Monday 16 December 2013

notes vs. tones, digits vs. numbers

There is a little linguistic problem that I've been puzzling over quite a lot recently. It concerns what can probably be best described, in abstract terms, as differentiation between quantity and value in sets.

I first ran into this with number theory, working with the different numerical bases - hexadecimal, binary, decimal - that are relevant in computer science, as I needed to be able to refer to the length of, say, a bit pattern or hexadecimal number separately to the actual values that appeared in it.

In binary this is pretty easy, as there are only 2 possible values. However, if I said 'a byte has 8 digits', and you didn't have the assumed knowledge about binary,  it could be misunderstood to mean a byte has 8 values, which would be incorrect, since a byte can only contain some combination of 2 values: 0 and 1. This confusion arises out of the ambiguity of the term digit: does 'digit' refer to the value of an item in the byte, or to the number of items in the byte regardless of their value? In this case, if you know anything about binary, the meaning is obvious, but there are other similar situations where it may not be.

It seems that most often digit is understood to refer to a quantity of items and number is understood to refer to the value of any item. However, all the dictionaries I've checked in seem reluctant to make such a clear distinction, the two words are listed as synonymous, and in reality they are often used interchangeably, making use of either one subject to misinterpretation.

The problem crops up again in music. For example, when we say '4 notes', are we referring to any 4 instances of an item (for example, four B flats), or are we referring specifically to 4 unique values (for example, a set of 10 items in which only four values, say A, F, D and B flat, occur)?
Officially there are separate words to describe quantity and value in music: note is to tone* what digit is to number - the former describes a quantity, the latter a unique value. But again, the two terms get used interchangeably, making it difficult to ensure any description of musical patterns is absolutely unambiguous. What am I missing here?!

In writing this blog post, I made an unsettling discovery: I kept trying to use general words that describe quantity or value, only to discover they could potentially be misinterpreted. Range is one such word. I was initially going to use this term instead of quantity, until I realised it could be misinterpreted in much the same way as digit or number. Are we referring to the number of items in the set, or the number of values occurring in the set? Range is perfectly correct in either context.

Also note how it's almost impossible to discuss these issues without using that pesky term number. In this post I've replaced as many occurrences of the word as possible with quantity, but I've left the ones in the previous paragraph untouched to demonstrate how much we rely on potentially ambiguous language.

One final thought, venturing into even more abstract territory: consider that we say 'number of digits'. This requires some recursive thinking: the digits are a set in which various values, known as numbers, can be stored. Another set, called a number, contains the digits which contain the numbers...see the problem with this terminology?

*gotta love that tone is an anagram of note eh

Friday 29 November 2013

The CHORD of resignation

Before you read any further, please be aware that none of this post will make sense unless you've read this first.

The minor 7th chord consists of a stack of alternating major and minor thirds: min 3rd, maj 3rd, min 3rd, maj 3rd. It's always been my favorite chord, and at the time of writing the post linked above I was even vaguely aware that there was some connection between this chord and the chord progression I was analysing. However, I was so new to harmonic analysis at that time that I was happy to leave the analysis at a series of chords.

It's only very recently that I've been able to piece together and understand some of the connections I've always sensed existed between a handful of musical patterns and elements. This post is an attempt to explain these connections, with the aid of some examples. I still have much to learn about this topic, and I'm sure there will be many more blog posts to write as I make new discoveries.


Let's say we're in the key of B flat minor. In this key, the notes which correspond to the degrees of the scale that form the Chord Progression of Resignation are B flat, D flat, E flat and G flat, from the bottom up:



Let's now invert this chord to the 2nd inversion, so it starts on E flat (note that the dominant of E flat is B flat...) The resulting chord is E flat minor 7th:


The notes used in the examples above are 4 of the 5 notes of the pentatonic scale. If we were still in B flat minor (which we're not, since E flat is our new tonic), the missing note (an A flat) would form the 7th degree of the scale - a fairly common addition to the 'pure' chord progression of resignation.
The pentatonic scale is the mode you get from playing only the black keys of the piano (although it can be transposed into any key). It's an interesting scale in that it's very pure sounding - you can combine any of its 5 notes, or play them all at once, and as long as you stay within that mode nothing will ever sound jarringly dissonant.
It's also quite tonally ambiguous - shifting from major to minor and between keys is effortless. I've yet to figure out what gives the pentatonic scale this ambiguous quality, as - depending on which note you begin it on - the degrees of the scale that are 'missing' vary.

The pentatonic scale is prevalent in the traditional music of many vastly different and geographically separated cultures. This can hardly be attributed to coincidence, and the discovery of its relationship to the 'chord of resignation', and by assosciation the chord progression of resignation, has only reinforced my impression that there's something fundamentally significant about the pentatonic scale.

Below are some examples of the 'chord of resignation'. As with the chord prog list, I'll add to this over time, so check back! (Quite a few examples I could easily include here would double with ones already in the chord prog list, so I'm leaving some - though not all - of them out.)

To make collecting examples easier, I'm attempting to group them by harmonic structure a little.
The following examples simply use the minor 7th chord in its purest form:

1. Leo Ornstein - Piano Sonata No. 4, 2nd mvt (see 0:07, and probably most prominently 0:14) Aside from the timecodes noted, the opening of this appears to make use of the minor 7th constantly in other ways too complex for me to try to analyse yet. This piece already appears on the chord prog examples list, but I had to repeat it here because it has such a wealth of interesting harmony.
2. Ravel - Le Gibet (see 13:42 and several times again until the end)
3. Gershwin - Summertime (see 9:11)
4. Leo Ornstein - Piano Sonata No. 4, 4th mvt The opening of this is practically built out of minor 7th chords (or stacks of 3rds, in any case).
5. Steve Reich - Six Marimbas (see 6:15 onwards) The uppermost note of this chord shifts constantly between the 7th and 8th degree of the scale, while the underlying 3rds remain 'fixed'. Interestingly, the tonic doesn't appear in the bass until 6:32, and it dissappears again at 13:42. The inversion of the minor 7th created by this is the one shown in the first image above - the degrees of the chord prog of resignation stacked on top of each other in order: I, III, IV, VI.
6. Ravel - Une barque sur l'ocean (see 4:47)
7. Ravel - Noel des Jouets (see 2:26)
 
8. Ravel - Ondine (see 5:20) This example is really in a class of its own, as the chord is not only broken into a myriad of semiquavers and tuplets with a scattering of arbitrary notes in between, but it also isn't even a minor 7th. Nevertheless, a Chord of Resignation it undoubtedly is. A far more conventional example can be found at 5:49.

A very common way in which the minor 7th chord manifests - especially in minimalism - is where a particular interval or combination of intervals are maintained over the top of a changing base chord progression, resulting in the 'Chord of Resignation' seeming to grow naturally out of a pure tonic triad. The following examples demonstrate this.

9. Stellardrone - In Time This is a fairly simple example - harmonically and texturally - so well suited for explanatory purposes. The bass is progressing as follows: I, [V], VI, VII. To start with the...er, constellation of notes being repeated over the top is simply part of the tonic triad, but as it remains the same while the bass changes, it forms a minor 7th over the VI chord.
10. Porcupine Tree - Trains As with the previous example, the upper notes in the harmony here remain constant over a changing bassline, resulting in a minor 7th forming over the VI chord. However, there are other relevant complexities to the harmony which you can read about in the chord prog examples list.
11. Steve Reich - Electric Counterpoint III This is an interesting example because the underlying chord progression consists only of the degrees of the scale that form the minor 7th - IV, VI, Im. As a result, in this instance it's impossible to say that a minor 7th is only formed over, say, the VI chord, as was the case with the previous 2 examples. The harmony just morphs organically, an effect intensified the gradual introduction of each degree of the scale in the bass at the start of the piece (you have to listen to the whole thing to get what I'm talking about). PS in case you're curious what happens when it briefly modulates, the progression is III, IV, V, but effectively that III chord becomes the new tonic.
12. Steve Reich - Music for large ensemble Initially, the uppermost note of the chord is simply the 3rd degree of the tonic triad (i.e. the dominant), but each time the bass plunges down a third it becomes a minor 7th.

