The Pianists Craft 2

The Pianist’s Craft 2
15_328-Anderson.indb i 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb ii 8/11/15 7:58 AM
The Pianist’s Craft 2
Mastering the Works of
More Great Composers
Edited by
Richard P. Anderson
R OW M A N & L I T T L E F I E L D
Lanham • Boulder • New York • London
15_328-Anderson.indb iii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Published by Rowman & Littlefield
A wholly owned subsidiary of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.
4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706
www.rowman.com
Unit A, Whitacre Mews, 26-34 Stannary Street, London SE11 4AB
Copyright © 2015 by Richard P. Anderson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic
or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written
permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

The pianist’s craft 2 : mastering the works of more great composers / Richard P. Anderson.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-4422-3265-5 (hardcover : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-1-4422-3266-2 (ebook)
1. Piano—Performance. I. Anderson, Richard P.
ML700.P532 2015
786.2'193—dc23 2015013038
™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American
National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library
Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.
Printed in the United States of America
15_328-Anderson.indb iv 8/11/15 7:58 AM

This book is dedicated to the memory of Reid Nibley,
an incredible artist, a true friend, mentor, and colleague.
15_328-Anderson.indb v 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb vi 8/11/15 7:58 AM
Contents
List of Illustrations ix
Foreword by Norman Krieger xxi
Preface xxiii
Acknowledgments xxv
Introduction xxvii
1 C. P. E.—Thinking Outside the Bachs: The Music of
Carl Phillip Emanuel Bach 1
Louis Nagel
2 Soler’s Fandango 7
Robin Hancock
3 Lyricism and Lightness in the Piano Music of Felix Mendelssohn 25
Joel Hastings
4 Interior Virtuosity: Grasping Fauré’s Piano Music 41
David Korevaar
5 Reflections on Performing Ernst von Dohnányi’s
Variations on a Nursery Song for Piano and Orchestra 65
Timothy Ehlen
6 Francis Poulenc’s Early Writing: A Critical Analysis of
Trois Pièces (1918) and Mouvements Perpétuels (1919) 80
Jerry Wong
vii
15_328-Anderson.indb vii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

viii Contents
7 Drinking from the “Source of Universal Folklore”: Villa-Lobos, Bach,

and Chorões 90
Alexandre Dossin
8 The Musical Imagination of Dmitri Kabalevsky 109
Timothy Shafer
9 Remembering Alberto Ginastera 118
Barbara Nissman
10 Improving the Long Line through Score Markings in Piano Repertoire 135
Caroline Hong
11 Aaron Copland and the Musical Idea 155
Hilary Demske
12 Some Suggestions for Playing the Piano Music of Samuel Barber 166
Jeffrey Jacob
13 A Practical Pianist’s Introduction to Messiaen: Technical and
Theoretical Approaches via the Vingt Regards sur l’Enfant-Jésus 198
Christopher Taylor
14 A Pianist Looks at the Music of John Cage, 1946–1948 219
John Milbauer
15 The Importance of New Music in the Pianist’s Repertoire 236
Scott Holden
Index 251
About the Editor 259
About the Contributors 261
15_328-Anderson.indb viii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Illustrations
EXAMPLES
2.1 Fandango, mm. 1–5. 11

2.2 Fandango, mm. 25–30. 12
2.3 Fandango, mm. 62–68. 13
2.4a Fandango, mm. 68–75. 14
2.4b Fandango, mm. 76–77. 14
2.4c Fandango, mm. 84–85. 14
2.4d Fandango, mm. 88–95. 14
2.5 Fandango, mm. 120–125. 15
2.6 Fandango, mm. 191–194. 16
2.7 Fandango, mm. 45–51. 16
2.8 Fandango, mm. 216–218. 17
2.9 Fandango, mm. 258–259. 17
2.10 Fandango, mm. 330–331. 17
2.11 Fandango, mm. 449–461. 18
3.1 Mendelssohn, Songs without Words, “Spinning Song,” Op. 67,
No. 4, mm. 1–8. 27
3.2 Mendelssohn, Songs without Words, Op. 67, No. 5, mm. 6–11. 28
ix
15_328-Anderson.indb ix 8/11/15 7:58 AM

x Illustrations
3.6a Mendelssohn, Songs without Words, Op. 38, No. 4, mm. 1–3. 32
3.6b Mendelssohn, Songs without Words, Op. 38, No. 4, mm.
25–30. 32
3.7a Mendelssohn, Songs without Words, Op. 38, No. 3, mm. 7–11. 33
3.7b Mendelssohn, Songs without Words, Op. 38, No. 3, mm. 23–29. 33
3.9 Mendelssohn, “Gondola Song” in A Major (1837), mm. 27–39. 35
3.10 Mendelssohn, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, “Overture,”
mm. 8–13. 36
3.11 Mendelssohn, Andante and Rondo Capriccioso, Op. 14,
mm. 27–41. 36
3.12 Mendelssohn, Variations Sérieuses, Variation 4, mm. 1–5. 38
3.13 Mendelssohn, Seven Characteristic Pieces, Op. 7, No. 7,
mm. 47–54. 38
4.1 Fauré, Nocturne, Op. 33/1, No. 1, mm. 1–4. 43
4.2 Fauré, Nocturne, Op. 33/1, No. 1, mm. 94–97; textural
additions at recapitulation of A material. 44
4.3 Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 42, No. 1, mm. 1–2, half-steps in
middle voice. 44
4.4 Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 42, No. 1 mm. 9–10, A–B-flat
half-step. 45
4.5 Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 42, No. 3, mm. 42, A–A-sharp
half-step. 45
4.6 Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 42, No. 3, mm. 92–95, F-sharp–
F-natural. 45
4.7 Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 42, No. 3, mm. 1–2, with possible
fingering and partial pedal indication. 46
4.8 Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 42, No. 3, mm. 42–43, fingering
and pedal suggestions. 47
4.9 Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 42, No. 3, mm. 61–64, fingering,
hand crossings, pedal. 47
4.10 Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 42, No. 3, mm. 16–21, pedaling
(approximate). 47
4.11 Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 44, No. 4, mm. 1–9. 48
4.12 Fauré, “J’allais par des chemins perfides,” mm. 1–8. 49
4.13 Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 66, No. 5, mm. 12–14 (ritornello). 50
15_328-Anderson.indb x 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Illustrations xi

4.16 Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 66, No. 5, mm. 24–25,
showing octave displacement. 52
4.17 Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 66, No. 5, mm. 39–44, showing mix
of sharps and flats. 52
4.18a Fauré, Nocturne, Op. 74, No. 7, mm. 15–18, first appearance
of Ritornello 1. 54
4.18b Fauré, Nocturne, Op. 74, No. 7, mm. 34–35, first appearance
of Ritornello 2. 54
4.19a Fauré, Nocturne, Op. 74, No. 7, mm. 24–27, transformation
of Ritornello 1. 55
4.19b Fauré, Nocturne, Op. 74, No. 7, mm. 61–63, transformation
of Ritornello 2. 55
4.20a Fauré, Nocturne, Op. 74, No. 7, mm. 42–50, first theme
of Allegro. 56
4.20b Fauré, Nocturne, Op. 74, No. 7, mm. 55–56, first theme
of Allegro transformed. 56
4.20c Nocturne, Op. 74, No. 7, mm. 64–67; beginning of second
theme of Allegro, related to first theme of Allegro. 57
4.21 Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 96, No. 8, mm. 1–11, showing
different rhythmic patterns. 58
4.22 Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 96, No. 8, mm. 41–42, showing
vertical use of 2nds. 59
4.23 Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 96, No. 8, mm. 39–41, descending
scale in short–long rhythm, middle voice. 59
5.1 Dohnányi, Variations on a Nursery Song for Piano and
Orchestra, solo entrance. 68
Orchestra, Variation 1, solo beginning. 69
5.3 Brahms, Concerto No. 2, mvt. IV, mm. 377–91. 69
5.4 Brahms, Four Piano Pieces, Op. 119, No. 4. 70
5.5 Liszt, Transcendental Étude, No. 10 in F Minor, coda
(marked stretta). 70
Orchestra, Variation 3. 71
15_328-Anderson.indb xi 8/11/15 7:58 AM

xii Illustrations

Orchestra, Variation 10, “Passacaglia.” 75
Orchestra, Variation 11, triumphant climax. 76
Orchestra, Variation 12, “Finale Fugato.” 78
7.1 O Polichinelo, mm. 28–36. NA 93
7.2 Rudepoema, mm. 278–292. Hal Leonard MGB s.r.l.–Milan. 93
7.3 Bachianas Brasileiras No. 4, mvt. 2, mm. 71–78.
G. Schirmer, Inc. 94
7.7 Choros, No. 5, mm. 3–8. G. Schirmer, Inc. 97
7.8 Choros, No. 5, mm. 14–16. G. Schirmer, Inc. 98
7:9 Choros, No. 5, mm. 46–49. G. Schirmer, Inc. 99
7.10 J. S. Bach, The Musical Offering, BWV 1079, mm. 1–8,
beginning. 101
7.11 Bachianas Brasileiras, No. 4, mvt. 1, mm. 1–4.
8.1 Op. 27, No. 10, “Clowning,” mm. 1–4. G. Schirmer, Inc. 110
8.2 Op. 27, No. 10, “Clowning,” mm. 1–4, altered.
15_328-Anderson.indb xii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Illustrations xiii
8.3 Op. 27, No. 10, “Clowning,” complete, altered.

8.4a Op. 27, No. 6, “A Sad Story,” mm. 1–4. G. Schirmer, Inc. 114
8.4b Op. 27, No. 6, “A Sad Story,” mm. 1–4, altered. G. Schirmer,
Inc. 114
8.5 Op. 27, No. 6, “A Sad Story,” mm. 5–8, altered. G. Schirmer,
Inc. 114
8.6 Op. 27, No. 6, “A Sad Story,” mm. 9–12, accompaniment.
8.7 Op. 27, No. 6, “A Sad Story,” mm. 13–16. G. Schirmer, Inc. 115
8.8 Op. 27, No. 6, “A Sad Story,” mm. 25–32. G. Schirmer, Inc. 115
8.9a Op. 27, No. 6, “A Sad Story,” mm. 1–8 and 17–24, altered.
8.9b Op. 27, No. 6, “A Sad Story,” mm. 9–16. G. Schirmer, Inc. 116
8.9c Op. 27, No. 6, “A Sad Story,” mm. 25–32, altered. G.
Schirmer, Inc. 116
9.1 Ginastera, Piano Sonata, Op. 22, No. 1, mvt. 2, mm. 35–39.
Boosey & Hawkes. 121
9.2 Ginastera, Piano Sonata, Op. 22, No. 1, Finale, mm. 60–69.
9.3 Bartók, Piano Sonata (1926), Sz. 80, Finale, mm. 31–41. 121
9.6 Bartók, Out of Doors, mvt. 4, mm. 1–4. Boosey & Hawkes. 123
9.7 Ginastera, Piano Sonata, Op. 22, No. 1, Finale, mm. 1–6.
9.8 Ginastera, Piano Sonata, Op. 22, No. 1, mm. 52–55, second
theme. Boosey & Hawkes. 124
9.9 Ginastera, Piano Sonata, Op. 22, No. 1, mvt. 1, mm. 1–8,
first theme. Boosey & Hawkes. 125
9.10 Ginastera, Tres Danzas Argentinas, Op. 2, No. 1, “Danza del
viejo boyero,” mm. 78–82. Boosey & Hawkes. 126
gaucho matrero,” mm. 104–109. Boosey & Hawkes. 127
15_328-Anderson.indb xiii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

xiv Illustrations
9.13 Ginastera, Tres Danzas Argentinas, Op. 2, No. 2, “Danza de la

moza donosa,” mm. 1–7. Boosey & Hawkes. 127
9.15 Ginastera, Piano Sonata, Op. 54, No. 3. mm. 77–80.
viejo boyero,” mm. 56–61. Boosey & Hawkes. 128
9.19 Ginastera, Piano Sonata, Op. 54, No. 3, mm. 1–7.
10.1 Ravel, La Valse, mm. 687–693. 136
10.1a Ravel, La Valse, mm. 687–693, without bars. 137
10.2 Rachmaninoff, Prelude, Op. 23, No. 4, mm. 50–52. 137
10.2a Rachmaninoff, Prelude, Op. 23, No. 4, mm. 50–52, rebarred. 137
10.3 Chopin, Barcarolle in F-sharp, Op. 60, m. 32. 138
10.3a Chopin, Barcarolle in F-sharp, Op. 60, m. 32,
with numeric indications. 138
10.4 Bach, Partita No. 1 in B–flat, BWV 825, “Sarabande,”
mm. 1–4. 138
10.4a Bach, Partita No. 1 in B–flat, BWV 825, “Sarabande,”
mm. 1–4, rebarred. 139
10.5 Rachmaninoff, Prelude in C-sharp Minor, Op. 3, No. 2,
mm. 1–6. 139
10.5a Rachmaninoff, Prelude in C–sharp Minor, Op. 3, No. 2,
mm. 1–6; note the part that is split. 140
10.5b Rachmaninoff, Prelude in C-sharp Minor, Op. 3, No. 2,
mm. 1–6; note the part that is split. 140
10.6 Debussy, Prélude, “Le sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air
du soir,” mm. 1–4, lower strata marked. 141
10.7 Chopin, Nocturne, Op. 27, No. 2, mm. 1–5. 142
10.7a Chopin, Nocturne, Op. 27, No. 2, mm. 1–5; left hand
rescored for playing with both left and right hands. 142
10.8 Brahms, Intermezzo, Op. 117, No. 3, mm. 46–50. 143
15_328-Anderson.indb xiv 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Illustrations xv
10.8a Brahms, Intermezzo, Op. 117, No. 3, mm. 46–50, melody,

only in same octave. 143
10.9 Debussy, Estampes, “Jardins sous la pluie,” mm. 64–70. 143
10.9a Debussy, Estampes, “Jardins sous la pluie,” mm. 64–70,
blocked sonorities. 144
10.10 Vine, Sonata No. 2, mm. 426–433. Faber Music. 145
10.10a Vine, Sonata No. 2, mm. 426–433; note marked rhythms.
Faber Music. 146
10.11 Ives, Country Band March, mm. 126–130. 146
10.11a Ives, Country Band March, mm 126–130. 147
10.12 Chopin, Barcarolle Op. 60, m. 8. 147
10.12a Chopin, Barcarolle Op. 60, m. 8, scored for arpeggiation. 148
10.12b Chopin, Barcarolle Op. 60, m. 8, scored differently. 148
10.13 Schubert, Sonata D. 664, m. 1. 148
10.13a Schubert, Sonata D. 664, m. 1; note triplet formation. 148
10.14 Schumann, Kriesleriana, “Sehr innig und nicht zu rasch,”
mm. 18, 25–27. 149
10.14a Schumann, Kriesleriana, “Sehr innig und nicht zu rasch,”
mm. 18, 25–27; note variations in timing. 149
10.15 Brahms, “Intermezzo,” Op. 118, No. 4, mm. 57–58. 150
10.15a Brahms, “Intermezzo,” Op. 118, No. 4, mm. 57–58, with
extreme dynamics. 150
10.16 Bach, Goldberg Variations, BWV 988, Canon at the Interval
of the Sixth, mm. 1–4. 150
10.16a Bach, Goldberg Variations, BWV 988, Canon at the Interval
of the Sixth, mm. 1–4, with dynamics. 150
10.17 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 52, No. 4, mm. 1–2. 151
10.17a Chopin, Ballade, Op. 52, No. 4, mm. 1–2, with dynamics. 151
10.18 Beethoven, Piano Concerto, Op. 37, No. 1, 1st mvt., cadenza. 151
10.18a Beethoven, Piano Concerto, Op. 37, No. 1, 1st mvt., cadenza
with measured overlap. 152
10.19 Beethoven, Sonata Op. 53, Rondo, m. 23. 152
10.19a Beethoven, Sonata Op. 53, Rondo, m. 23, with measured
overlap. 152
10.20 Mozart, Sonata K. 333, mm. 1–2. 153
10.20a Mozart, Sonata K. 333, mm. 1–2; note staccato note. 153
15_328-Anderson.indb xv 8/11/15 7:58 AM

xvi Illustrations
10.20b Mozart, Sonata K. 333, mm. 1–2, rescored. 153

11.1 Down a Country Lane, mm. 1–14. Boosey & Hawkes. 157
11.2 Piano Sonata, mvt. 1, mm. 184–195. Boosey & Hawkes. 158
11.3 Piano Sonata, mvt. 3, mm. 1–10. Boosey & Hawkes. 158
11.4 The Cat and the Mouse, mm. 1–6. Boosey & Hawkes. 160
11.5 Piano Variations, Variation 17, mm. 229–240. Boosey &
Hawkes. 162
11.6 Piano Variations, mm. 1–5. Boosey & Hawkes. 163
11.7 Midday Thoughts, mm. 11–16. Boosey & Hawkes. 163
12.1 Barber, Excursions, Op. 20, mvt. 1, mm. 1–4.
12.9 Barber, Sonata Op. 26, mvt. 1, mm. 3–8. G. Schirmer, Inc. 172
12.16 Barber, Sonata Op. 26, mvt. 2, mm. 164–165.
15_328-Anderson.indb xvi 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Illustrations xvii
12.23 Barber, Sonata Op. 26, mvt. 4, m. 87. G. Schirmer, Inc. 182
12.24 Barber, Souvenirs, Op. 28, mvt. 1, mm. 1–4.
15_328-Anderson.indb xvii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

xviii Illustrations
12.40 Barber, Nocturne Op. 33, mm. 5–9. G. Schirmer, Inc. 193
12.43 Barber, Ballade Op. 46, mm. 1–5. G. Schirmer, Inc. 195
13.1 No. 1, “Regard du Père,” m. 1. Hal Leonard MGB. 200
13.2 Octatonic scale (Messiaen Mode 2). 201
13.3 The three transpositions of the octatonic scale. 201
13.4 Liszt, Harmonies du soir (Transcendental Étude 11),
mm. 135–36. 202
13.5 Scriabin, Sonata No. 9 (“Black Mass”), mm. 55–58. 202
13.6a No. 10, “Regard de l’Esprit de joie,” m. 88.
Hal Leonard MGB. 204
13.6b No. 10, “Regard de l’Esprit de joie,” m. 88, revised.
13.7 No. 15, “Le baiser de l’Enfant-Jésus,” mm. 95–99.
13.8 Messiaen Mode 3. 205
13.9 No. 13, “Noël,” mm. 26–29. Hal Leonard MGB. 206
13.10 Messiaen Mode 4. 206
13.11 No. 6, “Par Lui tout a été fait,” mm. 1–2. Hal Leonard MGB. 206
13.12 No. 17, “Regard du silence,” mm. 1–3. Hal Leonard MGB. 207
13.13 No. 8, “Regard des hauteurs,” mm. 10–11.
13.14 Instances of set 016. 207
13.15 No. 18, “L’onction terrible,” mm. 1–3. Hal Leonard MGB. 208
13.16 No. 3, “L’Échange,” mm. 1–2. (The circled pitches are
explained below.). Hal Leonard MGB. 208
13.17 No. 3, “L’Échange,” mm. 3–4. Hal Leonard MGB. 209
13.18 No. 3, “L’Échange,” mm. 23–24. Hal Leonard MGB. 209
13.19 No. 19, “Je dors, mais mon coeur veille,” mm. 15–17, with
added notations to suggest possible strategies for realizing the
rhythm. (Note that, wishing to avoid a mass of extra numbers
of marginal usefulness, Messiaen consistently omits time
15_328-Anderson.indb xviii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Illustrations xix
signatures; also, the common nineteenth-century convention

that beamed groups of three notes are triplets, even in the
absence of a “3,” never applies.) Hal Leonard MGB. 210
13.20 Pattern for building internal metronome. 211
13.21 Palindromic rhythm found in No. 10, “Regard de l’Esprit
de joie.” 211
13.22 No. 10, “Regard de l’Esprit de joie,” mm. 60–61.
13.23 No. 12, “La parole toute-puissante,” mm. 1–6.
13.24 No. 5, “Regard du Fils sur le Fils,” mm. 1–4.
13.25 No. 16, “Regard des prophètes, des bergers et des mages,”
mm. 78–83. Hal Leonard MGB. 214
13.26 No. 6, “Par Lui tout a été fait,” mm. 222–225.
14.1 Two Pieces for Piano, I (3-5-2), mm. 1–18. Copyright © 1974
Henmar Press, Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission. 221
14.2 Two Pieces for Piano, I (3-5-2), mm. 78–99. Copyright
© 1974 Henmar Press, Inc. All rights reserved. Used by
permission. 222
14.3 Two Pieces for Piano, II (2¼-3¾-1¾-2¼), mm. 15–19.
Copyright © 1974 Henmar Press, Inc. All rights reserved.
Used by permission. 223
14.4 Suite for Toy Piano, I, mm. 1–11. Copyright © 1960 Henmar
Press, Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission. 225
14.5 Suite for Toy Piano, II, mm. 15–20. Copyright © 1960
14.6 Suite for Toy Piano, III, mm. 25–30. Copyright © 1960
14.7 Suite for Toy Piano, II, mm. 42–53. Copyright © 1960
14.8 Sonatas and Interludes, I, mm. 18–26. Copyright © 1960
14.9 Sonatas and Interludes, IV, mm. 29–36. Copyright © 1960
14.10 Sonatas and Interludes, VI, mm. 13–15. Copyright © 1960
15_328-Anderson.indb xix 8/11/15 7:58 AM

xx Illustrations
14.11 Sonatas and Interludes, Interlude II, mm. 45–51. Copyright

permission. 232
14.12 Sonatas and Interludes, Interlude III, mm. 1–3. Copyright
permission. 232
14.13 Sonatas and Interludes, XII, mm. 1–4. Copyright © 1960
14.14a Sonatas and Interludes, XIII, mm. 36–45. Copyright © 1960
14.14b Beethoven, Sonata in C minor, Op.111, II, m. 73. 233
14.15 Sonatas and Interludes, XVI and XV, mm. 1–10.
Copyright © 1960 Henmar Press, Inc. All rights reserved.
Used by permission. 234
14.16 Sonatas and Interludes, XVI, mm. 36–50. Copyright © 1960
FIGURES
8.1 Op. 27, No. 4, “A Sad Story,” complete formal design. 113
14.1 Photo of the author in a performance of the Suite for Toy Piano.
California State University, Chico. 219
14.2 Photo of John Cage preparing a piano. Cage Trust. 227
TABLE
2.1 Technical Gestures in Soler’s Fandango. 19
15_328-Anderson.indb xx 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Foreword
The chapters presented in The Pianist’s Craft 2 offer the reader an intimate oppor-
tunity to experience the personal journeys taken by some of the most distinguished
pedagogues and performers of our time. These chapters reveal detailed analyses of
the composers’ compositions and more importantly enlighten the piano student/
performer with solutions to successfully achieve the means by which to express the
composers’ musical messages. The true meaning of the word technique, which is art
and craft, becomes the end goal.
The music addressed here is perhaps less familiar to the general public at large
and more familiar to the conservatory or college piano student. By no means does
this negate the validity or substantial quality of these composers or their composi-
tions. It underlines their broad range and, in the case of Fauré or Cage, the subtler
range of the piano’s expressive qualities as opposed to the standard repertoire.
Messiaen’s unique style of composing, on the other hand, challenges the listener
and performer in ways that reflect a revolutionary new approach to classical music
and piano performance.
It is invaluable to know what journeys pianists or teachers have taken to arrive at
their current conception about a composition. For pianists, the technical and analyti-
cal knowledge needed for successfully achieving a high artistic level of performance is
simply invaluable. These chapters go into specific detail about the learning process,
leading to discoveries that can occur only as the result of endless hours or even years
of study, research, contemplation, and performance.
Even in our modern age, where information is more readily available, nothing
can replace the hands-on revelations that occur when the music of great composers
is brought to life in sound. The compositions included in this volume are some of
the most challenging to learn. The techniques required by the performer in many
cases are equivalent to those of a versatile actor switching from Shakespeare to
xxi
15_328-Anderson.indb xxi 8/11/15 7:58 AM

xxii Foreword
O’Neill. Certainly, one cannot perform C. P. E. Bach with the same skills as the
music of Barber, but it is very helpful to know that all of our composers discussed
herein are connected by a certain link—the piano—which can indicate for us that
the piano is simply a tool to express the composer’s intention. Readers can be in-
spired and glean great knowledge about these composers, but in the end they will
still need to take their own journeys. This volume celebrates the infinite realm and
universal expression of the piano.
Norman Krieger
University of Southern California
15_328-Anderson.indb xxii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Preface
As pianists, we are constantly searching for new insights and understanding of the
works we prepare, teach, and perform. We attend conferences, listen to concerts
and recordings, practice, study, and analyze. One thing that significantly and
consistently motivates me in my efforts to improve is the opportunity to learn
from outstanding artists and teachers. Their perspective on piano repertoire always
opens new doors of perception and understanding. Learning from someone who
has lived with these works on a high artistic level lifts me to new levels that would
be difficult to achieve otherwise.
So as it was with The Pianist’s Craft, the purpose of The Pianist’s Craft 2 is to pro-
vide an opportunity to learn from renowned artists and teachers. I wanted the chap-
ters to be academically sound, but I also wanted to give the authors the opportunity
to be intimate and personal so that their love for something that has filled their lives
so completely would be evident in their words. I have certainly been able to sense
this as I have worked closely with these wonderful artists and teachers, and I have no
doubt you will, too. And as it was with the previous book, I believe readers will find
articles that represent a fascinating variety of style and content. Some authors go into
detail using one representative work, others have chosen to paint a broad swath of a
composer’s oeuvre. To help with understanding, there are more than 250 examples
and figures in the book.
I hope you will be as enthralled with this book as I have been compiling and
editing its contents. These are marvelous musicians speaking on topics they know
extremely well. It has been a privilege to associate with them, and I’m grateful for all
that they have taught me.
xxiii
15_328-Anderson.indb xxiii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb xxiv 8/11/15 7:58 AM
Acknowledgments
A huge thank-you to Kathryn Zabriskie, who labored, literally, through her preg-
nancy to transcribe the majority of examples, many of which were very difficult,
and to Mark Zabriskie, who took over for Kathryn when her baby arrived. Also
a thank-you to my colleagues on the piano faculty at Brigham Young University,
whose artistry, dedication, support, and friendship have been sources of inspiration
for many, many years. And, finally, a deep thank-you to my dear wife, Susan, who is
always unselfishly and unwaveringly supportive.
xxv
15_328-Anderson.indb xxv 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb xxvi 8/11/15 7:58 AM
Introduction
“The notes I handle no better than many pianists. But the pauses between the
notes—ah, that is where the art resides.”
—Artur Schnabel
This volume, like The Pianist’s Craft, is meant to be an aid in grasping the art that
lies between the notes by considering what surrounds them. The contributors were
given the freedom to discuss composers and their music from a viewpoint that has
come from an experience that is threefold. One, they have applied themselves to
years and years of in-depth study. They know the ins and outs of these works and all
the background that goes with them. They know and understand what lies between
the notes. Two, they have taught these works multiple times. As every teacher knows,
every time you have a new opportunity to teach a great work, new insight and under-
standing will be found. And three, as I tell my students, the most important growth
of a piece comes when we begin performing it. These authors have vast experience
in performing these works. They have mastered them. Because of these three things,
I feel what they are teaching should not be taken lightly. I have learned a great deal
studying their chapters and striving to help them say it in the best possible manner.
My own understanding has been greatly enhanced, and I hope this book will help
you in the same way.
For example, consider these interesting tidbits gleaned from a few of the chapters:
Louis Nagel helps us see why Haydn consistently and devotedly studied C. P. E. Bach
and once commented on how much his works were a result of that study. Robin
Hancock introduces us to Soler, a devoted monk, who wrote a marvelous work based
on one of the most immoral dances of the time. Barbara Nissman provides insights
gained from her personal relationship with Ginastera, who once said, “A work with-
out form is a work de-formed.” Hilary Dempske’s chapter on Copland shows how
xxvii
15_328-Anderson.indb xxvii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

xxviii Introduction
his writing was influenced by both Western and non-Western sources, jazz improvi-
sation and serialism, and programmatic and abstract philosophies. And despite this
diversity, his music still manages to have an instantly recognizable “Copland sound.”
John Milbauer convincingly demonstrates why the music of John Cage is important
to study, not only for its beauty but also for its capacity to change how we listen.
And Scott Holden’s final chapter provides tremendous help in understanding new
music, overcoming what may be a misplaced avoidance or aversion to it, and how we
can become acclimated to its sounds. And along the way, he introduces us to many
exciting new works.
This book will not fit into the standard forms and format of other academic
volumes. For this reason, I believe it is more eclectic, entertaining, and fresh. Our
authors were not restricted in any way, but they were allowed to express themselves
in the manner that most suited them; some chose a more academic approach, others
a less formal one. In the end, what has resulted is a varied and unique collection of
chapters that, at the least, reflect the great love the authors have for their art, a love
that has developed over countless hours of thought, preparation, and experience. I
hope these chapters will illuminate, inspire, and motivate pianists and lovers of piano
music to delve more deeply into the lives and works of these great composers.
15_328-Anderson.indb xxviii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

1
C. P. E.—Thinking Outside the Bachs
The Music of Carl Phillip Emanuel Bach
Louis Nagel
My last lesson of the day had called in sick that morning, and I was looking at an
extra hour to devote to a book chapter on C. P. E. Bach I had been asked to write.
Happily, I contemplated the extra time when there was a rather forceful knock on
the door. Before I could even react, the door opened and in strode my good friend,
Perry Stalsis, a curmudgeonly retired professor from the Department of Gastroen-
terology in the medical school. A passionate, if opinionated, music lover, Perry was
as irreverent as he was informed, caring not a whit about prevailing conventions.
Politeness seemed like a necessary evil to him, and his attitudes about great music
were firmly entrenched in his seventy-year-old mind and soul.
Without even a hello he asked, “What are you doing now?” and began to light a
cigarette as he sat down.
“Perry, you know there is no smoking in this or any university building,” I replied
somewhat irritably. “I was about to work on this book chapter I promised, and it’s
already late. But it is good to see you,” I added in a conciliatory vein.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any snuff in this room, would you? Or maybe a
soft drink?”
Annoyed again, I got up, and walked across to the other side of the room where I
keep a small refrigerator and a few potted plants. From the refrigerator, I took out a
couple of Cokes, and from the plants I took some fallen dead leaves and crumpled
them up. “Have a coke,” I offered, “and try this for snuff.” He did both, and settled
in for a conversation.
“About whom are you writing?” he asked.
“One of my heroes in the world of music, Carl Philip Emanuel Bach,” I answered.
“Good grief, that charlatan?” he shot back. “What did he write other than some
flute concerti for Frederick the Great, and a few weird harpsichord sonatas that
gather dust on library shelves? Even musicologists pay scant attention to him.”
15_328-Anderson.indb 1 8/11/15 7:58 AM

2 Louis Nagel
I sat up and stared at my friend. “Perry, I suggest you ought to rethink your
opinion about C. P. E. It is sadly true that Carl Philip is one of the most overlooked
and neglected of the great composers. His keyboard sonatas number well into the
hundreds, and I have been listening to many of them as I’ve been preparing to write
this article. There are some exquisite gems among this collection. And the specific
collections, like the Prussian and Württemberg Sonatas, the Probestücke, and, above
all, the fantasies and rondos are endlessly fascinating explorations of human emotion
in music. And I was planning to revisit his Magnificat, a choral work of surpassing
beauty before you invited yourself in.”
“I did not know he wrote a choral work of any sort. Play some of it—not too
much.”
I put on the first two movements of this glorious music.
“It sounds like his father’s Magnificat,” Perry allowed.
“Yes,” I agreed, “it does, complete with a final fugal chorus on the words ‘Sicut
erat in principio’ that clearly pays homage to his father. Johann was still alive, though
within a year of his death in 1750, when C. P. E. wrote this music. It is unlikely
the father ever heard it or even saw the score, but it is obvious that throughout this
wondrous forty-minute work, the teaching and discipline of the father is ever pres-
ent in the son. It is not, however, so consistently polyphonic as J. S. Bach’s music,
and sometimes it seems a little more transparent because of this. The second section,
‘Quia respexit’ in B minor, for soprano, is hauntingly beautiful and written well for
the voice, in my opinion.”
“I admit it is lovely,” Perry said. “But one work does not a great composer make.
What about those flute concerti? Don’t tell me you find them glorious and beautiful
. . .”
I reached over to the stack of CDs I had on my desk and pulled out the flute
concerti. “Listen to the first movement of this Concerto in A Minor, Wq. 166,
which, I learned, is an adaptation of a keyboard concerto he wrote in 1750. J. S.
probably taught him the practical art of transcription. And I might add that there is
considerable technical virtuosity and rhythmical precision required to play the last
movement. King Frederick the Great of Prussia was a flutist, a longtime student of
the important flutist and theoretician J. J. Quantz. Frederick was a reasonably ac-
complished performer and a fairly benevolent boss, for whom C. P. E. worked for
nearly three decades and for whom he was obliged to compose much music. These
concerti were created to show off the talents of the king, and I am told they are by
no means easy. C. P. E. was able to tailor his music to meet the demands of his job.
In other words, he had to make the king look good. While more conventional than
his keyboard sonatas, they still hold much charm. And as a charming aside, relevant
to steadiness of tempo, in the Karl Geiringer book chapter on C. P. E., the anecdote
is told of Frederick the Great essaying one of the flute concerti written for him. An
admirer (or toady) was heard to exclaim, ‘What rhythm,’ and C. P. E. was heard to
rejoin, ‘What rhythms!’ He wrote challenging and beautiful music appropriate for
his Royal Highness.”
15_328-Anderson.indb 2 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 1 3
“Okay, I admit this movement is attractive,” grumbled Perry as he sipped his Coke
and crumbled the ersatz snuff into finely ground dust. “But get to the point. What
about these keyboard pieces that you venerate? You must admit he was a formulaic
composer who put together movements much like a pile of clothes coming out of
a dryer!”
“Perry, I have heard many deprecating analogies in my time, but none quite so
graphic or misrepresentative as that one. C. P. E. was organized and thoroughly
responsible for the content of his music. And I assure you that in the service of the
king, his ‘laundry’ was neatly sorted and folded! He was also an exponent of what
was the rage in aesthetics in his lifetime; we refer to it today as ‘Empfindung’ or the
‘Empfindsamer Stil.’ This translates as ‘sensitivity’ or ‘the sensitive style’ and flour-
ished mainly in north Germany among composers such as his older brother W. F.
Bach, Quantz, and Reichardt. The composers were concerned not so much with the
consistency and single affect approach that J. S. Bach took, but rather to produce
true and natural feelings through sound.”
I was still going.
“C. P. E. understood that humans were capable of having many different and
sometimes opposing feelings at the same time—music could express those lamina-
tions of emotion. Thus his music is constantly changing, constantly evolving, often
surprisingly, and responding to the wealth of emotion sounds can produce. In some
ways, his works presage the nineteenth-century Romantic movement. Haydn, clearly
a transitional figure, studied C. P. E. assiduously and once stated that if one knew his
work, they would recognize how much he owed C. P. E. Bach, because he diligently
studied him and understood him. This is quoted by Greisinger, Haydn’s first biogra-
pher. Mozart, certainly not so much an exponent of C. P. E.’s sensitive style, never-
theless praised him to Gottfried van Swieten, saying that C. P. E. Bach is the father
and all other composers are the sons. This is an amazing quote given Wolfgang’s own
devotion and dependency upon his father, Leopold, in the first half of his life. And
later on, Beethoven, upon accepting the young Karl Czerny as his student, told him
to obtain C. P. E. Bach’s monumental treatise, Versuch über die wahre Art das Klavier
zu spielen for his first lesson. By the way, in your chosen field of gastroenterology,
have you ever looked into this treatise?”
“Now why would I have read that”?
“I cannot give you a good reason. But I think it is a work that resonates far beyond
the purview of playing the piano. In it, Bach discusses the specifics of playing the
piano, such as ornamentation, fingering, and thorough bass, and most importantly
performance. That is the chapter I think all professions might profit from reading.”
“Now you have piqued my curiosity,” said my learned friend. “What is so impor-
tant about a chapter in keyboard performance that I, who resection intestines for a
living, should know”?
“The entire chapter is worth reading, but if you look at William J. Mitchell’s
translation published by Norton, you will find statements by Bach pointing out that
a mere technician has no claim to the rewards of those who are influenced by the ear
15_328-Anderson.indb 3 8/11/15 7:58 AM

