Listening to Yury Martynov, I’m again reminded of the difference between great and not so great.

The main difference is that of energy.

In his playing, you feel an energy in each note, each phrase, each passage—a quality of aliveness.

This is something I seldom hear in less experienced players.

Their phrase and notes are usually clean and impeccable, but there’s no differentiation in the notes.

It’s that modern obsession with perfection—that everything, including the notes, have to be shaped the same.

But listen to Martynov.

His phrases are always sparkling with life.

You can hear an initial burst of energy which reaches a peak and resolves into a release.

This release, as I’ve written in the AOV, is always effortless.

In the release, the notes naturally resolve by themselves.

Like a breath.

When we breathe, we inhale, and then we exhale.

In the exhalation, we do not exert any effort, we just let the air come out of our lungs of its own accord.

That’s the feeling of effortlessness in the resolution of phrases.

The second difference is that of deliberation.

Each note, each phrase is deliberately played with intentionality.

This deliberation is carefully (and unconsciously) calibrated based on structural considerations.

Which means there’s a clear understanding of the function of each note and phrase and section.

A clear differentiation between important and unimportant parts of the music.

For instant, a main theme is important and a transitional episode is less important.

To emphasize important sections, we play them with greater deliberation and intention and in less important places, we play them with less deliberation.

This is something we do naturally in life.

If we want to accentuate something or draw greater attention to something, we tend to be more deliberate in our speech and vice versa.

Back to the first point, that of energy and aliveness.

The difference between a master like Martynov and less experienced players is most apparent in the way they play ornaments.

For instance, when Martynov plays a trill, it’s never just a fast alternation of two notes.

Within his trills, there’s always a great deal of dynamic shading.

In Martynov’s hands, a trill is never just a trill, but a gesture that comes straight from the heart.

Yury came to Del Mar College three times when I was there.

Once I asked him who his greatest influences are and he mentioned Alfred Cortot and a Russian pianist whose name slips my mind at the moment.

I think he mentioned Glenn Gould too but I’m not sure.

During one of our question and answer sessions, someone asked him about all the players coming from the East and his answer was diplomatic.

He said something to the effect that the great technical control is evident, but one feels a lack of understanding of the music.

In economics, there’s a concept called opportunity cost.

When you have limited resources, you have to decide how you want to allocate them.

If you decide to allocate them to one area, that means that you wouldn’t have much to allocate to another.

It is obvious that if you devote all your time to perfecting your technique, you won’t have so much time to devote to immersing yourself in the music and in trying to understand all its nuances and subtleties.

In my mind, Yury Martynov is a giant among pianists, a rare breed, someone who quietly works away at his art, without any need for recognition or accolades.

I feel extremely privileged and honored to have met and known him.

I was recently at a memorial for an old friend in Palo Alto.

Grace was an incredible lady, sophisticated and yet earthy, elegant and full of life and with a heart that’s overflowing with kindness and generosity.

I didn’t know her that long but during that time, I was blessed to have been touched by her gentle spirit.

The memorial opened with a piano tribute—the famous Für Elise.

As I listened, I became astounded by the pianist.

I had never heard Für Elise played that way.

It was full of feeling and life and energy, and the most amazing thing was, it sounded exactly right.

What was so special about the performance?

I would say, the pianist was able to bring out the true spirit of the piece—not the fast showpiece that it’s commonly portrayed as, but a pensive meditative piece.

It almost sounded like a love song.

During the break in the memorial, I went up to the pianist and complimented him on his performance.

I told him, it was one of the most memorable performances I have ever witnessed.

And I asked him if he would consider recording it for youtube.

He said he would consider it so I’m full of anticipation.

The pianist is Kymry Esainko, a well-known musician in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Thinking of Kymry made me recall another great musician—a true musical giant in every sense of the word.

I was fortunate enough to meet Yury Martynov a few years back.

In fact I was instrumental in bringing him to Del Mar College one of those times.

Yury is a true musician’s musician.

The first time I heard him was after a dinner in honor of him and his fellow musicians.

