PRACTICING THE PIANO: Getting After That, Discovering the Mechanics, Part II

 Getting after that is more than throwing oneself reflexively at a difficult passage, repeating wild-eyed and muscle-bound over and over again with mindless abandon. (I exaggerate only slightly.) Perhaps I should say that "getting after that" is less than mindless abandon—or should be—because it is a calm and mindful process. 

Effective practice is always conscious, deliberate and anything but rote. Slow practice is essential; repetition is essential. What is missing, then, when the diligent student still finds the passage unreliable in speed? Why do some students instead of improving technically with repetition, even slow repetition, actually get worse, develop muscle tension or experience pain? The answer is simple: the student has not solved the particular technical issue. At a slow tempo almost any technique will work; in an adagio a broom handle will suffice. Nearly always in unsuccessful passages the student plays differently in speed than he plays at a slower tempo. The impediment to success is the lack of one or more precise movements that facilitate the passage in speed. We have to find out what techniques are required for speed and only then begin the working-in.

So, solve the problem first. Once the technical solution is clear, experience the mechanics consciously and deliberately. That is, repeat what is needed for speed at a slow tempo, gradually working into the desired tempo without losing the feeling of ease. Here is where Miss Kerr would have been at a loss had I asked her how to “get after” a passage—not because she failed as a teacher or lacked the requisite enthusiasm, but rather because most of these technical solutions were second nature to her from her prodigious childhood. Technical sensations for her were so familiar they would defy description. Imagine trying to explain the concepts of balance required for riding a bicycle or how to whistle. Can you describe how you walk or breathe?

I don’t remember now the exact passage, the one I was instructed to “get after.” Doubtless there were many. One of them might have been this section of the Liszt E-flat concerto (Example 1). This technical problem happens to be mostly about grouping notes to avoid an over-extended hand, as are most of the examples cited here. I remember drilling this over and over until, if it was a good day with the wind behind me, I could make it sound tolerably well. This occurs near the beginning of the finale and continues for many measures, pages even, virtually to the end of the concerto building momentum as it goes. Notice how the right hand seems to be in an octave position all of the time. Now consider the quick tempo. You are correct if you surmise that the danger here is the possibility, even the likelihood, that an uninformed, albeit eager, pianist might experience fatigue by keeping the hand too open for too long in an extremely extroverted finale. I call this enslavement to the notation, a phrase coined by Dorothy Taubman.

Now let's have a look at a possible solution. Notice that the hand will feel less open if each group begins not with the first triplet eighth, but rather with the second, the chord. I call this process technical grouping, which is not to be confused with musical grouping. The brackets indicate these groups. It is not necessary to cling to the quarter octaves, as the pedal can do that for us. If I had known all this at the time, I would have practiced those units individually before putting them in context and then worked up the tempo. Instead, all I knew to do was repeat—anything—over and over until, somehow it sort of worked, tired though I might be, as I loped amiably to the end. 

     In a potentially gnarly passage such as the one in Example 2, it is already an accomplishment to be able to identify groups of notes that keep the hand relatively closed. The next step in solving the mechanics of the passage is to decide how to move from one group to the next. I rarely use the word always, but, well, here it is. We always use the last note (or chord) of one group to propel us to the first note (or chord) of the next group. In Example 2, you can see that this involves moving from octave to chord or octave to octave. In order to illustrate the concept of connecting groups, I offer a simpler passage involving single notes (Example 3).

     My adult student brought Mozart’s “easy” sonata in C, K. 545, complaining of difficulty articulating 16^th notes evenly in the left hand (Example 3). He proudly indicated that he noticed these were just chords, which he could block together under his hand—five, one, five, one—but when he practiced for any length of time, his forearm tightened and the passage sounded “lumpy.” 

I gave him high marks for his theoretical analysis and then we moved on to the more practical matter of how to walk from one note to the next. By thinking only harmonically, which required extending his hand into an octave position, he placed all of his effort into fingers alone, removing the participation of his forearm. Noticing sonorities is an excellent first step, but he still has to play individual notes, albeit in manageable groups that don’t require the hand to remain extended. I showed him how to group from the second 16^th then allow his hand to fall back to the new starting note (see Example 3, in which the dotted arcs represent groups). Armed with this information, he was now ready to begin working-in the mechanics. That is, he was ready to begin repetition, gradually increasing the tempo.

Next: Your Playing is Dishonest

PRACTICING THE PIANO: Slow Repetition is Only Part of the Story, Part I

Get After That

Widney Hall USC, 1963

     It was my junior year of college, the first day of registration for the fall semester of 1963. I arrived early at Widney Hall eager to reserve my favorite lesson times with the great Muriel Kerr. The nineteenth-century clapboard house, normally throbbing with life, seemed eerily deserted as I waited outside the registration office. From behind the door I heard a chair scuff the well-worn floorboards and then came the sound of deliberate footsteps pacing. Just as I gathered the courage to knock—it was past the appointed hour—the door opened, tentatively at first, and then with a reluctant gesture the teaching assistant allowed me to enter. Without speaking, he waved at a chair next to the table where the calendar lay open, inviting, blank.

