by Graham Fitch

I had the great privilege to embark on my postgraduate studies with Peter Wallfisch, studying with him from 1980 for two years (but returning on occasion thereafter). During my time with this remarkable man, my playing blossomed and I grew not only as a pianist but also as a musician. I look back on this chapter of my life with gratitude and a tremendous fondness for a teacher I came to love dearly. Last year, when I visited his widow, Anita Lasker, I walked into the studio where I had had my inspiring, magical lessons and  was overcome with emotion as so many wonderful memories flooded back.

Peter Wallfisch was born in Breslau in 1924, and had sought refuge from Hitler’s Germany in Jerusalem and Paris before settling in Britain in 1952. His tenure as a professor of piano at the RCM was from 1973 to 1991, during which time he influenced many notable pianists now active in the profession. He was head of a musical dynasty that includes his wife Anita Lasker-Wallfisch, (cellist and founder of the ECO), son Raphael (international concert cellist), daughter-in-law Elisabeth (noted violinist), grandsons Benjamin (composer and conductor) and Simon (cellist and tenor). Peter was a musicians’ musician who is remembered not only a solo pianist but as an ensemble musician. His lineage was the Germanic tradition from Bach right through to Reger and Krenek, but he also championed very many British composers (including Kenneth Leighton, whom he raved about) and other slightly unusual composers (such as Novak). He confessed to having a passion for organ music, and he was not overly keen on Chopin or Rachmaninov.

One time I arrived for my lesson and Peter was not in a good mood. Sensing this, I asked him if he was OK and he pointed to a stack of scores on his desk, bemoaning the fact that he had been roped into learning it for the BBC and for concert engagements. It turned out to be by Frank Bridge, whose music at that time had fallen into neglect. The following week, I asked him how he was getting on with it. His face lit up and he enthused for many minutes on the undiscovered qualities of this music and how wonderful it was. Peter was at the forefront of the revival of interest in Bridge’s music, which rubbed off onto me. He immediately suggested I learn the two pieces “In Autumn” and I had much success with them. Among my prize possessions is Peter’s score of the sonata, littered in his inimitable way with crayon and pencil markings that only he could make sense of, certainly a testament to a practical musician!

I was officially registered for lessons with Peter at the Royal College of Music, but after a while my lessons moved from room 68 at the RCM to Peter’s home in Kensal Rise. Not only did I occasionally get to stay for tea and wonderful conversation with Peter and Anita (and Millie the cat), but my good fortune extended to lessons which went on all afternoon.  Three hours was the norm, always without a break, and usually on just one work. He gave of himself unstintingly and generously and as I was walking down his garden path after the lesson, I felt that I had been given the ultimate secrets to the music we had just worked on. This went way beyond a mere piano lesson. There was one time I took a very half-baked Beethoven’s op. 109 sonata along, and yet after my lesson felt that I could almost have deputised for Barenboim that very night, such was the completeness of my understanding of Beethoven’s message. There were many such experiences where I left having had more than a lesson, but a Gestalt of the music – an experience of the essence of the whole picture even though my playing of it might yet be primitive. Pieces that stand out are the Brahms-Handel Variations, Bartok’s Third Concerto, Mendelssohn’s “Variations Sérieuses”, some Debussy and plenty of Bach, Mozart, Haydn and Beethoven…

It is difficult to describe how Peter taught. One thing I can say is he never, ever talked about piano playing as an activity in itself. His comments were always about the music. He would hear what I had brought in and would always give a totally honest appraisal of what he had heard. He was never one to mince his words, thus you could always rely on his reactions and comments as a very accurate barometer of how you’d done. If he didn’t like it, you would certainly know; if he did like it, he could ooze genuine enthusiasm and encouragement. You always knew where you stood with Peter.

