entry Two
Goldberg Variations: Holy Grail of Piano Repertoire
Every now and then, I will look through my library of scores and reminisce about the pieces I have played. Albeit the repertoire is seemingly infinite, but I certainly treasure the times in which I have worked tirelessly to prepare my favorite works for performance. Bach’s French Overture and Italian Concerto spring to mind not only because those were two of my favorite projects, but also because they are closely connected to the very core of this blog post’s topic: the “Goldberg Variations” (or, as we classical purists call it, “Aria with 30 Diverse Variations”). Those three works are all part of what is known as the “Clavier-Übung” — a four-volume collection of Bach’s keyboard compositions that were published during his lifetime. I have always been quite a stickler for authenticity and staying true to the composer’s original intentions (you can imagine all the blue Henle urtexts I have), so I suppose you could attribute my purist attitude to my interest in the Goldberg Variations since those were published during the composer’s lifetime anyway. However, I could never really listen to the Variations in the work’s entirety before. Every time I started listening to a recording of it, I would either doze off or tune out by variation 11 or somewhere around that. There are 30 of them, by the way. Sure, I jumped straight to random variations just to get a sense of what I ought to expect later, but I felt nothing. And why should I? It is as if I asked someone who has never seen “Schindler’s List” to jump straight to the later scenes on DVD; that person’s reactions would be severely limited in the absence of context and character/plot exposition.
No matter how hard I tried listening, I could never get into the Goldberg Variations. Maybe that was the problem; I tried too hard to listen. I was looking for something even though I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to see. Eventually, I grew out of that phase and looked elsewhere for musical inspiration. The Goldberg Variations remained out of the picture for many years… until May 2nd, 2024. On that day, I had the privilege of watching Mr. Vikingur Ólafsson performing that monumental work. Now you’re probably wondering, “Why on earth would you buy a concert ticket to see a performance of something you failed to appreciate for years?” A couple reasons. First, I love Ólafsson’s recordings and especially his own piano transcriptions. I’m listening to his recording of his own arrangement of Mozart’s “Laudate Dominum” as I write this. Second, I felt the need to force myself to listen to the Goldberg Variations in-person, in a concert hall, with zero distractions, with no exiting. And that happened. I waited in my seat as the remaining spectators entered the concert hall. During those few minutes before the show, I accepted the fact that I was there in my seat and will stay there for roughly 90 more minutes. I had a long day of work beforehand, and I was kind of expecting that I would fall asleep in the middle of the performance. Of course I was hoping that wouldn’t happen, but I was ready for it. Finally, the lights dimmed and the concert series presenter gave a brief introduction. After some housekeeping reminders for concert etiquette, he closed his speech by saying something along the lines of, “Once I walk off, there will be a noticeable pause before Mr. Ólafsson comes onto the stage for his performance. And the big reason for that… is that I need time to get to my seat.” Everyone laughed, but at that moment, I knew I was in for a real treat.
The moment Ólafsson played the first notes of that opening aria, I immediately disregarded any memories of what I thought the piece sounded like, based on my ill-fated listening attempts in the past. I was there in every moment, absorbing each variation anew. I was lucky to get an amazing seat so I could see his hands and his wizardry at the piano. And wow — there are myriad techniques required to execute a successful performance of the Goldberg Variations. Listening to and watching Ólafsson’s playing in-person is jaw-dropping, but… even luckier for me, the spectator next to me was following along with a blue Henle urtext of this music! Whenever the pianist played something crazy, I peeked at my neighbor’s score and what I saw was even crazier. Techniques galore — hand-crossing, double sixths, double thirds, alternating notes, etc. Forget Hanon exercises, I want my students to play through the Goldberg Variations for their technical development! Seriously though, the techniques and skill that are required for such a monumental work like this are off the charts. Beyond that, it must take some god-like mental strength to perform this 80-minute thing. Yes, that’s right — eighty (80) minutes; or, one hour and twenty minutes. Nonstop. What if the pianist plays a variation out of order? If he did, then would he eventually go back to the one he skipped or would he continue? What if the pianist forgets to take one (of the many) repeats? What if he has a memory slip? What if, what if, what if. I never once checked my watch, nor did I once try to count which variation number he was playing. As a matter of fact, I did not want to know. I knew there were 30 in total, but the whole time, I constantly begged that the performance not be approaching its conclusion. When Ólafsson played the Aria da Capo, it felt as if nothing happened. I transcended into an unknown realm of musical heavens, and the return of that aria brought me back to the present moment. I was still in my seat in that concert hall, with zero distractions, and I just finished listening to the Goldberg Variations in the work’s entirety. Wow.
That is something to check off the must-listen-to “bucket list” for us classical music aficionados, but in the grand scheme of things that is certainly an unfair assessment. If listening to the Goldberg Variations is—rather, was—hard enough for me, then I can’t begin to imagine how much more difficult it is to play it on stage. If we continue up the tiers of this logic, then surely it must be impossible to COMPOSE this music. Just like how listeners are impressed by a musicians’ execution of their performances, the musicians themselves are even more impressed by how such music is created. Take that concept, apply it to my awe of Vikingur Ólafsson’s performance and multiply it with my awe of the Goldberg Variations as a composition itself… and the product is this blog post: “Goldberg Variations: Holy Grail of Piano Repertoire.”
Entry One
Saint-Saëns’ 2nd Concerto: A Delicate FloweR
The first movement of Camille Saint-Saëns’ Piano Concerto No. 2 in G Minor, Op. 22 is something else. Just compare the piano solo at the start vs. at the ending. The beginning is like a blossoming flower -- the music organically unfolds out of a lonely, declamatory cadenza and the eventual involvement of the orchestra reveals its many colors. The growth reaches its peak during a dramatic climax in which the orchestra restates the main theme accompanied by a virtuosic flurry of parallel octaves in the piano part. But the pianist restates that same theme shortly thereafter, and the orchestra's presence is slowly fading. The colors are not as vibrant anymore. The opening cadenza returns, but in a much more subdued way. Everything is quiet, and the very minimal orchestral parts are giving their dying breaths. And at the end of it all is the same flower but withering away, with each petal falling off as the piano and orchestra play their last chords in unison. So frail and tragic, yet so deep and powerful.