Muriel Kerr

    Always intimated by authority in those days, even by that of a lowly TA, I felt my face color as I pulled the heavy chair closer and silently picked up the pencil to begin studying miss Kerr’s offerings for the semester. When I considered later the events of that day, I wondered if the heat I felt at that moment, the coloring of my face and the slight tremble in my hand, had more to do with an intimation of what was about to happen than my inclination to be intimidated.

“We’ll do this later,” he said softly. “Miss Kerr died during the night.”

The TA continued to speak, but I didn’t really hear what he said. My mind flooded with inanities: I have counterpoint and orchestration every morning, so I need a later time; will the lessons be on the hour or half-hour; what had she meant when she said, “get after that?”

I adored and admired Miss Kerr. Her good-natured scolding could cheer up a downcast moment of perceived failure:  “What was that? Q-sharp?” For technique she assigned a weekly prelude and fugue from the Well-Tempered Clavier. She was a musician’s musician, but she was a natural “doer” and not so much a “sayer.”

Her best advice to me if I fluffed a passage would be “get after that.” If you’ve ever heard the expression, “life is what happens when you have other plans,” that is exactly how I felt on hearing she was dead. I was shocked and saddened at the news, but I couldn't help making it about me. It had finally occurred to me during that summer, as the junior blues seeped into my consciousness, that now would be my opportunity to find out what she meant. I determined that this would be the semester I developed a completely reliable technique. What should I do to get after that passage? How should I practice it? Sadly, I never had the chance to ask her. I suspect, though, equally sadly, that she would not have known what to tell me, beyond what I already knew: practice the passage slowly and repeatedly.

Next: Discover the Mechanics

PIANISTS' PROBLEMS: That Mindless Lump of Flesh Known as the Thumb

    
    I know I sound like a broken record, harping yet again on the use of the thumb. (In the olden days, the days of my youth, a record was a disc made of PVC onto which sound was etched, and if it should be scratched, it would repeat itself.) But understanding how the thumb contributes to a fluent technique lies at the heart of our piano study. If I had to choose one aspect of piano playing to single out as the most important and most misunderstood, it would be how the thumb plays when asked to change hand location. This is often referred to as a thumb crossing, which is, sadly, misleading. Simply put, the thumb has two jobs when "crossing"—playing its note and propelling the hand rotationally to the new position.

     Have you ever heard young pianists attempt to play an even scale only to be thwarted by the crashing of a careless thumb into its note and causing a bump? The sound conjures the image of a wheel with a bulge on it—thumpety, thumpety. This is often a consequence of trying to tuck the thumb under the hand, thus pinning it to the palm and making it difficult to play without falling on it. 

        The thumb plays its note rotationally, the result of which throws the hand to the new position. These are of course tiny movements that in speed are virtually undetectable. (See above under "demos" for more about forearm rotation. Thumb crossing begins at about 4:35.) When practicing this movement very slowly, exaggerate the rotation. When descending in the right hand, rotate slightly past the desired note in order to turn back to it. Ultimately, there is in speed a gently undulating shape. Shaping is discussed elsewhere in these pages.

      This all sounds more complicated than it is. Do have a look at the demo.

PIANISTS GRIEG AND LISZT: Happy Meeting

      I came across this imaginative description of the legendary meeting of Liszt and Grieg in which Liszt sight reads Grieg's concerto. The meeting is documented in letters and was witnessed by students in Liszt's masterclass. Oh to have been a fly on the wall. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sutOHXfD7kw

HARDEST PIANO OPENINGS: A Pianist's Nightmares

     Yesterday, I came across a YouTube video in which the author announced a list of difficult

opening passages in certain repertoire that scared him. This caught my attention, naturally, as I am of the opinion that passages shouldn't feel intrinsically difficult and one shouldn't be fearful if the technique is completely understood. We all agree, of course, that public performance can be fraught with any number of psychological impediments. But let's not blame the music.

     His list of "difficulties" surprised me. First, there was the opening leap in the left hand of Beethoven's Op. 111. He argued against dividing the two octaves

Beethoven Sonata Op. 111

  between the hands

  as being contrary to

  the dramatic intent,

  though many artists

  do just that, Evgeny Kissin and

Maurizio Pollini, for example; Andras Schiff does not.  (There is a video of the great Myra Hess missing the leap, her musical intention superseding her technical knowhow.)