4 Louis Nagel
rather than the eye, or the heart rather than the ear, because technicians do nothing
more than play the notes, allowing the continuity and flow of the melody to suffer,
even if the harmony remains unmolested. Bach then asks what comprises a good
performance and answers by saying a good performance comes through the ability
to sing or play in such a way as to make the ear conscious of the true content’s affect.
After many valuable suggestions about practice procedures and finding right tempi,
he says that a musician cannot move others unless he is moved also. He must feel
all of the emotion he hopes to arouse in his audience, for the revealing of his own
emotion will stimulate a like emotion in the listener.
“This paragraph continues at some length and eloquence on this subject, and in
my opinion sounds the clarion for the dawning of the modern age of music making.
It acknowledges the fact of an audience that not only wants to hear music but also
wants to respond with emotion on hearing it. And it is only a few short decades
away from the power of late Mozart, or middle to late Haydn, or Beethoven. And
of course it stresses the personal emotional involvement in the performer (substitute
surgeon) and the connection with the audience (substitute patient). Do you see why
I feel it is relevant far beyond just making music?”
Perry interrupted me. “When was this treatise written?”
“Part One, which I am referencing, appeared around 1752,” I replied. “There
are two parts. At the end are six sonatas, called Probestücke, which are somewhat
graded in difficulty. They make use of all the standard tonalities, a vast variety
of technical and musical challenges, and end with an incredible fantasy that elo-
quently demonstrates Bach’s improvisatory style. These sonatas are curious because
each one has three movements, but the movements are all in different keys. And
new vocabulary words such as tranquillamente or innocentamente begin to show
up in the scores. Such words speak to the character and innermost feelings to be
revealed through the performance. And although the sonatas do not figure promi-
nently in today’s teaching or concert repertoire, they were essentials during the
classical and early romantic periods.”
“All right,” Perry said. “Now, show me a couple of these gems in more detail,
please.”
“Let’s look for a brief example at a movement from the collection known as the
‘Prussian Sonatas,’ W. 48. These are a collection of fascinating keyboard pieces
dedicated to his employer, King Frederick. We can see the humorous and surprise-
loving C. P. E in the Presto movement of the third sonata in E Major. The texture
is essentially two voiced, and the music starts out with a lively descending arpeggio
and some passage work that quickly leaves the tonic key and sets up the dominant.
But it takes a little while to establish it clearly until measures 11 or 12. The motion
stops unexpectedly at measure 17 on the dominant of F-sharp with a fermata over
the note. This heightens the sense of expectation. Then we jump to a much lower
register on the instrument followed by a huge leap and another fermata at measure
20. And to close out the exposition there is a series of gigue-like triads on B major
harmonies shooting up the keyboard, changing the texture, finalizing the new tonic.
15_328-Anderson.indb 4 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 1 5
“These gestures are all surprising and fun both to hear and to play. The ascend-
ing chords dominate the middle section, which is very brief, in the relative C-sharp
minor at measure 50. The recap follows with quite different material, remaining in
the tonic E major. That surprising fermata we had in B major in the exposition now
appears on the E major dominant at measure 69, and that huge leap that was so
interesting in the first section recurs in measure 72, after which the movement closes
with material identical to the cadence in the exposition. Those bracing gigue-like
chords end the movement with a flourish.
“What you just heard described was incipient sonata form. Now remember, Perry,
we are talking about music that is actually being written during the Baroque period,
appearing in print the same year his father was writing the Goldberg Variations,
1742. We are witnessing the change of style from high Baroque to early Classical,
from serious scholarly music replete with contrapuntal ingenuity and complexity, to
light accessible music fit for people who wanted to hear music that was pleasing and
accessible or perhaps play it on the harpsichord or forte-piano themselves. A new
era was dawning with music such as this E major ‘Prussian Sonata.’ And it quickly
ascended to a prevailing style, including the sonata principle in which this piece was
organized. We may look at this today as ‘cute’ or ‘what’s-the-big-deal’ music, but it
was modern, cutting edge music in 1742.
“Looking at another important set, we have the Württemberg Sonatas, W. 49,
from 1744. Again a series of six, again dedicated to a nobleman, this time, Duke Karl
Eugen of Württemberg. Sparing you so much detail, I would urge you to listen to
these sonatas, especially the amazingly powerful and intensely personal first sonata in
A minor. Could Mozart have known this work when he wrote his own (unsurpassed)
Piano Sonata in A Minor, K. 310? Who knows? But the music is filled with unex-
pected gestures foreshadowing Haydn’s monothematic approach to sonata allegros,
and employing changes of dynamics, tempo, and texture with astonishing rapidity.
Only the Chromatic Fantasy of J. S. Bach approaches this sort of keyboard writing
that C. P. E. explored in his many sonatas.
“The second movement is in the tonic major, lyrical, more like a stately minuet,
but punctuated by occasional silences and heartfelt harmonic twists that represent
for its time, a radical ‘Thinking Outside the Bachs.’ And the finale, a brilliant pul-
sating toccata-like movement, is almost orchestral, with some astonishing ostinato
figuration at the halfway and final cadences. It positively glitters on the harpsichord
and is not easy at all on the piano. That sonata will find its way onto a future pro-
gram of mine, I assure you.”
Perry sat back in his chair, seemingly hooked. “What about the fantasies and
rondos? Are they as alluring as you describe these sonatas? Do I have to change my
opinion about this composer?”
“You certainly ought to change your opinion,” I laughed, “and as Al Jolson would
have said, ‘You ain’t heard nothin’ yet.’ The true art of playing keyboard instruments
is most revealed in the fantasies and rondos, in my opinion. Do you know, for ex-
ample, that there is a Fantasy in E-flat from a 1783 collection of rondos and fantasies
15_328-Anderson.indb 5 8/11/15 7:58 AM

6 Louis Nagel
that not only sounds like the forerunner of Beethoven’s ‘Emperor Concerto’ at the
beginning, but it also lays out in dramatic display the ideals of the sensitive style I
spoke about earlier. There is a Rondo in E-flat, from a 1787 collection that obvi-
ously inspired Beethoven in his three-time use of the theme in what we know as the
‘Prometheus Variations.’ I have performed these two pieces in concerts and lectures.
They fascinate audiences. And there is an unknown but exquisitely beautiful Rondo
in E Major, from 1781. I am going to play it for you and then discuss it briefly.
“I have actually recorded this for the University of Michigan’s Block M record-
ings. It is a monothematic piece with a simple diatonic E major melody that insists
upon including a D-natural. It sounds surprising at first, as if the pianist missed
a note. But this little abrasion returns with each variation of the theme, and the
theme itself returns in ever-changing guises. The key scheme is E major to F (!)
major, to a long section beginning in A minor, then back to E, but in a different
register, to F-sharp (!!) major, to C major––a tritone relationship in 1781—and
back to E major. Perry, gastroenterology was not doing anything close to that in
1781. The theme is also transformed rhythmically, appearing even as a sort of
gigue. The ending of this gorgeous rondo evokes for me so much of the feeling
found at the end of the second movement of Beethoven’s enigmatic Sonata op. 90,
I suspect he knew it. I have read many of these rondos and fantasies, and I think
this one is the best. But there are many others that are wonderful and bracing and
filled with imagination and great ‘affekt.’”
I then went to the piano and played the five-minute E Major rondo. There was
a long and thoughtful silence in the room. My friend was obviously moved hearing
this music. When he spoke, gone was the distrust of C. P. E. So too was the “snuff ”
and the soft drink. When we had to part company, Perry was not without some
feistiness, however. As he was leaving, he advised me, “You need to get a better qual-
ity snuff. That stuff smelled like dead leaves from your plants. But thanks for the
music lesson. I really did appreciate learning about Carl Philip Emanuel!”
15_328-Anderson.indb 6 8/11/15 7:58 AM

2
Soler’s Fandango
Robin James Hancock
“What good does it do if a work is well written but stirs no feelings in the listener?”
—Antonio Soler, Llave de la Modulacion1
On my first encounter with Antonio Soler’s Fandango, I was entranced and aston-
ished, held spellbound in a phantasmal journey. As the performance of this musical
comet unfolded, I was incredulous that it had waited so long to reveal itself.2 I was
caught up with the pyrotechnical momentum, the endless improvisations, and the
impetuous drive to an ending that suddenly slammed against a half-cadence brick
wall, leaving me breathless amidst an audience responding with uproarious applause.
How did this unusually lengthy piece, planted upon an unusually brief and monoto-
nous ostinato, so completely hypnotize the listener? A veritable bouquet of musical
variety, it invited me to find meaning on many levels. Hidden in the shadowy post-
Baroque, pre-Classic era, how could this seemingly minimalistic piece have so much
to say across 250 years of musical history?3
Delving deeper prompted more questions: How could a cloistered Spanish padre
devoted to a life of quiet contemplation and the daily routine of liturgical services
write such a genre-crossing piece of entertainment?4 How did a monk, restricted to
the seemingly straitened life of a religious aesthete, regale us with a bawdy, erotic
dance that dazzles and shimmers, and calls forth such a visceral response that one
might feel the urge to go to confession afterwards?5 It seemed incongruent that a
treatment of an earthy, sensual dance would originate from the pen of a devout
monk in a monastery.6 Understanding a bit about this Catholic father, who was
sometimes called “the devil in monk’s clothing,” yields some answers.7
15_328-Anderson.indb 7 8/11/15 7:58 AM

8 Robin James Hancock
SOLER
Padre Fray Antonio Soler y Ramos (1729–1783) appears during the twilight of the
magnificent Baroque era when the musical world was changing: Bach and Handel
were finishing their monumental lives, Haydn and Mozart were exploring new ideas
and forms in the nascent Classical period, and Beethoven was still a very young child.
The severe German style of counterpoint was giving way to the expressive melodic
style of Empfindsamkeit found in the works of northern German composers and in
the Italian Rococo style.
The austerity, reverence, grandeur, and deeply religious themes portrayed in the
music of the Baroque period were being supplanted by the new rationale of the
Enlightenment with its shift in emphasis from divinity to humanity. This allowed
for folk tunes, dances, and pleasing melodies to dominate the musical landscape in
a triumph of simplicity over severity, delight and entertainment over devotion and
solitude. Eva Badura-Skoda characterized the music of these decades (1740–1770)
as “charming, effortless, and entertaining, modest in scale and gratifying to perform,
free of bombast and clever polyphonic devices.”8 Soler’s Fandango, which is thought
to be from this period, proves the exception: it is definitely charming and entertain-
ing, but not modest in scale and certainly not effortless to perform. It points up the
fact that this fertile but sometimes neglected musical era defies easy categorization.
Keyboard instruments were also changing as the supremacy of the harpsichord
gradually yielded to the pianoforte with its beckoning potential for expression. Inter-
estingly, inventive improvements by craftsman and tinkerers, such as the escapement
action and more efficient dampers, made the pianoforte even more desirable during
this very decade when the Fandango may have been written.9 Because of this unique
time period when both instruments were available, inevitable questions arise as to
which keyboard instrument Soler used. Scholars point out that many composers
wrote with both harpsichord and fortepiano in mind. We know Soler had access to
both at the Escorial palace-complex, which was one of four annual residences for the
Spanish royal court.10
The queen in the Spanish royal court was none other than the notable Portuguese
princess Infante Maria Barbara, to whom Domenico Scarlatti was music master
and teacher. Now a corpulent older matron married to the king of Spain, she had a
retinue of musical instruments that traveled with her to each royal residence.11 The
inventory of her instruments included three fortepianos, nine harpsichords, and
an organ.12 Soler was the resident maestro de capilla at Escorial and would have no
doubt reveled in this treasury of instruments available for his use courtesy of Maria
Barbara.13 Swirling, ever-changing currents in style, exciting technical innovations in
instruments, coupled with the public’s insatiable demand for more and more enter-
tainment created the perfect climate of creativity for a monastic cleric who had his
finger on the pulse of Spanish musical currents in the eighteenth century.
Although he lived his life within cloistered walls, Soler was a “Renaissance man.”14
He was an inventor, author, monk and priest, mathematician, musician and com-
15_328-Anderson.indb 8 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 2 9
poser, theorist and teacher, and maestro de capilla.15 A child prodigy, he was enrolled
at the choir school in Montserrat outside Barcelona.16 He was a virtuoso organist and
was thought to be Spain’s greatest clavicembalist.17 Far from the popular image of a
hermit contemplating life through narrow windows in damp walls, Soler was a man
of passion and humor and fervently devout.18 He was a Spanish Bach: in a typical
week he wrote the music, led the choir, played the organ, and taught the musicians.
He was a multitasker writing volumes of music in many forms indigenous to his
native culture.19 He was an Iberian Scarlatti, composing countless keyboard sonatas
with gestures of virtuoso technique and features that evoked the Spanish cultural
elements of guitar and dance.
Did Soler study with Scarlatti? The royal court spent part of its year at Escorial
where Soler lived and worked, and he obviously would have come into contact with
Scarlatti, who was forty years older and the queen’s music maestro, at those annual
sojourns.20 John Gillespie feels certain that Soler studied with Scarlatti, based on the
similarity of gestures and structure in each composer’s sonata output. 21 Another Soler
scholar, Joaquin Nin, agrees, based on evidence found in the sonata manuscripts.22
Frederick Marvin, on the other hand, makes an equally compelling argument
against Soler’s tutelage with Scarlatti:
The so-called “fact” that Soler was a pupil of Scarlatti is questionable. We know from
Soler’s published writings that he was an admirer of Scarlatti and familiar with his
compositions. In Soler’s important theoretical treatise La Llave de la Modulacion . . . he
mentions his various teachers, including the Court composer and teacher, José Nebra,
but never mentions having studied with Scarlatti. I do not believe, knowing through his
writings the strong and true character of Soler, that he would have omitted to mention
Scarlatti if he indeed had studied with him. Musical practices found in Scarlatti’s sonatas
and in those of Soler . . . could suggest an influence, although not necessarily actual
instruction by Scarlatti. Most composers in Italy and Spain of that period wrote sonatas
in binary form. Soler’s phrase construction, modulations, and periods are quite different
from Scarlatti’s. . . . The purely Spanish elements in nearly all of Soler’s compositions
are most certainly derived from popular songs and dances, guitar strumming, and other
typical Spanish musical expressions.23
That the two men rubbed shoulders is certain; that there was a collegial or mentoring
relationship there is probably no doubt. There was definitely a cross-fertilization of
cultural thought manifested through composition: Soler is not so much a satellite in
the orbit of the older Italian as he is a composer probably stimulated and influenced
by Scarlatti, “breaking away little by little . . . advancing along hitherto unfrequented
paths.”24 In the two examples Gillespie includes in his discussion, one sees a definite
intensity of gesture in Soler’s music that suggests an increase of dramatic involve-
ment in texture, rhythm, and technique, and not merely imitation.25 As Joaquin
Nin summarizes:
When the Padre Soler appropriated certain modes, certain turns, certain popular Span-
ish expressions which Scarlatti had dignified and consecrated with that marvelous skill
15_328-Anderson.indb 9 8/11/15 7:58 AM

which the whole world admires today, Soler, I repeat, far from committing the sin of
imitation, merely reclaimed his own property and reintroduced into his vocabulary the
Spanish idioms borrowed by the Neapolitan. . . . If the bottle is Scarlattian, the wine is
truly Spanish and from this union were born treasures and marvels. . . . In this idiom of
Italian form and Spanish accent, it is the accent which is the soul of the language and
which impresses. It is by his accent that Padre Soler, the most fecund, and up to now
the most brilliant, of the Spanish clavicembalists, is really ours.26
Soler was the most notable Spanish monk-musician living the abundant life of
enriching study, engaging performance, and compelling composition, and he had his
finger on the pulse of the arts scene in and around Madrid.27 It would be difficult
to find another musician so well known in his own time and so little known in our
time; a man who in his day was called “devil in monk’s clothing” but who is now
lauded as the “Principe de la Gracia.”28
THE FANDANGO
The fandango is one of Spain’s most important contributions to dance.29 It is com-

pelling and hypnotic in its most essential elements of music, rhythm, and movement
imitating the teasing of romance and flirtation: “The fandango was essentially a pas
de deux in which the partners alternately danced close to, or away from, each other.
Its music was set in triple meter and in fast tempo, and generally executed by the
guitar, or sometimes sung with guitar accompaniment. The dancers joined with
finger snapping, or castanets, as well as with heel and toe tapping.”30
It may be perceived to be an unusual compositional choice for Soler with his
devout background because it was thought to be a rapturous diversion of “furious
passion,” absent of good taste.
A young Spanish girl without raising her eyes and with the most modest appearance,
stood up to perform in front of us her daring leaping: extending her arms and snapping
her fingers, she followed the rhythm throughout the fandango. A man was dancing
around her, back and forth, with violent movements, to which she responded with simi-
lar gestures, though a bit mellower. And always this finger snapping that seems to say: “I
tease him; let him follow as long as he wants, because I should not be the first to tire.”
When the man surrenders, another one arrives in front of her, so that in this manner the
agile dancer subdues seven or eight men one after the other.31
Descriptions from that time period reported that it caused “inconceivable enthusi-
asm” and “promiscuous thronging with a vigor that beggars the description.”32 But
what Soler ultimately fashioned was a monumental work of brilliance and Spanish
cultural exoticism that suggests accented stamping of dancers’ heels and the blur of
strumming hands on the guitar: “Padre Soler’s ‘Fandango’ is unique in 18th century
classical music. This work, a passacaglia, has a harmonic ostinato bass only two mea-
sures long, in a composition of some 450 measures. There are parallel-octave passages
15_328-Anderson.indb 10 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 2 11
for both hands, unprepared suspensions that were written for harmonic effects, cross
relations and dissonances that offset the monotony of the ostinato. The effects of
castanets and guitars are clearly heard.”33
Soler employs distinctly Spanish-flavored features of dance and composition that
dominate this most unique work in his output, the most “Spanish” of all his works.
Alternating tonic–dominant harmony, chromatic movement between 5th and 6th
scale degrees, descending tetrachords with lowered 6th and 7th degrees descending
to the dominant, figuration, and arpeggiation of chordal clusters imitating the strum
of guitars, arabesque features of rapidly repeating single notes, and ornamented
melodic lines highlight the cultural flavor of this work.34 Commonly in the key of
D minor, written in triple meter, variational and improvisatory with accelerated
rhythmic activity through diminution, it incorporates fast rhythms reminiscent of
stamping of heels and the swish of flowing dresses. 35
The work begins by calling the audience to attention with a nondescript
twenty-four bars of introduction. These opening measures are innocently tender;
one hardly suspects what will become an epic 462 measures of variation upon
variation. In the introduction, Soler foreshadows the salient points of this piece’s
musical rhetoric: establishment of the key, initiation of the two-bar ostinato,
modulation to relative major, and rhythmic nuances of syncopation. Soler is not
averse to the traditional key of the fandango, and triadic harmony will be our
point of departure. Two grace notes outline the D minor triad reminiscent of the
first strum of the guitar calling the audience to attention; the peak of the triad is
reached on the first full beat and descends back through the triad to land on D.
The final D to D-sharp on the third count is a hint of chromatic color essential to
the variations yet to come (see example 2.1).
In the second and third measures, Soler introduces the ostinato that will become
an old friend by the end of this piece.36 It is a grounded figure built on the corner-
stones of A–D minor–G minor tonalities functioning in expected I-IV-V harmony.
Instead of the initial tonic, the dominant V chord tonality is sounded, which resolves
to the tonic D minor, then progresses to the subdominant chord (see example 2.1).
Example 2.1. Fandango, mm. 1–5.
A pianist possessing Solerian technical capabilities must lock on to the ostinato

pattern in a sort of autopilot because this pattern will evolve from new acquain-
tance to an old cherished friend to a pesky relative who has overstayed their wel-
come. Repetitive gestures such as this ostinato are a feature of the fandango and
15_328-Anderson.indb 11 8/11/15 7:58 AM

highlight the cultural element. Repetition celebrates tradition and memory. 37 The
pianist must shape this two-bar phrase to create a strong underpinning for the
endless variety of elaborations that ensues. This pattern is the fulcrum on which
the rest of the piece balances and must be steady, anchored, and unwearyingly
atmospheric and hypnotic, enticing the listener as it did me on my first hearing.
As present-day building codes dictate earthquake-proof foundations that have flex-
ibility, so this ostinato foundation should have the give-and-take to withstand the
variation tremors to come—and assuredly there are some seismically huge musical
events about to come.
In the introduction, Soler lifts the curtain to this performance with syncopations,
mixtures of articulation, the use of accidentals, modulatory harmonic movement
and gestures idiomatic to the guitar. This harbinger is a prelude giving glimpses
of what is to come, yet understating everything so that the virtuoso features on
display in the main body of the piece make a startling impact on the listener. These
twenty-four initial bars that precede the dance puts the listener in a deceptive ease
and repose—this will be a pleasing diversion—unsuspecting of the tremors to come.
One’s well-being is lulled and satisfied in a genteel manner as Soler places us right
where he wants us.
The blast comes with the beginning of the Fandango proper in m. 25, with a me-
lodic theme that became characteristic of the fandango and that was used by many
other significant composers (see example 2.2).38 The recognition of the fandango
theme should alert the listener (if they did not already glean it from the title) that
music of a playfully risqué dance form is imminent. The pianist needs to assert his
or her command of the instrument with healthy sonority on the initial four-voice A
major chord and follow it up with crisp clarity in the 16th-notes. Stark and agitated
articulation of the dotted 8th-16th-note figure will create a sense of “now you get it,
now you don’t” trickery, as in games of endearment between lovers.
15_328-Anderson.indb 12 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 2 13
Soler gives the listener a needed rest, seemingly snapping his fingers, as it were, to
break the tedious pattern by shifting to major mode in m. 62. This harmonic break
is momentary, as the ostinato returns to the dominant through lowered 7th and 6th
degrees. This kind of harmonic movement is one of the Spanish hallmarks and gives
the piece its cultural flavor (see example 2.3).
The ostinato theme with improvisations alternating harmonically between A and

D, and the frequent shift from D minor to the major mode of F/B-flat, constitute
the structural framework for the rest of the Fandango. Assuredly, this could become
harmonically monotonous, if it were not for the compelling nature of Soler’s fount
of improvisational inspiration; his thrilling workshop of technical feats upon the
ostinato adumbrate the stile brilliante, something that will not be seen for another
seventy-five years. Soler as a composer is a well of invention in the way he spins out
approximately forty-odd improvisations in the manner of the most astute jazz artist.
These are not formal and structural variations addressing a given theme, as in the
later works of Mozart and Beethoven, but inventive elaborations that give dimension
to the ostinato bass theme. Soler’s improvisational “chops” run the creative spectrum
from melodic gestures to technical gestures to rhythmic gestures that enhance the
virtuosity. Consider the following four examples:
1. In the segment beginning at m. 68, Soler uses melodic variation to disguise the
theme in descending and ascending chromatic 8th-notes (see example 2.4a).
2. This chromatic scale is continued but intensified by changing the 8th-notes
into triplet 16ths (see example 2.4b).
3. At m. 84, the same thematic variant just heard in 8ths and triplet 16ths
becomes an unbroken line of rapidly expanding intervals in 16th-notes (see
example 2.4c).
4. The expanding intervals morph into block octaves and then broken octaves
(see example 2.4d).
15_328-Anderson.indb 13 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Example 2.4a. Fandango, mm. 68–75.
Example 2.4b. Fandango, mm. 76–77.
Example 2.4c. Fandango, mm. 84–85.
Example 2.4d. Fandango, mm. 88–95.
15_328_02_Hancock.indd 14 8/11/15 8:29 AM

Chapter 2 15
Looking at this segment as a whole, one sees Soler’s gift for technical elaboration
and micro-improvisation on a thematic sequence that began with simple 8th-notes
evolving through rhythmic morphing into octaves and broken octaves. These
improvisatory-like passages continue to appear above the ubiquitous left-hand osti-
nato. The rapidly expanding intervals and ever-increasing rhythmic values crowding
into the same amount of meter space heighten the artistic tension as it challenges
the pianist’s ability to play accurately with precipitous velocity. The wider and wider
chromatic intervals add frenetic excitement to the precarious nature of the passage
and underscore the surprisingly expressive power of the relentless variants, keeping
listeners breathless with anticipation as they observe the performer pushing the
boundaries of technique and endurance.
Technical endurance is combined with pianistic athleticism in the tricky sequence
at mm. 120–125 (example 2.5) where the gesture calls for accurate leaps in hand
crossings. In m. 120, the left hand makes a leisurely cross over the right hand and
plays its material before quietly returning to its own register. However, in m. 123, the
activity becomes more perilous as the left hand has a split second to cross from low
register to high over the right hand between the first and second beats. The fun is
repeated in mm. 124 and 125, where the left hand continually jumps over the right
hand back and forth on every eighth note. Notice how the right hand assumes the
passagework so that the left hand may concentrate on the long jumps. The difficulty
is daunting because of the amount of keyboard terrain that must be covered in short
bursts of time. These are similar to Olympic-style long jumps, but unlike the athletic
event with its haphazard landing in a sandbox, these jumps must land accurately and
stick without default or hesitation.
This sequence of left-hand leaps is mirrored by the right hand in another sequence
at mm. 191–194 (see example 2.6), in which the right hand becomes the athlete
leaping over the left hand to execute a descending scale in 32nd notes. Clarity must
surmount all challenges. Inefficiency in executing this sequence has to be dealt with
15_328-Anderson.indb 15 8/11/15 7:58 AM

in soul-searching sessions of relentless drilling. Split-second timing and hand–eye

coordination allow this rapid safari by the right hand to succeed. In order to execute
this, the pianist must employ efficient practice strategies of separating the hands and
playing this in slow motion, preferably practicing each hand from memory so that
the specific muscle memory of the gesture is slowly but consistently conditioned.
Each hand must be isolated and choreographed so the leaps have both the necessary
speed and pinpoint precision at the arrival note. In this manner the execution of
this passage can ultimately be accomplished under the duress of public performance.
Soler highlights the Spanish flavor of the Fandango with rhythmic variation. In
mm. 45–51 the inner pulse uses hemiola, with the pattern shifting from duple to
triple with the six 8th-note counts being divided into groupings of two or three equal
inner beats:
1-2-3 1-2-3—1-2 1-2 1-2 1-2-3 1-2-3—1-2 1-2 1-2
The performer must bring out this pattern with vigorous accents that add flourish
to the whirl of the dance atmosphere. As seen in example 2.7, the constantly shift-
ing principle beat has the effect of leaving one off-balance and bedazzled at the same
time.39 The beginning of the end commences at m. 217 with an unexpected cadence
that alludes to an ending of some sort. Supporting this allusion is the temporary ces-
15_328-Anderson.indb 16 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 2 17
sation of the ostinato figure yielding to a simple three quarter-notes in the bass, as if
to give a moment for the dancers to catch their breath (see example 2.8).
This cadence acts deceptively as a probable ending by clearing out the frenetic pas-
sage work momentarily, but it is a false alarm because the music switches to minor
mode rather than going to the expected major. Such a moment represents “progress
toward a dramatic crux—a point often associated with a pause, at which [the music]
crosses as it were, a watershed (of tonality, theme, or texture, or all of these).”40
We find a hallmark of Spanish exoticism in Soler’s imitation of the guitar in mm.
258–259 (see example 2.9). This arabesque of a single rapidly repeated note evokes
the talented guitarist mesmerizing the dancers and audience with minimalistic ges-
ture. At m. 330, the listener begins to anticipate a culmination when both hands
play an arpeggiated series of 16th-note chords that increase the frenetic tension. This
point is about ten minutes into the piece, and an incredulous audience senses they
are witnessing a musical triathlon of endurance, insatiable technical demand, and
glittery virtuosity testing the performer’s perseverance (see example 2.10).
15_328-Anderson.indb 17 8/11/15 7:58 AM

In the final fifteen measures, the ostinato figure resumes, and the right hand
leaps dizzyingly back and forth over the left hand, perhaps suggesting the female
dancer circling around the male with swishing skirts and rapidly clicking heels;
the trance-like momentum increases as tension mounts; becoming faster and
faster to the final measure when unexpectedly—everything ceases suddenly on
the half-cadence (see example 2.11). Undoubtedly there will be a large exhalation
as all involved, audience and performer alike, pant in breathless amazement. The
sudden cessation might cause a quizzical bewilderment for a tiny moment, only to
give way certainly to thunderous applause from a startled audience. The frenetic
improvisatory variations, the relentless accelerated rush to final cadence, and the
excitement of the technical conquest, is irresistible; the completed Fandango has
played the part of the dancing girl, and we in the audience are vanquished by the
audacity of this stamina-challenging piece.
THE FANDANGO TODAY
Soler’s Fandango is a lesson in the dynamics of movement. Pianists accustomed to

doing all their work from a sitting position must keep uppermost in mind that the
fandango is a dance whose performance should be a blur of fiendish culmination so
that the listener feels like they have just witnessed the toreador finishing off the bull.
In these virtuoso elaborations, Soler assists the teacher and student alike in leaping
15_328-Anderson.indb 18 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 2 19
the chasm of technical boredom.41 Almost the entire catalogue of foundational tech-
niques are incorporated in its pages. Soler has included double-thirds, octaves, scales,
chromatic scales, tetrachords, octave-plus interval leaps, single arpeggios, double-
handed arpeggios, Alberti-bass figures, double-voicing inside one hand, and hand
crossing (see table 2.1). These technical gestures from the pianist’s toolbox appear in
the guise of improvisatory drills over an ubiquitous ostinato and extend the initial
fandango theme imitating the feverish endurance of exhausted but contented danc-
Table 2.1. Technical Gestures in Soler’s Fandango

Measure Gesture Result
27-29 Ostinato bass Multitasking; left hand auto-pilot
33-36 Large interval leaps Precision, speed in leaps
37-39 Syncopated rhythm Rhythmic integrity
45-46 16th-note passagework Clarity, fast fingers
48-54 Hemiola; increasingly rapid note Counting, pulse subdivision,
values rhythmic integrity
59-61 Full-span octave arpeggios clarity
76-79 Triples over duple left hand Rhythmic integrity
84-87 Rapid expanding alternating Clarity, accuracy
intervals
88 Right hand block octaves Supple wrist technique
92 R.H. Broken octaves Supple wrist technique, accuracy
98 Left hand block octaves Supple wrist technique,
strengthening left hand
102 L.H. broken octaves Supple wrist technique, accuracy,
strengthening left hand
123 L.H. rapid crossover leaps Accuracy, hand-eye rhythmic
coordination
144 L. H. descending scale crossed Accuracy in spite of body contortion
over the R. H.
169 R. H. multiregister arpeggios Rapid note accuracy
191 R. H. descending scale crosses Accuracy in spite of body contortion
over L.H., in 32nd-notes at blazing speed
230 Sextuplets Expressive clarity
235 Syncopation, displacement of pulse Rhythmic integrity, cross-rhythm
beat multitasking
240 Rapid alternating thirds Consistent fingering
258 Rapid repeating single note Fast finger clarity, arabesque concept
278-283 Staccato-legato articulation
318 L.H. 16th-note arpeggios slightly Strengthening L.H. technique,
larger than octave span arpeggio fingering
330 16th-note arpeggios in both hands Dazzling virtuoso technique, parallel
arpeggios
445 R.H. triadic arpeggios and passage Concentration, focus, multitasking,
work in 16th-notes crossing over steadfastness
L.H. ostinato
15_328-Anderson.indb 19 8/11/15 7:58 AM

ers. The demand for advanced-level technique and control of resources at the piano
is relentless.42 The pianist should strive for a transcendent performance of emotional
and expressive momentum that leaves one breathless at its conclusion.
Unlike its cerebral counterparts, the chamber and church music of the day, this
provocative work is visceral entertainment, a sparkling anomaly in a careful environ-
ment of “orthodox” repertoire. Resurrected from obscurity in recent years to take its
place among the most crowd-pleasing pieces of the piano repertoire, it is simultane-
ously a pleasing diversion that skirts older Baroque-era polyphony and a challenge
to the advanced pianist. It begins quite gallant but becomes Olympian virtuosity
writ large. Its demands for stamina and endurance are daunting, and the potential
for technical and interpretive development is huge. Spanish music is a welcome ad-
dition to the standard recital repertory, and historically minded teachers looking for
intriguing and unusual repertoire will welcome this neglected gem as a dynamite way
to begin a recital.43
When playing the Fandango, one feels like a conquistador vanquishing the formi-
dable heights of keyboard prowess, demonstrating feats of herculean strength. Vir-
tuosity is its vitality and makes the piece irresistibly enticing to study and perform.
What was Soler thinking?! His brothers in El Escorial must have scolded him for
going to the plaza rather than the chapel for his inspiration, but he made sure we
understood what he was doing by ubiquitous repetition, and in doing so gave us a
masterpiece—a high-definition experience of piano virtuosity through the prism of
the fandango. The good Padre Antonio Soler composed a Brobdingnagian Fandango
to mirror the color and culture of his native Spain. In doing so, he fashioned a
masterpiece that motivates greater technical diligence and prophetically looks to the
future of twenty-first-century brilliance and concert virtuosity.
NOTES
1. Antonio Soler, Llave de la Modulacion, y Antiguedades de la Musica (Madrid: Joachin