Yes, there is a lot of Ravel on this list. :P

Wednesday 6 November 2013

A compositional project

Link to the project

About a year ago I wrote what I suppose you could call a 12-track piece for percussion ensemble. I say '12 track' because, although it used 10 separate instruments, I feel like 'track' is a more appropriate way to describe the way in which each stave was a whole composition unto itself.
I named this piece 'Mechanism No. 1', with the aim of writing more pieces in a similar style in the future. I recently completed Mechanism No. 2, which also has 12 'tracks'. You can find both pieces here:
Mechanism No. 1
Mechanism No. 2

I write most of my music in Sibelius, which has a mixing panel. While writing
anything with more than a few instruments, I usually mute or solo tracks and adjust volumes to hear how different combinations of instruments sound together and to make sure there aren't any unwanted dissonances.

With these very large, complex scores, such as the Mechanisms, often things come out in a reduced combination of instruments that are completely lost when all parts are blaring away at once. For example, just the marimba, vibrophone and harp together can convey a completely different mood to the work as a whole, and sound almost like a separate composition in their own right.

Often this has to do with each instrument's place in the harmony: with the combination of instruments just mentioned, you might never hear the tonic, so the whole key of the piece sounds different. In the work as a whole, these instruments might be filling in the 4th, 6th, or 7th degree of the scale (perhaps all at the same time!), but on their own, they create a new scale altogether.

It made me sad to think that my listeners would never get to hear all these different combinations of instruments I encountered while writing the Mechanisms. Short of uploading a Sibelius file to the web and hoping that everyone who wanted to hear the piece HAD Sibelius, there was no way of providing the same 'customizable' listening experience that I had from within the software during the composition process.

For this reason, I've decided to export several extra audio files of Mechanism No. 2 using a couple of different instrument combinations which I think are particularly interesting, and plan to do the same with Mechanism No. 1. I'll upload these to a Soundcloud playlist in the coming week. A link will be posted here when it's ready!

P.S. I originally considered exporting and uploading EACH STAVE individually, making them downloadable, and letting people remix. While I love projects like this, it would take a lot of time and probably not be worth it, since nobody knows I exist :P

This blog will no longer be limited to music...

Almost ever since I started this blog I've been itching to post about things other than music. However, I did initially set it up to be music-specific, and I didn't think I'd be posting frequently enough about other topics to justify changing that.

However, I recently changed my mind in light of the amount of stuff I have to say about technology (although literature is also a possible topic). I'm studying IT, and increasingly finding myself wanting to air my views or share my discoveries in relation to this pursuit.

So from now on, this blog is no longer exclusively music-themed. I'm going to have to think of another title! I'm also working on a widget to create navigation that elegantly divides it into sections based on post labels, but until that's finished, a flat link list will have to do.

Friday 23 August 2013

Seeing music through the eyes of a programmer

I always intended this blog to have a music-only focus. I've often found myself wanting to blog about other things that interest me, but always refrained because it would have been outside the scope of the topic. However, I'm going to make a slight exception for this post because although it isn't exclusively music-related, music does come into it and I think it might be of interest to the very few people who read my blog.

A couple of years ago I did a web design course, learned about HTML and CSS, and loved it. This encouraged me to pursue IT further, and 3 months ago I enrolled in an introductory computer programming course which is just coming to an end at the time of writing. Although the course only taught the very basics of programming, even within a few weeks of starting it I had begun to 'think like a programmer'. Let me provide a few examples of what I mean.

There is a weatherboard house in my street which has always fascinated me because of the unusual staining of the wood. It appears that over time the stain on the boards exposed to the weather (furthest away from the eaves) wore off. The result is a perfect gradient, with the boards near the bottom of the house very pale and those directly under the eaves still a dark brown color. I found myself trying to figure out how I could write a program to manipulate an image to create the same effect. I never actually did it, but later on in the course we worked with gradients so I got to experiment then.

More recently, I attempted to draw parallels between music and programming from a conceptual point of view. In case any geeks are curious to know what I actually came up with, it was along these lines (I added the 'print' statement just to make it do something; it's kind of cool because it shows you the bars and the strong beats in each bar):

for bar in range (120):
      for note in range(1, 4, 2):
            print bar, note

The idea is a piece 120 bars in duration, where each bar is in 4/4 time and contains 2 minims. Obviously a very boring piece of music (where every note is the same duration!) but I needed something that simplistic to be able to translate it to this context at all.

The thing I love about studying programming is it's given me a whole new perspective, not just on music but on EVERYTHING. It's made me think about everything from a logical, even a slightly mathematical, perspective, and it's also made me realise that, contrary to what I've always thought, I don't actually hate maths.

Learning Jython has been intense and pretty stressful at times, but in the past 3 months I've discovered that although programming can be incredibly frustrating, the thrill when you finally solve a problem you've been scratching your head over for weeks is huge. I can't wait to move on to learning Java. In the meantime, to relax a little (haha, we'll see about that...) I'm returning to web design, this time to learn JavaScript.

Thursday 18 July 2013

Bach is hard

I've discovered that, at least in the pianistic field, pieces by Mozart are often given to young musicians as their 'first concerto'  or 'first sonata'. This seems to imply that such works are technically and perhaps emotionally less demanding than sonatas or concertos by other composers, and therefore suitable material for budding musicians who have, presumably, not yet developed these faculties.
I have even read things that imply that Mozart is widely considered to be inferior music ONLY suitable for this purpose, and not serious or "difficult" enough for fully-fledged musicians to pay any attention to.
As I am not personally fond of Mozart, I haven't played much of his music and thus don't feel qualified to judge whether it really IS less technically or emotionally demanding than that of other composers. However, it recently came to my attention that Bach is treated, by some, in much the same way: as excellent 'first concerto' material for children learning the piano, or (in the cases of the preludes and fugues) excellent exercise material, but not really of any worth to the experienced musician.

This horrifies me for a number of reasons. First, to suggest that anything Bach - possibly the greatest composer that ever lived - wrote has no musical worth is nothing short of blasphemy. I can hardly think of a great composer since Bach's time who has not, in some way, been influenced by his music. However, I hardly need that as an excuse for defending the excellence of his compositions. The main reason I'm offended by this devaluing, as it were, of Bach's music is because it implies that, like Mozart, playing Bach requires less technical skill or musical understanding than playing the music of other composers.

I've noticed a curious thing when I tell people (generally musicians or music lovers who aren't pianists) about the pieces I'm working on. The conversation usually goes something like this:
Me: 'I'm learning two concertos.'
Friend: 'Which ones?'
Me: 'Bach's D minor...'
Friend: *no reaction*
Me: '...and Rach 2.'
Friend: 'OOOH! That's one of the hardest concertos there is!' *impressed face*
Me: *mumbles something about Prok 2*
Misconceptions about hardest concertos aside, it seems like Rachmaninov universally holds the status of Serious Music, while Bach is...well...less serious music - even inferior music - in the eyes of many people. If I hadn't seen evidence of this attitude elsewhere, it would never have occured to me that people might think about Bach this way. Someone once told me they were surprised when they tried to play a Bach prelude and found it difficult. It strikes me as strange that people can listen to Bach and not hear the complexity of it.