     I have to say, if he needs a security blanket to start his concert, there's no shame in dividing between the hands. No one will notice or care. Still, if he feels that somehow this dramatic gesture requires the leap without a net, then he should rethink his technical approach along the following lines:

    

In the video, I greatly exaggerate the rotational gesture, of course. In speed, the hand remains as close to the keys as possible, the fifth finger acting as a hinge.

     His next fright is the opening of Beethoven's G-major piano concerto. This, I think, is probably more psychological in nature, as the notes 

Beethoven fourth piano concerto, opening

themselves present no outlandish difficulties. But in order to quiet the negative committee that often sits

on our shoulders, we need a positive approach to just what the musical intention is and how we achieve it. If he wants a singing sound—I'm sure he does—I suggest imagining what it feels like to sink into the outer notes of this four-part chorale-like passage, emphasis on the right hand. I compare this feeling with that of pressing fingers into wet sand, the melody fingers pressing deeper. Think it first. Take a deep breath. The conductor will wait. What is the dynamic shape of the phrase? Does it rise first to the C atop the ii chord, then fall back a bit before rising via a G major scale to a new high point on the D? I mention the obvious because these are the thoughts that pull us back into the music and away from the fearful committee. (John Crown, one of my undergraduate teachers, felt this scale was one of the most difficult in the repertoire. I'll admit, one does feel exposed.)

     Alas, poor Beethoven gets blamed yet again for another frightening passage: 

Beethoven Appassionata 

     

     

     My correspondent apparently fears this passage because it requires the hand to be "open" while playing fast and furiously, which of course would be uncomfortable and perhaps cause missed notes? Again, a better technical solution is the answer. It is always calming to know how to do a given task. This passage feels quite comfortable, even easy, when the hand is allowed to feel relatively closed by means of forearm rotation rather than made to extend to block a chord. The slurs indicate crucial rotations, although the movement is similar throughout the passage.

      Next he tells us of a nightmarish experience involving two false starts as he attempted to play the opening piece in Schumann's "Kreisleriana," which apparently crashed each time. 

      

     This is about grouping notes together that move in the same direction. Our correspondent may be enslaved to the notation and forgetting to take his thumb along with his hand, keeping the hand unnecessarily open. Repeat: take your thumb with your hand, don't leave it lagging behind. I've added slurs to indicate the groupings I use. It's easy to remember. Start each group with the thumb and think tiny under shape. (Shaping is discussed elsewhere in these pages.)

     

     Side note: It's possible to follow the articulation Schumann indicates in the score, but in so doing the tempo slows considerably. Is this the composer telling us to move "extremely" so far as possible using this articulation, I wonder? The first edition gives the instruction äusserst bewegt, literally "extremely moved." When the German is replaced with Italian in subsequent editions, this becomes Allegro agitato, fast and restless. You decide. 

    

    So, if fear strikes, especially in rehearsal, have a look at the mechanics of the passage. This is especially important for beginnings of pieces. If fear emerges suddenly in performance, play slower and more deliberately even if panic sets in and the instinct says go faster. Yes, really. If the beginning feels shaky, the committee will chatter away into your left ear because that's where the devil hangs out. You may have to play louder to drown him out. In the final analysis, focusing on the musical story helps the most.

     

COORDINATION (Fingering) IN KABALEVSKY'S PIANO SONATINA: Another Case of the Evil Twin at Work

     My adult student brought this familiar foray into 20th-century classical style. He stumbled often, but not always, at the two scale passages, G minor as shown here (Ex. 1) and the same passage on C minor a few measures later. Notice that nothing could be more innocent harmonically: a G minor scale over a first-inversion arpeggio, also G minor: 

Kabalevsky Sonatina, Op. 13, No. 1, Third Movement

     Reliable fluency seemed unattainable. So, we set out to solve this mystery. Two issues are in play here: the musical objective and the technical means, which are at odds with each other. I know. I know. What else is new? I point this out because my student fell victim to the musical objective as indicated in the score, trying for a “whoosh” without first solving the technique, which is about noticing the milestones along the way. One hand attempted to lead the other astray. This passage is, of course, a rudimentary example. But it behooves us all to notice groupings in extended passages in order to facilitate the technique. The hand can sometimes be a little stupid; it can't conceive of a seemingly endless array of notes without stepping stones along the way. 

     Step one is to notice which fingers of each hand partner each other and encourage them to cooperate by feeling a slight down together. Do this very slowly. (I've indicated these fingerings in Ex. 2.) Feel these pairs first on each eighth. Then, moving on to step two, feel the pairs on each quarter—still very slowly. Then comes the crucial third step: Notice the pair of fingers on the downbeat of measure two. Aha! This is not the beginning of the scale. Feel a secure starting place here. Gradually work up the tempo feeling, though not hearing, the pulses. Go ahead. Try it. It's fun. Twins should work together.