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The concert pianist cuts a romantic, almost mysterious image: alone on the stage with only a shiny black minotaur of a concert grand for company, the pianist exists in a place other than ours, elevated – both physically and metaphorically – before us. We invest special heroic qualities in the pianist, knowing that he/she must convey supreme mastery and complete oneness with the music by playing from memory. Pianists are like Himalayan adventurers, scaling the highest peaks without a safety net: Triumph or fail, they do so in the very public sphere of the concert hall.

A concert is not called a “performance” – and its participants “performers” – for nothing. Like an actor inhabiting a character created by a playwright, so the musician takes on a special role for the duration of the concert. Like actors, they also wear special clothes for the occasion, which further defines their role, and the occasion occurs in a special building, often in darkness or semi-darkness. Thus the concert becomes an experience outside the realm of daily existence – for audience and performer.

Every physical act you do when you’re on stage is part of the drama of the performance. Playing a concert is theater. It’s one of the reasons I think we should have a different costume for playing a concert, as opposed to listening to a concert. It doesn’t have to be tails, but I think we need to emphasize that this is something that’s not of the everyday.

– Stephen Hough, concert pianist (from an interview with Pacific Standard

Milton Court, London after a concert by America pianist Jeremy Denk
The mystique of the performance begins as the house lights dim, the unspoken signal to the audience to fall silent. A palpable sense of expectancy permeates the concert hall, and the shared adventure of the performance begins as soon as the pianist crosses the stage. The applause, the audience’s way of greeting the performer, and, in return, a bow, the performer’s way of acknowledging the audience. There is no enmity: for the next few hours we are, to quote British pianist Stephen Hough, “all friends”, sharing in the experience, our many differences forgotten for the duration of the concert.

The moments before the performance begins resembles nothing else. One has a sense of the awesome formality of the occasion, the responsibility, the knowledge that, once begun, a performance cannot be withdrawn. Silent, poised at the piano, at that moment the pianist has complete control over our reactions:

I sit down, and I don’t move a muscle. I create a sense of emptiness within myself, and in my head I count up to thirty, very slowly. This causes panic in the audience: ‘What’s happening? Is he ill?’. Then and only then I play the G [of Liszt’s Sonata]. In this way, the note sounds totally unexpected, but in an intentional way. Clearly, there’s a sort of theatricality about this, but the theatrical element seems to me very important in music. It’s essential if you want to create a feeling of unexpectedness….

The unexpected, the unforeseen – it’s this that creates an impression

– Sviatoslav Richter (from Sviatoslav Richter: Notebooks and Conversations by Bruno Monsaingeon)

The best performers (and I don’t necessarily mean the most famous or technically assured) are the ones who take us into their confidence, creating an unspoken mutual connection through music. They weave stories for us, create magic, transport us to another place and allow us to forget ourselves and the tedious minutiae of our daily lives.

The pianist’s mystique and the ritual of the concert create a unique connection in time and place between the performer, the music and the audience.

Today, when presenting classical music seems to be all about “accessibility”, the mystique of performance can be lost in the desire to “connect” with the audience “extra-musically”, so to speak, by talking to the audience, for example, to break down barriers. It’s great to enjoy classical music in a more relaxed setting; it’s interesting when the performers introduce the programme, discuss their particular connection to the music, or why they selected it. This can work especially well in smaller venues where the audience and performer are in close proximity. But talking to the audience pre-concert in a big hall is problematic without proper amplification, and the big venues almost naturally lend themselves to a more formal, mystical concert experience. And I think audiences like performers to actively create a sense of mystique – because we know we are mere mortals in the face of such superhuman ability.

The most startling thing can be meeting a concert pianist “off duty”, so to speak. Years ago, long before I started writing this blog, I interviewed a concert pianist at his fairly modest home in leafy suburbia. I have always been fascinated by pianists (still am, as this blog testifies!) and I had an overly romantic image of the “concert pianist” (this was some years before I took up the piano again and learnt how to be a performer myself, which gave me an understanding of what goes on on stage during a concert and the curious psychology of performance). The mystique was dispelled the moment the pianist answered in the door. I remember he was was wearing navy socks of the type one can buy in M&S, and his piano room was not some Lisztian salon, as I had imagined it might be, all crimson swags and a bust of the composer for inspiration, or an ascetic monkish cell, but a tidy “office” equipped with the tools of his trade – a grand piano and a career’s worth of scores neatly lining one wall. The virtuoso at home. This person had kids, and a friendly cat, a mortgage to pay and a car to service: in truth, he was disappointingly ordinary. I had imagined something, someone, more esoteric, and his very ordinariness was a shock – he regarded the fine art of creating beautiful music for others to enjoy as nothing more than something he did day to day, nine to five, just like any other job. In fact, most of the musicians I have met via this blog and my Meet the Artist series, and of course after concerts, are normal people – and they “normalise” the incredibly artistic and highly intellectual thing that they do on stage in order to function day to day and get their work (practising) done. Because for them, music is their job. But of course what marks them out is their ability to transform the normal into the beautiful, the transcendent, the magical……and if we want to preserve that mystique, maybe it is better we don’t meet our pianistic heroes and heroines.