Technical difficulties seemed to melt away, since through his lengthy verdicts and fabulous verbal descriptions of what he wanted to hear (he rarely demonstrated) you were literally infected with a mental and aural picture that left no doubt as to how the piece should go. There were so many times when, before he had finished talking, I was itching to play again because I knew exactly what he meant. After he had said what he needed, I would play again. What was difficult before now often wasn’t at all because I had an ultra clear picture of the sound, of the composer’s meaning. If you did ask for technical help – I mean specific pianistic help – he might even get annoyed. He really did not like talking about piano playing per se. Once I asked him what exercises he practised (I knew he had quite a warm-up ritual for himself). Again, he dismissed my question, saying that he did not want to burden me with it, nor did he like to do his dirty laundry in public.

There are SO many individual lessons I remember crystal clearly. During a lesson on op. 109 I missed a sforzando accent in the second movement and received a very painful dig in the ribs which taught me way better than words could have. Now, whenever I get to that place in the sonata, I feel a psychosomatic twinge of pain. There was the tail end of someone else’s lesson who crowed that he had managed to learn a Beethoven sonata in a week. Peter went red in the face and exploded: “How dare you say that! It took Beethoven months of time, sweat and blood to write that sonata, and you claim you can play it in one week!”. Another lesson that stands out for me was on a Bach Prelude and Fugue. After I finished he told me it was excellent and that he could not fault it. But I noticed a trace of disdain in his voice, and sure enough he said to stop it sounding sterile and boring, I had to find my own voice with the piece. When pushed, he made a few vague suggestions but would not be specific and it took a while before I figured out what he meant, that he expected me to take personal ownership of the piece.

Even after I had gone to America on my Fulbright Scholarship, I would return to Peter to play for him. I always received the same warm welcome and uncompromising advice. His influence is still with me to this day. I very often think of him, and I still miss him!

Graham Fitch is a London-based pianist, piano teacher, piano adjudicator, piano examiner, piano lecturer and writer/commentator on piano. www.grahamfitch.com

Obituary of Peter Wallfisch in The Independent

 

Having spent most of the afternoon compiling the wretched thing (time which would have been better spent practising, or sunbathing), I felt I should share my Classical music timeline here. There are sins of omission, I know, so please don’t contact me to point out who I’ve forgotten! It is intended simply as an overview, and, because I am a pianist, is somewhat weighted towards composers of the piano.

Radio 4 is kindly allowing us, Joe Public, to offer up our own choices as the venerated programme approaches its 70th birthday (you can submit your choices here, and explore the archive). I put together a playlist on Spotify last week, but didn’t give it that much thought. Meanwhile, a very thoughtful and varied post by fellow-blogger The Argumentative Old Git inspired me to review my choices and make a more considered selection. I have always enjoyed the programme, and although I am not 70 (nor will be for another 25 years!), I do remember Roy Plomley presenting the programme. Desert Island Discs is, like The Archers, and Woman’s Hour, one of our radio national treasures, to be cherished and revered.

The music listed is available via Spotify, free to download and free to use, and the list is in no particular order, rather the pieces are listed as they come to mind. Nor are they necessarily “favourites” (though many are); these are simply pieces which have special resonances for me.

Mozart – Clarinet Quintet, K581, II Larghetto: My father was a fine amateur clarinettist and this was one of his favourite pieces (sadly, he had to give up the clarinet some years ago because it was affecting his teeth). We used to play a reduced version for piano and clarinet together, and he often played this with Music Minus One, which I would hear from my bedroom as I was going off to sleep as a child.

Mozart – Clarinet Quintet In A Major, K. 581: II. Larghetto

Beethoven – Symphony No. 7: My paternal grandfather was a Marxist, a (old) Labour man all his life, and a trade union leader (NUPE) in the 1960s. He was a fascinating man and I had a great fondness for him. He encouraged me to play the piano from a very young age, and he had a great affinity with fellow Old Radical and his music. This, along with the Pastoral Symphony (No. 6), was one of his favourites. He requested this movement at his funeral, but only I remembered his request – and too late.

Beethoven – Symphony No. 7 In A Major, Op. 92: III. Presto

Kate Bush – ‘Wuthering Heights’: I have always been a great fan of Kate Bush, a musician who never stands still and who has never rested on her musical laurels. She is constantly reinventing herself, while retaining the key elements of her music which make it so distinctive. ‘Wuthering Heights’ was the first single I bought, after seeing Kate on Top of the Pops in 1978 when she was still a teenager. Her latest collection ‘Director’s Cut’ is about to be released, a compilation and reworking of tracks from her 1990s albums The Sensual World and The Red Shoes.