To me, Bach has always been characterised by both outstanding complexity and technical difficulty; in the early music circle I grew up in, it was widely acknowledged that Bach was pretty much the hardest early music there was. But how does the technical difficulty of Bach compare to the music of the 19th and 20th centuries?

In Rach 2, most of the notes are for texture, and the few that form a melody are the ones that need to be brought out. This is usually achieved using the damper pedal and playing the textural notes lightly while the melody notes are played strongly. More often than not the 'textural' notes end up being drowned out by the orchestra anyway, and this combined with the concealing qualities of the pedal mean that you don't need to get every note right for the overall effect to be pleasant.
Since I like to actually hear all the notes, I strongly advocate NOT swamping them in pedal to hide technical inadequacies. The technique I describe above is one of things I find most frustating about modern pianists. But the fact remains that you can do that and get away with it, because romantic music was sort of written to be played like that. In fact, most of it is unplayable without a certain amount of pedal, although swamping is totally unnecessary if you are a good enough pianist (I could probably write a whole book blog post about pedal-swamping). I personally aspire to the clean, minimally-pedalled technique which the composer himself utilises, but the truth is my technique isn't good enough to pull that off most of the time.


On the other hand, under no circumstances will I resort to the pedal in Bach. It simply isn't in keeping with the sound I envisage for his music. I like a clean, percussive, articulated technique in Bach; it helps to emphasise the counterpoint and also makes the piano sound more like a harpsichord. But this clarity is a lot harder to achieve than the pedal-swamped passages found in romantic music. One wrong note in Rachmaninov might be barely noticable, but in Bach it could be a disaster. You can't fake it: every note is of equal importance (this is especially so in fugal passages, where each voice needs to be heard clearly.) Even if you do use the pedal (and thereby conceal half the notes, making wrong ones less apparent), the keyboard instruments Bach wrote for had a much lighter action than a modern piano, and so were much easier to play on. This made it possible to execute leaps and incredibly fast fingerwork that are awkward, to say the least, on a modern piano. When playing Bach on the piano, the performer often has to battle against the unwieldiness of an instrument for which the music was not designed.

Rach 2 is hard, and as soon as you introduce the concept of actually hearing all the notes, it gets much harder, because there are lots of them, and they are often very fast. But aside from one or two awkward passages (which can be glossed over with the pedal if necessary) most of the notes feel just right - so right that, once you've learnt them, they are not only easy, but actually physically pleasant to play. This can be attributed to Rachmaninov's own skill as a pianist, which enabled him to write music perfectly designed for the piano and the capabilities of the performer.

By all accounts, Bach was equally accomplished at the harpsichord, and no doubt his own concertos were similarly well-tailored to his instrument. Like Rach 2, the Bach concerto was never easy in the first place, but (if Bach's vocal works are anything to go by) it was probably written in such a way that once the keyboardist had learnt the notes, everything just flowed - at least, on a harpsichord, where the keys are much shallower than a piano's and only require about a quarter of the effort to depress. I actually have two harpsichords in my house, but they're both in such poor condition that I haven't been able to try playing the concerto on them (apart from the fact they don't have enough keys for the low notes; Bach must have had much bigger harpsichords.)

In the end, it's hard to draw a comparison, because the technique required to play Bach is so different from that required to play Rachmaninov.* All things considered, the two pieces are probably at around the same level of difficulty. This alone would probably surprise a lot of people. However, I'm finding the concerto that was written for the instrument I'm playing it on, regardless of the number of notes, is actually easier to execute successfully. Meanwhile, I've just started learning the last movement of the Bach concerto, and for the first time since I undertook learning these two concertos, I'm really struggling. I haven't started on the last movement of Rach 2 yet, and I'm fairly certain it's going to be the hardest. Will it be harder than the corresponding movement of the Bach? Even I would feel silly if I said it wasn't, but only time will tell!

*I have encountered pianists who fully appreciate the technical challenges of Bach, and even go so far as to admit they can't play it. These are accomplished musicians who have no trouble executing extremely difficult 19th and 20th century music, which demonstrates just how different the necessary technique is.

Wednesday 26 June 2013

Concert review: Stefan Cassomenos 26/6/13

In 2012, I was fortunate enough to witness two incredible young pianists playing alongside each other - one as soloist and one as accompanist - in the Piano Concerto section of my local Eisteddfod. They were Konrad Olszewski and Stefan Cassomenos. Even in what one could say was the secondary role of accompanist, it was evident that Stefan was an extraordinary musician. They played one of my favorite concertos, Prokofiev's 3rd, and the whole experience was unforgettable. I was therefore very excited when I found out that both Stefan and Konrad had got into the Sydney International Piano Competition (SIPCA), and heartbroken when they didn't progress to the 2nd round.

I've just returned from the first recital I've heard Stefan play in person. This took place in the salon at the Melbourne Recital Centre, and I have to admit I much prefer this more intimate setting to the Elizabeth Murdoch Hall - the acoustic is beautiful and, in my opinion, far more flattering to the piano.
The closeness to the performer also gives me the opportunity to study a pianist's pedalling at close range, which I certainly did tonight.

I loved Stefan's choice of repetoire, some of which I'd already heard him play in SIPCA, and some of which he obviously learnt for SIPCA but didn't get the chance to perform due to not progressing past the first round. This included one of the Australian works commissioned for the competition, Carl Vine's Toccatissimo, with which Stefan opened the program and in which I would be completely confident to say his accuracy was 100%. For some reason I never fully appreciated this masterpiece when I heard it on the radio during SIPCA - I don't know whether it was never played particularly well (it's a technical monstrosity) or whether I was just so exhausted from hours of listening that I couldn't even take it in. But tonight, it left me fervently wishing I was able to compose like that - as did the 3 Ligeti etudes (Nos. 4, 11, and 8), during which I simply gaped the whole time.

After the Vine and before the Ligeti, Stefan played 3 Liszt etudes (Nos. 7, 11 and 8). I confess I'm not a fan of Liszt, but I marvelled at Stefan's technique in these extraordinarily difficult works. I particularly noted that Wilde Jagd, which I heard several times played by different pianists (including Stefan) during SIPCA, sounded distinctly more accurate than when I had heard him play it previously. In fact, I would venture to say it was 100% accurate.

Following the Liszt and Ligeti, Stefan played a Debussy etude (No. 11) which for some reason has left less of an impression on me than the other works on the program. I quite like Debussy, and I like that etude, but it didn't particularly stand out for me, perhaps because I was so busy anticipating the 5 Rachmaninov Etudes that followed.

When I hear what is, for me, a definitive interpretation of a work, from then on I never really like any other interpretation. This is how I feel about Ashkenazy's Rach Etudes, with one exception - Op. 39 No. 1, which I first heard played by Konrad Olszewski in SIPCA. Ever since then, no other interpretation of that etude has sounded right to me, and Stefan's interpretation of Op. 39 No. 1 doesn't quite cut it for me simply for that reason, but on some levels he has more technique than Konrad. It was interesting to hear how Stefan brought out melodies in this etude that I hadn't heard before.

At this point I can no longer put off discussing the one thing that struck me most about Stefan's playing this evening: his pedalling.

I was watching Stefan's feet the whole way through the recital, and was amazed to see that he frequently took the pedal completely off in technical passages where most pianists I've heard leave it down. Stefan used little to no pedal wherever he could, and only a pianist with impeccable technique can get away with the exposure this results in.
When he wasn't playing completely pedalless, Stefan changed the pedal frequently and subtly - sometimes fully changing, sometimes half or quarter-changing - so that there was always the utmost clarity. I was particularly struck by the way he used the sostenuto pedal in one piece to hold a bass chord while he played a delicate, virtuosic passage in the right hand, completely without the damper pedal. This is the kind of pedalling technique that seems to have been forgotten, or has gone out of fashion, and of which Rachmaninov is the supreme example.