Someone asked him if he could play something and he walked over to a piano nearby and played Ravel’s Pavane for a Dead Princess.

I was literally stunned by the sheer beauty of his performance.

Especially the rhythm which was light and floating and by the small nuances that made the piece come so alive.

I have lost touch with Yury but if I had the chance, I would also ask him if he could record the piece for Youtube.

Fast forward to the present.

There’s been a competition in recent weeks which apparently had some controversial decisions.

I have given up on younger musicians these days and had not followed the event.

However, hearing of the controversies, I went to Youtube and watched a few of the competitors.

It was exactly as I had expected—flawless executions with no sense of poetry and always the requisite super exaggerated body and facial expressions.

It’s as if the players thought that their rehearsed body contortions could make up for their lack of musical feeling and understanding.

All except for a few players who didn’t even get a mention!

Competitions of course are all a waste of time—winners are usually politically connected to the jurors.

But sometimes, as in this case, it could be an opportunity to launch one’s career.

Which reminds me of another great pianist, Ivo Pogorelich, who was the real winner of this same competition years back, evidenced by the spectacular career he has had.

Fortunately for us, these days, we have Youtube which enables us to experience the performances of musicians like Martynov.

Here’s the Maestro playing Beethoven.

And an amazing live performance that shows how a true master plays, with no fake affectations, just pure expression:

I just discovered this recording of Rey De La Torre and it was a revelation.

I had mentioned elsewhere that I don’t listen to classical guitarists any more, at least not since the technicians and the ‘tone-meisters’ took over.

Rey De La Torre’s recording hacks back to a time when the guitar was still full of poetry and mystery.

Listen to El Testamen, the fluid phrasing and the singing line.

Listen especially to the accompaniment—there’s a beautiful lilt in the rhythm. That’s because he plays it in a one-feel as opposed to a three-feel.

You will notice there is none of the persistent insistence on the metrical beat.

His playing if full of rubato, but if you conduct to it, you’ll find that the pulse is always there.

That is the true art of phrasing.

As I said, there’s no great skill in playing in time, all you need is a metronome, but to play with poetry, that’s a whole other thing.

The rest of the recording is equally amazing in its lyricism and poetry. My thanks to the uploader Serioso Serioso for making this recording available.

One more old essay I wrote for a graduate research class with Dr. Deanna Bush at NTSU (now UNT).

—

AMÉRIQUES: MUSIC FOR A NEW WORLD

“I dream of instruments obedient to my thought and which with their contribution of a whole new world of unsuspected sounds, will lend themselves to the exigencies of my inner rhythm.”

Edgard Varese, June 1917, New York 

Edgard Varese, dreamer and “sound-magician” was a Romantic artist in the true sense of the word. As a composer, he straddled the old and the new more than any other composer of this century. In his compositions, one can glean the influences of Debussy, Richard Strauss, and Stravinsky and see the seeds of the avant-garde of the 60s, notably Ligeti and Stockhausen.

In his lectures and writings, Varese constantly alluded to the theme of liberation and of a new world of sound. To him, the old concepts of melody or interplay of melodies were no longer valid. Instead, he envisaged a music that will “flow as a river flows” and only the “movement of sound masses, of shifting planes, will be clearly perceived.” In this regard, he revealed himself to be a greater radical than Schoenberg or even Boulez. The latter two composers were still preoccupied with the micro-structure of music—the melody, the counterpoint, the harmony, whereas Varese was more interested in the macro-structure, the forest rather than the leaves, so to speak.

In 1915, at the age of 32, Varese decided to cut his ties with the old world and strike out for the new. He arrived in New York with eighty dollars in his pocket, a score of “Bourgogne,” his only composition which he felt worthy enough to salvage (and which he later destroyed) and a burning idealism. This move was to prove pivotal to Varese’s art. It was as if Europe, with all its established institutions and traditions had rendered him sterile and impotent. For it was in New York that the germ of a new composition took root. Working in his apartment, he was especially mesmerized by the sound of “the lonely foghorns, the shrill peremptory whistles the whole river symphony . . .” emanating from the Hudson River nearby. He decided to title it “Amériques” because the word “America meant all discoveries, all adventures.” It symbolizes “new worlds on this planet, in outer space, and in the minds of man…”

“Amériques” was completed in 1922 and given its premiere by the Philadelphia Orchestra, conducted by Stokowski on April 9, 1926. The initial reaction to the piece was hisses and boos from a normally staid and self-contained audience. On April 13, Stokowski performed the piece in New York which caused a reviewer to comment caustically on the boos and hisses that broke out again after “Mr. Stokowski finished Edgard Varese’s symphonic genuflection to the Fire Department and the Pneumatic Riveters’ Union.”