Kate Bush – Wuthering Heights

Talking Heads – ‘Road to Nowhere’: This is the track of my university days in the mid-80s, oft requested at discos and parties, along with ‘Once in A Lifetime’ from an earlier album of the same name. Whenever I hear this song, I am transported back to Exeter, to a cold attic room in a drafty student house, to learning how to cook for myself in a kitchen with a permanently sticky floor, and arguments over whose turn it was to do the washing up. Happy days! I had waist-length dyed auburn hair, and a penchant for maxi skirts and chunky jumpers. I don’t remember doing that much work, though I did stay up all night to finish typing my dissertation to make sure it was handed in on time! Listening to the track now, the opening lyrics seem rather appropriate for a group of young people poised on the threshold of adulthood.

Talking Heads – Road To Nowhere – Early Version

Joy Division – ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’: By being born in the middle of the 1960s, I was slightly too young to appreciate Joy Division first time round, when their lead singer Ian Curtis was still alive. Nevermind the tragic circumstances of Ian Curtis’s suicide, this song is the sound of a heart shattering, of the end of a love affair, the hauntingly tragic lyrics almost crooned over a mournful bass line and robotic drums. Monstrously beautiful and utterly beguiling, brutally claustrophobic, potent and ethereal, as sublime and chilling as Schubert sharing his painful outbursts and lyrical consolations, it sums up emptiness and sadness, yet is both enchanting and intoxicating. This is preposterously good music, with a spine-tingling uniqueness: it gets to me every time I hear it.

Joy Division – Love Will Tear Us Apart

Schubert – Impromptu in A flat, D899, No. 4: I first encountered Schubert’s Impromptus (the D899 and D935 sets) when I was in my teens and about to take my Grade 8 piano exam. I probably heard the pieces in concert and was struck by the ethereal nature of the fourth of the first set. I bought a Peters edition of the score and set about learning it. When I played it to my piano teacher for the first time, she shook her heard in disbelief at my total misunderstanding of how to play the fluttering semiquavers which make up the main motif of the piece. Once set on the right track, I was able to learn the piece correctly. This, for me, is part of my “tingle factor” collection, a piece I will also stop for, if it comes on the radio. It is both romantic and plaintive, beautiful and haunting. I still play it, though I have, with my current teacher’s guidance, “unlearnt” the fingering scheme of my teens and replaced it with a more logical and comfortable scheme to cope with the semiquavers. It is one of the few pieces I can play from memory (just!).

Murray Perahia – Schubert: Impromptu No. 4 in A-flat Major. Allegretto

Joni Mitchell – ‘Both Sides Now‘: As well as missing out on Punk, I missed out on the flower-power generation, and so became a “neo-hippie” in my teens in the early 1980s, discovering the protest music of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, as well as Janis Joplin, The Doors, Patti Smith, Carole King, The Velvet Underground, Jefferson Airplane, and, my most favourite female singer of all, Joni Mitchell. Like Kate Bush, Joni has managed to reinvent herself, and is still going strong, songwriting and painting. Her voice has deepened, grown more gravelly (like Dylan’s), with time. This song is my absolute favourite, and one which can trigger tears, even when I play it to myself on the piano.