My only criticism of Stefan's pedalling is a fairly minor one. He has a way of very abruptly lifting his foot off the pedal. He never does this in the middle of passages - as many pianists I've heard do - but only when he comes to the end of a pedalled section. Often it's quite effective, if the music is agressive, since the 'clunk' of the pedal adds to the overall harshness. But occasionally he does it when the music is less suited to added clunking, and I don't like it. However, it's part of his playing style and insignificant in comparison to his otherwise extraordinary command of the pedal, which particularly made itself clear in the Rachmaninov etudes.

Most modern pianists I've heard pay little, if any, attention to pedalling, and I gather that many judges don't either, considering some of the finalists in competitions. It's refreshing to come across a pianist who grants the pedal the importance it deserves. I reckon if we could hear Rachmaninov play his own etudes today, in person, his pedalling would not be unlike Stefan's. And as a self-confessed pedalling freak and Rachmaniac, that's more or less the highest praise I could give anyone.

Sunday 16 June 2013

Concert Review: Valentina Lisitsa 8/6/13

I originally discovered Valentina Lisitsa when I came across her Chopin Etudes DVD on Youtube. To start with, I didn't like her all that much. I appreciated that she was an excellent pianist with formidable technique, but her style wasn't to my taste. It was only once I realised how she was revolutionising classical music through the use of social media that my respect for her really took off.
Gradually I began to realise what she was doing was very different: she talked about the music when she did a recital, tweeted to people in the audience, and was prepared to livestream her practise and performances to the whole world.  Last but not least, whereas most pianists achieve fame by winning prestigious competitions at a tender age, Lisitsa's career took off via the internet when she was middle-aged, without the aid of any competitions (and the agents and record companies they entail) whatsoever. 

The Royal Albert Hall recital was what finally made me a fan. I'd listened to Ashkenazy's Rach preludes CD, but his intepretation, while excellent, had never really communicated the essence of the music to me in the way Lisitsa's did. I felt like I was hearing the preludes for the first time. It was then that I decided to learn Op. 32 No. 10, and my obssession with Rachmaninov began.

Some time later I joined with hundreds of other pianists and music lovers around the world to watch Lisitsa livestreaming her 12 hours of practise a day, and later a performance of Rach 3. It was an amazing experience, not least because of the wonderful live chat board, where I was able to talk with fellow pianists around the world and discuss what Lisitsa was playing in real-time.

Last weekend, I flew to Brisbane for a couple of nights and saw Valentina Lisitsa perform at the Queensland Performing Arts centre. It was unforgettable, and a very different experience to other piano recitals I've been to. Lisitsa talked at length about the music, the composers, her own childhood and the reasons for her programming (which was refreshingly unconventional) before sitting down to play, straight through, 6 Rachmaninov preludes, followed by Prokofiev's 7th sonata (a personal favorite of mine) and then the Beethoven Appassionata. And that was just before interval. She didn't want applause between pieces, but couldn't prevent a few outbursts from the enthusiastic audience.

From the very first piece, I disliked the piano. Lisitsa favours Bosendorfers, and it's a pity she wasn't able to play on one, because the Steinway in the auditorium was poorly tuned (not out of tune exactly; just poorly tuned), unevenly voiced and jangly. However, Lisitsa was able to make it sound beautiful, especially as she warmed up.

Hearing her play the Rachmaninov preludes again since I'd gotten to know them better, I realised I didn't actually like her interpretation of Op. 32 no. 10, the prelude I learned. Some of the more technically challenging preludes were also a bit messy, but when a performer sees the bigger picture rather than focussing on the details, mistakes are unimportant, and Lisitsa certainly saw the bigger picture. In fact the Rach preludes were really just a warm-up, and the fact that Lisitsa was able to play 6 such challenging works to open a recital is indicative of her pianistic skill.

The Prokofiev sonata and Beethoven which followed were flawless - and very fast, something which seems to be Lisitsa's trademark. After interval, she spoke some more and then played 8 Chopin nocturnes. This time the audience managed to not applaud between pieces. Again, the bigger picture was of the utmost importance. I was particularly impressed with how Lisitsa had programmed the nocturnes according to key; she had obviously put a lot of thought into the order of the works, rather than simply arranging them chronologically (as most pianists do). It's practically unheard of to put a Op. 55 before an Op. 15.

The final piece on the program was Liszt's Totentanz. There are several recordings of Lisitsa playing this on Youtube, but I swear she played it better in this recital than I've heard in any of her recordings (in fact, I would say that about everything she played). It was interesting to hear Totentanz again since I wrote my own variation on Dies Irae - I know the plainchant melody so well now that I hear it everywhere, and this familiarity meant that Totentanz made a lot more sense to me than it had before; I suddenly heard it as a piece of music and not merely as a way for the pianist to show off.

There followed a well-deserved standing ovation and two encores. The first was Liszt's transcription of Schubert's Ave Maria, which was very beautiful. Amazingly, Lisitsa then played La Campanella - a piece I would hardly have considered appopriate encore material after such an exhausting program! But Lisitsa's stamina is unfailing and this, too, was stunning. I couldn't help comparing the ending with Gavrilov's, which I think someone on Youtube once tried to call the 'fastest La Campanella' or something like that. Gavrilov fakes it, and in the last few bars is basically just playing random notes as fast and loud as possible (don't get me wrong, I do actually like Gavrilov - just not his La Campanella.)
In any case, Lisitsa did NOT fake it. I would even go so far as to say her accuracy was 99.9 percent (I heard no mistakes, but I have to leave a .01 percent margin to cover the possibility - after all, there are a lot of notes....)

The thing that impressed me most about Lisitsa's performance was her incredible stamina. Even some of the best pianists tend to hold back when they have a big climax to reach in a piece, or if they know they have to play something very technically demanding later. Lisitsa never held back once - she kept playing with the same intensity, showing no signs of fatigue, and maintaining an incredible volume. The secret to this is complete relaxation: you can tell just by watching Lisitsa play that she is very, very relaxed. Of course, physical strength is also necessary, but strength is completely useless without relaxation, and that isn't as easy as it sounds. In fact, the inability to keep my arms and wrists sufficiently relaxed is probably the thing that holds back my technique the most.

I think a lot of young pianists (including myself) could benefit from taking a leaf out of Valentina Lisitsa's book by viewing a piece of music, and the challenges it entails, as a whole and thinking about the overall impression rather than worrying about every mistake; and RELAXING and letting their entire weight sink into the piano. Relaxation doesn't just improve stamina: it also results in a beautiful rich tone, something that is distinctly lacking in most of the pianists I hear in competitions.

Wednesday 12 June 2013

Many a Rach 2

It's not uncommon for me to listen to lots of different recordings and interpretations of the same work. However, nothing can compare to the number of different recordings of Rachmaninov's 2nd piano concerto I've listened to. If I come across a recording of Rach 2 I haven't heard before, I just HAVE to listen to it. And then, preferably, compare it with all the other Rach 2 recordings I know of.

The following are some of the pianists I've heard play Rach 2:

Van Cliburn
Alexei Sultanov
Andrei Gavrilov
Alexander Gavrylyuk
Vladimir Ashkenazy
Yefim Bronfman
Sviatoslav Richter
Garrick Ohlsson
Evgeny Kissin
Ivo Pogorelich
Benno Moisewitch
Valentina Lisitsa

These are merely the recordings I can remember of the top of my head, and which left an impression on me. I find comparing them fascinating - especially 'vintage' recordings versus modern ones. I usually prefer the vintage recordings in every respect, especially with regards to the piano tone. In old recordings the piano sound is warmer and closer. In modern recordings the piano often sounds harsh, percussive and distant, and you can barely hear it over the orchestra. Gavrilov's recording is one of the worst examples of this, which is unfortunate since I admire his interpretation - it has a slightly out-of-control quality I find exhilarating. Valentina Lisitsa's recording suffers from a similar production problem: it's a superb recording of the orchestra, in which you can hear details notably lacking in other recordings - pizzicato, pianissimo strings, and very enthusiastic timpani - but very little piano!