…the further a performance must travel to reach the origin of the music, the more the artist demonstrates the measure of both his conscience and his genius

Mark Mitchell, Virtuosi!

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More than a quarter of a century ago a family of piano enthusiasts in Swansea had a simple dream – to establish a local specialist business for pianists looking for something truly special. It all started in an unassuming 250 year old coach house with fantastic local historical charm with room for just 23 pianos. However, for the aptly-named Coach House Pianos, it was the perfect place for starting building a business that was set up to give pianists simply the best instruments for a variety of different players from the keen amateur to teachers and fully-fledged professional pianists.

The company has always focussed on nothing less than excellence, stocking renowned piano marques from Steinway to Bösendorfer, Yamaha to Schimmel. By building its reputation over the course of over thirty years, Coach House has housed everything from brand new Kawai baby grands to genuinely antique, century-old Steinways.

“Today, little has changed, apart from the size of our establishment!”

The company was forced to move its premises from the small converted coach house into something more practical and now occupies a pleasant, purpose-built two-storey showroom on the edge of Swansea, not far from the M4.

Every pianist will agree that when it comes to meticulously-crafted pianos, like Steinways and Yamahas, there’s an air of uniqueness and personality around each individual instrument. They all carry a story; have their own distinctive sound and tonal qualities; and offer a playing experience that’s different for each pianist.

Coach-House-Pianos--Swansea

These instruments are more than just ‘buying a product’ but help start a journey towards unique musical experiences. Alongside this, Coach House offer a very personal customer service, giving potential buyers valuable advice and the opportunity to spend as much time as they need to choose the right instrument. In addition, after sales support ensures that the piano is moved safely into its new home, with a tuning once it has settled in.

I can attest to the quality of Coach House Pianos’ customer service: in 2015, the company loaned myself and a pianist colleague a beautiful Steinway Model D for a charity concert we organised in central London, and earlier this year I visited the Swansea showroom for the first time to help the same colleague choose a new Yamaha C3X. The staff at Coach House were very friendly and helpful, with not a hint of the “hard sell”. We were able to play as many pianos as we liked, for as long as we liked, and were plied with regular cups of tea throughout the day. It made the buying experience enjoyable and stress-free.

Today a slickly-designed website ensures your first point of contact with Coach House couldn’t be easier: you can browse the current stock of new and used instruments (the UK’s largest range of grand and upright pianos from Steinway, Yamaha, Bosendorfer and Kawai), ask questions and make an appointment to visit the showroom.

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Who or what inspired you to take up the violin and pursue a career in music?

I grew up in a musical family, so I was surrounded by music from the beginning. I seemed to like the violin from the moment I started, and my maternal grandmother was a violinist, which helped!

Who or what have been the most important influences on your musical life and career?

Outside of my family, like all violinists I listened to the greats, like Kreisler, Milstein etc. Musically speaking, Pierre Boulez had a decisive influence, especially on how to understand and then interpret the pieces I play.

What have been the greatest challenges of your career so far?

Every concert is a challenge! Playing the violin is extremely difficult, so it involves a lot of practice. And most of it is scales, exercises, etudes.

Which performance/recordings are you most proud of?

I am very happy with the most recent one, which sketches a history of Italian violin music. The programme (Sciarrino, Tartini, Berio, Paganini) is fascinating!

Which particular works do you think you play best?

I have a soft spot for classical modernity, especially the second Viennese school. But as in the recording I mentioned above, my main interest lies in the juxtaposition of works from different times that have an inherent link. The compartmentalized nature of how we see music is not only absurd, but also counterproductive; we do not allow ourselves to understand the scope of what we hear and play because of this.