Joni Mitchell – Both Sides Now

Beethoven – Piano Sonata in A, No. 31, Opus 110: “Who’s your favourite composer, Fran?” asked Ben, one of my keenest students, after a lesson spent working on a reduced version of the Moonlight Sonata with him. “Beethoven” I replied emphatically. “And who’s your second favourite?” he asked. “Ah, now that’s a difficult one, Ben, because there are so many composers whose music I love…..”. Lucky Ben, poised on the cusp of a lifetime of discovery of the greatness of the piano’s repertoire….. I’m not working on any Beethoven myself at the moment (though I probably should be), but he is a composer who I always return to, for his wisdom, his wit, his humour, his ever-changing moods, his sheer weirdness and unpredictability. I have favourites among the piano sonatas, but the Opus 110 is my absolute favourite, and the piece I would take to the desert island with me (also the choice of tenor Ian Bostridge, clearly a man of taste). This isn’t music, it is philosophy, written near the end of the composer’s life, though there is nothing valedictory nor depressing about it. Truly life-affirming, with that amazing fugue, the most stable and steadying of music devices, in the final movement. Favourite recordings? Glenn Gould, who gives it a quasi fantasia reading by segueing effortlessly between movements, Claudio Arrau, Mitsuko Uchida…..

Piano Sonata No. 31 in A flat major Op. 110: Moderato cantabile molto espressivo

Kirsty Young: “And so, Cross-Eyed Pianist, we come to your book choice. You have the Bible and the Complete Works of Shakespeare…..”

How difficult to be asked to select one book out of many! Here, I think I would have to bend the rules of the programme and ask to take all the books I’ve been meaning to read, and all the books about which friends and colleagues have said “you must read this!”. These include Charles Rosen’s ‘The Classical Style’, Chopin’s Letters, Alan Walker’s three-volume ‘Life of Liszt’, Adam Zamoyski’s ‘Chopin: Prince of the Romantics”, and many, many more, too numerous to list here. You see, I’m far too idle and lacking in practical life-skills (beyond being able to cook and change a plug) to try and build a raft to escape from the Desert Island. And so I will sit on the beach in the sun, or in the shade of a palm tree, reading,reading, reading…..

Kirsty Young: “And your luxury?”

If I was replying as my other blogging persona, Demon Cook, I would request a good cooking knife and a wok. As The Cross-Eyed Pianist I must, of course, request a fine grand piano, and the score of the Complete Piano Sonatas of Beethoven. That, and the extensive reading list should keep me pretty occupied until I am rescued….

I’m off to my spiritual home this evening, London’s exquisite Wigmore Hall, to hear the exquisite English tenor Ian Bostridge singing songs by Britten, Tippett, Haydn and Weill, in a special concert which marks the last day of Sir John Tusa’s chairmanship of the Wigmore Hall Trust. I bought a new jumper especially for the concert: it is partly because I love having an opportunity to dress up, and I do think one should make an effort for the soloists, who have, after all, made a huge effort to come out and perform for us. Also, I am going in my new role as a reviewer for Bachtrack.com, and, daft as it may seem, being well-dressed will make me feel confident.

Meanwhile, as I prepare myself to go out, I’ve been thinking about ‘concert etiquette’. It regularly astonishes me how badly people can behave in a concert hall: talking during the performance, humming (often tunelessly), rustling programmes, trying to open blister packs of cough sweets, coughing, yawning. Added to that, there is quite often the dimwit who forgot to switch off their phone, despite the big sign on the stage and hefty reminders by the house staff. I have, twice, been ticked off for having a “very loud watch” (a Swatch, in fact), which “interrupted” the pianissimo slow movement of a Beethoven sonata. At a Chopin recital I went to five years ago, my companion sipped Pimms from a Thermos flask during a performance of the Opus 49 Fantasie. (She also asked me, in the interval, after we’d just heard the B-flat minor Sonata, “So, who wrote the original Funeral March?”, but that is another story….)

From conversations with performers, I’ve learnt that the sense of an audience which is attentive or actively engaged in what one is doing can be extremely helpful, inspirational even, in creating the right atmosphere and circumstances for a great performance. Likewise, as a member of the audience, the sense that the performer is drawing us all along in one marvellous shared musical experience is also very exciting. Mitsuko Uchida is extremely good at this, even in a venue the size of the Royal Festival Hall, while Stephen Hough’s chilly manner made the normally convivial Wigmore seem cold and unfriendly.