Here are my 'top three' recordings of Rach 2:
Vladimir Ashkenazy
There is a curious story attached to this recording. I originally heard Ashkenazy's recording with, I think, Bernard Haitink and the Concertgebouw of Amsterdam. I hated it. The piano sounded awful. 
I happened to come across a recording on Spotify recently with 'Andre Previn and Ashkenazy' listed as the artists. Unfortunately it didn't say who was the pianist and who the conductor. I searched in vain for the recording (a Decca Ovation: Rach 2 coupled with the Paganini Rhapsody). Eventually, I figured out that it could only be Ashkenazy playing, with Previn conducting the LSO. The recording is on Youtube, unfortunately chopped up into bits, but someone has put them all in this playlist for easy listening.
Ashkenazy's technique is flawless, and his interpretation incredibly sensitive. I really think Ashkenazy understands Rachmaninov better than anyone. The production is fantastic: the orchestra sounds great, but in no way swamps the piano, which has a beautiful tone and perfect clarity. Many recordings also lack the 'oomph' which Ashkenazy gives this concerto, and I do like a bit of oomph.
Van Cliburn
I first heard Van Cliburn's Rach 2 on Youtube and fell in love with his interpretation immediately; it's so warm and full of love for and understanding of the music. Cliburn takes all 3 movements a lot slower than is the norm, and I particularly admire this. His interpretation is romantic without being too sentimental. Above all, the recording - although old - is superb, and the piano crystal clear above the orchestra, which is something I look for in any concerto recording (and which is sadly lacking in many modern recordings.) This is my favorite version aside from Rachmaninov's own.
Rachmaninov
Before I go on, I should explain that there are actually 2 recordings of Rachmaninov himself playing Rach 2. Although almost identical in interpretation, the sound quality does differ a little: as one would expect, the (surprisingly rare) 1929 recording is somewhat higher quality than the 1927 recording.
Rachmaninov takes his own concerto incredibly fast. There's nothing wrong with this, and if I had Rachmaninov's technique I'd probably do the same, but I prefer the way Van Cliburn wallows in the music. However, aside from the tempo this recording is by far my favorite. Two things make it stand out particularly: the pedalless candenza (to date I have heard only one other pianist play the cadenza without pedal), and the fast 'Alla Marcia'. Pianists usually take this section way too slow (in my opinion), and it gets very laboured, detracting from the melody the orchestra plays underneath.

One of the things that distinguishes my 'top three' Rach 2 recordings from the rest is the absolute clarity of the piano part. Despite the low audio quality, there is still more piano detail audible in Rachmaninov's recording of Rach 2 than I have heard on many modern recordings. I don't know what they do differently these days, but the piano is always swamped by the orchestra. Perhaps there is also
the factor of technique - the clear, ambidextrous and under-pedalled style of playing which was prevalent during the earlier half of the 20th century, and of which Rachmaninov was the supreme example, is no longer fashionable. While there are still some more modern pianists who employ this technique, they are getting rarer and rarer, as is actually hearing the left hand in a recording of Rach 2. Coincidence? I think not.

Runners up include:
Yefim Bronfman - when I first started learning Rach 2, I hunted around for ages for the 'perfect' recording to buy. I was specifically looking for a modern recording, since I wanted to be able to play along with it and many of the older recordings are a slightly lower pitch. I chose Bronfman's due to the superb production. His technique is absolutely flawless, but the interpretation isn't particularly interesting.
Alexander Gavrylyuk - one of my favorite young pianists. His interpretation is original and beautiful, but I can't seem to get hold of the recording anywhere - all I can find is a couple of excerpts on youtube. I love the clarity of his playing. As I mentioned earlier, that kind of technique is rare in modern pianists.
Garrick Ohlsson - a really brilliant pianist I didn't even know about before I went to a concert where he played a Beethoven concerto. His recording of Rach 2 (which I can only find samples of on Amazon) is excellent. Listen to the sample of the final movement...!!!

Thursday 30 May 2013

A follow-up on the Chord Progression of Resignation

A couple of months ago I wrote this blog post about how harmonic structure relates to the emotional impact of music. It was something I'd been considering for a long time, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to discuss something so personal; I don't like talking about the emotional aspect of music, preferring to let it speak for itself (as, in my opinion, it should.)

In the end, I decided to go ahead and write about my discoveries, but keep most of what I said strictly within the realm of musical analysis. For example, I abstained from saying anything personal about the musical examples I linked to: I didn't say anything about how much I liked them, what I thought was special about them, or how they affected me emotionally. I just wrote one or two paragraphs detailing the harmonic structure of each example. Sometimes it was hard to refrain from gushing about pieces of music which I considered phenomenal works of art and incredibly creative and original in their use of harmony, but I stuck to my word and kept everything detached and impersonal.

However, since publishing that post I've discovered so much more music that uses the Chord Progression of Resignation that it's got to the point where I feel more needs to be said about exactly WHY I chose the music I did to illustrate the chord progression in question.

See, here's the thing: the Chord Progression of Resignation is a very, very common progression. When I first started listening out for it, I thought it was some extremely rare and outstanding harmonic structure which was to be found only in Ravel, Rachmaninov and certain kinds of progressive metal. This delusion didn't last long. Having trained my ears to recognise it, I was soon hearing the progression in even the most banal pop songs pumped out of bass-heavy speakers in clothes stores. And I found that, in the wrong context, the chord progression I initially thought encapsulated infinity (or something silly like that) could actually become boring.

It's not merely the ubiquitousness of the Chord Progression of Resignation that's made me think more needs to be said on the subject. It's also the fact that this progression is by no means the ONLY progression that makes me feel...well, the way the Chord Progression of Resignation makes me feel.
When I was in the process of writing my previous blog post, I actually started off listing about 5 different chord progressions which I thought were significant (although the Chord Progression of Resignation was still the MOST significant.) In the end, I had so many musical examples of that progression, and so few of the others, that I decided to devote the entire blog post to the one progression.

The truth is, although I still believe there is something distinctly special about the sequence of chords Im, III, IVm, VI, some pieces of music use them far more creatively and effectively than others, and the result is much more confronting (I feel that's an appropriate word for the effect I'm talking about) than, say, this, or 0:47 in this. I can think of way worse examples - in spite of myself I do actually get chills when I hear these songs - but they just don't compare to something like 8:09 in this - which isn't even, strictly speaking, the Chord Progression of Resignation! (VI, Vm, III, IVm, so while it still qualifies as a variant, it's a bit of stretch.)
The thing that's unusual about this usage of the progession is that it never resolves to the tonic, so you're left waiting for something that's never going to happen. Often such non-resolution is used to modulate into another key, but in this instance, the melody (which is almost an echo of the bass line a 5th higher) keeps the tonic firmly in sight, so there's no chance of mistaking the progression for III, IIm, VII, Im.
Unfortunately I can't include this song in my list of examples, since VI, Vm, IVm (which is what the progression really boils down to, since the III is little more than a passing note) is not close enough to the fundamental Chord Progression of Resignation to be classified as such.