Ibarra, 1762). Quoted in Ray Izumi, “The Harpsichord Music of Soler,” http://www.chateau-
gris.com/Soler.
2. One of the important people in Soler scholarship is Frederick Marvin. Apostle and
champion of his music, Marvin had a similar reaction: “My curiosity aroused, I asked myself:
why haven’t I heard of this obviously great composer before? Who was he? How did he get
passed by?” See Frederick Marvin, “On the Trail of Padre Antonio Soler,” Piano Quarterly 80
(Winter 1972–73): 17. Marvin searched out long-lost works in libraries in Madrid, Barcelona,
Montserrat, El Escorial, and London. See his many articles in the bibliography.
3. There has been some debate on the authorship of the Fandango; Marvin found thirty-
eight Soler sonatas along with the Fandango, all in manuscript, in Barcelona’s Biblioteca
Central, leading one to conclude that Soler wrote the Fandango; see Marvin, “On the Trail,”
18. Isidro Barrio points out that the ostinato theme is identical to one by José Martiy in his
“Fandango with Variations”: “If Soler did indeed write the Fandango, then it is unique among
all of his harpsichord works. While Soler occasionally toyed with the form of theme and
15_328-Anderson.indb 20 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 2 21
variations, there are no other published pieces that compare in length and magnitude to this
one. Also unique is the use of a basso ostinato, in the form of a twelve-note sequence which
reappears many times in the left hand, and hypnotic in its effect on the listener. Though there
may be valid reasons to suspect the truth of this theory, still it would be not at all surprising
to find that a man of Soler’s wide-ranging interests could compose such a masterpiece”; see
Ray Izumi, “The Harpsichord Music of Antonio Soler,” http://www.chateaugris.com/soler.
For purposes of this essay, Solerian authorship is assumed.
4. It is a dance, but also a set of variations, a passacaglia, and even an extended étude.
5. “The fandango was extremely popular. . . and forbidden by the church as ‘too excit-
ing and sensuous,’ each couple, man and woman, never move more than three steps as they
click their castanets with the music of the orchestra. They take a thousand attitudes; make
a thousand gestures so lascivious that nothing can compare with them. This dance is the
expression of love from beginning to end, from the sigh of desire to the ecstasy of (pure)
enjoyment” (Curt Sachs, The World History of the Dance, quoted in Reah Sadowsky, “Antonio
Soler: Creator of Spain’s Fifth Century of Musical Genius,” American Music Teacher [Sept./
Oct. 1978]: 13).
6. “One wonders just how [Soler] was able to visualize musically a dance of such tempes-
tuous and sensual nature. One can only guess that his vivid imagination must have taken flight
outside the granite walls of this fortress-like palace to the plazas of Madrid.” See Sadowsky,
“Antonio Soler,” 13.
7. George Truett Hollis, “‘El diablo vestido de fraile’: Some Unpublished Correspondence
of Padre Soler,” in Music in Spain during the Eighteenth Century, ed. M. Boyd and J. J. Carreras
(Cambridge, 1998), 197.
8. See Eva Badura-Skoda, “Haydn, Mozart and Their Contemporaries,” in Keyboard Mu-
sic, ed. Denis Matthews (New York: Taplinger, 1978), 108.
9. “Some important technical improvements in piano construction do appear to be con-
centrated between the years 1753 and 1762. Piano making enjoyed an unexpected boom.” See
Badura-Skoda, “Haydn, Mozart,” 112.
10. See Marvin, “On the Trail,” 19.
11. “Scarlatti and the Queen’s instruments followed their yearly itinerary.” See Frederick
Hammond, “Domenico Scarlatti,” in Robert L. Marshall, ed., Eighteenth-Century Keyboard
Music (New York: Routledge, 2003), 161. The royal court spent its autumn sojourns at El
Escorial, Soler’s home; see Ralph Kirkpatrick, Domenico Scarlatti (Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press, 1953), 123–24.
12. See Frederick Hammond, “Domenico Scarlatti,” 168, for a list and description of
Maria Barbara’s musical instrument collection.
13. See Joel Sheveloff, “Domenico Scarlatti: Tercentenary Frustrations (Part II),” Musi-
cal Quarterly 72, no. 1 (1986): 91, for a thoroughly detailed discussion of Maria Barbara’s
instrumental fleet and the impact on Scarlatti’s compositional output. Likewise, Soler must
have been motivated toward exploration of keyboard registration, sonority, and virtuosic in-
novations courtesy of Maria Barbara’s collection.
14. “A Renaissance Man of many talents”; see Izumi, “Harpsichord Music of Antonio
Soler.”
15. As an example of his diverse talents, Soler built a table for composing for when he was
lying ill in bed. He also invented the afinador, a devise “which used plucked strings to divide
the 9:8 tuning ratio into 20 equal parts . . . this innovative monastic was one of the earliest
microtonalists”; see Izumi, “Harpsichord Music of Antonio Soler.”
15_328-Anderson.indb 21 8/11/15 7:58 AM

He wrote a theoretical treatise, Llave de la Modulacion, y Antiguedades de la Musica,

which excited controversy and challenges from other theorists; see Grove’s article on Soler
at http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com; also Frank Morris Carroll, “An Introduction to An-
tonio Soler” (PhD diss., Eastman, 1960), which includes a translation of pertinent chapters
of Soler’s treatise.
16. Montserrat is an unusual, serrated mountain that rises from the plain near Barcelona. It
was thought to be one of the legendary sites of the Holy Grail and is the setting for Wagner’s
Parsifal.
17. See Joaquin Nin, “The Bi-Centenary of Antonio Soler,” The Chesterian 11, no. 84
(Jan.–Feb. 1930): 103.
18. He was praised for being “extremely devout, fond of the cell, moving with haste,
sleeping little and confessing frequently with many sobs, sighs and tears”; see George Hollis,
“‘El diablo vestido de fraile,’” 192. A contemporary drawing shows him prostrate before an
altar with the Holy Spirit represented by a dove blowing inspiration down upon him; see title
page of Veni Creator (1753), reproduced in Frederick Marvin, “Antonio Soler,” The Consort
39 (1983): 479.
19. He was a prolific composer, writing sonatas, chamber works, villancicos (madrigals,
many of which were on the Christmas theme), tonadillas, quintets, concertos, and the famous
Fandango. “The sonatas and quintets that emerged [in El Escorial] under Soler’s monastic
hands were even stranger. Anything gayer or more frivolous could hardly be imagined. One
is accustomed to finding frolicking roseate cherubs, not to mention languorous saints in
eighteenth-century churches, but this for the Escorial is almost as if the college of cardinals
were to break into a jig!” (Ralph Kirkpatrick, Domenico Scarlatti [Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press, 1953], 123–24).
20. Scarlatti was attached to this court and came with the royals each year from 1752 until
his death in 1757. It is this five-year period that persuades scholars to believe Soler might have
studied with Scarlatti and perhaps received impetus for his own creative work.
21. See John Gillespie, Five Centuries of Keyboard Music (Belmont, CA: Wadsworth, 1965),
111–13.
22. On Soler’s possible study with Scarlatti, Nin says, “I find it difficult to understand
how such an interesting fact has been virtually overlooked” (Nin, “Bi-Centenary of Antonio
Soler,” 102). Samuel Rubio says Soler studied technique with Scarlatti and composition with
José de Nebra; see Samuel Rubio “El Padre Soler, Compositor de Musica Vocal,” Tesoro Sacro
Musical 56 (1973): 67–68.
23. Marvin, “Antonio Soler,” 480–81.
24. See Nin, “Bi-Centenary of Antonio Soler,” 103.
25. See Gillespie, Five Centuries of Keyboard Music, 112.
26. See Nin, “Bi-Centenary of Antonio Soler,” 100, 103; and as quoted in John Gillespie,
Five Centuries of Keyboard Music, 112. Marvin suggests an influence of Scarlatti, but Soler’s
phrase construction, modulations, and periods are quite different; see Marvin, “Antonio
Soler,” 481.
27. Soler was “a monastic cleric with scholarly enthusiasms”; see Ann Bond, A Guide to the
Harpsichord (Portland, OR: Amadeus, 2001), 184. Soler lived at El Escorial, a palace complex
that includes a monastery, seminary, library, church, and royal mausoleum. Built by Phillip II
in the sixteenth century, it is sometimes called the eighth wonder of the world and had forty
thousand volumes in its library. It was the autumn residence of the royal court of King Carlos.
His third son, Don Gabriel, was tutored by Soler; see Frederick Marvin, “Discovered Treasure:
The Music of Antonio Soler,” Clavier 19 (July–Aug. 1980): 23.
15_328-Anderson.indb 22 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 2 23
28. See Hollis, “‘El diablo vestido de fraile,’” 197; Nin, “Bi-Centenary of Antonio Soler,”
103. “One of the reasons that Soler, who was so famous in his day, is so little known to the
nineteenth and twentieth centuries is because of the paucity of Spanish music publishers”
(Marvin, “On the Trail,” 18).
29. A significant part of Spain’s legacy to the world is the rich cultural heritage of dance,
with forms that have been burnished over the centuries like the bolero, the paso doble, the
flamenco, and the fandango. Other dances are the sardana, muneire, zambra, sevillana, goyes-
cas. Each has different ethnic beginnings, but all gradually centered into the Iberian Peninsula.
See http://www.enforex.com/culture.
30. Judith Etzion, “The Spanish Fandango—from Eighteenth-Century ‘Lasciviousness’ to
Nineteenth-Century Exoticism,” Anuario Musical 43 (1993): 245.
31. See ibid., 235.
32. People would dance the fandango with sparkling eyes and trembling limbs all night
long. It showed an excessive wantonness in its motion and writhing, exciting and enflaming
passions with its indecent gesticulations. It was viewed as obscene with its lascivious step that
made chaste men blush. It certainly underscored prejudices of the other Europeans in France,
England, and Germany, which perceived the Iberian Peninsula as being wasted in wanton
moral decadence and reveling in such lowbrow vulgar dance and music. There was general
disdain for the fandango, which was associated with the mocking attitude of the unsubdued,
guileful female, and it disturbed the social order with its obscenity, voluptuousness, promiscu-
ity, and uncivilized lasciviousness. It was said to burn, enflame, and carry away—the biblical
David may have danced the fandango before the ark—and its immorality was incompatible
with the Catholic Church; see Etzion, “Spanish Fandango,” 232–37.
33. Reah Sadowsky said, “Soler’s Fandango may be best considered a ‘concert version’ of the
Spanish dance. As such it is a musical composition unique in its time and is precedent only,
perhaps, to Ravel’s symphonic treatment of another Spanish dance form—the Bolero—two
centuries later”; see Sadowsky, “Antonio Soler,” 14. See also Marvin, “On the Trail,” 17–19.
Marvin brought out the first edition in 1957 published by Broude. He also recorded it on
Decca Records, DL 9937.
34. See Carroll, “Introduction to Antonio Soler,” 171.
35. See Etzion, “Spanish Fandango,” 245.
36. “The two-measure ostinato occurs 169 times, embracing a total of 338 measures. The
work contains 462 measures; approximately 73 percent of the composition is built upon the
ostinato. In a sense, the character of the piece is much like Ravel’s Bolero” (Carroll, “Introduc-
tion to Antonio Soler,” 175).
37. In the book Music and Its Secret Influence (Rochester, VT: Inner Traditions, 2013), 47,
Cyril Scott says repetition is the essence of tradition, allowing one to memorialize memories;
art crystalizes tradition and leads to awe and reverence.
38. Etzion’s essay includes a chart showing the nine most notable examples of the fan-
dango, all using the same opening thematic gesture, including Scarlatti, Mozart, Beethoven,
Gluck, and Schumann; see Etzion, “Spanish Fandango,” 250.
39. This hemiola-like triple-duple pattern appears most notably in Leonard Bernstein’s
song “I Like to Be in America” from West Side Story.
40. See Bond, Guide to the Harpsichord, 180.
41. Soler taught many students, including members of the royal family; see Hollis, “‘El
diablo vestido de fraile,’” 198. The conscientious teacher searches for ways to transform the
dry regimen of technical drills into dazzling virtuosity. Soler foresaw this need with the mate-
rial in the Fandango.
15_328-Anderson.indb 23 8/11/15 7:58 AM

42. There has to be a careful use of the pedal at precise moments to make musical connec-
tions and to build culmination points. The pedal must never be allowed to cover the clarity of
the passagework. For clear articulation, the pianist must think of the wrist as the fulcrum to
balance the fast finger work and the octave passages for ease of performance under inevitable
bursts of adrenaline on stage. Efficient practice engages the mind and the muscle memory.
It slowly builds the touch and allows the performer to gauge spatial distances. Athletic-like
stamina and surgical accuracy in intervallic leaps and chromatic block and broken octaves call
for total commitment and diligence in preparation, otherwise the performance does not com-
municate, but it rather becomes a noisy confusion.
43. For Spanish anthologies and collections, see Maurice Hinson, Guide to the Pianist’s
Repertoire, 3rd ed. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2000), 897–99.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Bond, Ann. A Guide to the Harpsichord. Portland OR: Amadeus, 1997; paperback edition
2001.
Carroll, Frank Morris. “An Introduction to Antonio Soler.” PhD diss., Eastman, 1960.
Etzion, Judith. “The Spanish Fandango—from Eighteenth-Century ‘Lasciviousness’ to
Nineteenth-Century Exoticism.” Anuario Musical 43 (1993): 229–50.
Gillespie, John. Five Centuries of Keyboard Music. Belmont, CA: Wadsworth, 1965.
Gordon, Stewart. A History of Keyboard Literature. New York: Schirmer, 1996.
Hammond, Frederick. “Domenico Scarlatti.” In Eighteenth-Century Keyboard Music, edited by
Robert L. Marshall, 154–90. New York: Routledge, 2003.
Hinson, Maurice. Guide to the Pianist’s Repertoire. 3rd edition. Bloomington: Indiana Univer-
sity Press, 2000.
Hollis, George Truett. “‘El diablo vestido de fraile’: Some Unpublished Correspondence of
Padre Soler.” In Music in Spain during the Eighteenth Century, edited by M. Boyd and J. J.
Carreras, 192–206. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998.
Izumi, Ray. “The Life and Times of Soler.” http://www.chateaugris.com.
Laird, Paul R. Towards a History of the Spanish Villancico. Warren, MI: Harmonie Park, 1997.
Marvin, Frederick. “An Almost Forgotten Composer.” Music Journal 18 (Feb. 1960): 34–36.
———. “On the Trail of Padre Antonio Soler.” Piano Quarterly 80 (Winter 1972–73): 17–19.
———. “Discovered Treasure: The Music of Antonio Soler.” Clavier 19 (July–Aug. 1980):
22–25.
———. “Soler (Ramos), Antonio (Francisco Javier Jose).” Oxford Music Online. http://www.
Oxfordmusiconline.com:80/subscriber/article/grove/music/26133.
———. “Antonio Soler.” The Consort 39 (1983): 479–88.
Matthews, Denis. Keyboard Music. New York: Taplinger, 1972.
Nin, Joaquin, “The Bi-Centenary of Antonio Soler.” The Chesterian 11, no. 84 (1930):
97–103.
Rubio, Samuel. “El Padre Soler, Compositor de Musica Vocal.” Tesoro Sacro Musical 56
(1973): 67–68.
Sadowsky, Reah. “Antonio Soler: Creator of Spain’s Fifth Century of Musical Genius.” Ameri-
can Music Teacher (Sept./Oct. 1978): 10–15.
Scott, Cyril. Music and Its Secret Influence. Rochester VT: Inner Traditions, 2013.
Sheveloff, Joel Leonard. “Domenico Scarlatti: Tercentenary Frustrations (Part II).” Musical
Quarterly 72, no. 1 (1986): 90–118.
15_328-Anderson.indb 24 8/11/15 7:58 AM

3
Lyricism and Lightness in the
Piano Music of Felix Mendelssohn
Joel Hastings
There is much to explore in the piano oeuvre of Felix Mendelssohn, including

masterful fugues inspired by Bach, sonatas modeled after Beethoven, inventive sets
of variations, and works of fantasy and whimsy. Studying his pieces provides an op-
portunity for pianists to develop their ability to play with a singing tone and a deft
touch, two skills I strive to instill in my students. In this chapter, I will discuss how
to foster these traits of lyricism and lightness: in selections from the Songs without
Words and the scherzos.
One of the main obstacles to learning Mendelssohn’s piano pieces may lie in our
perception of them. His Songs without Words have been criticized for lacking sub-
stance, and his scherzos have been treated as little more than virtuosic showboats.
In his book The Romantic Generation, Charles Rosen expresses this first attitude:
“The Songs Without Words have a Mozartean grace without Mozart’s dramatic
power, a Schubertean lyricism without Schubert’s intensity. If we could be satisfied
today with a simple beauty that raises no questions and does not attempt to puzzle
us, the show pieces would resume their old place in the concert repertoire. They
charm, but they neither provoke nor astonish. It is not true that they are insipid,
but they might as well be.”1
Rosen’s assessment raises an important question: can twenty-first century audi-
ences and pianists still derive satisfaction from these lovely yet simple pieces? In
my estimation, it is precisely this quality of unaffected beauty that makes the Songs
without Words relevant and worthwhile.
Mendelssohn’s pieces respond well to intelligent and sensitive playing. Pianists
thirsting to express brooding or melancholy feelings will likely feel dissatisfied, as
unbridled displays of emotion tend to sound misplaced in these classically inspired
works. Such moodier sentiments, when they do appear in the Songs, are often not
as striking or pungent as those found in later nineteenth-century pieces. The Songs
25
15_328-Anderson.indb 25 8/11/15 7:58 AM

26 Joel Hastings
without Words are most successful when they are perceived as refined, rather than
raw, expressions of emotion. Hans von Bülow referred to Mendelssohn as the “taste
purifier,”2 and he required potential students to demonstrate their level of finesse by
playing one of the Songs.
For this music to be effective, the pianist must be able to delight in subtle tonal
shadings, and to vary phrases according to unwritten, subliminal text changes. This
music hones the pianist’s ability to play legato, to take great pains in voice leading,
and to resolve cadences exquisitely. Pianists who tire easily of authentic cadences, or
who take them for granted, should probably look elsewhere, but in the hands of a
vibrant musician, the pieces can spring forth as polished gems. I highly recommend
Ginette Doyen’s 1952 recording of the complete Songs without Words as a wonderful
way to become acquainted with the entire lot. Her command of phrasing, perfect
cantabile, and tasteful sentiment dispel any notion that the music lacks integrity.
The second misperception regarding the performance of Mendelssohn’s music is
to treat it primarily as a vehicle for virtuosity. The temptation to exhibit speed, at
the cost of character, can be especially strong when performing his piano scherzos.
Mendelssohn deplored the shallow attitude of pianists and composers who reveled
in showing off their technique. He thought virtuoso pianist Friedrich Kalkbrenner
was a fraud, calling him a “little fish patty” and “an indigestible sausage.”3 Sir Julius
Benedict, a German composer and conductor of Mendelssohn’s day, confirmed
Mendelssohn’s stance on ostentation:
Mechanical dexterity, musical claptraps, skips from one part of the piano to another,
endless shakes and arpeggios, were the order of the day; everything was sacrificed to dis-
play. Passages were written for the sole purpose of puzzling and perplexing the musical
dilettanti, causing amazement by the immense quantity of notes compressed into one
page. Mendelssohn, who would never sacrifice to the prevailing taste, took . . . quite
an independent flight: his aim was to restore the ill treated, panting pianoforte to its
dignity and rank.4
When interpreting Mendelssohn’s sprightly pieces, it may be helpful to realize that

they were not written for the sole purpose of pianists showing off their chops. For
instance, the delightful Presto, op. 67, no. 4, or the “Spinning Song,” when played
with delicacy and elasticity, can evoke the impression of a hummingbird whirring
around a garden (see example 3.1). Throughout this piece, the pianist is challenged
to keep the right-hand 16th-notes at a murmur with the first, second, and third
fingers, while clearly enunciating the 8th-note melody with the outer fingers.
Playing the melody notes with strong finger strokes from the large knuckle, and
playing the 16th-notes with the smallest of finger motions can achieve this differ-
entiation most easily. The thumb remains limber, never clenching, playing lightly
from its third joint located in the palm of the hand. As I discuss in more detail
later, this technique is possible if the wrist is kept still rather than allowing it to
rotate from side to side. The left hand follows the same principles as the right hand
except for the melodic delineation. Once these basic motions are ingrained in the
15_328-Anderson.indb 26 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 3 27
Example 3.1. Mendelssohn, Songs without Words, “Spinning Song,” Op. 67, No. 4,
mm. 1–8.
hands and the voicing is balanced, the pianist can then freely shape the phrasing
to imitate a hummingbird’s flitting motions.
Listening to great pianists interpret Mendelssohn can give us a taste of musical ef-
fects beyond technical display. Emil von Sauer’s recording of the elfish scherzo, from
the Op. 16 Caprices, takes great freedom with the tempo and evokes a haunting and
legendary aura, while Georges Cziffra’s dastardly version is faster, and creates a more
demonic temperament. Nina Lelchuk, one of my former teachers, used to demon-
strate this piece for me with a nimble touch and an exquisite, silvery tone. More
recently, I was reminded of the Scherzo’s delightful effect in a live setting when I
heard Alessandro Taverna’s mesmerizing performance of the scherzo movement from
Mendelssohn’s Sonata op. 106, at the Fourteenth Van Cliburn competition. Once
we realize that Mendelssohn’s piano music is neither superficial nor vacuous, we can
begin to appreciate its true character and imaginative qualities.
LYRICISM
The fundamental trait of Mendelssohn’s lyrical works is a singing tone, but the de-
caying nature of the piano’s sound can be a great hindrance to expressing music that
is vocally inspired. I’ve often wrestled with the question of whether these continually
dying tones can capture all that yearns in the soul the way other instruments can.
After all, with great singers or violinists, the onset of the tone is only the beginning:
their intensity of vibrato, the sensation of reaching for intervals, the way they tune
the notes to each other, the change of inflection and color within a note—all these
techniques for creating music within a single tone are not available to pianists.
This knowledge of the piano’s limitations causes me frustration, but it also gives
me hope. I believe the genesis of beautiful playing happens once a pianist becomes
dissatisfied with the instrument’s inherent expressive capabilities. Only then can the
15_328-Anderson.indb 27 8/11/15 7:58 AM

28 Joel Hastings
voice in our mind’s ear take control and begin to sing out before the first note of a
piece is even played. When I hear mechanical playing, I hear someone who is not
singing inside. Our imagination has to conceive the music more beautifully than we
can ever hope to produce on our instrument. I often ask my students to sing their
melodies aloud, and it’s not always beautiful at first! A pianist can learn a natural
phrasing for the music by singing the melody out loud, locating climaxes, and find-
ing appropriate places to breathe.
In Vladimir Horowitz’s recordings of the Songs without Words, I hear his pure de-
votion to a cantabile playing style, essential to performing these works meaningfully.
Horowitz’s playing brings to mind this quote from Wilhelm Lampadius, Mendels-
sohn’s early biographer:
It was a necessity with him to throw into artistic form the fulness of charming melodies
with which his soul teemed, and to which there were no words at hand to wed them.
. . . The text to his songs must be not merely musical in its flow, it must be thoroughly
poetical . . . for when he had chosen his theme, he poured out a wealth of fantasy and
feeling, of sympathy with nature, of noble aspiration, of thanksgiving and praise.5
Such poetic expressiveness is pervasive in Horowitz’s playing. For example, in the

miniature Op. 67, No. 5, Horowitz creates a yearning melody that, to my ear,
sounds uncannily vocal (see example 3.2). He discovers much greater potential in
the modest score than other pianists, including this one, might find. Horowitz’s
performances show that one must be able to extrapolate beyond the score to com-
municate a world of emotion. These pieces were written for pianists who want to
make their instrument sing, so we have to imagine, and then produce, vocal lines on
a percussive instrument.
Example 3.2. Mendelssohn, Songs without Words, Op. 67, No. 5, mm. 6–11.
To work toward such purposeful expressiveness, I ask my students to practice the

melodies by themselves without their surrounding accompaniment. If the melody
sounds pedantic when played alone, it will only sound worse when all other notes are
added and our attention is divided. Too often we play as if no one is listening—songs
without meaning or purpose. To make the melody effective, we must play as if it is
the last music the world will ever hear. It has to be incredibly important to us if the
sound is going to be equally important to the listener.
15_328-Anderson.indb 28 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 3 29
Some qualities in Mendelssohn’s writing may, on the surface, act as an impedi-

ment to those searching for vocal inspiration. Writer and composer Philip Radcliffe
criticizes Op. 38, No. 2, as being weak and repetitive in its second thematic area (see
example 3.3).6 From a quick glance at the score, one may be inclined to agree with
Radcliffe. Vocal songs are often structured according to melodic repetition with vari-
ations occurring in the text, which prompts the singer and accompanist to change
timbres and colors according to the new words in each verse. Since Mendelssohn’s
Songs lack text, they seem to be missing the primary means for musical expression.
However, Mendelssohn’s very purpose in creating the genre of the Songs was to
give instrumental music a way to be just as expressive without words as with them.
These days it is easy to forget that Mendelssohn was breaking new ground by writing
pieces that fused lyrical and instrumental elements, as we have now been inundated
with this genre. Yet, during Mendelssohn’s time, his contemporaries found the new
style strange, even perplexing. Robert Schumann speculated that Mendelssohn
might have written songs with a definite text, and then removed the words after-
wards.7 Composer and theorist Moritz Hauptmann wrote, “Songs Without Words?
What can they be? . . . Does Mendelssohn mean it seriously?”8
Mendelssohn’s deliberate attempt to divorce any kind of verbal association from
these pieces was challenged repeatedly by friends and publishers, who insisted on
15_328-Anderson.indb 29 8/11/15 7:58 AM

30 Joel Hastings
giving individual works fanciful names, like “Lost Happiness,” “The Joyous Peas-
ant,” “The Bees’ Wedding,” “Lost Illusions,” or “The Fleecy Cloud.” The only titles
Mendelssohn himself offered were “Venetianisches Gondolied,” “Duetto,” and
“Volkslied,” names that were purposefully nonprogrammatic. In an uncharacteristi-
cally lengthy letter, Mendelssohn finally explained his aversion to descriptive titles:
People usually complain that music is so ambiguous . . . whereas everyone understands

words. For me, it is just the reverse . . . [words] seem to me so ambiguous, so indefinite,
so open to misunderstanding in comparison with real music. . . . The music I love does
not express thoughts too indefinite to be put into words, but too definite. . . . If, with
one or the other of [the Songs without Words], I had a specific word or specific words in
mind, I should not like to give them these titles, because words do not mean the same
to one person as they mean to another.9
Knowing Mendelssohn’s views on music and words can help us discover meaning
in his pieces. In his wordless Songs, the pianist must supply variation amid the rep-
etition by employing ingenious phrasing, articulation, dynamics, and touch. Every
nuance becomes an occasion for creative expressiveness. I find Ignaz Friedman’s
recordings of the Songs to be a testament to the degrees of subtlety that are available
to the lyrical player.
Once my students are able to vocalize a melody, I ask them to imagine that they
have no human voice, no ability to communicate except through playing the notes
of the given melody. What can they express with only these notes? Sometimes I will
even limit them to a few melody notes at a time, to force them to discover the expres-
sive possibilities of just those notes. Nothing lyrical can happen until pianists find a
vital connection between the notes and personal meaning, whatever that might be to
them. I encourage them to play each note as if it were a crucial word of a song text,
fraught with significance. Pianists must have an intense desire to express something;
only then can they make the piano sing.
Of course, simply singing the melody is not enough—to truly master a piece, we
must be aware of every line in the music, particularly the bass. As I have discovered
from years spent working with choirs as a director and accompanist, the performance
of a piece can succeed or fail depending on how well the lowest line is sung. As
slow-moving or uninteresting as it might appear, the bassline must have a beautiful
shape, as defined by its harmonic implications, in order to inspire the voices above
it. Sometimes I ask my students to practice only the outer voices together, with the
fingerings that they will use when performing the piece. This increases their aware-
ness of the various tensions created by the counterpoint between the soprano and
bass, and it develops their ability to play expressively with the weaker fingers. For
instance, in Op. 85, No. 4, students could practice playing the outer voices together,
leaving out the inner line of mostly 16th-notes (see example 3.4).
15_328-Anderson.indb 30 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 3 31
In addition to melodic practice, students benefit from analyzing the style and
structure of the music. The most common style of Mendelssohn’s lyrical pieces is a
beautiful soprano melody with a soft accompaniment. Many of the Songs without
Words exhibit similar flowing accompanying figurations and textures, conveying a
sense of unity throughout the collection. A second feature is the use of chorale style,
which Mendelssohn incorporated into almost every genre of music he composed.
In the piano pieces, the chorales are usually decorated in such a way as to produce
a peaceful, spiritual quality without overt religious symbolism, as in Op. 19, No. 4
(see example 3.5). Mendelssohn also used the chorale style to set some of his folklike
pieces, such as “Jägerlied,” op. 19, no. 3, and “Volkslied,” op. 53, no. 5.
One other trait of the lyrical pieces is introductory material often being reiterated
at the end of the piece, occasionally with minor alterations, as a kind of reminis-
cence. This characteristic can be found in seven of the eight books of Songs. Toward
the end of Op. 38, No. 4, the arpeggiated figuration from the introduction (see ex-
ample 3.6a) makes two attempts at reentering the scene in mm. 25 and 26, before it
15_328-Anderson.indb 31 8/11/15 7:58 AM

32 Joel Hastings
Example 3.6a. Mendelssohn, Songs without Words, Op. 38, No. 4, mm. 1–3.
Example 3.6b. Mendelssohn, Songs without Words, Op. 38, No. 4, mm. 25–30.
is finally granted access in m. 27 (see example 3.6b). A ritornello-style introduction

and conclusion are included in Op. 53, No. 5, though atypically, the introductory
material is also found throughout this longer work.
Mendelssohn usually employs small-song form (i.e., three-part ABA), wherein all
the material is derived from one particular theme, because the more common stan-
zaic form of vocal music does not lend itself well to instrumental music. One benefit
of this smaller, simpler form is that the music does not get tiring or long-winded.
The initial melodic themes are usually retained in the B section, creating large-scale
cohesion. A fine example of this compositional technique can be seen in Op. 38, No.
3 (see example 3.7a and 3.7b), where melodic and rhythmic ideas from the A section
(mm. 7–11) dominate the entire middle section (mm. 22–29). Interest is kept alive
through modulation, and by a surprise interjection of the introductory material a
third of the way into the B section.
As the above examples show, within these unifying formal features, Mendels-
sohn sometimes varies elements of the structure from one piece to the next.
Especially intriguing are the versatile ways in which he treats the return to the A
sections, often cloaking the return to avoid obvious arrivals. In the gently sweeping
Op. 30, No. 1, the middle section culminates in an oscillating passage between
E-flat minor and its A-flat minor subdominant (see example 3.8). Beginning in
m. 22, the subdominant A-flat minor chord is prolonged and emphasized with
15_328-Anderson.indb 32 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 3 33
Example 3.7a. Mendelssohn, Songs without Words, Op. 38, No. 3, mm. 7–11.
Example 3.7b. Mendelssohn, Songs without Words, Op. 38, No. 3, mm. 23–29.
sforzandi, impressing its mood upon the listener as long as possible. By dwelling
on the subdominant, Mendelssohn avoids the usual dominant shift, returning di-
rectly to the A section by way of an elegant five-note embellished arpeggio (m. 23).
Cleverly enough, the missing dominant appears superimposed upon the A section
by a simple alteration of the bassline: the original E-flat from m. 2 is now replaced
by a B-flat in m. 24. The deceptive modulation to C minor on the third beat of
m. 25 delays the tonic arrival of E-flat major until m. 28. Such overlapping means
15_328-Anderson.indb 33 8/11/15 7:58 AM

