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.