One of the examples I recently added to my original blog post is from John Adams' opera Nixon in China. In the opening, the bass instruments in the orchestra set up the fundamental chord progression, starting with Im, VI, and then unfolding to encompass III as well. Meanwhile, the violins are playing natural minor scales in very clear 4/4 time, completely disregarding the off-beat entries of the rest of the orchestra. Due to the way the harmonic transitions are layered, it almost sounds as if everyone is playing in different time signatures. I don't have the score so I can't really analyse this piece, but I can tell that the enormous emotional tension of this opening is due largely to the way in which the different layers of the orchestra interact. Even after the chord progression shifts to something less portentous, the darkness and intensity established in the first section remains.

I think I've made my point now. The Chord Progression of Resignation is special, but just how special is highly dependant on how it's integrated with the music as a whole. This is what I've had to keep in mind when choosing what pieces of music to provide as examples. In the end, it boils down to what pieces I feel really deserve the title of 'art'.* A number of songs - including the first one I linked to above - have nearly made it into the list, but at the last minute I realised that in comparison to the other examples, there was a degree of complexity, or deliberate simplicity, or some indefinable stroke of genius lacking. Perhaps, if I persevere, I'll eventuallly be able to define exactly what that indefinable stroke of genius is - possibly a particular number of nonchord tones, or the way a melody interacts with the underlying harmony...

*The 2 compositions of my own which are on the list are not there for that reason; one of them I don't even like. I linked to them because I'd used the progression quite extensively before even identifying its existence, and thought that was interesting.

Thursday 4 April 2013

The Chord Progression of Resignation

I've often found myself wondering whether something as abstract as the emotional impact of a work of art can be broken down to some sort of scientific formula. I don't normally like to discuss the emotional aspects of music (or any art form for that matter), but I found myself speculating: could there be a purely technical unifying factor in all the pieces of music that make me feel a certain way?

In order to try and answer this question, I decided to analyse one of my own compositions - the 4th movement of my Piano Trio. I've always felt that the section which begins at 3:28 minutes is unequivocally representative of resignation. For reasons I will address later, I wanted to find out what made this particular section of music 'tick' .

I discovered that the last 60 seconds of the piece consisted entirely of a repetition of the chords Im, III, IVm, VI - a progression I have since christened the 'Chord Progression of Resignation'. However, perhaps the name is a little misleading, since to me, this sequence of chords signifies something far greater and more profound than a single feeling - it is everything, the universe, infinity.

There are countless pieces of music - or tiny sections of pieces - that have always given me the same distinctive feeling as that final section of the Piano Trio. The impact of these musical fragments is so recognisable that I've sometimes felt a connection between certain works (even those completely dissimilar in style) because of it. What I wanted to know was whether the chord progression I had discovered in the Piano Trio had any relevance to this phenomenon.

Rather than go through all the music I'd ever listened to searching for more occurrences of the Chord Progression of Resignation, I decided to hunt out and analyse pieces solely on the basis that they all gave me the same undefinable but instantly recognisable 'feeling' - in other words, I was using an emotional characteristic to identify a purely technical one.
Rather to my astonishment, all the pieces I chose (I've provided links to some of these below, along with an analysis of the harmonic structure of each) had one thing in common: the Chord Progression of Resignation.

The four chords that make up the Chord Progression of Resignation are only the skeleton around which the harmony is built; there are endless variants and elaborations which can be created from this basic chord structure. For example, it's quite rare to find any of the chords used without an added 7th or 9th, and often the III chord is left out. One of the resulting variants - Im, VI, IVm - is the reason for my obsession with both Ravel and Rachmaninov, and the similarity I feel exists between them. I have found endless variants of this progression in pieces by both composers. There is a beautiful symmetry to the way the roots of the chords in this variant actually form an upside-down tonic triad.

I have grouped the musical examples below according to how they are related harmonically. (I apologise in advance to those who don't appreciate progressive metal/rock, one of the few musical genres in which the Chord Progression of Resignation is used extensively.) Edit: As I discover more examples to add here, I'm putting these at the bottom of the list and they are therefore not grouped by harmonic relationship.

1. Sydonia - Life in a cup This song consists almost entirely of just the four chords Im, III, IVm, VI, and is probably the best example of the Chord Progression of Resignation I can think of, because it's so simple.

2. Elitist - Square and compass This song uses the variant Im, IVm7, VI7 throughout (most notably in the first 30 seconds and from 2:44 onwards). Edit: since publishing this post, I've realised that the album this song comes from, Reshape Reason, uses the chord progession of resignation as an over-arching theme, with it occuring in Unto the Sun, Time Stands Still, Equinox, Trace the Sky and (more subtly) Life Lost, Transmutation and Sacred Geometry. That's almost the entire album!
3. Ravel: Prelude (see 2:23) The progression at 2:23 consists of just the two chords Im and IVm9. Usually I'd say that a progression needs to make use of at least 3 of the 4 chords described earlier in order to be classified as the Chord Progression of Resignation; this example is an exception.

4. Anno Domini - Downfall (see 0:32) From 0:32 onwards this song consists entirely of the variant IVm7, VI7, Im7 (the 4th chord in the progression, VII, can be ignored) 
5. Rachmaninov - Etude op 39 no. 8 (see 0:16) If one takes into consideration the modulation into the dominant key that occurs here, this progression is Im, VI7, IVm7. Note that the order of the chords is a reversal of that in Ex. 5.
6. Ravel - Toccata (see 11:11) This progression is a variant of the one in Ex. 6: Im7, VIm, Im7, IVm7.
7. Anup Sastry - Crystal From 4:47 onwards, this song consists entirely of the chord progression Im, VI, IVm (probably with added 7ths and 9ths, but due to the complexity of the texture I haven't tried to identify them.)
8. Cult of Luna - Dark city, dead man (see 10:00) This song uses the chord progression Im, VI, IVm, III (credit goes to Liam Cooke for finding this one)

9. Rachmaninov - Etude op. 33 no. 7 (see 0:37) This etude is in G minor and uses the progression VI7 up to Im.
10. Rachmaninov - Prelude Op. 32 no. 5 (see 0:48) This etude is in G major and uses the progression I down to VIm7. Compare this piece with the one above and note what happens to the chords: the major and minor are reversed. Im becomes I and VI7 becomes VIm7!

11. John Adams - Nixon in China: Opening (see 4:30) The start of this uses various layers of dissonance over the progression Im, III, VI.
12. Lamb of God - King Me (see 4:55) The use of the Chord Progression of Resignation here is slightly unusual. It starts normally - Im, VI, IVm - but then switches to the variant Im, III, augmented IVm (which is the same as diminished V.)
13. Sikth - As the earth spins round (see 4:27) Here the progression is only just held together by the bass, since it's competing with a ton of dissonance. It's Im, III, IV, with multiple passing notes including a VII chord between Im and III.
14. Rammstein - Du Hast (see 3:03) Im, IVm, VI with V added on the end and some passing notes.
15. Buxtehude - Ad Latus from Membra Jesu Nostri (see 23:55) Im, VIm, III, IVm with a passing V between the first two chords. (There is another piece which uses this exact same progression but unfortunately there is no recording of it on the internet, otherwise I'd link to it.)
16. Stellardrone - Light Years  VI, IVm, Im (if you listen to more of Stellardrone's music you'll find the chord prog of resignation features prominently in much of it.)
17. Widek - Cosmic Ocean VI, IVm, Im
18. Nova Solus - VC4 remix VI, III, Im, IVm + passing V and dim. II - same progression as 8:09 in this but with more emphasis on IV and I, qualifying it for inclusion in this list.
19. Rachmaninov - Moment Musicaux No.1 (see 5:29) Im, III, IVm, VI
20. Eleven Tigers - Stableface (entire song) Im, III, IVm, VI
21. Rachmaninov - Moment Musicaux No. 4 (see 2:26) Im, VI, IVm, [V]
22. Leo Ornstein - Piano Sonata no.4, mvt 2 (see 0:48) IVm, VI, Im
23. Claudio Merulo - Adoramus Te At the start the progression is Im, VI, IVm (and back to Im)
24. Purity Ring - Lofticries Im, [VII], IVm, III, Im and near the end IV, VI, I
25. Cult of Luna - Light Chaser This is one of those examples that only uses 2 chords from the progression. The 2 chords in this instance are IVm down to Im, preceded by a V chord (the presence of the dominant in an otherwise pure chord prog of resignation is extremely common).
26. Porcupine Tree - Trains I've wanted to include this song on the list ever since I first heard it, but it stubbornly evaded analysis. Only recently, while looking for examples of the minor 7th chord, was I finally able to obtain the necessary proof. To start with the chord progression is VII, VI, VII, Im, but at 0:38 it briefly changes to VI, IVm, Im, and then at 0:58 to Im, III, IVm. These are both variants of the chord progression of resignation, and even the initial chord pattern could (at a bit of stretch) be considered a 2-chord variant.
27. My Dying Bride - A Doomed Lover (see 4:36) An example of frequent interspersion of the V chord: Im, VI, [V], IVm, VI, [V], III, Im
28. Olafur Arnalds - Gleypa okkur (see 2:38) III, Im, [Vm], IV