How do you make your repertoire choices from season to season?

Sometimes I choose, sometimes the promoter chooses, sometimes a combination of both. I like when the programmes I play have an inner logic, the pieces should communicate with each other.

Do you have a favourite concert venue to perform in and why?

The Pierre Boulez Saal in Berlin is a unique venue because of its shape, and also the acoustics. I consider myself lucky to be able to play there regularly.

Who are your favourite musicians?

See earlier question…. Other than that, I am happy to have had the experience of working with great musicians, and hearing many more.

What is your most memorable concert experience?

If I had to pick one, it would be a concert Boulez did with the Berlin Philharmonic many years ago. The programme was beautiful, ingenious and quite amusing in its titles: Webern 6 pieces, Schönberg 5 pieces, Bartók 4 pieces, Berg 3 pieces.

As a musician, what is your definition of success?

Unlike in sport, we cannot quantify success, so we go by other criteria, the most important being whether we have understood the music we played and could convey this to the public. Other than that, it helps to play in tune obviously.

What do you consider to be the most important ideas and concepts to impart to aspiring musicians?

The most important thing is to stress the importance of the music we play, and that we are in fact only there to convey an understanding of it. People might be attracted to star soloists and the like, but what they actually hear is Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms and so on.

Michael Barenboim makes his his UK recital debut on 18 June at Aldeburgh Festival, performing works by Bach, Bartók, Michael Hersch and a world premiere from his close friend Johannes Borowski.

Further information

Violinist Michael Barenboim is one of the most versatile and talented artists of his generation and has performed with some of the world’s most prestigious orchestras and conductors, including the Wiener Philharmoniker, Chicago Symphony Orchestra, Mahler Chamber Orchestra under Pierre Boulez and Münchner Philharmoniker conducted by the late Lorin Maazel.

michaelbarenboim.com

 

(photo by Marcus Höhn)

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The final instalment in a series of essays exploring my personal independent study of Schubert’s penultimate piano sonata. This essay first appeared in The Schubertian, the journal of the Schubert Institute UK.

O thrice romantic master, wouldn’t you like to stroll under the cherry blossom with your love in the daytime and listen to Schubert in the evening?

Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita

In the spring of 2016, when I was in the final throes of preparation for my Fellowship performance diploma recital, I had some physiotherapy treatment on my left shoulder and arm. At one of the sessions the physiotherapist asked me if I had been doing a lot of lateral arm movement with the left arm: she had identified an area of muscle which was tight and slightly over-developed. I explained that in the finale of Schubert’s penultimate piano sonata, the left hand plays a repeating triplet figure, for which an almost continuous lateral arm movement (or a “polishing” motion on the keys) is required for the 13 or so minutes of the movement.

This anecdote illustrates several points about the finale of the D959: that it is a long movement of almost relentless forward motion and one which puts considerable technical and physical demands on the pianist.

The opening movement and the finale provide the bookends for this large sonata: both are a similar length (if one observes the exposition repeat in the first movement, which I do) and both have an expansiveness which takes pianist and listener on some intriguing musical highways and by-ways. By creating a finale of such length and involvement, Schubert gives us a sonata with a perfectly-balanced structure: two large outer movements surround two shorter inner movements

The finale is a Rondo whose structural scheme is modeled on the finale (also a Rondo) of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata op. 31 no.1. In fact, the only truly imitative element is Schubert’s reworking of the slow movement theme from his Piano Sonata in A minor, D537, composed more than a decade earlier, to which he brings the lilting gentleness of ‘Im Fruhling’ (D882). Scored in sonata-rondo form (A–B–A– Development–A–B–A–Coda), this lyrical movement comprises an almost continuous triplet movement and a songful melody, replete with striking harmonic and emotional shifts.

The development section culminates in a long passage in C-sharp minor which refers back to the dramatic middle section of the Andantino. The ensuing passage leads to a false recapitulation in F-sharp major, which then modulates to begin again with the second subject in the home key. In the coda, the main theme returns fragmented, which recalls the hesitancy of the coda in the first movement. The final section of the coda is marked Presto, and here agitated and exuberant arpeggios, redolent of those from the first movement, overlay fragments from the main theme in the bass before arriving at a dramatic false cadence of sforzando chords. Now a fragment of the main theme is heard again, this time marked pianissimo, before the closing statement of sforzando chords, based on the majestic chordal theme of the opening of the Sonata. It is a glorious statement with which to close this wonderful work.