Another gripe of mine is about that sector of the concert-going public who seem to gain a perverse thrill from spotting mistakes or flagging up memory lapses or other errors during a performance, as if they are actively waiting for the performer to fail. Rather like hoping for a crash at the beginning of a grand prix race. Some people can’t wait to get home and check their score, or a “perfect” recording while enjoying a sense of smugness in having heard a smudged note or a smeared run in the 15th bar of the First Ballade. When I heard Simone Dinnerstein perform at WH a few year’s ago (admittedly, a rather dull and uninspiring performance generally), she had a serious memory lapse in Schubert’s 4th Impromptu of the D899 set. I know this piece extremely well and I knew exactly where the error occurred. Fortunately, she managed to maintain the right harmonic framework, but it was still a very obvious mistake. I really felt for her, and I wonder how many hours of practice she put in after the event to exorcise that particular error.

At the Wigmore, the large majority of the audience are elderly, some very elderly (read the paragraph Ian McEwan’s On Chesil Beach for the most perfect description of the Wigmore’s superannuated audience), and the seats are rather comfy and plushy, and it’s often too warm in the hall. Result: Beethoven’s Opus 5 to the accompaniment of snoring. For a performer, it must be rather galling to have spent all those hours preparing only to find a third of the audience asleep, ten minutes into the performance. Ditto people yawning, or talking. In reality, I suspect many performers are expert at “filtering out” such behaviour, and in bigger venues, the lighting is such that only the first few rows of the audience are actually visible.

Of course, these are all relatively minor complaints, and it is rare for such things to spoil my enjoyment of a live concert. For those who require absolute silence, 100 per cent concentration, and perfect delivery from the performer, may I suggest you stay home with the most precision-engineered recording you can find. It might be a perfect performance, but it will lack the danger, risk and excitement of live music.

I’ve set my students what I hope will be an interesting and educational task for the forthcoming half-term break: they are going to write their own programme notes for the Summer Concert in July. I’m not expecting exhaustive analytical notes, nor extended composer biographies, but a few facts about the pieces they have chosen to play isn’t a lot to ask, surely?

Whenever I introduce a new piece to a student, whatever genre it is, we spend some time considering what the piece is about, the “story” it is telling, the pictures it paints. I get students to do very basic musical analysis – look for repeating motifs or patterns, identify articulation, dynamic and tempo markings, translate musical terms – and I try to give them some basic contextual information. For example, if learning a piece by Bach or even Mozart, it’s important to remember that neither composer was writing for anything like a modern piano. Or that Schubert was a composer of song. That Bartok was greatly influenced by the folk music of his native Hungary. I admit I was very surprised when the student who came to me for some extra exam tuition from another teacher had not been given any contextual or background information to the pieces she is learning. By asking my students to think a little more closely about the pieces they have chosen to play in the concert, I hope they may gain some new insights about them.

For me, setting the music in the context in which it was created is crucial to understanding the composer’s intentions and is a key to learning how to interpret all the composer’s markings and directions correctly to produce, eventually, a reading that is both musical and accurate. When I embark on a new piece, I do a great deal of background reading, and make extensive notes, both contextual and analytical.

At a professional concert, the best programme notes are often those which give one some historical background to the works, a brief composer biography and an overview of what is going on in the music (i.e. a list of movements or sections). Not everyone needs to know that a piece which opens in A minor may resolve itself in C, though an explanation of a Picardy Third can be enlightening. Facts about how the music came to be, such as the Quartet for the End of Time, which Messiaen composed while a prisoner of war, are interesting, but surmising on whether Chopin’s fondness for ‘miniatures’ suggests he may have been gay, are not. I think some writers of programme notes forget that many concert-goers are not expert musicologists or specialists, and all they require is a list of what they are going to hear with a brief description. At Charles Rosen’s Chopin recital last Sunday, one of my friends expressed a wish for a glossary of musical terms, a translation of all those curious Italian words. I told him that one of my students had recently interpreted Allegro ma non troppo as “fast but not trotting”, and that I always translate Allegro amabile as “smile as you quickly play”!