Hopefully the discoveries I've addressed in this blog will help me to become a better composer and further my understanding of harmony. However, I personally think that music is fascinating enough for the analysis to be an end in itself, and I'm publishing this blog post in the hope that some music geek might find it as interesting as I do.

Sunday 17 February 2013

Concert review: Alexander Gavrylyuk 16/2/13

Last Saturday I went to a recital by Alexander Gavrylyuk at the Melbourne Recital Centre. It's the third time I've seen him perform, which is testimony to my high opinion of his playing.

I remember that the first time I heard him, I came away with the impression that he was a perfect pianist, and the second recital I went to (some years later) only served to confirm this view. However, at the time of these recitals, my knowledge of piano repetoire and of pianistic technique in general was limited. I can't even remember most of what he played! I do recall, however, hearing him perform the Moonlight Sonata and being amazed at his interpretation of the first movement, which was unlike anything I'd ever heard before. I'm used to hearing this movement played very limply and weakly, which I hate. Gavyrlyuk played it with such emotional intensity and depth that for the first time I found myself actually understanding the music.

It's very different to be hearing Gavrylyuk now, when my own experience of the piano and piano repetoire is so much broader (and growing every day). Naturally, it's easier for me to find faults in people's playing  - if you can call them 'faults' - since I've now heard many more pianists than I had back then, and have established what I like and don't like with regards to interpretation and technique. However, my opinion of Gavrylyuk's playing hasn't changed much.

The program started with Bach's Italian Concerto. Before going to the concert I had listened to excerpts of Gavrylyuk playing this piece on Youtube, recorded nearly ten years ago. I have to admit I was not impressed - I found his interpretation excessively heavy and rather lifeless. However, in 8 years I believe he has matured a lot - his performance on Saturday night was beautiful, much lighter and more elegant than the recording on Youtube.
His interpretation was not quite to my taste, since I like my Bach Glenn-Gould style: dry and 'crunchy', without any pedal, and hard-edged rather than pretty. Gavrylyuk played it with an (albeit very skillful) use of the pedal and very sweetly. It was certainly a 'pretty' performance.

The second piece before interval was Schumann's Fantasie. This is a piece I like, although I don't know it very well, having probably only listened to the entire thing once or twice. I'm well aware of the enourmous technical difficulties it poses, and these didn't seem to trouble Gavrylyuk at all. However, I'm used to hearing Evgeny Kissin's tumultuous, stormy interpretation, and Gavrylyuk played it so differently that I almost didn't recognise it.
He is a small, compact man, rather mouse-like in appearence, but he is somehow capable of making the piano sound like an earthquake. I would have liked to hear a bit of that earthquake-iness at the start of the Schumann, but in fact all I heard was the first note in the bass followed by a very gentle crescendo into the arpeggios, which got completely lost in the acoustic of the auditorium (about which I will say more later.) All in all it was a bit of a let-down, despite the sections of exciting technical fireworks.

However, what was to follow after interval well and truly made up for the disappointment, and even inclined me to think that Gavrylyuk had not been giving his all in the first half of the recital just in order to have the stamina for the second half.

I first heard Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition played by Nikolai Demidenko when he gave a recital in Brisbane in 2011. It was a great recital, but unfortunately I was coming down with a cold and was so exhausted I had trouble focussing on the music. I woke up for 'Baba Yaga', since it sounded like heavy metal. That's all I really remember.

Demidenko is an interesting pianist, but I find his tone tends to be quite harsh. One of Alexander Gavyrlyuk's strongest points is his tone, which is always incredibly warm and beautiful, even at maximum volume. He got an excellent opportunity to display this technique when he performed the Pictures on Saturday night.

When Gavrylyuk came out on stage after interval, he barely waited for people to finish sitting down before plunging straight into the opening 'Promenade'. It annoys me how pianists always play this opening so stridently and harshly. Gavrylyuk, by contrast, played it very beautifully, shaping each note with the pedal. His playing had the intensity and focus I had come to expect from him. and which I felt was somewhat lacking in the first half of the program.
Gavrylyuk's interpretation of Baba Yaga wasn't what I was expecting. I've heard so many poor interpretations of this movement - lacking in rhythm, bite, volume, you name it. Gavrylyuk played it better than any I've heard so far - even better than Demidenko. The volume he achieved in the loud sections of the work, especially near the end, was terrifying; one half expected the auditorium to collapse from the sheer massiveness of the sound, and yet the tone was not percussive at all, just rich and pure.

I don't think I'd ever really understood what a masterpiece Pictures at an Exhibition is until I heard Gavrylyuk's interpretation, which somehow just made perfect sense to me. For the first time I felt like all the movements of the work hung together and were interconnected, and his playing held my attention for the entire work (which is quite a feat, in my opinion.)

Gavrylyuk got a well-deserved standing ovation, and played three encores - THREE, after Pictures at an Exhibition and the Schumann Fantasie! - one of which was quite long and virtuosic: Horowitz's variations on the Mendelssohn Wedding March. This showpiece was framed by a Rachmaninov Prelude and the Vocalise. All were perfect, and Gavrylyuk played them with the same intensity he displayed in the Mussorgsky. The high standard of his playing in the second half of the recital is what made me think that he was saving himself for that. I also feel that Gavrylyuk has a particular affinity with Russian composers.

My main reservation about the recital was not do to with Gavrylyuk's playing, but to do with the Melbourne Recital Centre acoustic. The Elisabeth Murdoch hall, where all the major recitals take place, has an INCREDIBLY reverberant acoustic. (What's more, the slightest noise is clearly audible throughout the auditorium. Someone moves their program, you can hear it. Someone whispers, you can hear it. Someone scratches their neck, you can hear it. I'm not kidding. And as for when a phone goes off in the middle of the concert, as it did on Saturday...)

For small ensembles, this acoustic is excellent. When I saw the King's Singers there, it was perfect. Likewise for the Takacs Quartet. However, the reverb (which is probably several seconds long although I haven't counted), doesn't work at all for piano recitals. I first noticed this when I went to see Bezhod Abduraimov. There was a most curious doubling effect created by the reverb, almost a delayed echo. You'd hear a note played, and then immediately afterwards you'd hear it again, bouncing off the walls. It was very disconcerting.

I was in a good position to observe Gavyrlyuk's feet during the recital on Saturday, and it was only by this that I could tell his pedalling technique was highly refined. The reverb was so extreme that you couldn't hear most of the subtleties of pedalling he used, except when the music was slow, which wasn't often! I don't know why I never noticed this unfortunate quality of the acoustic until recently.