The cyclic elements, first encountered in the opening movement, are evident in the finale, most obviously the short-long “ta tah” figure which is heard in the very first notes of the movement: the first subject theme begins with a quaver followed by a quaver rest and then a minim. This same motif reappears in the tumultuous minor section (bars 146-157) and of course in the recapitulation of the first subject (bar 328). Rests and fermatas (also cyclic elements encountered in the first movement) provide dramatic pauses in the flow of the music’s narrative, the most striking coming at bar 327 and throughout the coda, reinforcing the reiteration of the first-subject theme, and reminding us of the opening movement.

The triplets, which begin in bar 17 and remain an almost-continuous feature of the Finale, provide a unifying thread and create a stream of bubbling movement. They are both lyrical (for example bars 17-24) and serve to underpin the harmony, particularly when forming the accompaniment. At other times, they suggest orchestral textures, when coupled with chords in the other hand (for example, bars 37-44 or 112-116). They must, of course, be played with evenness throughout (lots of lateral arm movement!) and should not be rushed: pushing the tempo of this movement (which is marked Allegretto) will result in a performance which sounds relentless rather than responsive and good-natured.

Despite the movement’s tight structure, it moves along with the sense of  “fresh-minted inspiration carving out its own natural path as it goes.” (Newbould) and in order to convey this to the listener, I feel one should take Schiff’s advice and “follow Schubert on his journeys and recognize its various stations”. Thus, shifts in melody, harmony and rhythm should feel spontaneous and natural, and it is this seamlessness which gives the movement its character, such that it could almost be performed as a stand-alone work. It is a movement rich in varied material and texture, from the genial first subject, which is clearly drawn from string quartet writing, to a second subject (first heard in the right hand at bar 46) which suggests woodwind, with string accompaniment. There are brass fanfares (bars 41 and 43, for example) and grand dramatic orchestral gestures (bars 146-160) and even a passage deeply redolent of Beethoven (bars 179-211).

The challenge of learning this movement, in addition to the learning and upkeep of so many notes, was retaining a sense of the through-narrative of the music, while also giving it the requisite breathing space and natural contours, both within phrases and in longer sections. But it is, for me, one of the most satisfying of any movements of a sonata to play, largely because of its free-ranging flow of ideas.

***

Reflecting on the experience of tackling such a large sonata, perhaps the most obvious aspect I have taken from this is an enhanced ability to practise deeply and efficiently, taking note of every detail in the score and continually examining and questioning the composer’s intentions. This kind of “musical detective work” was supported by extensive reading and listening (on disc and in concert), and conversations with professional pianists who regularly perform this repertoire, all of which gave me a deeper appreciation of Schubert’s astonishing creativity and inventiveness, an appreciation which I have subsequently applied to learning or revisiting some of his shorter piano works, including the first set of Impromptus.

I also learnt that it is not possible, mentally or physically, to devote one’s entire practise regime to a single work, and by “resting” the sonata while I learnt other music allowed me to return to it with renewed interest and fresh ideas. Thus the learning process became a “musical adventure”, peeling back the layers of this extraordinary music to reveal its greater depths and intriguing mysteries. It has been deeply satisfying, occasionally frustrating, and hugely beneficial to my general development as a pianist.

I am indebted to my teacher, Graham Fitch, for his very positive support and encouragement during the long learning process, and also to concert pianists Daniel Grimwood and James Lisney (both fine Schubert players) who offered me challenging food for thought on Schubert, the man and his music.

Select bibliography

Brendel, Alfred, ‘Schubert’s Last Sonatas’, in Music, Sense and Nonsense: Collected Essays and Lectures (London: The Robson Press, 2015)

Fisk, Charles, Returning Cycles: Contexts for the Interpretation of Schubert’s Impromptus and Last Sonatas (Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 2015)

Montgomery, David, Franz Schubert’s Music in Performance. Compositional Ideals, Notational Intent, Historical Realities, Pedagogical Foundations (Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon Press, 2003)

Schiff, Andras, ‘Schubert’s Piano Sonatas: thoughts about interpretation and performance’, in Brian Newbould (ed.) Schubert Studies (Aldershot and Burlington: Ashgate, 1998)

 

Favourite recordings of the D959

Richard Goode (Nonesuch, 1988)

Radu Lupu (Decca)

Inon Barnatan (Avie, 2013)

Krystian Zimmerman (DG, 2017)