34 Joel Hastings
the harmony is still being resolved even after the melodic theme of the A section
has begun. The lines are subtly blurred, and the effect is magical.
Another instance of Mendelssohn’s ingenious structural variation is found in the
almost forgotten, stand-alone “Gondola Song” in A major (1837). With its rock-
ing accompaniment and Venetian-inspired melody, it is similar in tone and style
to Mendelssohn’s “Gondellied” in his Songs without Words. As the central section of
the piece unfolds, an unexpected modulation to C major with a crescendo to fortis-
simo occurs (see example 3.9, mm. 29–31). The main theme is presented twice (the
second time as an echo), as the ear adjusts to this exotic, distant key. Then, almost
imperceptibly, the bassline starts to drift downward, creating a passing seventh (m.
34). The next two measures (mm. 35–36) are an exact transposition down a minor
third of mm. 31–32.
In an extraordinary fashion, Mendelssohn has returned us to the now abbreviated
A section without us knowing it. At least three elements contribute to this effect.
First, the return of the main theme in A major appears midway through a harmonic
sequence. The A major harmony in this context is heard as a passing thought rather
than as an important arrival. The main purpose of this overall phrase is the eventual
destination of the descending bassline. Not unlike Op. 30, No. 1, the true harmonic
return happens a few measures after the melodic return. Second, the main theme had
just been introduced in C major in mm. 31–33, making its repetition in A major
15_328-Anderson.indb 34 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 3 35
Example 3.9. Mendelssohn, “Gondola Song” in A Major (1837), mm. 27–39.
deemphasized. Third, the decrease in dynamics, culminating in a pianissimo whisper

when A major appears, robs the moment of a strong sense of arrival.
Where some composers might have seen the small-song form as limiting, Men-
delssohn used it to manipulate listeners’ expectations in surprising ways. His creativ-
ity in the lyrical piano works is not flashy, because the pieces themselves are not
meant to be virtuosic displays. Rather, the music rewards the pianists who patiently
seek out inspiring moments like the ones described here.
LIGHTNESS
With the right kind of touch, Mendelssohn’s piano scherzos can capture that un-
earthly, magical essence so clearly conjured in his Overture and Scherzo from A
Midsummer Night’s Dream. There, spiccato10 passages wisp by with a sense of expec-
tancy and wonder, like fireflies dancing in the night sky (see example 3.10). Yet this
ethereal effect will elude pianists who learn scherzos simply to show off their speed
or brilliance. It’s about having the right kind of touch, yes––but there is much more
than that. One must also have imagination.
15_328-Anderson.indb 35 8/11/15 7:58 AM

36 Joel Hastings
Example 3.10. Mendelssohn, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, “Overture,” mm. 8–13.
The more I study music, the more I am convinced that our imagination is the
starting and ending point of our musical endeavors. By that I mean we should have
a strong conception or vision of a piece before learning the notes. This vision can
guide us through the learning process and enable us to avoid the perennial pitfall of
turning a piece into a technical exercise. With a scherzo, a large part of this vision is
based on the underlying harmonic progression.
For example, at the outset of the Presto in the Andante and Rondo Capriccioso,
op. 14, a harmonic teeter-totter occurs between the tonic E minor and dominant
B major (see example 3.11). Before letting this alternation become monotonous,
Example 3.11. Mendelssohn, Andante and Rondo Capriccioso, Op. 14, mm. 27–41.
15_328-Anderson.indb 36 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 3 37
Mendelssohn descends through an A major chord in m. 35 to land, quite abruptly,

on the relative G major in m. 37, where he settles for a considerable time in a kind
of suspended state delaying the inevitable return of E minor until m. 52.
Each chord—E minor, B major, A major, and G major—has its own mood
relative to the others. As far as harmonic relationships go, these are certainly not
unusual. For pianists, the challenge lies not in comprehending the harmonic progres-
sions, but in being able to keep our ears fixated on them while conflicting energies
dart to and fro on the surface. Our attention has to contend with the difficulty of
negotiating slurred pickup notes against staccato 8th-notes, and the continual flip-
flop of subdominant to tonic chords on beats 3 to 4, and 6 to 1. The more hours
we spend clarifying the intricacies of the foreground, the more we are apt to forget
about the deeper harmonic story line that contributes to the overall vision. I often
require students to extract and play the underlying harmonies by themselves so they
can constantly hold the background harmonic tensions in their ears, however simple
or complex those progressions might be.
Only when the harmonic bedrock is in place should we start training our fingers
to play the smaller energies, those feathery 8th- and 16th-notes. The fingers, wrist,
arm, and torso must know their appropriate roles: the body and larger limbs are
responsible for the larger structure, and the smaller members are responsible for the
quicker notes. This hierarchy is not unlike that of a successful business, where each
employee has a specific job: the boss does not do the work of the foreman, and the
foreman does not do the work of the linemen. To borrow another metaphor, the
pianist’s body should be a mechanical clock, where the larger wheels provide energy
and inertia to the smaller wheels.
As we start working on a finger spiccato, we must beware of the temptation to re-
hearse physical maneuvers apart from listening. Any practicing that does not exercise
the ear is detrimental to the musical result. The root of monotonous playing comes
from striking notes before hearing them, regardless of the tempo. What is most often
missing, especially in fast passages, is the expression of every interval. When I read
descriptions of Mendelssohn’s own piano playing, I am convinced he engaged his
ear along with his fingers. Clara Schumann, among others, described Mendelssohn’s
extraordinary ability to play with both tenderness of feeling and immense verve: his
performances were fiery, with no vagueness or sighing, and his attacks were clear and
decisive.11 The skill to combine clarity and expressiveness requires a strong sense of
how we want the notes and intervals to sound before we play them.
Achieving clarity in rapid staccato passages is difficult on the piano, as we are
searching for that perfect spiccato. Performances fall short by either being very fast
with the notes run together, or having a sluggish tempo but being clear. My own
playing at times has fallen prey to the latter problem, particularly when I allot too
much time to practicing for clarity of individual notes, and too little time working
to create a sense of line based on the underlying harmonic plane.
To get our minds to participate actively in our listening and playing, I teach my
students to think about “tuning” every note. Of course the piano has a set tuning,
15_328-Anderson.indb 37 8/11/15 7:58 AM

38 Joel Hastings
but we should listen as though we are tuning each pitch as a singer or string player
would. This kind of attentive listening will give fast passages meaning. For instance,
the fourth variation of Variations Sérieuses requires a great deal of this kind of tuning
(see example 3.12). Both hands contain melodically violent lines with many jagged
intervals. These lines require vocal acrobatics, especially when they produce com-
pound lines within themselves (such as mm. 3–4 in the soprano).
Example 3.12. Mendelssohn, Variations Sérieuses, Variation 4, mm. 1–5.
When I practice this variation, I start by using my voice, trying to sing or hum
each line slowly with each note in tune. This forces me to listen very carefully to each
interval as I leap to it. Once my ear has awakened to how I am imagining the lines,
I can start practicing with my fingers. Accuracy and control come when I engage my
voice, like sending a signal to my fingers to tell them how to play. When my voice
utters the sound (or I imagine uttering it), the finger then responds to produce that
tone. Over the years, my technique has been radically altered by this principle of
infusing each stroke of the finger with an engaged ear and a tuned voice. Accurate
playing is no longer my primary aim; rather, it is how I sing the notes. To put it
another way, the real technical challenge of Variation 4 is to tune each note. If I can
do that, then my playing will be both musical and accurate.
Even after the harmonies are established, the ear attuned, and the voice engaged,
there yet remains the hard, intensive work of finger practice. In Op. 7, No. 7, the
pianist is challenged in both hands with playing descending (implied) staccato notes
followed immediately by quick, ascending arpeggiated chords (see example 3.13).
Example 3.13. Mendelssohn, Seven Characteristic Pieces, Op. 7, No. 7, mm. 47–54.
15_328-Anderson.indb 38 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 3 39
Admittedly, this passage is difficult; it requires, above all, a careful listening for clar-
ity, especially for the release of notes, which can easily be overlooked. The fingers
must do the work of making the notes staccato, with only secondary aid from the
wrist. The wrist must be kept firm: allowing it to wobble and rotate at quick tempos
can actually produce tension and eventually tendon problems. If the ear is attentive
to clarity, the arpeggios will sparkle.
My primary advice for achieving a fleet spiccato on the piano is to reserve the
majority of motion for the fingers, rather than delegating motions to the wrist, arm,
shoulder, or any other part of the body. Some teachers may advise rotating the wrist,
but I contend that at a presto tempo, this approach will result in wasted motions,
slower speed, and lack of clarity. Pianists who insist on this technique will likely have
to slur the last 8th-note of the descending pattern into the first arpeggiated grace
note. To see what I mean, try this experiment on a table or desk top: play the above
passage and listen for the clarity of the finger attacks, both when the wrist is still and
when it is allowed to rotate. Notice that when the wrist rotates, finger clarity goes
away. This exercise can also be tried with the fourth variation of Variations Sérieuses,
which has been the undoing of many a floppy-wristed pianist.
It is my firm belief that misguided techniques are those that encourage more,
rather than less, arm and wrist motions in rapid staccato passages. Remember, the
boss must not do the work of the foreman or the linemen! At slow tempos, it may
seem helpful to exaggerate hand motions in order to learn various patterns well. But
when so much arm and wrist motions are used for every impulse, the fingers become
lazy, creating a very difficult habit to break. As speed is increased, such passages will
become noisy, effortful, and sloppy from a lack of control. This is not to say that the
arm and wrist should be completely inflexible, but they should generally maintain
some level of stability so that the fingers can develop strength and learn to do their
own work in intricate passages.
We must also guard against unnecessary hand rotations, which a number of teach-
ers seem to be advocating these days. Their approach is thus: if there are quickly ris-
ing figures or arpeggios, the wrist should rotate to the right; descending figures, the
wrist rotates to the left. These exaggerated motions are made before the fingers are
even engaged. At this point, the sound or character of the notes involved is not even
being considered. What becomes more important is how the hands feel—if the sen-
sations in the hands feel good, so the thinking goes, it must therefore be right. But
I prefer to focus on listening and tuning the notes, rather than thinking about the
physical feeling in my hands. As someone who overcame severe right-hand injuries
in my early twenties, I can attest that my approach has kept me from harm, and has
in fact strengthened my playing immeasurably.
In conclusion, there are several aspects to consider as we strive to master Mendels-
sohn’s music. We can begin by finding inspiration through great recordings, to re-
mind ourselves that this music is not trite or superficial. When I was a young pianist
playing Mendelssohn, I was inclined to focus on the virtuosic elements of his music
without fully recognizing their artistic merit. Only later, when I began to realize the
importance of singing at the piano, did I start to appreciate his consummate skill in
evoking entire worlds of fantasy and emotion through deceptively simple melodies
15_328-Anderson.indb 39 8/11/15 7:58 AM

40 Joel Hastings
and harmonic progressions. Listening, tuning, singing, and finding meaning in every
note are all ways to develop a lyrical tone, and practicing finger spiccato enables us to
play lightly and musically. Cultivating these skills in Mendelssohn’s piano works has
become for me a lifelong endeavor, and the more I study his pieces, the more I find
pleasure in communicating their sincerity and character.
NOTES
1. Charles Rosen, The Romantic Generation (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,
1995), 589.
2. Hans Tischler and Louise H. Tischler, “Mendelssohn’s Songs without Words,” Musical
Quarterly 33, no. 1 (1947): 7.
3. Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, Letters of Felix Mendelssohn to Ignaz and Charlotte Mos-
cheles, ed. Felix Moscheles (Boston: Ticknor and Company, 1888), 139.
4. Quoted in Wilfrid Blunt, On Wings of Song: A Biography of Felix Mendelssohn (New
York: Scribner, 1974), 83.
5. W. A. Lampadius, The Life of Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, trans. William Leonhard
Gage (Boston: Longwood, 1978), 333; emphasis added.
6. Philip Radcliffe, Mendelssohn (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1967), 83.
7. Robert Schumann, On Music and Musicians, ed. Konrad Wolff, trans. Paul Rosenfeld
(New York: Pantheon, 1946), 210.
8. Quoted in Heinrich Eduard Jacob, Felix Mendelssohn and His Times (Englewood Cliffs,
NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1963), 185.
9. Quoted in Jacob, Felix Mendelssohn, 185–86.
10. To play in a detached manner; often used to describe a string technique involving a
slight flutter of the bow after each note.
11. Jacob, Felix Mendelssohn, 188–89.
15_328-Anderson.indb 40 8/11/15 7:58 AM

4
Interior Virtuosity:
Grasping Fauré’s Piano Music
David Korevaar
The piano music of Gabriel Fauré (1845–1924), written over a long span from the
1870s through the 1920s, maintains a consistently high quality of artistic craftsman-
ship. In spite of its acknowledged importance, this large body of work remains too
little known to performers and the listening public. It’s not easy to play, but this is
music that is tremendously rewarding to study and perform.
Fauré’s music requires a virtuoso technique, but a mind-set devoid of egotism.
Refinement, intelligence, beauty of sound, an ear for balance and voicing, techni-
cal fluency, and sophisticated pedaling must all be deployed in the service of music
that is inviting because it is unassuming—music that does not shout, but seduces in
subtle ways. Fauré’s music presents a virtuosity of the interior.
The piano was central to Fauré’s sound world. His solo piano music encompasses
thirteen nocturnes and thirteen barcarolles, the early Ballade, the masterful Theme
and Variations, four valses-caprices, five impromptus, the early Romances sans paroles,
the late preludes, two early mazurkas, and the collection known as Huit pièces brèves
(which includes the piece now known as the Eighth Nocturne). In addition to the
solo piano works, there are two violin sonatas; two cello sonatas; a piano trio; two
piano quartets; two piano quintets; various duos with violin, cello, or flute; piano
duets; and over a hundred songs.
His music gives the impression of spontaneous facility, but Fauré was a careful
worker, taking a great deal of time and trouble to get the details right before allowing
works to be published. As a composer for piano, he was a relatively late bloomer—
his so-called early works mostly date from his late twenties into his early forties. He
often rued the lack of time he had to compose, as his living was for many years de-
pendent on church jobs, inspection tours of the national network of music schools,
and eventually teaching at the Conservatoire de Paris, of which he was director from
1905 until 1920. In his lifetime, his friends made comments about the fact that the
41
15_328-Anderson.indb 41 8/11/15 7:58 AM

42 David Korevaar
future would recognize his importance as a composer. In as much as the bulk of his
music is neither widely enough known nor often enough performed, that recogni-
tion remains elusive to this day, ninety years after his death in 1924.
Throughout his long career, Fauré maintained a pure aesthetic stance: the piano
music is not “about” anything; it is simply beautifully crafted and always expressive
music. His titles are, like Brahms’s, purposefully denatured. Even though the barca-
rolles are all in compound meter, and have some family resemblance to the Venetian
(and Chopinesque) archetype, they each present an individual world. The nocturnes
are far harder to classify, given the great variety of musical characters that they con-
tain. All of these works present a fascinating evolution, with the clear ternary forms
of the earlier works becoming less obviously delineated from the 1890s on, and with
the textures becoming leaner as they move away from the ornate decoration of his
earlier manner and toward a more stripped-down style.
Fauré was an excellent pianist. In spite of his education to be a church musician,
and his longtime employment as an organist, he was known to have preferred the
piano.1 My own approach to performing any pianist-composer’s music (most of our
repertoire) involves trying to get inside the composer’s way of playing by looking at
the demands of the scores.2 Fauré’s approach to texture is essentially contrapuntal,
leading to tremendous technical intricacy. He was ambidextrous and exploited the
fluency of both hands.3 He takes full advantage of the pedal as a way of connect-
ing notes that are not actually possible to connect with the fingers. He understood
Chopin’s use of the pedal as its own voice in the texture. (This is in spite of Cortot’s
decidedly minority opinion that Fauré was a dry pianist.4) At the same time, there are
only a few moments in his solo piano music that sound showy, in spite of the many
instances of musical brilliance. For the pianist, this means that a lot of hard work
both in preparation and performance is not always evident to the listener.
It is important to understand Fauré’s music as part of a quintessentially French
tradition: not the “Romantic” style we generally associate with nineteenth-century
German composition; rather a style that prefers tonal nuance to the exaggeration
of time and that finds its roots in the understated yet intensely emotional language
of Mozart. According to Marguerite Long, Fauré frequently said, “Nuance [that is,
dynamic change] is the thing, not a change of movement [tempo].”5 One character-
istic of Fauré’s music that has received relatively little attention is his use of obsessive
rhythmic ideas, in more and less lyrical contexts. Clear rhythm and steady tempo are
critical to the successful performance of any of his works.
Both Jean-Michel Nectoux6 and Robert Orledge7 provide information for a survey
of the piano works in their biographies of Fauré, correlating his stylistic development
strongly with the songs. Roy Howat has produced superb new editions of the piano
works for Peters, with especially useful information in his prefaces. In addition,
there are suggestions for performance in Howat’s The Art of French Piano Music,8
and Bärenreiter is in the midst of issuing the piano music in new critical editions by
Cristophe Grabowski and Jean-Pierre Bartoli.
15_328-Anderson.indb 42 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 4 43
Given the sheer volume of piano music by Fauré, I have picked a few of my fa-
vorite pieces to represent different aspects of his piano writing while demonstrating
the evolution of his compositional style. There is little in his published output that
is not worth looking into; it is my hope that this introduction will encourage further
exploration of this marvelous repertoire.
THE FIRST PERIOD
Fauré’s earlier piano music, in contrast to the more Classical orientation of his two
early chamber music masterpieces, the First Violin Sonata and First Piano Quartet,
is characterized by sensuous textures and a richly conceived sense of harmony. The
opening of the First Nocturne, composed in the mid-1870s, gives an idea of both
the simplicity and complexity of Fauré’s early musical language (see example 4.1).
The harmonic motion is highly chromatic, yet the phraseology and texture demand
clarity and straightforward rhythmic treatment.
Example 4.1. Fauré, Nocturne, Op. 33/1, No. 1, mm. 1–4.
Although the ternary outlines of the early works are clear, Fauré’s willingness to
use themes across sections and his imaginative handling of retransitions and codas
adds flexibility to otherwise simple forms. One unusual feature of many of these
pieces is the use of parallel modes in the middle sections, rather than the more
traditional contrasting key centers. Though some might think this a structural
weakness, to me it shows how important the coloristic aspect of tonality was to
Fauré. As Emile Vuillermoz wrote, “If you cannot feel the physical voluptuousness
of certain modulations, if you cannot taste the disturbing pungency of certain
chords, if you are not interested in the subtle laws that govern the grouping of
notes around a tonic, a dominant or a leading note, you will understand nothing
of the disconcerting style and its apparent simplicity.”9 The early nocturnes are in
ternary forms, but the returns are varied through the use of textural adding-on—
the First Nocturne provides a particularly beautiful example of this (see example
4.2; compare to example 4.1, above).
15_328-Anderson.indb 43 8/11/15 7:58 AM

44 David Korevaar
Example 4.2. Fauré, Nocturne, Op. 33/1, No. 1, mm. 94–97; textural additions at
recapitulation of A material.
The First, Second, and Fifth Nocturnes also feature at least the illusion of
tempo changes, but the larger effective beats often remain the same or almost the
same—especially in the First and Fifth Nocturnes. A possible antecedent for this
procedure is Chopin’s Second Ballade, where the two contrasting tempos actually
end up being about the same speed at the level of the dotted quarter-note, and
merely different in character.
The Third Barcarolle op. 42 (published 1886), is exemplary of Fauré’s early man-
ner. It is richly conceived texturally, harmonically imaginative in a contrapuntal way,
and surprising in its harmonic turns. At the end of the B section, where the music
moves from F-sharp major to D major, and then to the B-flat major climax that
leads without further transition into the G-flat major return of the A section, Fauré
gives us a Lisztian partition of the octave into major thirds (G-flat–D–B-flat–G-flat),
but we hear a distinctively French aesthetic. As in the erotically charged paintings of
Bouguereau, Fauré gives us transparency heard through a blurred surface created by
constantly moving arpeggios and figurations.10
An important musical aspect of the Third Barcarolle that operates at many musical
levels is the oscillating half-step idea introduced in the middle voices of the first full
measure (note the D-natural to E-flat, and the A-flat to A-natural, in example 4.3).
Example 4.3. Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 42, No. 1, mm. 1–2, half-steps in middle voice.
15_328-Anderson.indb 44 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 4 45
The opening phrase uses these half-steps obsessively, without losing the essentially
major-key sound. The answering phrase at m. 9 introduces an oscillation between
A and B-flat (first in the left hand, then in the right a bar later; see example 4.4).
Example 4.4. Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 42, No. 1 mm. 9–10, A–B-flat half-step.
This prefigures the A-A# at the beginning of the B section where (m. 42) the half-
steps (A-A#) (see example 4.5) are used to create a minor-major oscillation in the
hemiola-based theme.
Example 4.5. Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 42, No. 3, mm. 42, A–A-sharp half-step.
At the beginning of the final section of B, the half-steps (F#-F) (see example 4.6)
produce a major-minor (Aeolian) oscillation (mm. 92–93 [F#]; mm. 94–95 [F]).
This is balanced by another reversal as the tonic shifts from D to B-flat, and D-flat
moves to D-natural.
Example 4.6. Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 42, No. 3, mm. 92–95, F-sharp–F-natural.
15_328-Anderson.indb 45 8/11/15 7:58 AM

46 David Korevaar
Half-steps also operate at a larger scale in the A sections, with the upward shift to
G major in mm. 19–26, and the brief passage in G major in the coda (mm. 155–
157). Fauré’s ability to cloak these relationships in flowing motion creates a wonder-
ful chiaroscuro without the Classical need for sonata-type dominant–tonic polarities.
The subtle harmonic colorings in the context of constantly moving lines present
a technical challenge, requiring the pianist to create legato effects with both fingers
and pedals while maintaining sufficient clarity to hear the continuity of the long line.
A clear delineation of note values is essential in performing this music: longer notes
need to sing through (i.e., sound louder at their outsets), but shorter values need to
be subsidiary. The opening measures of this Barcarolle provide an example: the slow-
moving pentatonic upper voice serves as the primary melodic material; the rhythmic
lilt and half-steps of the middle voice must be heard, and the bass has to support
appropriately (see example 4.3, above). This opening presents a problem of execu-
tion: there is no practical way to sustain the C-flat in the lower staff with either hand.
Example 4.7. Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 42, No. 3, mm. 1–2, with possible fingering and
partial pedal indication.
I play the C-flat with my left hand, and then catch it in the pedal at the beginning
of the fourth 8th-note. The F that follows in that voice must be played with the right
hand (in order to allow the left hand to sustain the tied D-flat across the bar line),
but finding a fingering that allows your hand to get there without losing the legato
effect of the top two lines is not easy. Some other problems involving pedaling and
choreography arise in the B section, with mm. 42–43 and 61–64 shown here in
examples 4.8 and 4.9, with some explanation.
The notation indicates what the ear should hear; the way to achieving that in-
volves some physical compromises with the pedal and the hands that are typical of
Fauré’s idiosyncratic virtuosity.
Another common issue in Fauré’s piano writing is the placement of the bass note
after a rest on the beat. In the Third Barcarolle, mm. 18–21 have upward arpeggios
in the left hand beginning after a 16th-rest. Certainly the rest must be somewhat
evident, but it does not need to be absolutely clear—in fact, overenunciation of the
bass rests in passages like this tends to create choppiness, while the melodic writing
and general atmosphere call for an effect of continuity (see example 4.10). In order
15_328-Anderson.indb 46 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Example 4.8. Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 42, No. 3, mm. 42–43, fingering and pedal sug-
gestions.
Example 4.9. Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 42, No. 3, mm. 61–64, fingering, hand crossings,
pedal.
Example 4.10. Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 42, No. 3, mm. 16–21, pedaling (approximate).
15_328-Anderson.indb 47 8/11/15 7:58 AM

48 David Korevaar
to facilitate the pedaling here, I hold the first 16th-note in each of the left hand ar-
peggios (that is, finger-pedal it) into the next 16th, thus allowing me to put my foot
down somewhat later and creating a smoother effect.
Such rests can be understood as Fauré’s way of keeping textures lighter. The ear is
the critical component in projecting the music idiomatically; Fauré has left plenty of
evidence for understanding the role of the pedal in piano rolls and notated sources.11
In contrast, the Fourth Barcarolle op. 44 (1886), appears deceptively simple on its
surface. The underlying craftsmanship represents a further refinement of the more
ornate earlier works. Much of the “decorative” writing found in the Third Barcarolle
has been eliminated, and the rhythmic language is more straightforward. The often
subtly hidden hemiolas of the Third Barcarolle are replaced by repetitive, Spanish-
style alternations of 6/8 and 3/4 (see example 4.11).
Example 4.11. Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 44, No. 4, mm. 1–9.
Although the hemiola-free middle section once again begins in the parallel minor
(m. 41), it features a constantly modulating phrase that cycles chromatically through
several keys—a sinuous and tonally unmoored answer to the straightforward har-
monic language of the A section.
These pieces show the need for a strong sense of continuing motion in perform-
ing Fauré’s music. The structural proportions and rhythmic relationships within
15_328-Anderson.indb 48 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 4 49
the pieces work best when the basic underlying pulse is respected. Fauré was con-
cerned about performers taking too many liberties, especially with adding time; he
chose to eliminate many of his own notated tempo nuances when revising works
for later republications.12
THE SECOND PERIOD
As a pianist, I have tended to approach Fauré’s music from the perspective of the solo
piano works. However, knowledge of Fauré’s songs is important for understanding
the development of his style. In 1894 he completed La bonne chanson, one of his
most beautiful and ecstatic song cycles.13 Particularly notable is the highly chromatic
treatment of underlying harmonies—a far cry from the relatively straightforward
sound of the Fourth Barcarolle, for example. The opening of “J’allais par des chemins
perfides” (“I followed deceptive paths”) is particularly extreme, in part because of the
text that is being set (see example 4.12).
Example 4.12. Fauré, “J’allais par des chemins perfides,” mm. 1–8.
This evolution in Fauré’s harmonic language is also reflected in three important

piano pieces written that summer, the Fourth Valse-Caprice, the Sixth Nocturne,
and the Fifth Barcarolle.
15_328-Anderson.indb 49 8/11/15 7:58 AM

50 David Korevaar
The last of these to be completed, the Fifth Barcarolle op. 66, shows Fauré’s new
way of treating structure and harmony. Fauré abandons the obvious ternary forms
of the earlier works. Here it is the exuberant F-sharp major statement of the open-
ing idea arrived at in m. 12 (see example 4.13) that provides the clearest structural
marker, appearing again at mm. 55 and 110.
Example 4.13. Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 66, No. 5, mm. 12–14 (ritornello).
These climactic measures suffice to orient the listener, demarking not beginnings
but ends of sections. The Barcarolle feels like a continuously developing rondo,
moving farther and farther from its F-sharp minor opening as it progresses.14 The
Sixth and Seventh Nocturnes show a similar architecture, with a repeated climax as
a structural marker.
The Fifth Barcarolle, his first to begin in 9/8 (see example 4.14), is rhythmically
obsessive. Fauré sets up an interesting mix of hemiola and nonhemiola patterns,
with an implication in many parts of the piece of the 9/8 being divided 2+2+2+3.
Though that division is more virtual than real in the opening theme (the normal
9/8 divisions are evident against the melodic hemiolas here), the second idea (be-
ginning in m. 16) fully exploits the 2+2+2+3 pattern at all levels of harmony and
melody. By the end of the piece, the complexity of that 9/8 pattern is resolved into
a continuous 6/8 (from mm. 110 to the end) with a relaxed alternation of hemiola
and nonhemiola—more hemiola than not—creating a sense of metrical resolution
and leading to a peaceful conclusion.
The chromaticism in this piece, audibly carried over from “J’allais par les chemins
perfides,” represents something new in Fauré’s piano works. The cross relations evi-
dent from the very first measure—C-sharp in the alto in beat 1, C-natural in the
soprano in beat 2, back to C-sharp in the alto on beat 3—introduce a world that
emphasizes not only half-steps but also tritones in the bass at the climaxes.
Notice also in example 4.13, above, that the chords on the fifth and sixth 8th-
notes of each of the left-hand measures (nominally C6-5 and C#7) include two cross
relations: E (bass) to E# (alto), and C (alto) to C# (bass). This new freedom parallels
the ecstatic harmonies in La bonne chanson. Tellingly, the coda begins with a series
of alternations of A and A# (or their enharmonic equivalents) over a prevailing F# in
the bass as a way of confirming the importance to the whole structure of this minor-
major oscillation (see example 4.15).
15_328-Anderson.indb 50 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 4 51
The predominance of cross relations (essentially half-steps with octave displace-

ments if you look at them without considering immediate voice leading) leads natu-
rally to the material of the second theme (mm. 16–31), with its obsessive melodic
displacements. As seen in example 4.16, the most extreme version of these displace-
ments occurs in mm. 24 and 25.
The problems of playing this piece are formidable. Articulations (especially the
slurred descending chords of the opening idea; see example 4.14), leaps (both hands;
see example 4.13), and passagework all present self-evident challenges. In addition,
the highly chromatic language is both tricky to read and difficult to memorize. The
15_328-Anderson.indb 51 8/11/15 7:58 AM

52 David Korevaar
Example 4.16. Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 66, No. 5, mm. 24–25, showing octave displace-
ment.
kaleidoscopic shifts from sharps to flats and back again (see example 4.17), evident
in the developmental episode that interrupts the second statement of the A theme,
to cite one of many examples, are enough to tie the best musical mind in knots.
Example 4.17. Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 66, No. 5, mm. 39–44, showing mix of sharps
and flats.
On the other hand, chromatic passages like this are also an important part of what
gives this music its distinctive character, and the performer needs to intuitively sense
the shifting colors implied by the rapidly changing harmonies.
15_328-Anderson.indb 52 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 4 53
The Theme and Variations (1895) is Fauré’s largest scaled work for solo piano, and
shows both deep ambition and a consciousness of its own difficulty. Fauré wrote to
a friend, “I’m in the throes of writing the last variation, a ‘variation-conclusion,’ of
a theme and variations for piano. I don’t know whether it’s a good piece but I don’t
imagine I’ll surprise you if I say it’s very difficult!”15
The pacing issues are discussed in detail by Roy Howat in the preface to the
Peters edition, where he gives a history and chart of the different tempo markings
and metronome indications in the early prints.16 The biggest trap in the piece, to
some extent exacerbated by some of Fauré’s later tempo markings, is to play too
slowly. So much of the piece is built upon obsessively repeated rhythmic figures
(different ones for each variation) that the nature of motion has to be a central
consideration in performance. My own experience studying this piece with Paul
Doguereau,17 who had known Fauré’s student and trusted editor Roger-Ducasse,
also taught me to make sure that the rhythmic flow worked in a way to bring out
the large-scale structure of the work. It falls into three basic sections: a buildup of
tempo through the end of Variation 5, a meditative interlude in Variations 6–9, a
virtuoso climax in Variation 10, and the gorgeous otherworldly conclusion in the
slow final variation.
The Seventh Nocturne op. 74 (1898) is among Fauré’s most complex musical
conceptions, difficult in terms of pacing and voicing. It is particularly vital to
keep the tempo moving sufficiently in the first section to clearly project the slow-
moving melody over the inner voice, with its distinctive short-long rhythm. The
18/8 needs to sound like three big beats; the primary metrical unit is the dotted
half-note. Fauré’s metronome indication of 66 represents a minimum, and a dis-
creet moving forward of the tempo is suggested by Roger-Ducasse’s commentary.18
The fast music in this Nocturne is technically as intimidating as anything in Fauré,
requiring a combination of technical fluency and delicacy. The harmonic language
reaches a level of post-Wagnerian chromaticism that makes it a possible forerun-
ner of Schoenberg’s Verklaerte Nacht (1899). Debussy picked up on this harmonic
language, as is evident from his use of the identical closing harmonic progression
in “Reflets dans l’eau.” As is typical of Fauré’s music, each section of this Nocturne
is characterized by a particular rhythmic obsession, either in the melody, accom-
paniment, or both.
The ghost of a ternary (or rondo) structure remains (largely a function of tempo
and meter, with slow 18/8 contrasted with fast 4/4), but the actual way in which
the material is distributed produces a form that eludes easy analysis. The opening
material is largely absent in the recapitulations. In fact, the obvious recapitulation of
the A material at the end is highly foreshortened and deals only with the sequence
and apotheosis that closed the lengthy first paragraph. Thus, from m. 99 (still in the
Allegro) to the downbeat of 111 (the beginning of the coda), the music corresponds
more or less to the passage from measure 26 to the downbeat of 35.
15_328-Anderson.indb 53 8/11/15 7:58 AM

54 David Korevaar
Two climactic passages serve as structural markers for the whole piece. The first is
presented initially in mm. 15–18 (example 4.18a), the second in m. 32–34 (example
4.18b). The first passage is transformed at mm. 24–27 (example 4.19a).
Example 4.18a. Fauré, Nocturne, Op. 74, No. 7, mm. 15–18, first appearance of
Ritornello 1.
Example 4.18b. Fauré, Nocturne, Op. 74, No. 7, mm. 34–35, first appearance of
Ritornello 2.
It is heard again at the point of recapitulation in m. 99. The second passage

appears as a closing idea in the Allegro at mm. 61–63 (example 4.19b) and mm.
84–85, and then repeated exactly at m. 110 just before the coda.
The main material of the Allegro, presented initially as the lower voice in the
duet beginning with the pickup note to m. 43 (and foreshadowed in the bassline
at mm. 15-18, where it underpins the first statement of the first descending idea),
also undergoes numerous transformations. These are so subtle as to require a
15_328-Anderson.indb 54 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 4 55
Example 4.19a. Fauré, Nocturne, Op. 74, No. 7, mm. 24–27, transformation of Ritor-
nello 1.
Example 4.19b. Fauré, Nocturne, Op. 74, No. 7, mm. 61–63, transformation of Ritor-
nello 2.
little elucidation: I would suggest that the new theme introduced at mm. 55–56
(example 4.20b) is one such transformation, as is the accompanimental figure in
the alto voice from m. 64. These themes also bear a close family resemblance in
their shape to the Un poco più mosso theme of mm. 11–14. The second theme of the
Allegro, first heard in the soprano in mm. 64–68 (example 4.20c), is also derived
from the melody and rhythm of this theme.19
It is important to bring out the lower voice in the right hand at the begin-
ning of the Allegro (mm. 43–50; see example 4.20a) and later (mm. 79-83; mm.
111–117 [coda]). I try to differentiate the note lengths, playing the lower voice
somewhat more connected than the upper in these passages, as is marked in the
original edition. It is also critical at this point to maintain the motion across the
bar lines, making sure the three-note anacrusis leads into the following downbeat.
15_328-Anderson.indb 55 8/11/15 7:58 AM