To finish I'd like to link to some of Gavrylyuk's recordings, so here is an excerpt of him playing one of my favorite concertos (you can find the other movements in the related videos)
This is pretty cool also

Friday 8 February 2013

CD review: Pollini - Chopin Etudes (1960 recording)

Maurizio Pollini is a pianist I greatly admire - so much so that I wouldn't hesitate to compare him with 2 other pianists I consider to be 'in the same mold', technique-wise and possibly even interpretation-wise: Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli, and the one and only Rachmaninov.
All have an outstanding leggiero technique, never fall back on the pedal to conceal inadequacies (since they have none), and have a deep understanding of the music which they manage to convey without projecting too much of their ego onto the music, resulting in a quite objective yet incredibly moving interpretation.

Anyway, enough adulation. Around the end of last year, I found out about a newish CD - it was actually released in 2011 - which I had somehow not heard about yet. The CD is of a very young Pollini playing the complete Chopin Etudes, recorded in 1960 but unreleased until a few years ago. You can listen to samples (and buy it) here

Until I discovered this recording, my favorite interpretation of the Chopin etudes was Ashkenazy's. In fact, Ashkenazy was the first person I ever heard get ALL the notes right in the Op. 10 No. 1 (I've since discovered other pianists who have achieved this astonishing feat).
However, as soon as I heard the 18-year-old Pollini's interpretation - even though I could only hear 20 second samples of each track - I knew his version was going to replace Ashkenazy's in my affection.
I ordered the CD more or less straight away, but due to some problems wth the delivery, I didn't recieve until a few days ago, nearly 3 months after I bought it! In a way, though, the wait made it even more special when I finally got to listen to the whole thing.

Before I even start on Pollini's playing, I want to say a little about the audio production. One of the things I've always disliked about Ashkenazy's recordings of anything, no matter how good the playing, is the tone: very clangy and bright, with hardly any warmth. I like a warm, mellow piano sound, and I like close mic'ing. Pollini's 1960 recording has both in abundance, along with just a smidgin of ambience and reverb. The result is possibly the most beautiful recording quality I've ever heard. The piano is crystal clear, and very exposed as a result, but the playing is so flawless that this just goes to show off Pollini's incredible technique.

Now for the playing. Needless to say, technically it is note perfect: so is Ashkenazy's, of course. Where Pollini differs from Ashkenazy is in the emotional aspect. Whereas Ashkenazy plays the etudes in accordance with what their name implies - technical studies - Pollini brings out the musical masterpiece in every one of them, which to me is far more what these pieces are about. What makes Chopin's etudes so brilliant and innovative is that in them, technical exercises are turned into miniature works of art - something which had never been done before, and which has set a precedent for many composers since.

Nowhere is the artistic value of the etudes more clear on Pollini's recording than in Op. 10 nos. 3, 6, and 9. In these pieces, one can hear Pollini's deep sensitivity, which is always in perfect balance so that it never becomes sentimentality.
On the technical side of things, a particularly good example is....well, everything. However, I am going to single out Op. 25 No. 11 (my favorite etude EVER) because of the astonishing leggiero and pedalling that it displays. Both of these technical aspects are also showcased in Op. 10 No. 4, 5 and 8.

I feel like Pollini's technique in these etudes fully deserves comparison with Rachmaninov's. It's not very often you hear technique like that anymore: where the pianist is so in control of the pedal that one can't tell that it's being used, nothing is blurred, every note can be heard with crystal clarity and is given equal importance. To me, these are characteristics of both Rachmaninov's and, on this recording at least, Pollini's playing. I really believe if we could hear Rachmaninov's playing recorded with modern technology, it would sound very much like Pollini on this CD.
(...In fact, one CAN hear Rachmaninov playing with modern recording technology: judge for yourself. and in case you're not convinced, here is another example which probably provides a better comparison to the production on Pollini's recording.)

I could go on and on about this CD, but everything I'd say can be summed up in two words. IT'S PERFECT. I highly reccommend it!

P.S. I managed to find Pollini's more recent recording of the Chopin etudes on Youtube, and I really dislike it (not least because of the production, although I don't like the interpretation, which is vastly different, either.)

Monday 4 February 2013

I wouldn't change a note...

This probably sounds harsh, but it's not very often that I find myself able to say about a piece of music, 'I wouldn't change a note of that'.

I've recently come to realise the reason for this is that there are particular compositional elements in music which are significant for me - particular harmonies, chord progressions, and rhythms: however, in most 'well-balanced' compositions, these elements will not be used extensively, since unless the music is minimalist, excessive use of one particular element would be against the rules of 'correct' composing. (This is why I'm interested in minimalism: it gives me 'permission' to write an entire piece consisting solely of just a few musical elements.)

My favorite composers all have one thing in common: a large proportion of their output contains sections (the key word here is 'sections') that make use of these compositional elements which I've identified as being special to me. However, it is extremely unusual for an entire work or movement of work to make exclusive use of these elements, and the sections that do are usually very brief - anything from a page or two to only a few bars long!

The point of this post is to share some of those rare pieces that are perfect to me, so perfect I wouldn't change anything about them. This list is very incomplete; I may add to it over time, but for now it's restricted to music that a) I can find on youtube and b) is "classical".


Ravel: Daphnis & Chloe - Lever du jour (arranged for 2 pianos)
This is an unusual Youtube discovery. I love the original version of Daphnis & Chloe, but I have always prefered piano texture to orchestral texture, and just by chance I came across this incredible arrangement for two pianos of my favorite movement, Lever du jour. It's one of the most amazing things I've ever heard; the pianists and arranger are geniuses.

Steve Reich: Electric counterpoint - 3rd movement
Music for 18 musicians
Six marimbas
Music for large ensemble
As one of my favorite composers of all time, Steve Reich is right up there with Ravel, and a big inspiration to me. His music always amazes me because he uses musical elements I consider perfect, and uses them exclusively. The 3rd movement of Electric Counterpoint is a particularly good example since it consists of two of my all-time favorite chord progressions. It's kind of creepy, actually, because it's like Reich and I share an identical aesthetic understanding.

Messiaen - Regard de l'Esprit de joie
I first heard this piece from the Vingt Regards played by Konrad Olszewski during the 2012 Sydney International Piano Competition, and it rendered me speechless. I still have no words to describe it, although 'utter perfection' comes close.
It's extremely unfortunate that the recording of Konrad's performance in SIPCA is no longer on the web, since I haven't yet been able to find an interpretation of this piece which I like as much as his. Pierre-Laurent Aimard will have to do...

Ginastera: Piano Sonata No. 1 - 4th movement
I discovered this extraordinary piece completely by accident when browsing Youtube one day. The first time I heard it, I just sat there gaping from beginning to end. While the whole sonata is a masterpiece, and I particularly love bits of the first movement, this movement is the only one about which I can say 'I wouldn't change a note'.

Leo Ornstein: Piano Sonata No. 8 - movement 2c
How can I even begin to describe how perfect this is? Just listen, and hopefully you will get it too. (Ornstein is brilliant, by the way.)

Rachmaninov: Etude-tableau Op. 39 no. 8
Since Rachmaninov is one of my favorite composers, it's fitting that something by him should make it into this list. I tried to learn this etude a while ago, but had to stop when I started to get RSI! One day...

Bach: D minor concerto - 3rd movement
To even suggest that one might want to change something about a piece of Bach seems preposterous to me, but I love this movement of this particular concerto so much that I thought it deserved a mention. I've learnt the first 2 movements and am half-dreading, half-looking forward to learning the final one, as it's the most atrociously difficult movement to play, but also my favorite.

Rautavaara: Piano concerto no 1 - 1st movement