What was it about “Amériques” that could elicit such a controversial reception? First of all, the work is massive in scope and conception. The original version called for one hundred and forty two instruments including twenty one percussion instruments which include, among other things, two sirens. Although it has been analyzed to be in sonata form, there is little to warrant that label. Indeed it would be far easier to understand the work in the context of Varese’s own words; “The entire work will be a melodic totality. The entire work will flow as the river flows.” Later, he would define his concept of form as the result of a process, rather than a preconceived pattern to be slavishly followed.

Although “Amériques” looks to the future with its masses of colliding sound, of shifting timbres rather than harmony, it nevertheless remains solidly rooted in the established tradition of western music. There are echoes of Debussy’s “Prelude a l’apres-midi d’un faune” in the opening alto flute motif. There are references to Stravinsky’s “La Sacre du Printemps” in the violent bursts of sound-blocks and to the “Five Orchestral Pieces” of Schoenberg in its orchestration. However the work still remains unique in its primitivism, its sheer power and energy, in the slow and inexorable climb to the final climax.

One of music’s greatest pioneers, Varese fortunately lived long enough to enjoy world wide recognition. He died on November 7, 1965 at the age of eighty-two, in time to see the wonders of his “new world” realized, both in the advent of the space age and in the electronic revolution which has produced new instruments capable of more than anything he had ever dreamt of.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Bloch, David. “The Music of Edgard Varese.” (Ph.d. dissertation, University of Washington, 1973)

Boretz, Benjamin, and Edward Cone. Perspectives on American Composers. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1971

Peyser, Joan. The New Music. New York: Delacorte Press, 1971, p.125-161.

Varese, Lousie. Varese, Looking-Glass Diary, Vol. I: 1883-1928. New York: .W. Norton & Company, 1972

—Denton, Feb 12, 1987

This is the last of the class assignments I did for Dr. Bush at UNT. My final project for the course was a paper titled “Slurring Practices in Baroque Guitar and Lute Music” which was later published in Soundboard magazine in 1987.

—

BACH AND THE BAROQUE LUTE

Among the musical instruments listed in the specificatio of Johann Sebastian Bach’s estate, made after his death in 1750, were two Lautenwerk(e) (lute-harpsichord) and a lute. This has given rise to much conjecture as to whether Bach himself played the lute.[i] We may never be able to satisfactorily resolve the question. However, judging from the information in the specificatio, we can infer that he was well acquainted with the lute. We know that at least two of his students, J. L. Krebs and R. Straube, played the lute and composed for it.[ii] We also know that Bach was personally acquainted with Silvius L. Weiss, the foremost lutenist of his time.[iii]

More importantly, however, we know that he composed a small body of works for the instrument. As early as 1727, Bach had already used the lute in two compositions: St. John Passion and the Trauer-Ode.[iv] There is general consensus that the lute parts are authentic. Their relative simplicity and the idiomatic writing speak for themselves.