56 David Korevaar
Example 4.20a. Fauré, Nocturne, Op. 74, No. 7, mm. 42–50, first theme of Allegro.
Example 4.20b. Fauré, Nocturne, Op. 74, No. 7, mm. 55–56, first theme of Allegro
transformed.
This motive can also be effectively set up by bringing out the bass (as marked by
the composer) in mm. 15–18 (see example 4.18a).
In terms of both compositional and pianistic complexity, the Seventh Nocturne
represents a watershed in Fauré’s output. After this large work, there was no farther
that he could go without a major stylistic retrenching. Thus, the Ninth, Tenth, and
Eleventh Nocturnes are all in a much simpler style, and are formally, texturally, and
thematically sparer.20
15_328-Anderson.indb 56 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 4 57
Example 4.20c. Nocturne, Op. 74, No. 7, mm. 64–67; beginning of second theme of
Allegro, related to first theme of Allegro.
THE THIRD PERIOD
Fauré’s later style has the reputation of being difficult to approach, both for the listener
and the performer. His penchant for broken offbeat accompaniments (an updating of
what we already find in the Third, Fourth, and Fifth Nocturnes), his stripping away of
much that could be heard as filler in his textures, and his desire always to find a new
idea to play with compositionally conspire to make this music especially challenging.
The attractive and inviting Eighth Barcarolle op. 96 (1906; published 1908),
presents a remarkably cheerful opening in a high register and with a light texture.
Most striking is the rhythm: the treatment of 9/8 meter here is different from that
of the Fifth Barcarolle, but it is also similar in the freedom of rhythmic subdivision
in the bar. Fauré’s now usual obsessive rhythms are treated playfully in this piece,
with the first four measures presenting the same pattern in every measure; the next
four alternating the initial pattern with the 2+2+2+3 of the Fifth Barcarolle; and the
next four alternating with a straightforward extension of the short-long pattern of
the first beat of the first measure.
The mixing of note values gives the rhythm a less straightforward feeling than in
the earlier works, which tended to fill in the measures equally with moving notes.
The use of rests in the accompaniment has been expanded, creating an exuberant
rhythmic energy.
One important departure from some of the earlier pieces is the use of abrupt
dynamic and textural changes between ideas. The playfulness of the A material fits
15_328-Anderson.indb 57 8/11/15 7:58 AM

58 David Korevaar
Example 4.21. Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 96, No. 8, mm. 1–11, showing different rhythmic
patterns.
well with this use of dynamics, first introduced in the alternating f and p markings
of mm. 5–8 (see example 4.21).21
The B section (mm. 24–46) is contrasted rhythmically, avoiding the short-long
patterns of the A section’s beginning. The staccato 8th-notes of the opening have
been replaced by legato and cantabile melodic lines. One feature that becomes obvi-
15_328-Anderson.indb 58 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 4 59
ous here is the use of close counterpoint, with frequent enunciation of 2nds between
the two voices of the right hand (see example 4.22). In the middle of the B section
(mm. 37–41), Fauré returns to the short-long pattern of the opening idea (see ex-
ample 4.23), here placed in the middle voice as a descending scalar pattern.
Example 4.22. Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 96, No. 8, mm. 41–42, showing vertical use of
2nds.
Example 4.23. Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 96, No. 8, mm. 39–41, descending scale in
short–long rhythm, middle voice.
The return of the A section, beginning in m. 47, skips the opening four measures
of the piece, and then, after repeating mm. 5–8 exactly, develops earlier material in
new ways for the remainder of this Barcarolle. The form feels ternary, but the return
of the A material is presented entirely differently—creating the effect of a return
without the actuality.
This kind of freedom, where a psychologically obvious form is subverted by a
kind of continuous development, represents a structural idea that pervades Fauré’s
music from the 1890s on. To some extent, it is possible to see an aesthetic posi-
tion that is not so different from that of Debussy (the protagonists would probably
15_328-Anderson.indb 59 8/11/15 7:58 AM

60 David Korevaar
not have agreed with me on this) in Fauré’s evolution of a more fluid approach
to form. Coherence is achieved, not through literal repetition, but by creating the
impression of repetition.
The set of nine Preludes op. 103, dates from 1909–1910. These little known
gems, written at the same time as Debussy’s first book of Preludes, stake out very
different territory. Although it is uncertain whether Fauré was aware of Debussy’s
work at this time, there is no question in my mind that he was demonstrating his
very different compositional approach in these Preludes, which lack the descriptive
titles of Debussy’s, and stay closer to the more aphoristic and abstract style of earlier
preludes by Chopin or Scriabin.22 From the evidence of the early prints, Fauré had
planned more pieces originally, but in the end just these nine were published.23
Each of Fauré’s preludes presents its own emotional, tonal, rhythmic, and textural
idea. With the exception of the virtuosic, Spanish-flavored Second Prelude—perhaps
written as a memorial to his friend Isaac Albeniz (1860–1909),24 they all engage the
most subtle aspects of the pianist’s technique, with difficulties abounding in tex-
ture (the singing half-note melody of No. 1 against the gentle syncopated repeated
notes in the same hand, the rhythmic and registral thickness of No. 5, the mix of
counterpoint and a constant accompaniment pattern in the beautiful and ecstatic
No. 7), counterpoint (the canon of No. 6, the otherworldly part-writing of No. 9),
and phrasing (No. 3 in particular, with its rhetorical fermatas and eloquently singing
short phrases growing longer and longer).25
The Eleventh Nocturne, op. 104, no. 1 (1913), is the last, and to me, the most
successful, of the three short through-composed Nocturnes (9, 10, 11) that Fauré
wrote between 1908 and 1913. The piece is not particularly difficult in terms of
finger work, but it requires a virtuoso’s control of sound, rhythm, and voicing, and
also formidable note-reading skills, especially given the intense chromaticism of the
writing. In fact, the harmonic language here reaches a point that defies analysis, in
spite of Fauré’s leaving the listener with the comfort of obvious half-cadences to set
off the sections of the piece.
The opening idea (see example 4.24) is continuously developed throughout this
Nocturne, with phrases that lead seamlessly one phrase into the next.
Each large phrase unfolds in a series of seemingly improvised waves to succes-
sively bigger climaxes, marked clearly with the rise and fall of dynamics. Each of
the first three sections presents incantatory, circular statements of the opening
idea and then ends with a clear half-cadence (mm. 18, 38, 58). The coda, be-
ginning in m. 59, moves from the prevailing 8th-note motion of the piece into
smoothly flowing 16ths, allowing for a release of tension and winding-down of
the earlier intensity—a counterintuitive use of faster note values that marks many
of Fauré’s codas.
The harmonic freedom of this piece, resulting from Fauré’s always impeccable
counterpoint, is remarkable: any harmony seems to be able to lead to any other,
and though many functional chords remain, they seldom function as expected, with
15_328-Anderson.indb 60 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 4 61
the exception of the forms of the dominant at the half-cadence bars that end each
long phrase. For the pianist to draw out these long-breathed lines, while always
clearly projecting the counterpoint and the rhythmic motion (often contained in
syncopated pedal-notes in middle voices) and dealing with the harmonically abstruse
progressions, is a challenge that requires an intuitive response to harmonic color and
the tensions inherent in relative dissonance and consonance. An additional challenge
lies in the frequent leaps of sevenths in the bassline (see example 4.25).
This is a difficult musical language, but it is also full of emotional resonance that
is easy for the listener to grasp when it is presented well.
15_328-Anderson.indb 61 8/11/15 7:58 AM

62 David Korevaar
CONCLUSION
Fauré’s music for piano presents a variety of challenges but also great rewards. His
search for new ways of expressing himself within the limited parameters of his es-
sentially conservative idiom results in an oeuvre in which each piece presents its own
world, its own sound, and, to some extent, its own musical language based on the
particular compositional problem that Fauré has set for himself—in fact, a modern
aesthetic for musical composition. In many of these works, we can see him becoming
interested in obsessive figures, rhythmic or even technical. This evolution is perhaps
most obvious in his barcarolles, but similar processes can be seen at work in other
genres—the use of rhythmic formulas to delineate the sections in many of his noc-
turnes; or the use of small rhythmic/technical ideas to build each of the variations in
Op. 73. The preludes, by their very nature, are built on obsessive repetition of small
ideas. The Second Prelude is particularly clear in this respect, with its focus on one
technical issue and on an unusual meter, 5/4.
These rhythmic obsessions must be respected by the performer. Although the
dancelike rhythms of a piece like the Eighth Barcarolle are clear in their demands
for a straightforward approach, the seductive lyricism of some of the other works
can easily subvert the rhythmic content. The severity of the underlying rhythmic
structures of the nocturnes demands the performer’s respect. As a matter of subtle
virtuosity, the challenges posed by the combination of strict time and beautiful
sound and line are among the greatest that pianists face. Surely this is true of the
music of, say, Mozart and Chopin, but it is especially the case in Fauré, and even
more challenging because of the virtuoso technical demands of the piano writing
(the legacy of Liszt and Saint-Saëns)—a virtuosity that is, with a few exceptions,
not evident to the listener. The difficult allegro of the Seventh Nocturne shows the
typical formulation: an essentially lyrical tone and sensuous harmonic colorations,
but with fast notes that are far from easy to execute, and numerous rhythmic and
contrapuntal problems. This difficult writing should probably not come off as showy
at all in the listener’s ear.
In the course of this essay, I’ve tried to indicate some of the ways in which this
music can be understood. It is difficult to analyze these pieces—as familiar as they
are to me. Works like the Fifth Barcarolle and Seventh Nocturne still defy easy
structural description. And some of the later nocturnes are harmonically so recondite
as to be essentially impossible to understand in the context of traditional harmonic
analysis—far more so, in fact, than some of the contemporary work of the more
“modernist” Ravel. Fauré’s lifelong dependence on voice leading as the main genera-
tor of harmonic action ultimately leads him to a place where the suspensions, appog-
giaturas, and other contrapuntal motions take him far from traditional progressions.
One other challenge deals with structure: the early pieces generally have fairly
conventional ternary forms, but from the Sixth Nocturne and Fifth Barcarolle on the
structures become more fluid, with sections sharing material, and clear ternary form
becomes more the exception than the rule. Where the early nocturnes have returns
15_328-Anderson.indb 62 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 4 63
that are texturally varied but otherwise literal, the later pieces feature “returns” that
indicate recapitulation without literally recapitulating. Bits of musical material (of-
ten not beginnings) are placed in ways that make it clear that a return has occurred,
but they leave somewhat ambiguous exactly what that return is, as the alterations are
often significant.26
For all its complications and difficulties, Fauré’s piano music is beautiful and com-
municative; it is unlike any other repertoire that I know. In the context of France
in the period from the 1870s through the early 1920s, Fauré explores remarkably
different ground from his contemporaries, including Saint-Saëns (his childhood
piano teacher and lifelong friend and mentor), Chabrier, Debussy, and Ravel. And,
more than any of these composers, it seems to me that Fauré’s music evolves over the
course of his admittedly much longer career. Even in the limited number of works
described here, the contrast in sound between the earliest (the Third Barcarolle) and
the latest (the Eleventh Nocturne) is startling. The act of learning these pieces is
always engaging: the difficulties invite pleasant and creative obsession; the search for
solutions to technical and musical problems is long but rewarding; and the results
can be exquisite. These are masterpieces that richly reward exploration.
NOTES
1. Jean-Michel Nectoux, Gabriel Fauré: A Musical Life, trans. Roger Nichols (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1991), 41.
2. See Roy Howat, The Art of French Piano Music (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press,
2009), 294–308, for an excellent chapter devoted to this idea, including some interesting
observations about Fauré and the piano.
3. Nectoux, Fauré, 45–46.
4. Nectoux, Fauré, 45. (Cortot was certainly not a dry pianist, and Fauré appears never
to have objected to his playing.)
5. Marguerite Long, At the Piano with Fauré, trans. Olive Senior-Ellis (New York: Tap-
linger, 1981), 66.
6. Nectoux, Fauré, see, esp., 41–63 and 379–401.
7. Robert Orledge, Gabriel Fauré, rev. ed. (London: Ernst Eulenberg, 1983).
8. Howat, Art of French Piano Music.
9. Vuillermoz, quoted in Long, At the Piano with Fauré, 11.
10. Gurminder Bhogal presents an illuminating discussion of the Third Barcarolle as repre-
sentative of her idea of ornaments taking over in French music of this period, pointing out im-
portant rhythmic features of the musical language at the same time, in her book Details of Con-
sequence: Ornament, Music, and Art in Paris (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 118–24.
11. See Howat’s fine discussion of pedal issues in Fauré in Art of French Piano Music,
290–93.
12. Gabriel Fauré, Barcarolles, ed. Roy Howat, v–vi.
13. La bonne chanson was written for Emma Bardac, then married to a banker, later to
Debussy. Fauré’s relationship with Emma was no doubt amorous, and seems to have been
musically productive, opening up his compositional language at this time.
15_328-Anderson.indb 63 8/11/15 7:58 AM

64 David Korevaar
14. The form roughly is ABACB’A, where the first and second A sections have different
developmental journeys between their beginnings and their ends, and the third A is highly
truncated and followed by the coda.
15. Gabriel Fauré, Letter to Eugène d’Eichthal, September 1895, quoted in Nectoux,
Fauré, 56–57.
16. Gabriel Fauré, Thème et Variations, ed. Roy Howat (London: Edition Peters, 2009),
iv–vi, xiii.
17. For more information on Doguereau, see Korevaar, “A Link to the French Pianistic
Tradition: The Teaching of Paul Doguereau,” in Perspectives on the Performance of French Piano
Music, ed. Scott McCarrey and Lesley A. Wright (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2014), 77–104.
18. See Howat, Nocturnes, xxx.
19. See Orledge, Gabriel Fauré, 97–99, for a somewhat different account of the structure.
20. The Eighth Nocturne, a beautiful piece, was not originally conceived as one of the
Nocturnes—this title was added by the publisher to the last of the Pièces brèves op. 84. See
Howat’s preface in Nocturnes, iv.
21. Nectoux spends two paragraphs celebrating this work (Fauré, 381), but without ac-
knowledging either its playfulness or its obvious charm. His conclusion: “More often than
not [Fauré] is content with two motifs which he then develops with an extraordinary mastery
worthy of the greatest composers. The resulting mixture of fantasy and rigour in these works
is particularly attractive.”
22. Both Fauré and Debussy were likely motivated by the coming centennial of Chopin’s
birth in turning to this genre at this time.
23. Nectoux, Fauré, 383.
24. Nectoux (Fauré, 270–72) describes the friendship between Albeniz and Fauré, which
lasted from 1905 until Albeniz’s death in 1909. Nectoux (Fauré, 381) also suggests that the
ending of the Eighth Barcarolle is aesthetically related to some of the writing in Iberia. I owe
to Carlo Caballero the suggestion that the Second Prelude is related to Albeniz. The first pub-
lished version of any of the preludes was a volume containing only the first three, appearing
very shortly after Albeniz’s passing. Caballero has also pointed out to me the Spanish-sounding
harmonies in the middle section of the First Prelude, speculating that these first preludes could
have been some kind of tombeau for Albeniz.
25. Fauré’s piano roll recording of the Third Prelude is worth consulting with an ear to the
pacing of the fermatas.
26. A notable exception is the Twelfth Nocturne, in which Fauré makes a point of present-
ing a completely literal return of the A section as a way of setting up the extended develop-
ment of the coda.
15_328-Anderson.indb 64 8/11/15 7:58 AM

5
Reflections on Performing Ernst von
Dohnányi’s Variations on a Nursery
Song for Piano and Orchestra
Timothy Ehlen
When Steven Larsen asked me to play the Dohnányi Variations on a Nursery Song
with the Champaign-Urbana Symphony several seasons ago, my first reaction was,
why not? This wasn’t the kind of mainstream repertoire I am generally accustomed to
preparing, but I remembered the humorous and childlike entrance of the “Twinkle,
Twinkle, Little Star” theme on the piano, and my impression of the piece, having
heard it only once many years ago, in my teens, was that it was charming and agree-
able, but rather simple. So, I didn’t give the matter much more thought, resolving to
study the orchestral score as the concert date approached, as is my preference when
preparing a concerto.
When I did crack open the score, I realized I was in for more than I had assumed.
Despite that fact that the orchestral opening had been relegated to a blur in my
memory, I quickly realized that my first and only hearing of this piece had predated
my interest in much of the late nineteenth-century orchestral repertoire, such as
Bruckner’s symphonies. At the time, I was an undergraduate at the USC Thornton
School of Music, and I was captivated by the memorable and stirring performances
of Carlo Maria Giulini and the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra. The ominous
and serious opening of the Dohnányi Variations took me back to those experiences,
and my interest in the work took on new dimensions as I discovered and enjoyed the
cornucopia of Romantic styles and allusions, fully cloaked in a robe of tongue-and-
cheek ardor. There was no turning back; my curiosity was piqued. Who was Ernst
von Dohnányi, of whom I knew practically nothing?
Well, I did know that Dohnányi had been the grandfather of Christoph von
Dohnányi, the eminent conductor whose performances with the Cleveland Orches-
tra I was aware of from my years at the Cleveland Institute of Music. I was happy to
learn that the composer and senior Dohnányi—Ernst von Dohnányi—had been an
excellent pianist, perhaps even one of the finest of the twentieth century.
65
15_328-Anderson.indb 65 8/11/15 7:58 AM

66 Timothy Ehlen
Born in Pozsony, of the Austro-Hungarian Empire (now Bratislava, the capital of

Slovakia) in 1877, Dohnányi entered the Budapest Academy of Music in 1894 and
was a classmate of Béla Bartók. He made his London and U.S. debut (with the St.
Louis Symphony) performing the Beethoven Concerto no. 4, probably my favorite
concerto, so I was starting to like him quickly. As I was ensconced in the middle of
recording the complete Beethoven sonatas at the time, I felt a definite kinship with
the composer when I learned that he had performed the complete Beethoven sonata
cycle in 1920. Dohnányi had been a prominent conductor (Hungarian Philhar-
monic Orchestra) and teacher (Berlin Hochschule and Budapest Academy) and had
been blessed with prodigious musical faculties. For example, there are accounts from
his students of his demonstrations of works from memory that he had not played
for decades.1 In his later years, he taught at Florida State University, and he became
a U.S. citizen in 1955.
As I learned about Ernst von Dohnányi, I began to wonder how this important
musician had escaped my attention in the past. There was hardly a mention of him
in my doctoral course work, and I had not heard a performance of his music, out-
side of the work at hand, Variations on a Nursery Song, op. 25 (composed in 1914).
It seems that he was mostly ignored as a composer in the twentieth century. This
can be explained, however, by the fact that he had not explored avant-garde styles,
but rather, he continued to compose in the manner of the late nineteenth century.
Interestingly, as the conductor of the Philharmonic Society in Hungary from 1919 to
1945, Dohnányi was the first major musician to champion the works of Béla Bartók.
Nevertheless, Dohnányi did find his own voice as a composer, especially from the
time of the Serenade in C Major for string trio, op. 10 (1902), but he favored Clas-
sical structures and nineteenth-century-style motivic and thematic connections. He
had friendly contact with Johannes Brahms, and, in 1895, Brahms had acclaimed his
Piano Quintet in C Minor, op. 1, and arranged for its premiere in Vienna.2
It is sometimes assumed, erroneously, that the use of Brahmsian stylistic fea-
tures is common in Dohnányi’s compositions. It is perhaps not surprising that
this misconception has taken hold because of the references to Brahms’s style in
the Variations on a Nursery Song. However, Dohnányi makes deliberate reference
to many styles in this work, and probably to specific composers, in addition to
Brahms; therefore, the popularity of this one work may have served to give an
inaccurate picture of the composer’s output in total. It can be presumed that if
more of Dohnányi’s music were heard, a more accurate perception of the Hungar-
ian qualities in his music would emerge. Happily, the last several decades have
seen a shift toward some interest in his music, with an increase in recordings and
academic scholarship. In particular, the Warren D. Allen Music Library at Florida
State University’s College of Music, where Dohnányi taught in his later years,
holds a large archive of the composer’s papers and musical manuscripts, and this
university hosted the International Ernst von Dohnányi Festival in 2002, which
spurred a substantial amount of attention and writing.
15_328-Anderson.indb 66 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 5 67
What follows are some of my personal experiences and reflections about the
music while preparing and performing Dohnányi’s Variationen über ein Kinderlied
(originally translated Variations on a Nursery Song; sometimes appears as “Rhyme,”
“Tune,” or “Theme” instead of “Song”), and subtitled by Dohnányi, “For the en-
joyment of humorous people and the annoyance of others.” I came to realize very
quickly that, in addition to charm and humor and some rather obvious allusions to
various famous styles and composers, this work contains a real musical intelligence,
and plenty of pianistic difficulty.
Perhaps it cannot be denied that the solo entrance is the most memorable mo-
ment in the piece, and it seems to elicit laughter every time. No doubt, the composer
wanted this moment to be memorable, and he certainly invested a lot of composi-
tional effort in the effect of the opening solo, by writing a very extensive and serious
orchestral introduction.
Any composer, when writing a concerto, is aware of the eventful nature of the
first solo entrance, as the first impression of a virtuoso is anticipated eagerly by an
audience. Here, Dohnányi does what perhaps no other composer has done: after
building a lengthy, ominous, and important-sounding orchestral introduction,
the solo piano entrance throws away this anticipation with an almost unbelievably
incongruent initial solo. The first impression of the pianist is that he or she is no
virtuoso at all; we have instead a child! There is nothing to do but to laugh, as the
famous “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” melody is heard (preferably played with one
finger in each hand, in my view).
Nevertheless, what the composer has done is to present a dichotomy between
the orchestra and soloist, and, naturally, this will need exploration and elaboration.
In this case, the dichotomy does not consist of a battle between the soloist and or-
chestra, as in many late-nineteenth-century concerti. What follows could instead be
described as a journey from childlike innocence back into the world of Romantic
idealism suggested by the orchestral opening. With the help of colorful orchestra-
tions (in particular, the use of a wide palette of woodwinds, brass, and percussion)
and musical allusions, it is certainly a fantastical journey, but one gradually senses an
ironic intent, which makes sense, in retrospect, given the incongruous solo entrance.
Dohnányi considered the Variations on a Nursery Song to be a work for orchestra
with “piano concertante.”3 In this sense, the substantial orchestral opening is to be
taken at face value, at least in regard to overall stylistic intent, but the plausibility
of its serious character is immediately called into question after the solo entrance.
What we hear in this introduction is serious and foreboding at the beginning, with
prevalent timpani. Descending scales in horns and low brass recall the “spear” motif
from Die Walküre, or perhaps a Bruckner symphony, but one cannot help but notice
that there is a motivic connection here to the nursery song theme. Then, high strings
seem to suggest something akin to Strauss’s Death and Transfiguration. Doom seems
to lurk in the low bassoons as motion is suspended and the call of repeated notes is
heard. Finally, a huge dominant chord; then, silence. Enter the naïve nursery song
with one finger (see example 5.1).
15_328-Anderson.indb 67 8/11/15 7:58 AM

68 Timothy Ehlen
Example 5.1. Dohnányi, Variations on a Nursery Song for Piano and Orchestra, solo
entrance.
Perhaps the challenge for the player is to keep a straight face. Nevertheless, I
will point out that there are some purely musical considerations here, such as the
structure of the theme as presented, with several variants in the second part; the
dynamic plan; retards, the second of which has a surprising A-flat to enjoy; after
which one needs to give attention to playing with the pizzicato strings at the a
tempo (see example 5.2).
At Variation 1, one needs to transform into a virtuoso immediately! In fact, this
variation was one of the most difficult for me to play with the requisite deftness,
ease, charm, and rapidity. I became convinced that a tempo no less than 152 (= dot-
ted quarter) was required to create the necessary dash and contrast with the theme,
despite the marking poco più mosso. The way this Variation is written, with double-
notes and octaves, presented for me a physical challenge in achieving this tempo, and
I am not one who normally has trouble playing fast. I also found that this variation
was tricky for the mind (the danger of a wrong turn was apparent in practice), so it
was this Variation that I practiced directly before the concert.
It seems to me noteworthy that the pianistic figuration, with triplets dispersed
between the hands, using octaves and double-notes in the right hand, is reminiscent
of passages in Brahms’s writing where he wants to create a “Hungarian” quality,
such as the finale of the Concerto no. 2 in B-Flat Major (see example 5.3). Not all
instances of this style are lighthearted in character, to which the closing section of
15_328-Anderson.indb 68 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Example 5.2. Dohnányi, Variations on a Nursery Song for Piano and Orchestra, Varia-
tion 1, solo beginning.
Example 5.3. Brahms, Concerto No. 2, mvt. IV, mm. 377–91.
15_328-Anderson.indb 69 8/11/15 7:58 AM

70 Timothy Ehlen
the E-flat Minor Rhapsody, op. 119, no. 4, will attest (example 5.4). As shown in
example 5.5, this style is not unique to Brahms, as we can see another example in
the Transcendental Étude no. 10 in F Minor of Franz Liszt.
Example 5.4. Brahms, Four Piano Pieces, Op. 119, No. 4.
Example 5.5. Liszt, Transcendental Étude, No. 10 in F Minor, coda (marked stretta).
15_328-Anderson.indb 70 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 5 71
It is now understood that the prevalent features of Gypsy music, identified as

“Hungarian” by Schubert, Brahms, Liszt, and others, should not be attributed exclu-
sively to the Hungarian culture; therefore it may be more accurate to refer to this as
a Gypsy style. It is interesting to note that Ernõ Dohnányi, (the composer’s original,
non-Germanized name) was a true Hungarian, unlike the other aforementioned
composers of Austro-Germanic descent, which include Liszt, who was actually born
in Hungary. Beginning in Variation 2, the concertante aspect of melodic imitation is
prevalent, so awareness of the orchestral writing and balance with the woodwinds is
essential. When playing concerti, I like to regard sections such as this as a chamber
playing situation, so I plan to listen and respond as much as play.
Variation 3 presents a good example of what many musicians have considered a
reference to Brahms’s style of writing. I will not dispute it, as I felt similarly, and this
helped to inform my playing: the warm strings, part-writing, use of harmony and
chromaticism, frequent use of two-against-three rhythm and expressive rubato are
certainly reminiscent of Brahms (see example 5.6).
tion 3.
15_328-Anderson.indb 71 8/11/15 7:58 AM

72 Timothy Ehlen
My only reservation would be to guard against the inclination to consider the

work as solely a potpourri of allusions to specific composers. It is possible to argue
for such an interpretation of this work; however, I would offer several contrasting
considerations. First, as a theme and variations structure, there is a natural contrast
of style and character. If Variation 3 is intended to “represent” Brahms, is a differ-
ent composer “represented” in each of the first two Variations? My sense is that this
probably was not Dohnányi’s intent.
My second point goes to a deeper consideration about the composer’s stylistic
palette. As I have mentioned, Dohnányi was not drawn to avant-garde composi-
tional techniques, per se, but he did find a personal compositional voice. As such,
it is likely that a composer who favors more traditional style elements will “borrow”
compositional techniques, but this usually does not represent an intention to refer-
ence or recall specific composers. Perhaps, instead, a composer such as Dohnányi
views the zeitgeist, or stilegeist, if you will, as his stylistic palette, and works under
the assumption that the manner of composition need not be reinvented in order to
create purposeful content.
In any event, it seems most likely to me that there are, indeed, several references
to specific composers in these variations, as we will see as we traverse the work (the
first of which is Brahms in Variation 3); however, there are also numerous stylistic
allusions and contrasting characters, where the reference of a specific composer is
not necessarily intended. I suggest a comparison with Schumann’s Carnaval as an
example of this kind of work, an idea that I will explain in more detail shortly.
Variation 4, a dialogue between bassoons and flutes, with a marchlike piano obbli-
gato, is wonderfully humorous and harmonically colorful. Here the character seems to
me fully mock-serious, tongue-in-cheek, which is all the more delightful because the
prevalent rhythm in the piano part (short-short-long) reminds me of a cross between
Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus and the middle section of Chopin’s Polonaise in A Major
(“Military”), but maybe this is just my own mischievous imagination at work.
Variation 5 is the “music box” variation (almost a stock character in nineteenth-
century variation sets), with a high-register solo in the piano, but the tubular bells
present the theme very clearly (and loudly, I might add) in the middle register. About
these bells, I will say that I was quite taken aback at the rehearsals by their prominent
volume. I should mention that Dohnányi writes the piano solo music box melody
pianissimo throughout the variation (see example 5.7), and I felt it was all but impos-
sible to observe this marking because of the uncanny strength of the tubular bells.
Nevertheless, my repeated requests to remedy this situation seemed to have little or
no effect. Now, in retrospect, I wonder whether the joke of this variation was on me,
as I became more and more annoyed by those bells! (Recall Dohnányi’s subtitle to
the piece: “for the enjoyment of humorous people and the annoyance of others.”)
Variation 6 connects with, and grows out of, the “music-box” Variation 5. It’s
over in a flash for the listener, but it’s a hair-raising experience for the players! I will
confess that I am not a huge fan of double-notes (that is, they are not easy to play);
therefore, I feel my hands are full (literally) just to play the solo part here. Of course,
what one really needs to do is to anticipate and follow the orchestration and play
15_328-Anderson.indb 72 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 5 73
tion 5.
with all the quickly changing and wonderfully colorful woodwinds. The effect in
total is something akin to the sound of mice scurrying around on the floor (see ex-
ample 5.8). It’s quite a ride to experience, and I must admit I was somewhat relieved
every time I survived this variation.
Variation 7 is a grand waltz, marked tempo giusto, which surely means the measure
remains steady (half-note = dotted half-note). This variation affords the players all the
flexibilities and freedoms that the highly stylized genre implies. Regardless of whether
it’s a parody, as some have suggested (and perhaps in retrospect, as the piece progresses,
it must be considered as such), it is completely uplifting and enjoyable to play.
The Variation 8 march (for me, depicting toy soldiers) and the Variation 9
Presto have been compared to the Brahms Academic Festival Overture and Saint-
Saëns’ Danse macabre, respectively. Again, I question whether the similarity to
these works is the intention of the composer, or whether the composer would
15_328-Anderson.indb 73 8/11/15 7:58 AM

74 Timothy Ehlen
tion 6.
want this similarity to be perceived, even if these pieces had been used as a point
of departure in the compositional process. Regardless, the marchlike and dashing
characterizations of Variations 8 and 9 seem clear enough. For me, attention to
these sound ideas, together with projecting the necessary dynamic contrast and
shading, seemed to be the important considerations in performance.
The Variation 10, “Passacaglia,” is organized in a different way from the earlier
variations, in that the passacaglia style enables Dohnányi to divert from the simple
ABA phrase structure of the theme. The result is that Variation 10, which is more
extended, makes the impression that it is through-composed and freer, even though
the theme is heard repeatedly as the bassline. What is interesting is that the phrase
structure of the melody on top is completely independent of, and different from, the
harmonic structure, which results from the repeating passacaglia theme. To achieve
15_328-Anderson.indb 74 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 5 75
this, Dohnányi uses a repeating pattern of seven measures (not eight) in the bassline.
(Seven-measure groups are used in the concluding fugue also.) Therefore, it is very
difficult to discern that the bassline is based on the original theme. This opens the
possibility for expansion of the phrase structure, and for soaring, Romantic-style
phrases to emerge (see example 5.9).
tion 10, “Passacaglia.”
15_328-Anderson.indb 75 8/11/15 7:58 AM

76 Timothy Ehlen
The “Passacaglia” makes a transition to the musically climactic event of the piece,
which is the entrance of the theme, with full triumphant importance, in the horns
and full orchestra with string tremolos, at the beginning of Variation 11. The fact
that this happens in C major only adds to the sense that we have, indeed, entered
into the world of full-blown parody at this point. At least for me, this is the case,
because this arrival of the theme, in completely unadulterated form, presents a sin-
gular feeling of exaggeration, complete with cymbal crash. Thus, the melody that
entered with charming innocence and humor in the first piano solo has now been
transformed into a ridiculously pompous orchestral event.
Looking at the piece as a whole, the “Passacaglia” serves as a turning point on this
journey, as the music turns from the simple phrase structure of the theme and begins
a transformation into what could be considered hyperbolic Romantic idealism, as
it builds to the moment of truth, as it were, in this triumphant statement of “The
Theme” in Variation 11, as seen in example 5.10.
Example 5.10. Dohnányi, Variations on a Nursery Song for Piano and Orchestra,
Variation 11, triumphant climax.
15_328-Anderson.indb 76 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 5 77
Regarding the practical demands on the pianist, Dohnányi, like Beethoven and
Brahms, is willing to disregard the comfort of the soloist, even though the purpose
of the piano writing sometimes relegates the soloist to a supportive role amidst
the colorful orchestrations. For example, although the piano solo part does not
participate in the climactic C major arrival of the theme, the piano serves to assist
the orchestra in its preparation of the climax at the end of the “Passacaglia,” with
thick arpeggiation and double-notes. This writing is some of the most challenging
in the piece, in terms of the powerful sonority and speed that is required. Further,
the piano can easily be covered by the dense orchestration. In this sense, I find this
part of the piece to be comparable in difficulty to some sections of the Brahms
Piano Concerto no. 2.
The Variation 11, “Chorale,” is written in a quasi-quartet style, with colorful
use of woodwinds, and has a dignified character. Each phrase group is embellished
by pianistic “water music,” enhanced with harp and glockenspiel, of increasingly
impressionistic overtones. Initially, in the piano solo writing, there are hints of
augmented sonorities near the beginning of the variation, but the sound is clearly a
fluid, sonorous, and, yes, watery, aftermath of the Romantic climax, with all of its
corresponding sensuous overtones and associations. But by the end of the variation,
Dohnányi’s piano writing has transitioned clearly to the world of whole-tone scales
and augmented sonorities, reminiscent of early twentieth-century Impressionism.
Given that this work was composed in 1914, this is a clever reference and transfor-
mation to a recent French style, a gesture that surely would have delighted audiences
at the time of composition.
The Variations on a Nursery Song concludes with a fugue, which serves as the
final Variation (12) before the theme is restated and a brief coda concludes the
work. Here, the object of Dohnányi’s parody is certainly Beethoven. Not only was
Beethoven fond of using fugues to conclude works, or within the final movement
of works, but his late style period in particular is rife with other Baroque stylistic
references. Each of these final three variations in Dohnányi’s work (“Passacaglia,”
“Chorale,” “Fugue”) has a Baroque, or, more accurately, an Early Music style associa-
tion, so it is possible that this idea is, in itself, a reference to Beethoven. (Certainly
it is unlikely that this is a direct parody of Baroque-style features.) In any event, the
scales and trill that introduce the fugue make good-natured reference to the serioso
solo entrance in the Piano Concerto no. 3 in C Minor of Beethoven. Dohnányi
intersperses scales in woodwinds, a half-step lower, for comic relief, and, possibly,
another tip of the hat to the French school (see example 5.11).
It is interesting to note that the phrase grouping consists of seven-measure
groups in the fugato, except for the episodic sections. The subject is terse and
rhythmic, in the manner of Beethoven; however, the piano writing does not con-
tain the subject itself. Instead, the piano provides a sparkling embellishment to the
orchestration, and it serves to enhance the characteristic driving rhythm through-
out the fugato. Although the piano does not play the subject or countersubject,
I definitely found it necessary to acquaint myself fully with the structure of the
15_328-Anderson.indb 77 8/11/15 7:58 AM

78 Timothy Ehlen
Example 5.11. Dohnányi, Variations on a Nursery Song for Piano and Orchestra,
Variation 12, “Finale Fugato.”
fugue, including its tonal design and all instrumental entrances of the subject,
countersubject and episodic phrase groupings.
In the performance, I gave a real effort to avoid rushing the fugue, as this seemed
to me the biggest danger, given the exciting nature of the writing. Also, this is a
common problem in general in any performance, but I am especially wary of the ten-
dency to hurry when playing a piece for the first time, and a concerto, in particular.
In order to battle this tendency, and to articulate the shape of the lines, I concentrate
on every melodic contour and change of direction, and, in practice, I incorporate
as much arm and rotation movement as possible to support my finger touch. I may
not have been 100 percent successful in my endeavor to avoid hurrying, because the
fingers tend to have a mind of their own in performance. Still, I did not separate no-
ticeably from the orchestra in the performance, as I had done in one of the rehearsals.
Earlier, I questioned whether the work consists of a series of allusions to specific
composers. It seems to me that, instead, this work contains many different elements
and characters, and that Dohnányi purposefully draws on a wide range of sources and
techniques, in order to create an enjoyable compilation of colors and impressions.
15_328-Anderson.indb 78 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 5 79
As I suggested earlier, Dohnányi’s Variations on a Nursery Song can be viewed ap-

propriately as a genre piece in the manner of Schumann’s Carnaval. That is, there
are elements drawn from many sources and combined into a new mixture, but the
composer retains both his personality and his objectivity as overseer of the ingredi-
ents, and thus he retains his role as commentator and guide on the direction and
purpose of the work. If we consider Schumann’s Carnaval in the context of its humor
(for example, the clumsiness of Pierrot), the grandiose admonition against the Philis-
tines in the finale march (in 3/4 time, no less), and the subsequent tongue-in-cheek
quotation of the “theme from the seventeenth century,” which strongly resembles a
theme from the finale of Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto, we can notice similarities to
the spirit of this work in Dohnányi’s variations, and perhaps even a kindred spirit.
In Carnaval, too, specific composers and musicians make an appearance (“Chopin,”
“Paganini,” and Clara, in “Chiarina,” specifically), but many other references are
fanciful (“Eusebius,” “Florestan”), historical (“Arlequin,” “Pantelon et Columbine,”
etc.), or stylistic (“Valse noble,” “Promenade,” etc). Further, there are contrasts of
character, with no specific reference, but which contain multiple layers of possible
meaning and interpretation, such as “Replique,” “Coquette,” and “Papillion.”
Finally, Carnaval is generated by the Sphynxes motives, indicated by Schumann,
so there is even internal structural similarity to the theme and variations structure. I
am not suggesting that it was Dohnányi’s intent to model after Schumann’s Carna-
val, regardless of the interestingly numerous similarities between the works. Instead,
I offer the comparison as a way to contextualize the imaginative use of various
style elements and allusions in Dohnányi’s Variations. In this sense, we can enjoy
Dohnányi’s musical allusions and sense of humor, and, at the same time, appreciate
the Romantic aesthetic spirit from which it comes.
NOTES
1. Catherine A. Smith, “Dohnányi as a Teacher,” in Perspectives on Ernst von Dohnányi, ed.