A number of musicians who I hear regularly like to introduce the music themselves. This serves several purposes: first, it breaks down that awful “them and us” barrier that can exist at concert venues; secondly, it allows the performer to explain the music as he or she sees it, and to offer some personal insights into what makes the music particularly interesting or special, both compositionally and in terms of what it is like, physically and emotionally, to play the work. At a lunchtime concert I attended last Friday, there were no programme notes, beyond a list of each work’s movements, and biographies of the performers. Instead, the musicians themselves introduced the music (Schubert’s Sonatina in A minor for Piano & Violin, Op. Posth. 137 and Strauss’s Violin Sonata in E Flat Op. 18). I knew very little about the Schubert Sonatina, and even less about the Strauss: both pieces were introduced engagingly, piquing my interest before a single note had been played. A couple of nuggets, such as the witty nod to Schubert’s Erlkönig and Beethoven’s Pathètique Sonata in the Strauss sonata, were flagged up in advance of the performance, though there were no prizes for spotting them (as I did)!

When my students come back after half-term with some facts about their pieces, and a brief biography, I will collate all the information into a main programme for the concert (including my own programme notes, of course!). This may be an amateur event, but I feel it is important to do it “properly” to create a sense of occasion for my students, who have, by and large, worked very hard this year. The concert is, as always, a celebration of that hard work, and a chance to share music with family and friends.

Schubert: Sonata (Sonatina) – For Piano And Violin No. 2 In A Minor, Op. Posth. 137, D. 385: I. Allegro Moderato

Strauss, Richard : Violin Sonata in E flat major Op.18 : I Allegro, ma non troppo

[You need Spotify to listen to these tracks. Free to download and use. Spotify.com]

Drawn from yoga exercises, this sequence of warm up exercises for the pianist was devised by pianist and teacher Penelope Roskell.

Start each exercise from a ‘neutral’ stance – i.e. feet hip-distance apart, shoulders down, spine and pelvis in a neutral position, chest lifted and open, chin parallel to the ground – and keep all movements natural and free.

1. The Swing. Swing the arms forward and back, allowing the arms to fall back through their own momentum/gravity. You can be as energetic or gentle as you like. After a few minutes, your hands should start to feel warmer.

2. Empty Sleeves. Imagine you are wearing a coat but without your arms in the sleeves. With your arms hanging by your sides, twist your body slightly from side to side. Your arms should swing freely, following your torso, as you turn—one wrapping around your body in front, the other back, like coat sleeves flapping in the wind.  Keep your shoulders, elbows and wrists relaxed at all times. Increase the movement to extend the swing and start to engage your feet and knees too.

3. The Monkey. Bend forward slightly and let your arms hang loosely in front of you. Swing your arms across your body at hip, chest and shoulder height. Gradually increase the movement, and notice how the opposite foot starts to engage in the move as well. Again, you can make this move as energetic or as gentle as you like.

4. Shoulder Drop. Inhale deeply (“thoracic breathing” – you should feel your chest expand noticeably as you breathe) and as you do, raise your shoulders towards your ears without tensing the neck. Hold the pose for a moment and then exhale, as if you are trying to push all the air from your lungs, while allowing your shoulders to drop down. Repeat five times.

5. Shoulder Roll. Exactly as described. Roll your shoulders forwards and up, then backwards and down, with your breath.

6. Softening the feet and legs. With your feet planted firmly on the floor, start to shift the weight from heel to toe and back again, one foot at a time. Again, gradually increase the movement and walk around the room, making sure each step is carefully planted.

7. Neck Circles. Allow your chin to rest on your chest and slowly rotate the head gently from side to side, ear to ear, in a half-circle move. Repeat a few times, being very gentle as the head comes back to the starting position.

8. Hand stretch. Hold the back of one hand in the palm of your other hand and bend it forward at the wrist. Then bend the wrist back keeping fingers and arms straight.

Balance

As with any physical exercise, work within your limits and stop immediately if you are in pain. These exercises are also very helpful in alleviating the effects of performance anxiety.

Resources:

Yoga for Musicians – DVD by Penelope Roskell with Catherine Nelson

Musicians’ injury – whose responsibility? ABRSM article

The International Society for the Study of Tension in Performance

British Association for Performing Arts Medicine