In examining Bach’s solo lute works, we encounter a more complex problem. Although there is mention of three lute partitas in Breitkopf’s catalog of 1761, they have been presumed lost. Schweitzer however believed that the lute partitas still survive today as keyboard arrangements of the lute originals.[v] They form part of seven compositions now designated by the Neue Bach Ausgabe as lute compositions. None of these compositions were written in tablature but in normal two-stave notation. However, contemporary intabulated versions of some of these works survive today and we shall examine them first. They are as follows:

1. Suite in G minor, BWV 995. (This is an adaptation of the Cello Suite in C minor BWV 1011.)
2. Partita in C minor, BWV 997
3. Prelude in C minor, BWV 999
4. Fugue in G minor, BWV 1000

A detailed examination of these works reveals one common feature; they are all essentially arrangements of the Bach autograph versions. In the case of the Suite in G minor, which, interestingly enough, even bears the direction Pour la Luth in the autograph, octave adjustments have to be repeatedly made to accommodate the low G. The lowest note on the standard baroque lute is A. The texture of all these works is extremely light and well suited to the lute. In particular, the Prelude in C minor and the Prelude of the Partita in C minor contain some excellent lute writing.

The rest of Bach’s lute compositions include:

5. Suite in E minor, BWV 995
6. Prelude, Fugue and Allegro in E flat major, BWV 998
7. Suite in E major, BWV 1006 (an adaptation of the third Partita for solo violin BWV 1006)

All three of these compositions have generated a great deal of controversy over their intended instrumentation. Many lutenists regard them as being unplayable on the lute citing the main reasons as being:

1. The technical difficulties in executing these pieces are practically insurmountable, given their thick texture. As an example, the Gigue from the Suite in E minor is so dense at times with three part counterpoint that it is physically impossible to execute on the lute at tempo.
2. The keys make them doubly suspect. The baroque lute is tuned in D minor in the following manner:[vi]

A, Bb, C, D, E, F, G, A, d, f, a, d’, f’

Would Bach, who was for all intent and purposes a practical man and a highly experienced composer, compose works that are physically impossible to execute on the instrument they are intended?

Whatever the conclusion, it is safe to assume that Bach had more than a cursory interest in the lute. He may indeed have written works specifically for the lute. He may even have been a competent lutenist. However, being a practical man, and realizing the fiendish difficulties in mastering the baroque lute, he may have sought to side-step the problem by designing the Lautenwerk—a pseudo-lute.

In composing for the instrument, he may have deliberately composed works with the lute in mind, but which were intended to be played on the Lautenwerk instead, in other words, pseudo lute music for a pseudo lute.

NOTES

[i] Albert Schweitzer, J. S. Bach, trans. Ernest Newman, (New York, 1958), v. I, 344; Philipp Spitta, Johann Sebastian Bach, trans. Clara Bell and J. A. Fuller Maitland, (New York, 1951), v. III, 166-167.

[ii] Karl Geiringer, Johann Sebastian Bach, (New York, 1966), 310-311.

[iii] Ibid.

[iv] Charles S. Terry, Bach’s Orchestra, Oxford University Press, (London, 1932), 143.

[v] Schweitzer, loc. cit.

[vi] See Foreword, Stefan Lundgren, Johann Sebastian Bach Samtliche Lautenwerke, Lundgren Musik-Ed., (Munchen, 1984).

BIBLIOGRAPHY

(Coming soon.)

March 20, 1987

This is an essay I wrote for Dr. Bush’s research class at UNT which I had posted on my other blog. I thought it might be of interest for readers of this blog also.

The essay is a little sketchy—I finished most of these assignments in one evening, some of them in the early dawn hours.

So it’s just a graduate school assignment.

But I still think the idea behind the paper is good, to try to use information theory and apply them in music analysis.

—

STRUCTURE AND ORIGINALITY IN THE FIRST MOVEMENT PIANO SONATA OP. 31 NO. 2 BY L. VAN BEETHOVEN

“Structures are equivalent to mental forms. The more structured a message is, the more intelligible it is, the more redundant it is, the less originality it has.”

Abraham Moles

Music can be defined as a sonic message, a finite ordered set of elements drawn from a repertoire of symbols and assembled in a structure defined by the listener. It can be perceived on several structural levels; the macro-structure, the intermediate structure, and the micro-structure. However, structure presupposes redundancy. It creates forseeability. The success of a composer is therefore highly dependent on the way he balances the elements of redundancy inherent in structure against those of originality.

The concept of originality is tightly bound up with that of periodicity. Periodicity in the sonic message is manifested on different levels. First, on the purely acoustic level as rhythm and pitch, and second, on a higher level, it denotes continuity. The repetition of any sonic event, object, cell, or melodic phrase results in periodicity, and decreases its originality.