James A. Grymes (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow, 2005), 245ff.
2. Bálint Vázsonyi, Dohnáni Ernö (Budapest: Zenemükiadó, 1971). Biographical informa-
tion is taken from this important biography of the composer, which led to the Hungarian
government recognizing Dohnányi’s contributions.
3. Grymes, Perspectives, 14; Smith, “Dohnányi as a Teacher.”
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Grymes, James A., ed. Perspectives on Ernst von Dohnányi. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow, 2005.
Kocsis, Zoltán. “Dohnányi and Bartók as Performers.” The Hungarian Quarterly 35, no. 134
(1994): 149–53.
Vázsonyi, Bálint. Dohnáni Ernö. Budapest: Zenemükiadó, 1971.
15_328-Anderson.indb 79 8/11/15 7:58 AM

6
Francis Poulenc’s Early Writing: A
Critical Analysis of Trois Pièces (1918)
and Mouvements Perpétuels (1919)
Jerry Wong
Francis Poulenc (1899–1963) contributed a body of unique and eclectic work to

the piano literature. His music is frequently performed and cherished for its remark-
ably engaging melodies, dry humor, and immediate nature. For the performer, the
virtuosic demands of his music, while abundant, are always pianistic. Pedagogically,
features such as balance between the parts, active use of the damper pedal, and vary-
ing articulations and touches are all required. Today’s recital audiences accept Pou-
lenc as a regular staple of standard solo piano programing. Though not as prevalent
as Impressionist masters Claude Debussy and Maurice Ravel, he is, nonetheless, a
constant representative of the post-Impressionist realist era.
Poulenc’s early piano writing received enthusiastic acceptance during his lifetime.
Among present-day audiences, little debate exists as to their favorability. Extensive
critical analysis of these pieces, however, is not widely found. In fact, Poulenc’s
output for the piano, as a subject matter, is not so prevalent in our current body of
accepted piano literature texts and resources. F. E. Kirby, in Music for Piano: A Short
History, devotes only a paragraph to Poulenc, making note of a few major works and
describing some general stylistic features. In A History of Keyboard Literature: Music
for the Piano and Its Forerunners, Stewart Gordon pays similar homage with a slightly
more detailed two-paragraph synopsis. Of retrospective interest are comments from
James Friskin and Irwin Freundlich’s 1954 catalogue of piano music. Though the
time span of material presented in the text falls a decade short of Poulenc’s lifespan,
their synopsis of his work is descriptive and vivid, yet somewhat dismissive: “Al-
though there are no works that are weighty or essentially serious in character, there
is a wide variety of pieces characteristically witty, gay, intimate or, on occasion, bril-
liant and bravura in style. His unashamedly sentimental melodic writing is basically
‘music hall’ in character.”1
80
15_328-Anderson.indb 80 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 6 81
In 1987, Maurice Hinson took a more optimistic approach toward Poulenc’s leg-
acy: “It is possible that Francis Poulenc’s music will prove to be the most durable of
all the group known as ‘Les Six.’”2 A persuasive argument for greater musical depth
and compositional prowess comes from Stewart Gordon in 1996:
Poulenc’s music is, in fact, so filled with tuneful, obvious melodies and music hall clichés
that the temptation is ever present to dismiss his work as lacking seriousness of purpose.
A remarkable alchemy emerges, however, through Poulenc’s deft use of modulation to
create freshness, his ability to craft mundane material into charming gestures, and his
penchant for surprising the listener with passages of heartfelt sensitivity.3
These quotes alone certainly do not make the case for a rising stature or promi-
nence of this composer, nor is one really necessary. Hinson’s and Gordon’s thoughts,
however, do imply a need for a fuller analysis of the “music hall” works of Poulenc,
particularly those from his earlier period of composition, when clear melodies and
direct audience appeal overflowed with abundance.
Two early works that embody Poulenc’s love of popular melody, his deep roots in the
intimate Romanticism of nineteenth-century salon music, and an eclectic appreciation
for his artistic and social surroundings are the Mouvements Perpétuels (1918) and Trois
Piéces (1928). Both works are in three short movements creating a small compilation
of character pieces or miniatures that are much more divergent than what is typically
found in a three-movement sonata or suite. From a teaching perspective, they offer a
fairly similar level of demand upon the performer, both in terms of pianistic prowess
and musical maturation; the latter set, however, with its impressive “Toccata,” longer
duration, and powerful chords in the “Hymne,” would probably be seen as the more
taxing overall. Each piece has received frequent performances on the concert stage. In
the words of pianist, author, and broadcaster David Dubal, “Mouvements perpétuels”
remain “to this day, Poulenc’s most popular piano work.”4
An analysis of Mouvements Perpétuels will undoubtedly shed light into the me-
chanics of this work’s popularity, but a picture of Poulenc’s life, his education and
influences at this youthful stage, will be of equal value. The world of Paris, just
following World War I, is in a fabled and glorified era with its abundance of visual
artists, authors, poets, and musicians. Modern-day academia tells us that learning
is collaboration, never confined to a bubble, but shared among motivated thinkers.
The world of Francis Poulenc during the composition of both Mouvements Perpé-
tuels and Trois Piéces embraced this notion, not simply as a concept or principle,
but as a lifestyle and an existence. Though the political and social surroundings
were intense—the war had brought about unthinkable change, turmoil, and self-
reflection—the arts flourished in vibrant and unimagined directions.
Unlike the majority of his contemporaries, Poulenc’s formal training was in gen-
eral studies. In fact, in 1917 he was denied acceptance to the Paris Conservatory. By
default, his greatest direct influence as a composer was his piano teacher, Ricardo
Viñes (1875–1943), whose concert career included premiers of works by Debussy,
15_328-Anderson.indb 81 8/11/15 7:58 AM

82 Jerry Wong
de Falla, Ravel, and Satie. Poulenc later reflected upon his studies: “Lesson(s) soon
lasted an hour, then two, and imperceptibly, I began to spend my life with this Hi-
dalgo with the face of a kind inquisitor.”5 In regards to the piano itself, the lessons
from Viñes were of the greatest significance: “Everything that I know about the
piano I owe to this brilliant master, and it was he who decided what my career would
be.”6 In fact, the vast majority of Poulenc’s earliest works were either for solo piano,
piano four-hands, or piano and another instrument.
As a constant advocate of his friends and colleagues, Viñes not only introduced
Poulenc to the world of art, poetry, and music in the abstract, but he also offered
personal introductions to composers Georges Auric, Erik Satie, and Igor Stravin-
sky, and to the poet, novelist, and playwright Jean Cocteau. All four of these
figures would eventually have a profound effect on Poulenc. The collaboration of
Cocteau and Satie with painter Pablo Picasso and Sergei Diaghilev (founder of the
Ballet Russes) in the ballet Parade in May 1917 was the first of several examples.
Astounded by the sights and sounds of surrealism, Poulenc’s professional relation-
ships with both Cocteau and Satie began to blossom, spurning new insights and
inspiration for the aspiring composer.
A stroke of very different fate fell upon Poulenc later that same year: he was
drafted into the army. The experience appeared to have left little impression upon
the young composer. He never saw combat and spent much of his time suffering
from boredom and a lack of connection to the Parisian artistic circles with which he
had just begun to make inroads. Nonetheless, the isolation allowed Poulenc ample
time to compose, and he was fairly productive. It was during this time that he wrote
Mouvements Perpétuels. Fittingly, Viñes played the premiere (and several subsequent
performances) in 1919, during a group of concerts at a well-known venue for late-
night cultural soirées known as “Salle Huyghens.” Valentine Gross Hugo, to whom
Mouvements Perpétuels was dedicated, and who was a painter friend of Stravinsky’s,
was often in attendance. Of even greater significance was the presence of composer
Darius Milhaud, who along with Georges Auric, Louis Durey, and Arthur Hon-
neger, came to be called by Satie “Les Nouveaux Jeunes” (“The New Young”). Ger-
maine Talliaferre and Poulenc eventually joined this group, and together they formed
the auspicious and widely studied group “Les Six” (“The Six”). The formation of the
latter term (said to be coined by critic Henri Collet), its origin, meaning, and the
various composers’ relationships is a major study unto itself, but that Mouvements
Perpétuels was born into this setting and given its well-received presentation to this
particular public grants the work its own particular acclaim.
MOUVEMENTS PERPÉTUELS
Mouvements Perpétuels is in three, brief, untitled movements. The third is the most ex-
tensive, lasting fifty-seven bars, and the first two are so short (twenty-four and fourteen
bars, respectively) that they seem to almost necessitate the singularity of the composer’s
15_328-Anderson.indb 82 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 6 83
ideas and thematic material in each. All three movements are written without a key
signature, a tool that would seemingly allow a composer free reign to explore chromatic
harmonies, prominent dissonances, unique modulations, or some level of atonality. For
Poulenc, however, the use of ostinato devices in all three movements keeps the har-
monic language strikingly static. The first two pieces in particular remain completely
grounded in the same harmonies, creating a character and mood highly indicative of
the rising movement of surrealism so closely associated with Satie.
Assez Modéré
The first piece, marked “Assez modéré” (“very moderately”), contains an ostinato
figure in the bass that has the effect of a distorted Classical Alberti bass, infused with
wide leaps that are jaunty in character. This bassline remains identical bar after bar
until the very final measure of the entire movement. A clear sense of tonic–dominant
relationship is evident between the lower pitches (B-flat and F), yet that total predict-
ability is offset by the leaps of 7ths and 9ths to the upper notes. Above this ostinato,
a two-bar melody is introduced that is essentially scalar in function. The melody,
clearly highlighted with double stems by Poulenc, moves from a higher F to a lower
F with a B-flat falling reassuringly on the downbeat of the second bar. This effect
creates a flavor highly indicative of the French salon piece. The opening melody of
Gabriel Fauré’s “Berceuse” from the Dolly Suite, has the same expressive repetition of
a high note and the subsequent sighing sensation of downward motion.
After an identical repetition of the same two bars, Poulenc writes the only melodic
material that has any rising motion in the entire movement, other than the unique
final bar. The line is given significance in three ways: a mezzo forte dynamic indica-
tion, a lengthening of the idea from two to three bars, and the expressive indication
of en dehors (to make the melody prominent). This rising figure continues to favor
simplicity by wandering about a simple C major five-finger pattern.
The tenth bar of the piece contains a curious moment of bitonality. The same
falling melody is now transposed (with slight variation) to G-flat major, but be-
cause of its beginning on the 5th scale degree, there is an initial impression of B-
flat minor, the parallel minor of the opening bars. Altering of the theme includes
repeating the high pitch with augmentation and a quirky ornament in the middle
of the bar. Further emphasis to the phrase is given by the forte dynamic marking,
the only time it appears in the movement. Structurally this moment is the climax
of the A section. (The form of the piece is binary, with a small coda of five bars
based upon the A material.)
The B section begins with the appearance of two plainly, yet very softly stated,
9ths. The interval, already established in the accompaniment now receives promi-
nence in the treble clef. It is followed, in bar 15, by a variation of the original scalar
theme, this time beginning on an A-flat and coming to rest on a B-flat on the
downbeat of the second bar. Grace notes create a “wrong note” effect that, coupled
with the preceding 9th intervals, calls to mind the neo-Classicism of Igor Stravinsky.
15_328-Anderson.indb 83 8/11/15 7:58 AM

84 Jerry Wong
A five-bar coda begins with an exact statement of the opening bars, after which
bars 22 and 23 use the D and C from the inner voice of the opening material to quiet
the motion. The marking of ralentir, or slow down, further articulates this feeling.
The final bar leaves the listener with a surprising sensation of questioning. Marked
pianissimo and très lent (“very slow”), the fascination really lies in the upward chro-
matic skips in the treble clef that rise eerily over two and a half octaves. This creates
a stark contrast to the entire piece, in which the only melodic motion that did not
descend was the middle register C major five-note pattern from bars 5–7.
The piece is full of dichotomies. Though the mood can be distant and aloof, the
falling feature of the melody has a tender expression. Despite a static motion from
the constant ostinato, wide skips in the accompaniment maintain a very active feel-
ing. Also, a seemingly simple diatonic nature is juxtaposed with gentle dissonances
and almost humorous grace notes.
Poulenc indicates a direct simplicity en general, sans nuances (“generally without
nuance”). His own aversion to distortion and exaggeration in performance was well
documented: “I hate rubato . . . once a tempo is adopted, under no circumstance
should it be altered until I so indicate.”7
Très Modéré
Many similarities exist between the first and second pieces of Mouvements Perpé-
tuels. The first is marked “Assez modéré,” the second “Très modéré.” Both contain
writing based upon five-note patterns that create interesting ostinato effects that
relate to rising or falling gestures, employ the use of grace notes, have a binary form
with codas based upon the A material, and contain surprise quiet endings in the final
bar that bring their brief durations to an inconclusive closing. Yet somehow, with
all of these similarities, the second movement has a distinct character, quite separate
from the previous one. For example, the ostinato does not remain the same through-
out, but it rather varies itself in the third bar and eventually transforms completely
in the B section (bar 7).
For the first six bars, both hands are centered with the thumbs on D above middle
C. In the first two bars, each hand is in a five-finger pattern similar to what is found
in many elementary beginning method books. Portions of Stravinsky’s Les Cinq
Doigts (The Five Fingers) have a similar arrangement. For Poulenc, an unusual bito-
nality is created between the two: while the right hand is clearly in D minor, the left
begins chromatically, but eventually spells G minor. In this way, the static feeling of
Mouvements Perpétuels 2 is even more prevalent than 1. The treble clef line in 1 has
a definite melodic character, and the theme uses the span of an octave; 2 contains
a treble line that rises only up a 5th. It is meant to be less engaging, in a way, and
certainly less expressive, as is evident by the marking indifférent.
The movement wanders about in this vein almost constantly. The “theme,” or lack
thereof, rises up a 9th, is embellished with grace notes, and alters dynamics. In truth,
15_328-Anderson.indb 84 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 6 85
though, the music retains its consistency. Two-bar phrases noodle this way and that,
always returning to the same pitch of D. The B section is crossed into gently, without
effort or any sense of prominent arrival; the ostinato figure of the bass changes while
the treble clef repeats material from the A section.
Historical references tell us that Dadaism flourished in Paris in the 1920s, with
its first inklings appearing to the public during the 1917 premiere of Parade. Even
though perhaps not on a conscious level, the character of this second movement
appears to completely embrace the indifferent, absurdist nature of nothingness that
paralleled the aesthetic notions of this soon-to-be popular philosophic and artistic
movement. The ending further exemplifies this message. In the last four bars, Pou-
lenc changes to a 6/4 meter, the ostinato in the bass (still grounded in G minor)
changes course, and the treble clef plays grace-note octaves in rising 4ths and 5ths.
Along with the use of both pedals, a pianissimo dynamic indication, and the expres-
sive marking légèrement (“very lightly”), these intervals create a unique feeling of
emptiness, symbolic of the random feeling toward life so many in the Dada move-
ment expressed following World War I.
After a one-bar quote of the A material, Poulenc literally disappears in the last
bar. The hands move in opposite directions, with the left creating a V-I effect and
the right playing a glissando (marked ppp) that begins and ends on D and spans the
entire upper register of the keyboard. In this way, the tonality, seemingly a combina-
tion of G minor and D minor, remains a mystery. The bassline resolution on C is
totally unexpected. An added twist is the very high A-flat and B-flat, which are struck
in the briefest manner: each pitch is a 64th-note.
The unexpected combines with the monotonous to create this highly individual,
indifferent work. Though considered by so many to be a lyricist, steeped in nine-
teenth-century Romanticism and the influence of Chopin, this fourteen-bar move-
ment, however brief, reveals a composer totally inundated in current trends around
him, embracing the sensations of Dadaism and Surrealism and the sound worlds of
Satie and Stravinsky.
In virtually all the major resources that explore the music of Poulenc, mention
is made of the so-called music hall style. Poulenc, whose father had encouraged a
broad education rather than a narrowly focused regimen of study at the Conserva-
tory, remained eclectic and wide-ranging in his love of a variety of musical styles. His
devotion to popular styles was constant—band, circus, and parade music all had its
place in his compositional output.
Alerte
The third piece from Mouvements Perpétuels is a prime example. Marked “Alerte,”
the opening music bursts with an energetic flair quite unlike anything from the
previous movements. Note that with the exception of three 16th-note pickups, the
gesture of the phrase resembles that of the first movement: a high repeated note
15_328-Anderson.indb 85 8/11/15 7:58 AM

86 Jerry Wong
followed by falling figures that eventually descend one octave. The insertion of the
7/4 time signature in the third bar gives the repetition of the opening material a
frolicking, if not slightly lopsided, sensation.
Though the form of this “Alerte” is slightly ambiguous (certainly more so than the
previous two), a B section is very clearly delineated in bar 8 with a change of time
signature, dynamic marking, and mood. Melody and accompaniment are clearly
separated in this unabashedly lyrical material.
Poulenc’s own expressive indications, le chant en dehors, call for a full singing style
with the melody clearly projected. Once again, the material features a high note
repeated before the gesture falls downward expressively. The first reference to the
absurdist Dadaism of the second movement takes place in bars 20–23. A simple
repeated note pattern in the treble clef is juxtaposed with wide-ranging skips in the
bass. The unusual expressive marking uniforme gives further parody to the four bars
and their complete isolation from the melodic style of the B section.
In the preface to Maurice Hinson’s edition for Alfred, he concludes that this
third piece is in the form of A B C C1 Coda. One could argue, however, that the
clear return of the material from bars 1–3 in bars 37–39, marks another A section
and that the new material in bar 40 makes it something of an A B A1 Coda. Part
of what makes the form so inconclusive is the fact that this new material carries
us all the way to the two-bar coda. No return of the jovial music hall opening
bars ever recurs. The new material, beginning in bar 40, lasts fourteen bars and
is characterized, once again, by a static quality. This new melody neither rises nor
falls to any great extent.
The expressivity of the B section or the cheerfulness of the opening is now vacant,
replaced by a new ostinato figure in the bass and a meandering feeling in the treble.
Markings such as pp, gris (“grey”), and les deux pédales all imply a new, seemingly
vague, color. The final two bars of this movement are as curious, unrelated, soft, and
unpredictable as the endings of the two preceding movements. A Mixolydian scale
on C moves in contrary motion until a series of three bass notes stretches the registers
further apart with successive 5ths. The final minor 9th chord is to be played laisser
vibrer (“allowed to remain vibrating”).
TROIS PIÉCES
Ten years elapsed between the completion of Mouvements Perpétuels and the revision
and subsequent premiere of Trois Piéces. During this time, several important events
occurred that affected him on a personal and professional level. First, Poulenc was re-
leased from the army in 1921, allowing him to return to full-time artistic endeavors.
Second, his associations with Cocteau and Les Six continued to deepen with more
collaboration, interaction, and shared participation in a journal titled Le Coq. His
friendship with Satie, however, began to wane, not because of a divergence of artistic
opinion, but rather a friction of egos.
15_328-Anderson.indb 86 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 6 87
A new influence entered Poulenc’s life immediately following his military duty: he
began three years of composition lessons with Charles Koechlin. He was a source of
great encouragement, fostering Poulenc’s inclination to favor a texture that featured
his gift for melody with a supporting harmony over something more contrapuntal.
By the end of these studies, Poulenc premiered his first large-scale work, the impor-
tant and popular ballet Les biches.
His participation as one of the four pianists in the Paris premiere of Stravinsky’s
masterpiece Les Noces in 1923 is of particular interest to pianists, and it made an
indelible impression upon him: “If Stravinsky had not existed, would I have writ-
ten music?”8 The years between 1918 and 1928 were also a time of much personal
growth for Poulenc. He became more open and public about his homosexuality,
which eventually classified him as one of the first openly gay composers in history.
The evolution of Trois Piéces is fairly complex. First written in 1918 and titled Trois
Pastorales, Poulenc essentially abandoned the piece in pursuit of other projects. At the
urging of Italian composer Alfredo Casella, he reworked it in 1928 and dedicated it
to Viñes. In this new version, the first piece remained “Pastorale,” the second became
“Hymne,” and the third was retitled “Toccata.” An additional reworking took place
in 1953 in which Poulenc switched the order of the latter two pieces. Many editions
and several recorded performances, however, retain the order from 1928, perhaps
because of the bravura conclusion of the “Toccata.” This analysis will proceed in the
order from 1928. Additionally, some publishers and performers extract the “Toccata”
as an independent piece, which certainly has the substance to stand alone on a recital
program. Vladimir Horowitz, who brought the “Toccata” a great deal of fame with
many performances during Poulenc’s lifetime, tended to program it as such.
Pastorale
The form of “Pastorale” is similar to those found in Mouvements Perpétuels. An
A section of fifteen bars is followed by a B section of thirteen bars, after which
the A section appears to return, but only for a brief four-bar statement, followed
by a two-bar reference to the B material. A very soft chord in the last bar acts as a
harmonic and textural surprise to conclude the entire short piece. Poulenc main-
tains an atmosphere of calme et mystérieux (“calm and mysterious”) throughout all
the material. Admiration for Claude Debussy from early in Poulenc’s life seems
abundant in the exotic opening bars. A diminished 7th chord is unique in that
it is altered and extended. Various metric subdivisions that follow create ambigu-
ity and a sense of probing. These unhurried chromatic lines are an improvisatory
unveiling, not unlike Debussy’s Première rhapsodie. Mystery gives way to nostalgia
in the B section. Marked mélancolique (“melancholy”), a consistent dotted rhythm
in the melody is accompanied by a series of chords centered on a shared tonic (C
major triads, C major/minor, and major/major 7ths in bars 16 and 17, followed
by A-flat major triads, major/minor 7ths, and German augmented 6th chords in
bars 18 and 19).
15_328-Anderson.indb 87 8/11/15 7:58 AM

88 Jerry Wong
Unlike the two slower movements of Mouvements Perpétuels, “Pastorale” achieves a

definitive climax at the close of the B section. A rising line, increased dynamics, and
animez un peu (“a little more animated”) give the music a surging quality. It’s ulti-
mate arrival at a p subito reiteration of the opening chord (altered with the previous
E-flat now as E-natural higher in register) feels less of a dramatic romantic gesture
and more of a Surrealist sentiment; the absurd and unexpected remains the driving
aesthetic force behind the composer’s choice of expressive material.
Hymne
In 1923, Viñes introduced Poulenc to famed harpsichordist Wanda Landowska.
Thrilled by her playing and her subsequent invitation to write a work for her, Pou-
lenc produced Concert champêtre for harpsichord and orchestra in 1929. Years later,
Poulenc compared the work to “Hymne” from Trois Piéces.9 Both works open with a
full sound and celebratory character.
Unlike the previously mentioned works, “Hymne” contains a key signature. The
opening bars are rooted in E-flat major, and, unlike the tonal ambiguity of “Pasto-
rale,” it begins with very traditional V-I sequences. Like the “Pastorale,” the formal
design of “Hymne” resembles an A B A1, with the B section acting as the largest and
most substantial material and the A1 being slightly truncated. The main contrast in
section A to the opening can be found in bars 7 and 8. Though the writing is softer,
with a more linear direction, the texture is still completely built out of chords. The
skips and leaps in the opening bars would not be particularly accessible for a choir,
and thus the title seems more an indication of mood and character than literal hymn-
writing. Nonetheless, chords abound throughout the entire A section, and the mood
is highly indicative of the open sounds that might echo throughout a large cathedral.
The writing in the B section is significantly different. Chopin’s imitation of Italian
bel canto in his nocturnes comes to mind here, and this melody, with its undulating
middle register accompaniment and supportive bassline, demonstrates Poulenc the
lyricist in true form. The movement through various registers of the keyboard and
fast subdivisions in a slower-moving tempo is similar to his second theme of the first
movement of the Concerto for Two Pianos.
The music continues to move forward in a similarly impassioned manner, arriving at
an altered A-flat major statement of the opening in bar 31. The different accompani-
ment gives this music an urgency that moves it to the largest romantic outpouring in
bars 33 and 34. When A1 enters in bar 39, the secondary theme of A is altered and
presented first, followed by a soft final statement of the opening A material, reaffirming
E-flat major as our key after a very involved and harmonically dense middle section.
Toccata
Toccata translates as a “touch piece,” a work that displays a variety of pianistic ef-
fects, articulations, and virtuosic obstacles. In the Baroque era, Bach’s Toccatas had
an improvisatory and generally contrapuntal feeling in which one movement usually
evolved to the next. For Debussy (in Pour le piano), Ravel (in Le Tombeau de Cou-
15_328-Anderson.indb 88 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 6 89
perin), and Prokofiev (Toccata op. 11), each composer’s unique treatment of toccata
writing always embraced some sense of perpetual motion in a short and fairly unified
manner. Poulenc joined his contemporaries in composing a work in a similar style.
Among the “touches” or displays present, we find staccato alternating hands, quick
skips in the accompaniment, and scintillating scalar patterns.
The introduction is scored in unison and begins with a falling five-note pattern.
In contrast, the two primary themes, found in bars 14–15 and bars 29–30, re-
spectively, are driven by an upward striving motion. One facet of Poulenc’s piano
writing, which remains throughout his later, more mature period, can be found in
bars 39–42. The writing features broken triads, wide stretches, and the melody well
enunciated with double-stems and accents in the right hand, followed by a long slur
over the next bar, indicating a more lyrical feeling. This is accompanied by large
jumps in the bassline (perhaps a music hall or circus element).
Though seemingly straightforward from a performance interpretation standpoint,
the appearance of a new theme and accompaniment in bar 58 presents a fairly radical
shift from the perpetual motion of the piece. Pianists often play this section with a
more relaxed tempo, though Horowitz keeps the material strictly in time. If a slight
feeling of meno mosso is preferred, the final bars would certainly return to tempo as
the bravura-accented chords deliver the gesture of the music to its exciting conclu-
sion. A tour de force showpiece, Poulenc’s “Toccata” is as original and effective as
any in our repertoire.
The early piano music of Francis Poulenc revels in music hall charm, appeal-
ing melodies, unique sonorities, witty, unexpected ideas, and dazzling virtuosity.
Completely French in character and concept, he embraced the ideas of his time, cel-
ebrating salon culture, Surrealism, Dadaism, popular styles, and direct influences of
Satie, Stravinsky, and the other members of Les Six. Mouvements Perpétuels and Trois
Piéces are not only accessible and engaging concert pieces, but they are also relevant
examples of this flourishing era of artistic creativity.
NOTES
1. James Friskin and Irwing Freundlich, Music for the Piano: A Handbook of Concert and
Teaching Material from 1580 to 1952 (New York: Rinehart, 1954), 228.
2. Maurice Hinson, Guide to the Pianist’s Repertoire: Second, Revised and Enlarged Edition
(Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1987), 562.
3. Stewart Gordon, A History of Keyboard Literature: Music for the Piano and Its Forerunners
(Belmont, CA: Wadsworth Group/Thomson Learning, 1996), 400.
4. David Dubal, The Art of the Piano: Its Performers, Literature and Recordings (Pompton
Plains, NJ: Amadeus, 2004), 571.
5. Keith W. Daniel, Francis Poulenc: His Artistic Development and Musical Style (Ann Arbor,
MI: UMI Research Press, 1982), 10.
6. Ibid.
7. Ibid., 165.
8. Ibid., 25.
9. Ibid., 177.
15_328-Anderson.indb 89 8/11/15 7:58 AM

7
Drinking from the
“Source of Universal Folklore”:
Villa-Lobos, Bach, and Chorões
Alexandre Dossin
“The music of J. S. Bach is a source of universal folklore and a link uniting all
peoples.”1
“My works are open letters written to the posterity, without waiting for an answer.”2
—Heitor Villa-Lobos (1887–1959)
INTRODUCTION
Heitor Villa-Lobos is certainly the most recognized name among composers in South
America. His extensive catalogue includes twelve symphonies, five piano concertos,
a vast array of chamber music, and a sizable solo piano catalogue. In spite of not
being a professional pianist, Villa-Lobos was able to create innovative piano works,
exploring the instrument in ways that challenge the performer to a new approach to
piano technique. In general, one could affirm that his piano music is comfortable
to execute. This is because Villa-Lobos always composed at the instrument, for the
instrument. This chapter will explore Villa-Lobos’s piano works from a pedagogical
and performance perspective, with special concentration on two works: Bachianas
Brasileiras No. 4 and Choros No. 5. Villa-Lobos considered J. S. Bach the source of
music linking all people, and he loved Brazilian popular music; one could argue that
the series of Bachianas and Choros combine those influences in a very organic way.
BIOGRAPHICAL INFORMATION
In order to better understand the artist, it is helpful to know the human being
behind the masterworks. Raul Villa-Lobos, the composer’s father, played the violon-
90
15_328-Anderson.indb 90 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 7 91
cello. A music lover, Raul Villa-Lobos enjoyed gathering with friends at his house to
play chamber music written for a wide variety of ensembles. These musical evenings
made a strong impression on the young Villa-Lobos, and violoncello became his
first musical instrument. He also cultivated, somehow in secret, a love for the urban
music ensembles called chorões (loosely translated as “serenaders”), which also in-
spired him to learn to play the guitar. Villa-Lobos’s immense curiosity for everything
Brazilian led him to become a serious explorer of Brazilian music. Despite being an
avid reader, he did not hesitate to sell some of his father’s rare books to finance his
first trip to the northern regions of his country.
In that trip, and others that would follow, Villa-Lobos drank from the sources of
Brazilian folk tradition. He went to small villages, places no other professional musi-
cian had ever visited, and absorbed their natural culture. The Guia Prático (a didactic
collection of 137 folksongs) is one of the results of his work as a collector and trans-
mitter of genuine Brazilian sounds. As a whole, his work reflects Brazil: birdcalls,
native Brazilian songs, and dances abound. Most importantly, though, Villa-Lobos
showed a unique understanding of the aesthetic foundations of Brazilian music.
The visibility his music received during the “Week of Modern Art” in 1922 re-
sulted in a grant for Villa-Lobos to travel to Europe. This was his first visit to the Old
World, and thanks to his earlier contact with Darius Milhaud (secretary to French
minister Paul Claudel), several concerts were scheduled in Paris. As the composer
was always proud to say, he did not go to Europe to learn, but to show his work.
His first stay in Paris (less than eighteen months) proved to be successful, and the
performances of his music established his authority among the modern composers.
At the beginning of 1927, Villa-Lobos returned to Paris. It should be noted that
both trips to Paris were possible through Arthur Rubinstein’s artistic and diplomatic
support. The great Polish pianist asked his influential friends to help Villa-Lobos
with his travel expenses, housing, publishing, and other needs. This second Parisian
period extended until May 1930, with a brief visit to Brazil in the middle of 1929.
After this stay, the author Gerard Behágue notes that Villa-Lobos “had thus attained
a preeminence in Paris unequaled by any other Latin American composer. This ac-
claim resulted essentially from the freshness of his creation, grounded in the folk and
popular music of Brazil, radically new for most European listeners, together with
decidedly up-to-date and modernistic technical procedures.”3
The greatest performers of that period gave their support to Villa-Lobos’s new cre-
ations. Pianists Arthur Rubinstein, Souza Lima, and singer Vera Janacopulos, among
others, were constantly present in concert announcements of the time, performing
his music in Brazil and abroad.
In 1930, back in Brazil, Villa-Lobos made a proposal to the State Secretariat for
Education containing his ideas and plan of action for music education in public
schools throughout the country. In November, Getúlio Vargas came to power
through a revolution and was Brazil’s president for the next fifteen years. Vargas was
an extreme-right politician. Nationalism, a fundamental part of his ideology, was
very important to Villa-Lobos, and he did not think twice before accepting Vargas’s
15_328-Anderson.indb 91 8/11/15 7:58 AM

