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Moderato (It.)

‘Moderate’, ‘restrained’, e.g. allegro moderato (‘a little slower than allegro ’).

adv. & adj. Music (Abbr. mod.)
In moderate tempo……. Used chiefly as a direction.

‘Moderato’ is one of those rather nebulous musical terms, like andante (“at a walking pace”). If I ask one of my students what it means, they say “moderately”. But what does it really mean? At the most basic level, it is a tempo marking, slower than allegretto, but faster than andante. The modern metronome gives a marking of 96 to 100, a very narrow range – and I would always guard against assigning a specific metronome mark to a piece marked moderato, or allegro moderato, or molto moderato. Like so much else in music, moderato is not just a tempo marking; it also suggests mood and character. It is personal feeling and sense of  music, and one person’s moderato might be rather different from another’s, both in terms of tempo and character.

The opening movement of Schubert’s last sonata is marked molto moderato, literally “very moderately”. And taken literally, that could result in a very slow tempo, virtually alla breve (two beats in a bar), which can make the music appear to drag. Schubert also used the German term mässig, implying the calm flow of a considered allegro. But the word “allegro” suggests a certain character as well as a certain speed, and so the moderato marking is more appropriate, Schubert suggesting in it a graceful strolling tempo. There are many, many different interpretations of Schubert’s marking, resulting in some wildly varying lengths of the first movement. Richter’s is an almost self-indulgent 25 minutes – listening to it, you get the feeling he is thinking about every single note and where to place it; while Maria Joao Pires brings it in at 20 minutes, which feels both fluid and eloquent, and Imogen Cooper at 16 minutes, which is thoughtful and serene. In another recording I have, one which I listen to most often, and used as a benchmark when I was learning the piece,  the movement lasts just over 21 minutes, yet at no point is there a sense of the music stagnating, even in the most poignant sections; it moves forward with grace.

Of course, at the end of the day, all these timings are rather meaningless: one would not notice the time passing at a good performance unless one was pedantic enough to sit there with a stopwatch – and if one was doing that, one would not be concentrating on the music! Creating a sense of the music and conveying mood, colour and shading is more important. One pianist, who shall remain nameless, did take it far too fast for my liking at a lunchtime concert at the Wigmore, and the music just felt rushed, as if he couldn’t wait to finish it. (He also omitted the repeat of the exposition, which is inexcusable, in my view. Without the repeat and the absolutely transcendental bridging figure, one does not achieve a full appreciation of the composer’s intentions in the development section.)

When I was learning the sonata a couple of years ago, I had a tendency to play the opening movement “molto molto moderato”! This was partly to enable me to cope with some of the more tricky measures in the development section, but whenever I played it, I had a terrible sense of the music plodding. When I listen to the piece, I always feel the opening movement suggests a great river broadening into its final course before reaching the sea: unhurried but with continual forward motion. There are moments of “other-wordliness” in this movement as well, which demand sensitive rubato playing and some very fine pianissimos.  There are storms too, but these are short-lived, and do not disturb the overall, almost hymn-like, serenity of the movement. But no matter how often I practised the wretched movement, it always sounded chunky, and “notey”, as if the river was made of treacle through which one was wading painful step after painful step!

Discussing my difficulty with my friend Michael was more a discussion of the meaning of moderato in a literal sense rather than in relation to Schubert. In the end, Michael suggested I tried playing the movement quicker: the difference was instant. Never mind that some passages were still very rough in my hands, the overall sense of the music was of a relaxed serenity and spaciousness. There was still time to hear every note and to enjoy each one, but there was also a much greater forward propulsion, especially in the climactic passages of the development section, which highlight Schubert’s long lines of melody and the overall evolution of the movement. Armed with Michael’s helpful advice and my renewed interest in the work, it was one of the first pieces I presented to my teacher when I started having lessons again, nearly two year’s ago.

In Chopin’s Ballade in G minor, a piece of fluctuating tempos and ever-changing moods and textures, the first theme is also marked moderato. Here, I would read this marking as a much slower tempo than in the Schubert sonata. The mood is very different too: the key is darker, and the off-beat quaver figures and the rather uncertain harmonies, with the prominent use of diminished and dominant seventh chords to add moments of tension which are not always resolved immediately, create a sense of hesitancy in the music, as if it is not quite sure where it is going. After the fioritura, the opening theme returns, slightly elaborated with a sighing quaver figure, but rather than increase the sense of forward motion, I feel the music becomes more suspended; thus when one reaches the direction agitato, there is a far greater sense of climax. This continues right through to the arpeggiated figures and onwards, in a section marked sempre piu mosso. After the great, memorable second theme is heard, the first theme returns, this time in A minor, and the music returns to the moderato tempo and mood of the opening. Here once again, uncertain harmonies are used to contrive a feeling of suspense, while the insistent repeated low E’s in the bass tether the music even more firmly in one place. This is a useful device for introducing another climax, which seems to suddenly free itself from the restraints of the moderato marking; the restatement of the second theme on a far grander scale than its first appearance. So, one could argue here that the use of moderato at the opening of the piece, and its reappearance later on, is a very deliberate device which serves to create moments of great tension, suspense and climax.