In 1802, when Beethoven composed piano sonata op. 31 no. 2, he was still too much of a classicist to attempt to tamper with the macro-structure, the form. Beethoven was primarily interested in the intermediate level, the basic punctuations defining and delineating the form. This comprises the basic parameters of music, the melodic, the harmonic, the rhythmic, and the textural.

The exposition of a classical sonata is defined mainly by two elements: (i) two contrasting themes, (ii) two contrasting keys. In Op. 31, No. 2, however, on the purely aural level, one can identify not less than five motivic ideas.

Ex. 1. Motivic ideas. L. v. Beethoven, Op. 31, No.2 1st movement

Contrary to the textbook formula, the principal and second themes are closely related motivically while the rest of the themes are quite unrelated motivically or texturally. The old cliché about unity in diversity seems appropriate here. None of the ideas are overworked. Each seems to contrast perfectly with its preceding idea.

In the development, there are two departures from the norm. First, the use of the largo idea creates an immediate sense of ambiguity in the formal structure and secondly, the exclusive use of “fringe” material from the exposition. This is carried into the recapitulation. The reappearance of the largo idea and the extension “con expressione e semplice” is a masterstroke. As well as creating more ambiguity, it also shows how, by constantly doing the unexpected, Beethoven is increasing the originality element. However, this is never at the expense of overloading the piece with excess information. Each new piece of information is carefully selected to negate any earlier redundancy. The diversity of the elements is never so great that it causes unintelligibility, and the repetition never so insistent that it results in boredom.

Melody is not the only element on the intermediate structural level that punctuates the form. However, it remains more pronounced than the other parameters. Harmonically, Beethoven does not produce any great surprises. In measure 161, he does use an enharmonic common tone to effect an abrupt modulation. Although by no means revolutionary, it does create an element of surprise, originality factor again.

Beethoven uses dynamics mainly to reinforce the other elements. In measure 32 and other similar measures, he reinforces the tonal accent, in measures 55-68, the rhythmic accent (syncopation), and in measure 103, the harmonic accent.

Finally, brief mention should be made of the use of textural variety to contribute to the degree of originality in the overall structure. This occurs at the end of the exposition (measures 87-96) to demarcate the sections.

There has been much debate as to what constitutes a major work as opposed to the ordinary, the mediocre. It is my contention that a great work has, among its many qualities, one of perfect balance, between structure and originality, between formulae and inspiration. And this is what makes Op. 31 No. 2 such a compelling work.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Kohs, Ellis. Musical Form. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston, 1976, p. 261-289.

Moles, Abraham. Information Theory and Esthetic Perception, translated by Joel Cohen, University of Illinois Press, Urbana, Chicago, and London, 1968.

Schwejda, Donald. An Investigation of the Analytical Techniques used by Rudolph Reti in The Thematic Process in Music, Ph.D. dissertation, Indiana University, 1967.

I stopped listening to guitar players over thirty years ago, except for Leo Brouwer, whom I still get excited over every time I discover a new video of his.

Let’s take an analogy like movies.

To take the trouble to go to a movie theater to watch a movie, a movie has to fulfill a few requirements for me.

First, it must have a compelling story.

Second, it must have good acting—acting that makes the story come alive and believable.

Third, it must provide sufficient contrasts and spellbinding scenes; scenes that make you want to keep on watching.

Fourth, it must be so powerful, it transports me to another world, in other words, I find myself getting lost in the movie.

These are the basic requirements for a good movie.

I’ve gone to some movies where the action is so plodding, I left in the middle.

Or when the acting was so bad, I resolved never to watch another movie by the actor or actors again.

But how about production quality?

There was a movie years ago that quickly attained cult status—the Blair Witch Project.

The movie was low budget, shot apparently with a home camcorder, and the cinematography was so bad, I had to turn my eyes from the screen quite a few times because the scenes were jerking so hard.

But the story line and suspense was so compelling, it kept me glued to my seat—so production quality didn’t matter.