92 Alexandre Dossin
invitation to be the director of the Superintendence of Musical and Artistic Educa-

tion for the State of Rio de Janeiro.
As Villa-Lobos became more recognized in Paris and Brazil, his international ca-
reer developed to its maximum after his first visit to the United States in 1944. As a
result of this trip, he became a composer renowned worldwide, and his concerts were
considered important musical events, regardless of the venue. From that period until
his death in 1959, Villa-Lobos conducted the top orchestras and had his composi-
tions performed by the best artists.
THE PIANO MUSIC AND ITS TEXTURE
Villa-Lobos’s piano works display an impressive variety of forms and genres. His
creativity is almost overwhelming, and despite the fact that the composer was not a
professional pianist, his works are extremely well written and successfully explore the
possibilities of the instrument. From the simplicity of Brinquedos de Roda (1912) to
the tremendous virtuosity of Rudepoema (1921–1926), Villa-Lobos’s pieces display
an enormous range of emotions. His creativity was expressed in the use of new, origi-
nal genres (such as the Choros or Bachianas Brasileiras), but Villa-Lobos also created a
new compositional method, which he called Melodia das Montanhas (“Melody of the
Mountains”), which generates melodies based on topographic images of landscapes.
An example of this would be his 1939 piano piece called New York Skyline, which
expresses the photographic image of New York’s skyscrapers at the piano.
The performer of Villa-Lobos’s piano music will face many difficulties: fast alter-
nating chords, octaves, complex rhythmic passages, and much more. Here are four
common challenges a pianist might meet:
1. Alternating chords
Villa-Lobos often uses alternating chords as a way to fill a simple melodic line. A
famous example (see example 7.1) is found in the often performed The Punch Doll
(“O Polichinelo”).
The popular tune Ciranda (cirandinha) is very simple and widely recognized in
Brazil. Repeated chords enhance and dynamize this song, transforming it into an ex-
citing and virtuosic piece. The performer needs to play the original melody by itself
first, and when working on this passage, make sure that the original tune is heard
clearly and played with appropriate phrasing.
2. Using overtones
Villa-Lobos enjoyed exploring the resonance of the piano’s soundboard and har-
monic overtones, often using this effect in his music. Examples such as example 7.2
can be found in his longest piano work, Rudepoema. A similar example is found in
the second movement of Bachianas Brasileiras No. 4 (see example 7.3).
15_328-Anderson.indb 92 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Example 7.1. O Polichinelo, mm. 28–36. NA
Example 7.2. Rudepoema, mm. 278–292. Hal Leonard MGB s.r.l.–Milan.
15_328-Anderson.indb 93 8/11/15 7:58 AM

94 Alexandre Dossin
Example 7.3. Bachianas Brasileiras No. 4, mvt. 2, mm. 71–78. G. Schirmer, Inc.
In order for the full effect of this technique to be appreciated, the piano needs to
have a rich and full sound, ideally a nine-foot concert grand, in a concert hall with
good acoustics. In the example from Rudepoema, Villa-Lobos builds the sonority for
several measures until the moment when the overtone is required, creating an effect
more defined than the one in the Bachianas Brasileiras. Here, the right-hand over-
tone chords are a bit too high, and as a result, less effective. However, a good use of
the pedal in the ff chords will enhance the effect.
3. Notation in three or more staves: big texture

In his search for a full orchestral sound, Villa-Lobos often notates his music in
three or more staves. It is only natural that Villa-Lobos’s most difficult work for
15_328-Anderson.indb 94 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 7 95
piano—Rudepoema—presents the performer with extraordinary pianistic writing, a

sample of which is seen in examples 7.4 and 7.5. Here, too, one finds a novel effect:
octave glissandi from black to white keys (see example 7.6).
Rudepoema is by far Villa-Lobos’s most complex piano work. Dedicated to Arthur
Rubinstein, it bears the interesting dedication words: “My sincere friend, I don’t
know whether I was able to assimilate your soul in its entirety with this Rudepo-
ema, but I swear with all my heart that I recorded your temperament and simply
transcribed it on paper, as an intimate Kodak. Therefore, if this work ever becomes
a success, you will be the true composer of it.”
The title of this work is a made-up word by Villa-Lobos, uniting “rude” (same
word in English) with “poema” (poem). Because of its difficulty, both for the per-
former and the audience, it has not entered the standard piano repertoire. Having
performed it several times in my career, I believe that this is unfortunate, because
Rudepoema is a very powerful work and deserves to be performed more often.
4. Complex rhythmic passages

Brazilian music is by nature very rhythmic, and Villa-Lobos expresses this trait
with very detailed notation. In his Choros No. 5 (“Alma Brasileira”), he starts by
conveying the lazy rubato typical of chorões, as seen in example 7.7. A few measures
later, he incorporates 16th-notes into the rubato theme, creating a complex poly-
phonic texture for the right hand (see example 7.8).
15_328-Anderson.indb 95 8/11/15 7:58 AM

96 Alexandre Dossin
In examples 7.7 and 7.8, it is important to play the passage in an exact rhythm,
allowing the rubato to appear by itself. Since the rubato is “written out,” there is no
need to add any rubato to it.
15_328-Anderson.indb 96 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Example 7.7. Choros, No. 5, mm. 3–8. G. Schirmer, Inc.
15_328-Anderson.indb 97 8/11/15 7:58 AM

98 Alexandre Dossin
CHOROS
The impressive series Choros was composed in the 1920s, mainly in Rio de Janeiro,
with a few pieces composed in São Paulo and Paris. In a very ambitious way, Villa-
Lobos decided to prove that all people could and should benefit from one country’s
particular culture. One could argue that through this series he was able to immortal-
ize a simple popular genre, making it available and understandable to a worldwide
audience. Gerard Behágue explains in detail how Villa-Lobos achieved this feat:
The series of Choros especially represents his first major step toward not only the
incorporation of native inspiration and documentation but the assimilation of many
contemporary European compositional techniques. It is not coincidental that he began
with the simplest expression of the urban genre [solo guitar], (Choros No. 1), and built
gradually to more complex forms and expression in an amalgamation of bits and pieces
of traditional native and Afro-Brazilian music, children’s round folk tunes, and other
urban popular dance music genres, frequently in an atmosphere of Carnavalesque hap-
pening, but all with a decidedly modernistic technical vocabulary.4
This series is considered by Vasco Mariz to be “the most valuable Brazilian contribu-
tion to contemporary music, being a true expression of national temperament in its
many different aspects, and making appropriate use of Brazilian themes, musical
cells, rhythms, and typical instruments.”5
In a way similar to the cycle of Bachianas Brasileiras, each piece has a different
instrumentation:
Choros (bis) (1928/29) violin and violoncello

Choros No. 1(1920) solo guitar
Choros No. 2 (1924) flute and clarinet
Choros No. 3 (1925) male choir, clarinet, saxophone, bassoon, 3
trumpets, and 1 trombone
Choros No. 4 (1926) 3 horns and 1 trombone
Choros No. 5 (1925) solo piano
Choros No. 6 (1926) orchestra
Choros No. 7 (1924) flute, oboe, clarinet, alto saxophone, bassoon, tam-
tam, violin, and cello
15_328-Anderson.indb 98 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 7 99
Choros No. 8 (1925) orchestra and two pianos

Choros No. 10 (1926) orchestra and choir (with a song by Catullo da
Paixão Cearense)
Choros No. 11 (1928) piano and orchestra
Choros No. 13 (1929) 2 orchestras and band
Choros No. 14 (1928) choirs, orchestra and band
Introdução aos choros (1929) guitar and orchestra
Choros No. 5 (“Alma brasileira”), 1925

The only Choros composed for piano solo was appropriately subtitled “Alma
Brasileira” (“Brazilian Soul”). In the outer sections, Villa-Lobos uses a lazy, melan-
cholic, improvisation-like melody. The rhythm is used in such a way that it seems
that the performer is improvising on the spot, with rubato written out in the texture
(see examples 7.7 and 7.8). Commenting on this effect, Villa-Lobos wrote: “The
most interesting aspects of this Choros [No. 5] are the irregular melodic and rhyth-
mic cadences written in a square measure, creating an impression of rubato, or a
delayed execution of the melodic line, which is exactly one of the most interesting
characteristics of the serenaders.”6
The middle section uses a wild dance, evoking the South American Indians. Be-
cause of the detailed rhythmic notation, almost no rubato is necessary. As in the be-
ginning of the piece, Villa-Lobos here also includes the rubato directly in the musical
texture without needing to rely on ritardando, accelerando, and other indications of
tempo flexibility (see example 7.9).
15_328-Anderson.indb 99 8/11/15 7:58 AM

100 Alexandre Dossin
BACHIANAS BRASILEIRAS
The series of nine Bachianas Brasileiras was composed from 1930 to1942. These
works were described by Villa-Lobos as a homage to Johann Sebastian Bach, whom
he considered “a source of universal folklore and a link uniting all peoples.”7 These
works, however, were not intended to be in the style of Bach’s music but an at-
tempt to freely adapt a number of Baroque harmonic and contrapuntal procedures
to Brazilian music. Each of the Bachianas is formally conceived as a suite, with a
sequence of two, three, or four dance movements. With a few exceptions, each
movement has two titles. One formal, as we find in Bach: Prelude, Toccata, Aria,
Chorale, and so on, and the other nationalistic: Embolada, Modinha, Ponteio,
Choro, and so on. These national elements tend to be conveyed primarily by
rhythmic structures, but also at times by melodic type and treatment, and by tim-
bral associations. According to G. Behágue, “In the Bachianas Villa-Lobos makes
frequent use of circle-of-fifths progressions where the seventh of one chord resolves
to the third of the next and so on, a common procedure in Bach, Rameau, Vivaldi,
and other eighteenth-century composers.”8
Composed later than the series of Choros, the harmonic language in the series of
Bachianas Brasileiras is clearly more conservative when compared to the innovative
and sometimes crude language in the Choros. Most scholars, however, agree that
“they represent a valuable experiment in the juxtaposition of certain harmonic coun-
terpoints and the melodic atmosphere of rural and urban areas of Brazil to the music
of Johann Sebastian Bach.”9 As one can observe from the list below, this series of nine
works does not keep a specific instrumentation: it encompasses a wide variety, from
solo piano and small ensembles (flute and bassoon) to full orchestra, orchestra and
chorus, or orchestra with piano soloist.
Bachianas Brasileiras No. 1 (1930) 8 cellos (or cello orchestra)

Bachianas Brasileiras No. 2 (1930) chamber orchestra
Bachianas Brasileiras No. 3 (1938) piano and orchestra
Bachianas Brasileiras No. 4 (1930–1941) solo piano (orchestrated in 1942)
Bachianas Brasileiras No. 5 (1938-1945) sopranos and 8 cellos (or cello orchestra)
Bachianas Brasileiras No. 6 (1938) flute and bassoon
Bachianas Brasileiras No. 7 (1942) orchestra
Bachianas Brasileiras No. 8 (1944) orchestra
Bachianas Brasileiras No. 9 (1945) chorus a capella or string orchestra
Bachianas Brasileiras No. 4, for piano solo (1930–1941)

Originally composed for solo piano, this work is often performed in its orchestral
version. The first movement was orchestrated for strings only, but the remaining
three movements require a full symphonic orchestra. As in most of the other Bachi-
anas, the movements have parenthetic titles in Portuguese:
15_328-Anderson.indb 100 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 7 101
“Preludio” (Introdução)
“Coral” (Canto do Sertão)
“Aria” (Cantilena)
“Dansa” (Miudinho)
As seen in examples 7.10 and 7.11, the beginning of this piece could not be more
“Bachian,” using an almost direct quote from J. S. Bach’s The Musical Offering, BWV
1079. This movement has many Baroque characteristics, including harmonic se-
quences, passacaglia-style basslines, imitation, and dissonances created by tied notes
with melodic suspension. The texture, initially based on three layers, expands to four
starting in m. 22, where Villa-Lobos switches from two to three staves.
Example 7.10. J. S. Bach, The Musical Offering, BWV 1079, mm. 1–8, beginning.
Example 7.11. Bachianas Brasileiras, No. 4, mvt. 1, mm. 1–4. G. Schirmer, Inc.
In the last five measures (example 7.12), Villa-Lobos creates a culminating section,
the ff imitating the pedals of the organ, in a grandioso finale. A resounding octave
D–D, fff, assures that a picardy third was never intended, and the movement ends
in B minor.
15_328-Anderson.indb 101 8/11/15 7:58 AM

In the second movement, “Coral” (“Canto do Sertão”), the repetition of a B-flat

throughout the piece represents the song of a bird found only in Brazil, the araponga.
Villa-Lobos also uses the piano overtones in an attempt to imitate the Baroque or-
gan, as shown in example 7.3, above. From m. 41 to the end, three staves are used,
and the symbiotic relationship between Bach’s organ and the Brazilian bird becomes
intensified.
A popular song from the northeastern regions of Brazil provides the setting of the
third movement, “Aria” (Cantilena). After a brief, four-measure introduction, the
theme starts with a placid, languid melody (see example 7.13).
This theme is repeated several times, accompanied by a Baroque-style bassline.

Measure 38 brings a new tempo (vivace) and a new, wild variation of the theme
(see example 7.14). For a rich and layered texture, the use of the sostenuto pedal is
strongly suggested. After the culminating middle section, the main theme returns in
an identical recapitulation, only to be changed at the very end, when the material
from the introduction brings the movement to an end.
The suite ends with a lively piece “Dansa” (Miudinho), possibly a reference to the
Brazilian martial arts called capoeira. The constant movement of 16th-notes has an
internal subrhythm in triplets, with off-beat accents at the end of the measures (see
example 7.15).
Measure 11 introduces the main melodic material in the left hand, with the
instruction en dehors (“bring the melody out”). The notation reflects the flexibility
and use of rubato through tied notes and triplets, creating a feeling of improvisation
underneath the ostinato pattern in the right hand (see example 7.16). The theme
used is a popular song called “Vamos Maruca” (“Let’s go, Maruca”).
This ostinato is practically constant from the beginning until the very end, when
a last statement of the main theme’s beginning appears, meno (slower), followed by
a powerful C major chord. In general, the performer of this work will need to be
15_328-Anderson.indb 102 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb 103 8/11/15 7:58 AM

creative with the choices of sonorities, exploring the richness of the instrument while
at the same time being careful not to overplay effects.
CONCLUSION
The piano music of Heitor Villa-Lobos is a sincere expression of the rich musicality
inherent to Brazilian people. In his varied and distinctive catalogue, Villa-Lobos left
a legacy unparalleled in Brazilian and South American music. Leonard Bernstein
shared his thoughts upon the news of the composer’s death in 1959:
I have no words to show my respect for the memory of Villa-Lobos. He was not only
a great composer, but also a great Brazilian and an eminent personality of the world
artistic community. His works reflect and preserve forever a happy combination of the
elements of folklore with the conventional international process of musical creation and
he did this in a way that dignifies his country and his art.10
Much has been written about Villa-Lobos the man and the musician. There seems
to be an overall consensus on his dominating position in Latin American music, and
the importance of his work for the musical world as a whole. However, no one could
describe his philosophy better than the composer himself:
My entire philosophy is centered on music, because music is the only reason for my
existence. I am only useful through music. Music is as important as bread and water.
There are three kinds of composers: those who write “paper-music,” only following rules
or fashion; those who only want to be “original” and write something that no one has
ever written; and those who compose because they can’t live without music. Only the
third type of composer has value. These composers work for an ideal, without expecting
a practical objective. And the artistic conscience, which is a pre-requisite for artistic free-
dom, requires them to look for a sincere expression, for themselves and for humanity.11
APPENDIX
Selected list of piano works by Heitor Villa-Lobos, extracted from the Villa-Lobos
Museum’s complete catalogue of works (Rio de Janeiro, Brazil).
For ease of use, this list below contains only the titles, dates, movements, and ap-
proximate duration of the pieces. As a pedagogical tool, pieces were analyzed for the
level of difficulty, and divided into four grades: beginner, beginner/intermediate, in-
termediate/advanced, advanced. For additional information regarding Villa-Lobos’s
piano music, publishers, and availability of scores, contact me (dossin@dossin.net),
and I will offer assistance in locating and accessing the material.
15_328-Anderson.indb 104 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 7 105
Beginner
Brinquedo de roda (1912), 11'
1. Tira o seu Pezinho 2. A Moda da Carranquinha 3. Os Três Cavalheirozinhos
4. Uma, Duas Angolinhas 5. Garibaldi foi à Missa 6. Vamos Todos Cirandar
Caixinha de música quebrada (1931) 2'30"
Carnaval de pierrot (1910) 2'30"
Fábulas características (1914) 4'
O Cuco e o Gato, A Araponga e o Irerê, O Gato e o Rato
Guia prático—Álbum No. 1 (1932) 8'
Acordei de Madrugada (2nd version), A Maré Encheu, A Roseira (2nd version),
Manquinha, Na Corda da Viola
Brinquedo, Machadinha, Espanha, Samba-lelê, Senhora Dona Viúva (2nd version)
O Pastorzinho, João Cambuête, A Freira, Garibaldi Foi à Missa, O Pião
O Pobre e o Rico, Rosa Amarela (2nd version), Olha o Passarinho, Dominé!, O
Gato, Ó Sim
Os Pombinhos (2nd version), Você Diz que Sabe Tudo, Có-có-có, O Bastão ou
Mia Gato, A Condessa
Sonho de uma Criança, O Corcunda, O Caranguejo (1st version), A Pombinha
Voou, Vamos Atrás da Serra, Oh! Calunga
No Fundo do Meu Quintal, Vai, Abóbora, Vamos, Maruca, Os Pombinhos (2nd
version), Anda à Roda (3rd version)
Ó Limão (1st version), Carambola, Pobre Cega (2nd version), Pai Francisco (2nd
version), Xô! Passarinho!, Sinh'Aninha, Vestidinho Branco
Laranjeira, Pequenina, Pombinha Rolinha, Ó Ciranda, ó Cirandinha, A Velha que
Tinha Nove Filhas, Constante, O Castelo
De Flor em Flor, Atché, Nesta Rua, Fui no Itororó (1st version), Mariquita,
Muchacha, No Jardim Celestial
O Anel, Nigue Ninhas, Pobre Cega (1st version), A Cotia, Vida Formosa, Viva o
Carnaval
Histórias da carochinha (1919) 7'
No Palácio Encantado, A Cortesia do Principezinho, E o Pastorzinho Cantava, E
a Princezinha Dançava
15_328-Anderson.indb 105 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Simples coletânea (1917/1918) 7'30"

Valsa Mística, Num Berço Encantado, Rodante
Petizada (1912) 8'30"
A Mão Direita, Tem uma Roseira, Assim Ninava Mamãe, A Pobrezinha Sertaneja,
Vestidinho Branco, Saci, História da Caipirinha
Suíte infantil No. 1 (1912) 11'
Bailando (Movimento de Minueto [piu Animato]), Nenê Vai Dormir (Andante
melancólico), Artimanhas (Allegretto quasi Allegro), Reflexão (Allegro), No
Balanço (Allegro non troppo)
Suíte infantil No. 2 (1913) 6'
Allegro-Andantino-Allegretto-Allegro non troppo
As Três Marias (1939) 3'30"
Alnitah, Alnilam, Mintika
Tristorosa (1910) 5'30"
Valsa da dor (1932) 5'30"
Valsa scherzo (1907) 7'30"
Beginner/Intermediate
Carnaval das crianças (1919/1920) 15'
1. O Ginete do Pierrozinho 2. O Chicote do Diabinho 3. A Manhã do Pierrete
4. Os Guizos do Dominozinho 5. As Peripécias do Trapeirozinho 6. As Traqui-
nices do Mascarado Mignon 7. A Gaita de um Precoce Fantasiado 8. A Folia
de um Bloco Infantil
A Lenda do caboclo (1920) 4'
Poema singelo (1942) 6'
Saudades das selvas brasileiras (1927) 6'
Animado—Un poco animado
Suíte floral (1916/1918) 8'
Idílio na Rede, Uma Camponesa Cantadeira, Alegria na Horta
Intermediate/advanced
Bachianas brasileiras No. 4 (1930–1941), 18'
Preludio (Introdução), Coral (Canto do Sertão), Aria (Cantilena), Dansa (Mi-
udinho)
Choros No. 5 (“Alma Brasileira”) (1925) 4'
Ciclo brasileiro (1936/1937) 20'
Plantio do Caboclo, Impressões Seresteiras, Festa no Sertão, Dança do Índio
Branco
Cirandas (1926) 40'
1. Terezinha de Jesus 2. A Condessa 3. Senhora Dona Sancha 4. O Cravo Brigou
com a Rosa 5. Pobre Cega 6. Passa, Passa, Gavião 7. Xô, Xô, Passarinho 8.
15_328-Anderson.indb 106 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 7 107
Vamos Atrás da Serra, Calunga 9. Fui no Tororó 10. O Pintor de Cannahy 11.
Nesta Rua, Nesta Rua 12. Olha o Passarinho, Dominé 13. A Procura de Uma
Agulha 14. A Canoa Virou 15. Que Lindo Olhos 16. Có, Có, Có
Cirandinhas (1925) 24'
1. Zangou-se o Cravo com a Rosa? 2. Adeus, Bela Morena 3. Vamos, Maninha 4.
Olha Aquela Menina 5. Senhora Pastora 6. Cai, Cai, Balão 7. Todo o Mundo
Passa 8. Vamos Ver a Mulatinha 9. Carneirinho, Carneirão 10. A Canoa Virou
11. Nesta Rua Tem um Bosque 12. Lindos Olhos que Ela Tem
Danças características africanas (1914/1915) 10'
Farrapós, Kankukus, Kankikis
Homenagem a Chopin—Hommage a Chopin (1949) 8'
Noturno, A la Ballada
New York Skyline Melody (1939) 3'
Prole do bebê No. 1 (1918) 16'
Branquinha (A Boneca de Louça), Moreninha (A Boneca de Massa), Caboclinha (A
Boneca de Barro), Mulatinha (A Boneca de Borracha), Negrinha (A Boneca de
Pau), Pobrezinha (A Boneca de Trapo), O Polichinelo, Bruxa (A Boneca de Pano)
Prole do bebê No. 2 (1921) 17'
A Baratinha de Papel, O Gatinho de Papelão, O Camundongo de Massa, O
Cachorrinho de Borracha, O Cavalinho de Pau, O Boizinho de Chumbo, O
Passarinho de Pano, O Ursinho de Algodão, O Lobozinho de Vidro
Advanced
Fiandeira (1921) 2'30"
Rudepoema (1921–1926) 20'
NOTES
1. Vasco Mariz, Villa-Lobos: Life and Work (Washington, DC: Brazilian American Cul-
tural Institute 1970), 40.
2. Martin Claret, ed., O Pensamento Vivo de Heitor Villa-Lobos (São Paulo: Martin Claret,
1987), 87.
3. Gerard Behágue, Heitor Villa-Lobos: The Search for Brazil’s Musical Soul (Austin: Insti-
tute of Latin America Studies, University of Texas at Austin, 1994), 20.
4. Ibid., 156.
5. Mariz, Villa-Lobos, 35.
6. Luiz Paulo Horta, Villa-Lobos: uma introdução, ed. Jorge Zahar (Rio de Janeiro: 1987), 96.
8. Behágue, Villa-Lobos, 111.
10. Ibid., 68.
11. Claret, Pensamento, 95.
15_328-Anderson.indb 107 8/11/15 7:58 AM

BIBLIOGRAPHY
Behágue, Gerard. Heitor Villa-Lobos: The Search for Brazil's Musical Soul. Austin: University of
Texas at Austin, Institute of Latin American Studies, 1994.
Claret, Martin, ed. O Pensamento Vivo de Heitor Villa-Lobos. São Paulo: Martin Claret, 1987.
França, Eurico. Villa-Lobos: Síntese Crítica e Biográfica. Rio de Janeiro: Museu Villa-Lobos,
1970.
Horta, Luiz Paulo. Villa-Lobos: uma introdução, ed. Jorge Zahar. Rio de Janeiro: 1987.
Mariz, Vasco. Villa-Lobos: Life and Work. Washington, DC: Brazilian American Cultural
Institute, 1970.
Nóbrega, Adhemar. Os Choros de Villa-Lobos. Rio de Janeiro: Museu Villa-Lobos, 1973.
Wright, Simon. Villa-Lobos. New York: Oxford University Press, 1992.
15_328-Anderson.indb 108 8/11/15 7:58 AM

8
The Musical Imagination
of Dmitri Kabalevsky
Timothy Shafer
Few composers have enjoyed such immediate and long-lasting success engaging the
musical imaginations of children as Dmitri Kabalevsky. His achievements in this
realm can be readily traced to an ability to convey activities, objects, events, and
feelings that children know and have experienced in compositions with musical and
intellectual cohesiveness. The bouncing of a ball, the whirling of snow in the air,
the body language of sadness or joy—all these and more are coaxed from the piano
using rhythms, meter, tempi, intervals, harmony, direction, dynamics, articulation,
and form. Considering his options, then choosing masterfully from the composer’s
toolbox, Kabalevsky crafts sound in a manner that evokes motion specific to the
aural images he intends to communicate.
Musical communication occurs in a different manner than that of language.
Unlike language, there is no propositional content. Instead, music communicates
principally1 in an analogical fashion from its sound constructs in a given musical
context—that is, the musical elements combine to signify something else, with the
goal nearly always being to suggest various types of motion (or the lack thereof ) to
the hearer. These motions in sound may point to objects or events, such as a waterfall
or a horserace, or the motions may evoke the physical manifestations that commu-
nicate human emotion,2 such as tendencies toward slow movement and a downward
trajectory of the human body when experiencing the feeling of sadness. The musical
context is also vital to the interpretation of the sound, just as context is necessary in
interpreting language. For instance, if I say, “I’ve just eaten a good cookie,” then I say,
“I have a good dog,” the hearer will understand the word “good”; although the word
has certain qualities that it retains throughout its usage, its meaning changes some-
what according to the object it describes. A good cookie will have a pleasing taste
and be freshly made; a good dog comes when I call and doesn’t bite the mailman.
109
15_328-Anderson.indb 109 8/11/15 7:58 AM

110 Timothy Shafer
Such is the case with music. A given musical element, though it retains certain
sound characteristics from one context to another, may nonetheless change its mean-
ing according to its musical context. Kabalevsky’s skill in controlling the elements of
sound in a manner that communicates to children, along with his masterful intel-
lectual and structural arrangement of these elements, are the dual keys to his success
in the realm of pedagogical repertoire. Using selected programmatic examples from
his 30 Children’s Pieces, op. 27, we will explore Kabalevsky’s ability to communicate
with children using sound.
Consider, for instance, the children’s piece variously translated “Clowning” or
“Clowning Around,” op. 27, no. 10. The piece is an excellent étude-like study for
children in articulation, subtleties of touch and dynamics, and the intricacies of
interlocking hands at a fast tempo. What keeps children interested, however, is the
resemblance that its sound and physical feel have with the title, and the subtle sug-
gestion that among all the acrobatics, there is a melody waiting to be heard. In this
brief piece, Kabalevsky has imaginatively captured in sound the physical essence of
“clowning.” At its simplest, the title suggests mere playfulness or silliness. The title in
English, though, cannot escape the association with the sad-faced, floppy-costumed
clowns that entertain children at the circus. In either case, the word easily evokes
images of high levels of rapid physical activity, often including tumbling or somer-
saulting onto the ground (see example 8.1).
Example 8.1. Op. 27, No. 10, “Clowning,” mm. 1–4. G. Schirmer, Inc.
The means of portraying this idea appear simple but are surprisingly sophisticated.
A complete list of the musical tools Kabalevsky has chosen to convey the desired
image include the rhythms, meter, tempo, dynamics, the two-note descending slur
motive, descending phrase contours, melodic figuration, and harmonic implications.
These individual musical elements can be isolated for discussion, but their simul-
taneous appearance in the composition creates the musical context in which any
individual element is heard.
In combination with the fast tempo, the high kinetic energy of the physical act
of clowning is conveyed by the near-perpetual rhythms the composer has chosen. In
fact, the busy rhythms may be arguably stated to be the dominant characteristic of
the overall sound.
The acrobatic aspects of clowning—especially the tumbling and somersault-
ing—can be represented by the sounds of the rapidly descending leap of a 3rd in the
two-note slur. Because the slur begins on a weak beat, it creates an impulse of sound
15_328-Anderson.indb 110 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 8 111
that is derived from a combination of the first note of the slur being the higher pitch
(the first note of a two-note slur is always perceived as emphasized), and from the
long-short articulation of the two-note slur. The resulting impulse offers some no-
tion of the physical referent of the small but energetic “push-off ” (or leap) required
of both feet to begin a somersault, which, of course, is a quick, whole-body gesture
performed in a downward trajectory.
To gain a sense of the impulse’s character, one need only imagine the sound if this
passage were written with the two-note slur placed on the beat, as presented in ex-
ample 8.2. When the mild syncopation is removed, the affect is quite different, and
the gesture of pushing off is absent. The similarities of the various sound elements to
the physical acts are in some manner perceived by the brain as analogous.
Example 8.2. Op. 27, No. 10, “Clowning,” mm. 1–4, altered. G. Schirmer, Inc.
The principal sound of the piece is based on rapid rhythms at a rapid tempo—ele-
ments already identified as suggesting rapid motion to the listener. Yet there are a
number of obvious attributes of the piece that present the concept of downwardness.
These include the pervasive descending leap within the two-note slur, the general
contour of every phrase of the piece, and the rapid juxtaposition of both parallel and
relative minor keys with the tonic key of F major.
Kabalevsky’s decision to emphasize descent in a piece about clowning may seem
curious until one considers that the act of clowning itself presents many downward
gestures in an effort to amuse. Tumbling, somersaulting, or falling are all a significant
part of the clown’s act. Also, clowns are frequently seen painted with an exaggerated
sad face—the downward turn of the countenance. Additionally, many parts of the
clown’s costume have a floppy or droopy quality. All of this, for the clown, of course,
is established against the backdrop of highly energetic physical motion for the humor
of contrast. Perhaps Kabalevsky is seeking to evoke this same quality of droopiness
in a context of high energy to invoke the desired image.
Finally, it is worth noting that Kabalevsky’s efforts in communicating the image of
clowning takes place in a rigorous intellectual environment. Although the music is
placed in a strict toccata-like texture with étude-like figuration, there is nevertheless
a beautifully crafted and delightfully tuneful melody hidden just beneath the surface,
with a sophisticated harmonic underpinning.
In order to clearly see the workings of a broken-chord texture such as this, it is
often useful to compress the figuration into a homorhythmic chorale in order to gain
a sense of melody, phrase structure, and other relevant details. Example 8.3 shows
the entire piece reduced to a chorale form in simple rhythms. In the example, the
upper note of each interval is the first note of the two note slur. The lower note of
each interval is the second note of each slur.
15_328-Anderson.indb 111 8/11/15 7:58 AM