An interesting discussion of tempo came up during the piano course I attended in the spring. One of the students played some Bach, one of the French suites, I believe, the opening movement of which he took at such a lick, we could hardly hear the notes. When asked to put the brakes on, the result was charming: measured and elegant. This led to a discussion about “comfortable tempos”: just as one person’s moderato may be different from another’s, it is also true for presto or allegro. Nimbleness of brain and fingers can result in very lively, speedy, clean playing: if you feel comfortable playing at that speed, good for you. But speed at the expense of accuracy or musicality can wreck a piece.

The opening movement of Poulenc’s Suite in C, which I am currently learning, is marked Presto, and on my recording Pascal Rogé takes it at an alarming presto, far quicker than my 44 year old brain and fingers can manage – at the moment. Thus, I am practising it at a “comfortable” tempo; eventually, I hope that comfortable tempo will be quicker – the music needs to sound light yet sophisticated (its C Major key gives it an innocence which should shine through all the time)  – but for the time being I am concentrating on accuracy, with a beautiful sound. It ain’t easy: sometimes just learning the notes is hard enough, without all the other attendant directions and markings one has to take note of and execute!

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The elderly writer (author of two biographies of Pushkin’s contemporaries, Griboyedov and Lermontov) for whom I work on Mondays, gave me a CD of one of Imogen Cooper’s ‘Schubert Live’ recordings last week. He chose it, knowing my love (and practice) of piano music, especially that of Schubert, Chopin and Beethoven, and it is just one of many fine recordings he has either loaned or gifted me over the years of our acquaintance.

I never got to any of Imogen Cooper’s recent Schubert recitals on the Southbank, which, according to the reviews, were very fine. Much as I love live music, concert-going these days is proving to be something of a logistical nightmare because of my teaching schedule. Some of the best concerts I have missed this past year have been on a Wednesday or Thursday evening, both days when I teach too late for me to hop on a train to spend the evening at the Wigmore, Cadogan or QE Hall.

So, I was thrilled when Laurence produced the Imogen Cooper CD the other day, with a barked order to “listen to it and tell me what you think of it”. Clearly imagining that I spend the rest of my days, when not engaged in doing his correspondence and filing, lolling on the sofa drinking Lapsang Souchong and listening to Schubert et al, he rang me the very next morning to find out what I thought of it. I confessed I had not had a chance to listen to it.

It takes me just over an hour to commute from my home in SW London to Notting Hill where Laurence lives. That time is often spent reading or listening to music on my iPhone. For commuting, my favourite music tends to be some uplifting Handel songs and arias (sung by Ian Bostridge), a good helping of Scarlatti’s sonatas, the complete Haydn piano sonatas (played by Marc Andre Hamelin) or a mix called “Oddments” which includes pieces as diverse as John Adams’s China Gates, a Bach Sarabande, Stravinsky’s Les Cinq Doigts or the Dvorak ‘Dumky’ Piano Trio (the connection is that all the pieces feature a piano!). Today, I forgot my book and instead spent the entire journey grazing the Imogen Cooper Schubert Live Vol 3 album. I say “grazing” because I admit I did not listen to everything – I wanted to be able to give Laurence my general impression of the album. I loved the twelve German dances which open it: here, in microcosm, are all Schubert’s shifting moods, from playful dancing through grandiose to plaintive and poignant. Even in these miniatures, Imogen Cooper makes every single note count, and every note seems thoughtfully and carefully placed. She demonstrates immaculate pedalling, especially in the D899 Impromptus, where even in the rapid, scalic, cascading No 2, every single note can be heard and valued. I did not listen to the D960 B flat sonata, but I have every confidence that this too is played with conviction, thought and meaning. It’s a wonderful album and I can thoroughly recommend it – almost as good as actually being there!

Imogen Cooper is an acknowledged fine Schubert-player, and also a one-time pupil of Brendel, arguably, also a fine Schubert-player. A few years ago, when interviewed on Radio 3 for the ‘At The Piano series’, she told an amusing anecdote about the first time she played for Brendel. She struck the first note (it may well have been of a Schubert sonata) and he immediately said “Stop! Do it again!”. This process was repeated at least twenty times, while he paced around the room behind her, considering what he had heard. Eventually, when he was satisfied, he allowed her to continue – but only to the next note. I sometimes quote this story to my students, when I am being particularly nit-picking and want them to consider carefully what they are doing instead of charging through a piece without really listening to it.