When I listen to music, the same is true.

To me, a good performance has to be compelling on these same terms.

There must be sufficient forward motion and unexpected contrasts to keep me engaged.

There must be enough variety in tone and presentation to make me want to listen more.

And most importantly, it must have those special moments—called moments of ecstasy by Gould—that make my heart just want to melt.

These are moments of magic which I hear all the time in Brouwer’s playing, as well as Glenn Gould’s.

Above all, there must be a sense that the performer is trying to reach me and create a special experience for me, and that he’s not there just to show me what a great player he is, or what a beautiful tone he can produce.

So yes, in general, I don’t find many guitar players very compelling.

Of course, I’m not there ticking off each of these criteria as I listen to each player.

Just like a movie, you know instinctively when a movie is not worthwhile watching.

When I was young, most of the pianos I came across were cheap pianos with some generic sounding names.

I never grew to like the piano for that reason.

They all had a muffled mellow tone as if they had a cold and the notes would not come out clearly.

I never heard a good piano until I went to New Zealand and that was when I realized that the piano is an incredibly beautiful instrument.

I realized that good pianos do not have that muffled tone; instead they have a beautiful ringing sound.

Their bass have a kind of energy in its deep resonance and the trebles a clear sparkling sound.

And then I discovered the playing of Glenn Gould.

The first recordings of Gould that I heard were his Mozart sonatas and I was instantly captivated.

It was not just his clear sparkling tones that drew me to him but the energy and the aliveness in his phrasing.

Classical music became alive and contemporary under his fingers as opposed to just some serious historical thing that one has to play correctly and with reverence.

That was why I loved the classical guitar in those days too.

There was incredible energy and excitement and expression in the playing of John Williams and Julian Bream and Segovia.

John Williams was my favorite player.

I loved his early recordings, especially the Paul Myers albums—the clarity and excitement in his playing is still unmatched today.

When he started getting into the close-miking in the mid-seventies with Michael Stavrou, I remember being quite disappointed when I first heard them.

Especially the Ponce and the Barrios albums from that period.

Gone was the energy and the power and the spatial depth. Instead they sounded flat and two dimensional. I found them so boring and uninspiring I never bought another recording of his.

And then I discovered the Vox/Turnabout recordings of Manuel Barrueco.

The word was electrifying—the playing, the interpretation and miking technique all came together to create what I consider the gold standard in classical guitar playing and recording.

For years after that I tried to find out more about the miking technique behind the sound and the sound engineer David Hancock who came up with it.

Then Barrueco started recording for EMI/Germany and I remember having the same disappointment when I first heard his Albeniz and his Sor.

Gone again was the energy and excitement—everything sounded so clinical and mechanical and two-dimensional.

I remember buying those CDs and just giving them away.

Back to the subject of cheap pianos.

I’m not sure when the change in guitar playing came about but I think it has to do with two British guitarists—John Taylor and David Russell.

The former had come up with a book that was like a manifesto for a different kind of guitar playing and the latter had applied the theories and principles in that book.

Suddenly the sound of the guitar has to become gentrified.

You must eliminate the natural percussiveness because it was considered noisy and uncouth.

Instead you must try to imitate the sound of a piano and minimize the attack—in other words; the preferred sound is a mellow muffled tone, which is the cheap piano tone I had detested so much.

And whatever you do, never overplay, stay within the safe boundaries.

And that’s what you hear most of the time these days in guitar concerts—an hour or two of endless soft mellow tinkling on stage and little else.

Interestingly enough, this timid and safe approach to guitar is only reflected in less mature players.

When Jason Vieaux came to Del Mar a few years ago, I was blown away by his playing and the great variety in his tone colors. Instead of sounding like some cheap upright piano, he sounded like a great grand piano.

He was definitely not laboring under some artificial standards that some pedagogue somewhere had laid down about tone.

That’s the difference, I guess, between a student and an artist.

Students are always afraid they’d break some rules and they’re always trying to do things correctly and looking for approval.

Artists have a whole different agenda and that is to breathe life into the music and give it its fullest expression.