112 Timothy Shafer
Example 8.3. Op. 27, No. 10, “Clowning,” complete, altered. G. Schirmer, Inc.
In this simplified texture, the melody quickly and naturally emerges as the so-
prano voice and the phrase structure become exceedingly clear. Phrases a and a1
show a parallel major-minor relationship (F major/F minor) dominated by stepwise
motion in the melody. In the b and c phrases, Kabalevsky demonstrates a desire for
intervallic balance in the melody by providing phrases that are broadly characterized
by small leaps. Measure 17 returns to the opening material, reiterating a stepwise
construction that leads to a longer section (phrases a2, d, and a3) exploring the rela-
tive major-minor relationship (F major/D minor). In this extended section, Kaba-
levsky allows the tension to build by the dual means of perpetual rhythmic motion
and limiting the intervals to step motion only. Then he finishes the piece by releasing
the pent-up energy from the previous section, exploding into the coda with a pair of
enormous leaps of descending octaves (mm. 41–end)!
When children understand Kabalevsky’s urgency to achieve the balance in leaps
before the end of the work, it can become a great tool for expression in their hands.
Truly, Kabalevsky has created a work that is as rigorously intellectual as it is imagina-
tive in its depictions.
Some of Kabalevsky’s works draw on the experiences of children with external ob-
jects and events in the child’s world, but others point to inner feelings common to all
of humanity. In “A Sad Story,” op. 27, no. 6, Kabalevsky uses his compositional tools to
create an atmosphere that is unmistakably on the sad side of the emotional spectrum.
Just as with other emotions, sadness carries with it certain physical manifestations
from which composers may draw using sound across real time. Among other physical
gestures, the sad individual frequently exhibits a downward trajectory in body lan-
15_328-Anderson.indb 112 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 8 113
guage and facial expression, moves slowly, and speaks softly and smoothly. There are
certainly moments of upward motion and louder volume in an intensely sad or grief-
stricken individual; often, though, these are gestures of preparation for a longer and
more intense subsequent descent. An outcry, a wail, a lament—all these have certain
preparatory upward motions and accompanying louder volumes, but they generally
terminate in downwardness. These physical indicators, appearing in varying degrees,
are outward cues to the inner feelings. The feelings give rise to the physical manifes-
tations. The reader can surely think of the accompanying physical manifestations or
cues of a variety of emotions: anger, joy, triumph, grief, pain, and so on.
Working in a kind of reverse order of events, composers, including Kabalevsky, often
seek to elicit a particular emotion by calling on various “sound signifiers” in created
contexts. These inherently evoke the physical manifestations in the hearer’s mind and
elicit the desired feeling. Sound signifiers such as ascent, descent, loudness, softness,
shortness, length, speed, and so forth can be used in an infinite number of combina-
tions that call to mind the physical gesture that can accompany a given emotion.
Admittedly, not all hearers will experience similar emotional responses to particu-
lar signifiers in a given context. The reasons for this can be varied. The sequence of
events required to create a successful chain from a composer’s mind to a listener’s
emotional response is complex and rife with opportunities for interruption: the for-
mal cause (the idea from the composer’s mind) may be flawed; the composer’s skill
in setting forth the idea on paper may be insufficient; the performer’s interpretation
may be errant; the instrument(s) used to perform may be in bad condition; or the
listener may bring an inhospitable or distracted attitude to the listening experience.
There are even more reasons than these, but they are beyond our scope here.
“A Sad Story” is a tightly constructed and fascinating puzzle. The work contains
several of the sound signifiers mentioned above that evoke physical manifestations
of sadness. These include a variety of pitch choices representing descent, an implied
slow tempo, slowly moving rhythm, and much legato. Along with these signifiers,
this piece also requires an understanding of Kabalevsky’s control of phrase structure
and interval choice to appreciate his full treatment of this affect. The piece is de-
signed as a series of three-bar forms and a period as seen in figure 8.1. Kabalevsky
Figure 8.1. Op. 27, No. 4, “A Sad Story,”

complete formal design.
15_328-Anderson.indb 113 8/11/15 7:58 AM

114 Timothy Shafer
Example 8.4a. Op. 27, No. 6, “A Sad Story,” mm. 1–4.

G. Schirmer, Inc.
sets forth the clue to the puzzle in the melody of the first phrase: the span of a perfect
4th and its relationship to the interval of a 2nd (see example 8.4a).
It may also be helpful to hear the melody in a blocked harmonic context in or-
der to emphasize the sigh motif created with the interval of a descending 2nd and
developed throughout the work (example 8.4b). In the three subsequent “a” phrases
(in fact, in all the remaining phrases!), Kabalevsky sets about filling in the descend-
ing 4th in a new way each time. In the “b” phrase, Kabalevsky develops the idea of
a sequence of descending 4ths with the structural tones of the phrase, but does so
“from the inside out.” In example 8.5, structural tones are shown in large notes and
the decorative layer in small notes to highlight the phrase.
Example 8.4b. Op. 27, No. 6, “A Sad Story,” mm. 1–4, altered. G. Schirmer, Inc.
Example 8.5. Op. 27, No. 6, “A Sad Story,” mm. 5–8, altered. G. Schirmer, Inc.
In the “d” phrases (mm. 9–12), Kabalevsky presents the inversion of the descend-
ing 4ths from the “a” phrases in a series of short ascending 5th gestures. Even though
this development permits the melody to brighten the affect momentarily, the struc-
tural underpinning for the entire bar form (mm. 9–16) seems to insist on descent,
beginning with the upper voice of the sequential accompanying sigh motive, color-
ing the melodic ascent with a tinge of sadness (see example 8.6).
15_328-Anderson.indb 114 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 8 115
Example 8.6. Op. 27, No. 6, “A Sad Story,” mm. 9–12, accompaniment. G. Schirmer,
Inc.
Using the melody of the “d” phrase (mm. 13–16), Kabalevsky shows a clear,
surface-level chromatic descent (irregular though it may be) to fill in the 4th from F
down to C (see example 8.7). In the third bar form (mm. 17–24), Kabalevsky offers
the two “a” phrases again in slight variation, followed by a “b1” phrase (mm. 21–24)
that demonstrates a slight influence of the ascent seen earlier in the “d” phrases. Still,
it is dominated by the development of the descending 4th and the sigh motive of
the interval of a 2nd.
Example 8.7. Op. 27, No. 6, “A Sad Story,” mm. 13–16. G. Schirmer, Inc.
In the final pair of phrases (the only phrases that are not part of a bar form phrase
structure), Kabalevsky links the two together in a kind of extended lament using the
longest descent seen thus far in the melodic voice. An eight-measure descent of a
10th from A-flat5 to F4 creates the most intense expression of sadness in the work.
Even in this long scalar descent, Kabalevsky retains his commitment to the interval
of the 4th, showing structural moments in the scale on A-flat, E-flat, B-flat, and
finally F (see example 8.8).
Example 8.8. Op. 27, No. 6, “A Sad Story,” mm. 25–32. G. Schirmer, Inc.
The A-flat, B-flat, and F are emphasized by their roles as starting and ending notes
of the phrases; the E-flat receives its emphasis by virtue of its being at the bottom of
the only leap in the entire length of the two phrases.
Kabalevsky’s genius of construction in this work is only touched upon for the
purpose of demonstrating his skill in maintaining the affect using the idea of
descent. In fact, when one examines the accompaniment, descent is at the core
of the entire work. Every phrase group is linked together by descent. A summary
of the accompaniment’s descent found in each phrase group follows in examples
8.9a, 8.9b, and 8.9c.
15_328-Anderson.indb 115 8/11/15 7:58 AM

116 Timothy Shafer
Example 8.9a. Op. 27, No. 6, “A Sad Story,” mm. 1–8 and 17–24, altered. G. Schirmer,
Inc.
Example 8.9b. Op. 27, No. 6, “A Sad Story,” mm. 9–16. G. Schirmer, Inc.
Example 8.9c. Op. 27, No. 6, “A Sad Story,” mm. 25–32, altered. G. Schirmer, Inc.
Example 8.9a shows the summary for both the first and the third bar form (mm.
1–8 and 17–24, respectively). Kabalevsky highlights the two-note sighing motif
in every bar form and only abandons it in the final eight bars, where the extended
scalar descent supplants the sigh motif with a heightened expression of sadness. So
even where the melodic phrases offer variety from overtly descending contours, each
phrase is tinged with an underlying melancholy, as Kabalevsky takes care to maintain
a descending underpinning in the accompaniment’s textures. Sensitive students, with
an awareness of this pervasive descent, can more or less “dial up” sadness in the effect
of a performance according to how much attention is paid to the accompanying lines
in the balance of the parts.
Remarkable in all of this is Kabalevsky’s obvious care to graciously extend the
full measure of his genius, skill, and craftsmanship to children, and the same level
of attention to detail can be found throughout the pedagogical works of this great
Russian master. Kabalevsky recognizes the need for music to communicate at an
emotional level, while simultaneously maintaining the intellectual rigor demanded
of all great works of art. Certainly not all of his works contain programmatic sug-
gestions, but the notion that sound conveys meaning is vital to the output of this
composer working at the height of modernism. His sensitivity, imagination, and
compositional craftsmanship in guiding young children in the world of sound and
meaning has left a legacy that will continue to cross cultural borders and transcend
the boundaries of time.
15_328-Anderson.indb 116 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 8 117
NOTES
1. Although it is not entirely germane to this discussion, music also communicates by

means of individual association—that is, an unrelated and uniquely learned association
brought to the listening experience by the listener.
2. That the term “emotion” contains the word “motion” is no coincidence. The words have
the same root, with Webster’s defining “emotion” as human feeling manifested in outward
physical manifestations.
15_328-Anderson.indb 117 8/11/15 7:58 AM

9
Remembering Alberto Ginastera
Barbara Nissman
I was first introduced to the music of Alberto Ginastera while a young piano stu-
dent at the University of Michigan. At that time, it seemed as if every pianist in the
school was learning Ginastera’s First Piano Sonata. The infectious Latin American
dance rhythms coming from the practice rooms communicated much joy and pas-
sion. This was pure “gut” music: music that teased the brain, went directly to the
heart, and was felt strongly in the pit of the stomach. I confess that I was initially
drawn to its visceral energy, its brilliant virtuosity and natural pianism, and those
strong, driving rhythms. It was tremendous fun to learn and perform, and it was
well crafted for the instrument.
Ginastera had an instinctive knowledge of the keyboard. He possessed an uncanny
ability to exploit a wide range of its coloristic and rhythmic possibilities, and its
lyrical and percussive qualities. He always knew what was innately “pianistic,” what
would work and fit comfortably under the hand. Whether he was writing a string
quartet, a concerto for harp, piano, or violin, or exploring the possibilities of the
human voice in one of his remarkable operas, this talent was evident. I asked him
once if he had ever studied the harp, what it could do and couldn’t do. He laughed
and replied, “Yes, and the things they said it couldn’t—but really could do. That’s
the creative imagination and also the technique.”
One of his masterpieces, the Variaciones Concertantes, featuring twelve members of
the orchestra as soloists, perfectly manifests his skillful virtuosity. As he himself said:
“I write as a spiritual necessity . . . and above all I want my work to be understood.
The music must reach the public through an interpreter, and a successful work, I
think, must emerge as a virtuoso piece for the players.”1
We hear in all of his music the extraordinary virtuosity of his craft: the brilliance of
the orchestration, his affinity for the instrument, the richness of the color palette, but
118
15_328-Anderson.indb 118 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 9 119
most importantly, his unique gift to take us on a magical journey within his fertile
musical imagination and make us respond emotionally.
THE MAN AND HIS MUSIC
My first encounter with Alberto Ginastera was in 1971. He had been invited as the
featured composer to the University of Michigan’s Contemporary Festival. I had
just learned, and had been invited to perform, his First Piano Concerto, written in
1961. The Concerto contained all the elements that initially attracted me to his First
Piano Sonata, written nine years earlier: sharp contrasts, sudden accents, syncopa-
tions, Latin rhythms, motoric rhythmic energy, and a respect for form and structure,
combined with an even wider palette of orchestral colors and fantastic effects. The
rock group Emerson Lake & Palmer responded to its energy and orchestrated the
Toccata finale for one of their popular albums, thus bringing Ginastera’s music to an
even wider audience.
We first met at rehearsal. I remember him sitting alone in the empty hall, listen-
ing; he seemed to be enjoying himself. I also recall that he did not look at all as I
had imagined. He was impeccably dressed in a well-cut, pin-striped suit and could
have easily passed for a rich South American banker. The conductor had stopped the
rehearsal and was asking him about specific measures in the hard-to-read orchestral
parts––what note did he want here, how should it be played? Observing Ginastera as
he listened, I realized that this composition, written ten years earlier, was very distant
from his memory and consciousness. It was as if he were hearing the work for the
first time. And totally amazed by its wonderful effects, he was thoroughly enjoying
the experience. After that performance of the First Concerto, he promised to write a
piano concerto for me. That was the beginning of our friendship.
Five years later in 1976, we met again when he invited me to perform the First
Concerto at his sixtieth birthday celebration in Geneva. At the first rehearsal for this
gala concert, the conductor wanted to rehearse with only the piano soloist, the harp,
and the percussion section; that was certainly a good idea considering the difficulty
of the writing. Ginastera was in the hall listening, and every one of us was amazed by
what we heard. The Concerto had seemingly morphed into another self-contained
composition. It was after that first rehearsal that Alberto said, “Barbara, the work I
write for you will be a concerto for one piano and percussion” (as opposed to the
Bartók concerto for two pianos and percussion!). How exciting! As far as we both
knew, no one had yet written a work for that medium.
As the years passed we spoke many times about “our concerto,” but there were
always other commissions awaiting completion. The Popol Vuh, his orchestral depic-
tion of the birth of the world according to Mayan texts, a commission from Eugene
Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra, was long overdue. Ginastera was notori-
ous for writing slowly. The birthing process of any new work took many years to
come to life. Then, sadly, Ginastera become ill with terminal cancer. Because of these
15_328-Anderson.indb 119 8/11/15 7:58 AM

120 Barbara Nissman
circumstances, my “piano concerto” evolved into the short Third Piano Sonata op.
55, written in 1982. Ginastera had intended to write an Adagio introduction, but
unfortunately he died before it could be realized. The Third Piano Sonata in one
movement became his final work.
FORM AND STRUCTURE
What I remember most from all of our musical discussions over the years was how
important form and structure were to Ginastera’s craft. “A work without form is a
work de-formed” was one of his favorite sayings. “Music is architecture in movement
and the form must always be born with the music. It is not a different thing; it is
the same thing,”2
It is not surprising that Ginastera produced three piano sonatas based on the Clas-
sical sonata form––the perfect home for those strong musical contrasts. His sense of
structure reaffirms my belief that the performer must start his work at the instrument
initially with an understanding of the larger design. Then, all the details can follow.
Attention to melody, harmony, dynamics, touch, and mood will make greater sense
when evaluated within the structural context of the composition. He talked often
about contrast within music as a vital element: “In aesthetics, as in nature, there
exists the law of contrasts: day and night, the sun and the moon, black and white,
allegro and adagio. We must return to contrasts within music.”3
INFLUENCES
Always in evidence in everything Ginastera wrote is the knowledge he acquired by

studying the piano music of Liszt, Bartók, and Prokofiev. His love and respect for
these composers and the piano always shines through––quite amazing considering
that he was not a virtuoso performer himself. I discovered that fact when I asked him
if he played his First Sonata; he nodded his head, but with a grin on his face added,
“one chord per second.” Yet, he seemed to know intuitively what would work at the
instrument. As with Liszt’s piano music, no matter how technically challenging the
writing seems at first glance, once its difficulties are overcome, the notes fit under
the hand and sound even more difficult than actually written.
Ginastera recalled the first time he listened to Bartók’s Allegro Barbaro, performed
by Artur Rubinstein in Buenos Aires: “I felt then the impact of discovery, the be-
wilderment of a revelation. The Allegro Barbaro filled in all the gaps I felt in my
conception of forging a national music.”4 The percussive qualities and the motoric
energy heard in Prokofiev’s and Bartók’s music impacted Ginastera’s piano writing.
Bartók’s influence is clearly heard in Ginastera’s 1952 First Piano Sonata. Passages
such as those seen in examples 9.1 and 9.2 very closely resemble Bartók’s writing in
his 1926 Sonata (see example 9.3).
15_328-Anderson.indb 120 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Example 9.1. Ginastera, Piano Sonata, Op. 22, No. 1, mvt. 2, mm. 35–39. Boosey &
Hawkes.
Example 9.2. Ginastera, Piano Sonata, Op. 22, No. 1, Finale, mm. 60–69. Boosey &
Hawkes.
Example 9.3. Bartók, Piano Sonata (1926), Sz. 80, Finale, mm. 31–41.
15_328-Anderson.indb 121 8/11/15 7:58 AM

122 Barbara Nissman
Similar to the effects that Bartók was able to achieve at the keyboard, Ginastera’s
pianism produces uniquely expressive and coloristic results. Just look at the opening of
the second movement, Presto misterioso, of his First Sonata. Using minimal material,
akin to Bartók, Ginastera conjures up an eerie and ghostly scene, with both hands play-
ing together in unison. The pianist has to experiment to find the right touch to fit the
mood for this opening passage. Lots of pedal vibrato combined with the soft pedal will
help set the stage (see example 9.4). Or compare the night sounds in the second move-
Hawkes.
Hawkes.
15_328-Anderson.indb 122 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Chapter 9 123
Example 9.6. Bartók, Out of Doors, mvt. 4, mm. 1–4. Boosey & Hawkes.
ment of Ginastera’s Second Piano Sonata (see example 9.5) to the opening measures of
Bartók’s “Night Music” from his Out of Doors Suite (example 9.6).
The Toccata finale of the Piano Concerto no. 1 uses a rhythmic motive very
similar to the motive used by Bartók in the finale of his Second Piano Concerto.
Ginastera’s delightful Rondo on Children’s Themes, composed for his two children, is
reminiscent of the Rondos written by Bartók.
RHYTHMIC ENERGY
Rhythmic energy is a vital ingredient in all of Ginastera’s music. It is the element

that creates the momentum and excitement that propels the music forward. The
rhythmic pulse should be as natural to the pianist as breathing; it needs to become
a part of the performer’s DNA. Only then will Ginastera’s music be free to soar.
The piano writing is filled with strong, shifting syncopated accents, sharp contrasts,
typical Latin dance rhythms, and possessed of a vitality, passion, and energy that con-
stantly build in intensity and excitement driving us irresistibly to the last note of the
composition. Basically two contrasting types of rhythms are used by Ginastera: the
kinetic, motoric, percussive energy of the malambo, and the slower and more lyrical
parlando rhythm. The malambo is derived from the dance. The parlando is derived
from song and is closer to speech. Ginastera’s music exploits the contrast between the
15_328-Anderson.indb 123 8/11/15 7:59 AM

124 Barbara Nissman
two, and the variants are infinite in his hands. In his later compositions, this contrast
continues to be explored within a more innovative and modernist language.
The malambo is a very competitive, virile dance in which two gauchos (Argentine
cowboys) compete with each other with increasingly difficult dance steps. This com-
petition could last for hours and hours, with each one trying to best his opponent.
The dance steps take place using a constant rapid 8th-note ostinato rhythm within a
shifting 6/8 meter. The rhythmic emphasis might change from two groups of three
notes to three groups of two notes, as in the opening measures of the last movement
of the First Sonata. The accents in each measure should be defined as 1, 2 or 1, 2,
3 (see example 9.7).
Example 9.7. Ginastera, Piano Sonata, Op. 22, No. 1, Finale, mm. 1–6. Boosey &
Hawkes.
Of course, many variants of the 6/8 rhythm are possible. Accents help maintain
the inner pulse, define the rhythmic contrast, and also create the hypnotic effect
necessary to propel the music forward. I always think of this movement as Ginas-
tera’s response to the finale of Prokofiev’s Seventh Sonata with a touch of Bartók’s
Allegro Barbaro thrown into the mix for inspiration. Lots of similarities! The parlando
rhythm was reserved for music of a much more expressive and sentimental character.
A good example is the lyrical second theme of the first movement of the First Piano
Sonata. Ginastera writes a lovely pastoral melody that provides a marvelous contrast
to the declamatory opening of the Sonata (see examples 9.8 and 9.9).
Example 9.8. Ginastera, Piano Sonata, Op. 22, No. 1, mm. 52–55, second theme.
Boosey & Hawkes.
15_328-Anderson.indb 124 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 9 125
Example 9.9. Ginastera, Piano Sonata, Op. 22, No. 1, mvt. 1, mm. 1–8, first theme.
Boosey & Hawkes.
Ginastera’s music needs to be played with a strong rhythmic energy, but there
must always be flexibility. It should not sound as if a robot or an accurate metro-
nome were doing the playing. There is a difference between metronomic playing
and maintaining a strong inner pulselike momentum. This music needs freedom to
phrase and breathe with a natural rubato, while accommodating subtle harmonic,
melodic, and structural marking points. A solid inner pulse will give direction and
aid the forward motion. We don’t dance like robots; why would we want to play
this joyful music like one! Making the distinction between these two approaches
can transform a good and correct performance into the exciting experience that the
music and its public deserve.
“A MAN OF LATIN AMERICA”
It is evident that this music could only have been written by a “man of Latin Amer-
ica,” as Ginastera liked to call himself. He transports the listener to a world of magic
and fantasy, filled with unusual colors and effects. It’s very similar to the imaginary
world described in the books of the Latin American writer Carlos Casteñeda. As
Ginastera once stated:
This “Latin” thing, the manner, the culture of a Latin-American people is a little dif-
ferent from the European culture. Perhaps, Europe could never have produced a poet
like Neruda or like Whitman because the ambience is truly different––the feeling of the
country, the mountains, the amazon, the jungle. For example, when I write a 3/4-6/8
rhythm—perhaps it is inspired by something Spanish which then became Argentinian.
15_328-Anderson.indb 125 8/11/15 7:59 AM

126 Barbara Nissman
And which developed in my soul and now has become a part of my own language. . . .
And I myself am a composer indigenous to Latin America, not Switzerland or Holland.
I am, after all a man of Latin America.5
Influenced by what Kodály and Bartók achieved with their use of Hungarian folk
material, Ginastera also creates his own brand of “imaginary folklore.” Folk mate-
rial was the inspiration, the catalyst, the jumping-off point for his very personal
language: “When one listens to how Bartók develops a rhythm, how he assimilates
the rhythm of the dance of the peasants into his work . . . one sees that the music
has become not just folkloric, not just a popular dance but something new, personal,
unique, and very expressive.”6
The sounds of the South American plains (the pampas) are part of Ginastera’s
color world: the “night” sounds (later in life expanded to include also the primitive
cultures of the Mayans, Aztecs, and the Incas and the sounds of their ancient instru-
ments and habitats), and the Latin dance styles contribute to Ginastera’s personal
musical language. The gaucho becomes a mythical hero. (Incidentally, Ginastera may
have enjoyed the gauchos in his music, but according to his daughter, Georgina, this
city boy from Buenos Aires never liked being around horses.)
Ginastera’s cultural heritage and its folk influences provided the strong foundation
of his compositional style and identity. He transformed this material in both a tonal
and polytonal context, using a wide color palette, even sounding impressionistic at
times. He spices up the music in true Latin style and achieves sharp contrasts by
alternating expressively lyrical melodies, with violently accented and syncopated
rhythms. Twelve-tone techniques are freely employed in his later works to create a
surrealistic and magical musical canvas. Ginastera was able to expand his musical
vision from Argentina out to the world, but at heart he always remained “a man of
Latin America.”
GINASTERA’S SIGNATURE MOTIF
The chordal structures and patterns of the guitar are an essential part of Ginastera’s
compositional language. He ends his first Argentine Dance with the open strings
of the guitar that form a minor pentatonic scale (see example 9.10). As seen in
Example 9.10. Ginastera, Tres Danzas Argentinas, Op. 2, No. 1, “Danza del viejo
boyero,” mm. 78–82. Boosey & Hawkes.
15_328-Anderson.indb 126 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 9 127
Hawkes.
example 9.11, Ginastera uses the open strings of the guitar as a signature motif,
and this pattern or a variant of it can be found somewhere in practically every
composition be wrote.
Imitation of the guitar pervades so many of his works whether it is used as a full
scale “flamenco style” strumming in the middle section of the third Argentine Dance
op. 2, or as the gentle left-hand accompaniment figure to the beautiful song of the
second dance, “La moza donosa” (see examples 9.12 and 9.13). I remember when I
first played the First Piano Sonata for Ginastera; the only two words he wrote in my
score were como guitarra, written in the second movement’s Presto misterioso (see
example 9.14).
Example 9.12. Ginastera, Tres Danzas Argentinas, Op. 2, No. 3, “Danza del gaucho
matrero,” mm. 104–109. Boosey & Hawkes.
Example 9.13. Ginastera, Tres Danzas Argentinas, Op. 2, No. 2, “Danza de la moza
donosa,” mm. 1–7. Boosey & Hawkes.
15_328-Anderson.indb 127 8/11/15 7:59 AM

128 Barbara Nissman
Example 9.14. Ginastera, Piano Sonata, Op. 22, No. 1, mvt. 2, mm. 109–112. Boosey
& Hawkes.
This rhythmic figure must be played as a gesture. The individual notes are of
less concern than the total effect of imitating the guitar’s sound and strumming ef-
fects. In the Third Sonata, Ginastera makes sure to write in come chitarra (guitar)
frequently throughout the score. This time the figure is a bit more complex, more
dissonant, and technically much more difficult for the performer (see example 9.15).
As seen in example 9.16, polytonality is also a constant in all of Ginastera’s works,
even dating as far back as his Op. 2, Argentine Dances.
Example 9.15. Ginastera, Piano Sonata, Op. 54, No. 3. mm. 77–80. Boosey & Hawkes.
Example 9.16. Ginastera, Tres Danzas Argentinas, Op. 2, No. 1, “Danza del viejo
boyero,” mm. 56–61. Boosey & Hawkes.
15_328-Anderson.indb 128 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 9 129
These characteristics can be observed in Ginastera’s early works: Concierto Argentino

(1935); Tres Danzas Argentinas op. 2 (1937); Tres Piezas op. 6 (1940); Malambo op.
7 (1940); Estancia (1941); Doce Preludios Americanos op. 12 (1944); Suite de danzas
criollas op. 15 (1946); Rondo sobre temas infantiles Argentinos op. 19 (1947).
SOLO PIANO WORKS
One of the most interesting works from this period, the Preludios Americanos, con-
sists of twelve microcosms, sketches of about a minute each without much musical
development. Each represents a kaleidoscope of melodic and rhythmic styles Ginas-
tera had encountered on the American continents. The fifth Prelude, “In the First
Pentatonic Minor Mode,” imitates the Indian flute that he played as a child. The
final Prelude, “In the First Pentatonic Major Mode,” is reminiscent of Debussy’s
Prelude, “La Cathédrale engloutie.” “Tribute to Aaron Copland,” the ninth Prelude,
was probably inspired by Copland’s composition The Cat and the Mouse. (Copland
met Ginastera in 1941 on a fact-finding tour of Latin America and called Ginastera
the “white hope of Latin American music.” I guess we can also call Ginastera the
“Copland” of Latin America!)
It may have been the success and praise for the First Sonata, written in 1952, that
kept Ginastera from writing another work for piano until 1981, with the publication
of his Second Sonata: “It was on account of the success of the first one that I feared
the second.”7 The Sonata no. 3, his final work, was written in 1982. (In between
the First and Second Piano Sonatas, Ginastera wrote the two Piano Concertos of
1961 and 1972). All three sonatas rely heavily on Latin folk material (original to the
composer) and Classical form and structure.
The First Sonata (1952) has become a staple of the twentieth-century repertoire
of today’s performing pianists. Cast in the traditional Classical sonata form, its four
movements demonstrate Ginastera’s pianistic and virtuosic writing. The contrast
between the shifting accents of the opening theme and the second theme’s expressive
lyricism are effectively exploited throughout the first movement’s sonata form (see
examples 9.8 and 9.9). The second movement draws the listener into a totally differ-
ent sound world, a world of ghosts and demons and hallucinations (see example 9.4.)
The third movement, Adagio, is an enlarged recitative based on a twelve-tone variant
of the guitar’s open strings (see example 9.11) and builds to a dramatic central cli-
max. The fourth movement provides a good example of Ginastera’s primitive, rhyth-
mic, motoric energy, so reminiscent of Prokofiev’s toccata writing (see example 9.7).
In the Second Sonata, Ginastera expands his harmonic language: “The first Sonata
was inspired by music of the Argentinean pampas: I was similarly inspired in writing
the second Sonata, which suggests the music of the northern part of my country, of
aymara and kechua origin (non-European music) with its pentatonic scales and joyful
rhythms, its khenas (flutes) and Indian drums as well as its melismatic, microtonal
ornaments.”8 Dissonances are more extreme, and percussive effects are exploited,
15_328-Anderson.indb 129 8/11/15 7:59 AM

130 Barbara Nissman
but the Classical framework remains the same. The contrast between the opening
percussive, rhythmic theme with the second theme’s Indian khenas and drums is well
defined throughout (see examples 9.17 and 9.18).
Hawkes.
Hawkes.
The second movement is a study in color effects depicting the “night sounds of
the lonely Andean punas (“treeless plateaus”) (see example 9.5) and the Hawari (“a
melancholy love song of pre-Columbian origins from Cuzco, with the characteristic
vocal inflections of primitive civilization.”) The third-movement finale, similar to the
First Sonata’s finale, is also a virtuosic tour de force. This sonata demands stamina
and energy from the performer and is well worth the time and effort.
15_328-Anderson.indb 130 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 9 131
The Third Sonata, his final composition, is a one-movement work, “like Proko-
fiev’s Third Sonata, but similar in form to the earlier keyboard sonatas of Scarlatti––
in two parts with an extended, virtuosic coda. This constant toccata-like rhythm,
based on Amer-Indian and colonial dances of Latin America [see example 9.19] is
reminiscent of Schumann’s Toccata.”9
Example 9.19. Ginastera, Piano Sonata, Op. 54, No. 3, mm. 1–7. Boosey & Hawkes.
The Third Piano Sonata was written from Ginastera’s hospital bed in Switzerland
and mailed to me in the United States, a few pages at a time. The only request I
made involved the difficult right-hand glissandi that he had written in parallel 6ths.
Since the piece moves at a remarkable clip, I suggested that these might be easier
to play as octave glissandi, but they are still difficult to execute at this fast tempo.
I recently pulled out the Sonata to include on this season’s recital programs. In the
hands of a lesser composer, the thematic material can sound banal, but Ginastera
makes something special from these rhythms––what this man managed to do with
rhythmic variants is nothing short of miraculous.
THE PIANO CONCERTOS AND OTHER WORKS
What stands out in my memory from my visits with Ginastera and his late wife, the
cellist Aurora-Nátola, at their gracious home in Geneva, was the sound of laughter.
Ginastera had a wonderful sense of humor. He was gifted at making funny, witty
remarks, but always with a straight face and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. We
can also see this humor in some of his compositions. He liked to drop occasional
“quotes” in his music. Quite appropriately, a quote from a Paganini caprice can be
heard in his difficult Violin Concerto, and a quote from Beethoven’s Fourth Piano
15_328-Anderson.indb 131 8/11/15 7:59 AM

132 Barbara Nissman
Concerto is heard in the slow movement of the First Piano Concerto, where the
pianist is also waging its own war with the orchestra. He carries this practice much
further in the opening movement of the Second Piano Concerto that includes quotes
from Beethoven, and also Stravinsky, Brahms, and Chopin.
Also of interest: Ginastera was a great recycler. Sometimes themes would appear
and reappear again and again. Recently, I listened to a performance of his Pampeana
no. 3 for orchestra and in the 2nd movement was surprised to discover the trombone
motif from the finale of his First Piano Concerto. It is also used in another orches-
tral work, Ollantay. If Ginastera liked something, he didn’t want to discard it. The
“Estancia” theme from his popular ballet first appeared in his Concierto Argentino for
piano written six years earlier. Speaking of the Concierto Argentino: on a recent trip
to Philadelphia, I was surprised to discover a manuscript copy of this early piano
concerto, written by Ginastera in 1935. Nicolas Slonimsky had traveled to South
America in the 1940s in search of Latin American music. His trip was sponsored by
the WPA, and that is how the parts landed in the Fleisher Manuscript Collection of
the Free Library of Philadelphia.
Written in the style of his later ballet Estancia, it is obviously a young work but
already contains the seeds of his later musical style. Ginastera subsequently withdrew
the work from publication. Later in his life he reviewed the manuscript and did have
intentions of revising the work, but he died before he had the time to do so. It is
indeed an honor that Aurora Nátola-Ginastera, the widow of the composer, granted
me the exclusive right to perform and record this early work along with his First
and Second Piano Concertos, thus presenting a historical continuum of Ginastera’s
special relationship with the piano concerto. The three piano concertos represent
different stylistic periods in Ginastera’s compositional life. The early Concierto con-
tains all the elements found in his early piano music and reminds me of the Danzas
Argentinas. The piano’s entrance in the beautiful slow movement recalls the clarinet
opening of Rhapsody in Blue; perhaps this is another one of Ginastera’s jokes. The
work is naïve, but still filled with youthful passion and is a real audience-pleaser. The
score has just been published by Boosey & Hawkes.
For me, the First Piano Concerto represents the real masterpiece of all the piano
concertos. This is the one that Keith Emerson (of Emerson Lake & Palmer) liked
well enough to transcribe its finale. This was the first work for the piano that Ginas-
tera returned to after the success of his popular First Sonata, nine years earlier. The
Sonata definitely influenced the form of at least three of its four movements. The
first movement is a set of variations on a twelve-tone theme stated in the orchestra
with three chords and answered with a virtuosic octave cadenza elaborating the row
by the pianist. This is followed by ten strongly contrasting variations; a reprise of
the opening cadenza is brought back in the coda. Ginastera titles the second
movement “Scherzo allucinante” (“hallucinating scherzo”), and it is quite similar in
its mood and pianism to the “Presto misterioso” of the Sonata no. 1. The Adagio that
follows begins with a lush viola solo and ends with a paraphrase from Beethoven’s
15_328-Anderson.indb 132 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 9 133
Fourth Piano Concerto. The Concerto concludes with an exciting Toccata finale,
that resembles the driving ostinato movement from his First Sonata. Essentially,
the Concerto is a bigger version of his Sonata, enhanced greatly by the added color
resources of the orchestra, especially its percussion section.
The undiscovered masterpiece is the Second Piano Concerto. I remember the
first time I heard about this work. I was visiting with Alberto and his wife, Aurora,
at their beautiful apartment in Geneva. They were recently married, and they were
both sharing with me a funny story about a pianist who kept calling every day
while they were on their honeymoon. The pianist was Hilde Somer, nervous about
receiving her commissioned piano concerto on time. She did receive the Second
Concerto in time for its premiere, but as Ginastera told me when he gave me a
copy of the score, “I decided to make this concerto as difficult as I could to say
thank you for all those phone calls.” I remember thinking at the time, “that’s one
of his works that I won’t be studying!”
How wrong I was about that because I have just recorded the work and will be
performing it for Ginastera’s upcoming one hundredth anniversary in 2016. But it is
difficult, probably the most difficult work for piano that Ginastera ever wrote. Not
only is it pianistically challenging, but it is more cerebrally conceived than most of
his other works with much emphasis on retrograde, inversion, canon, mirror form,
mathematical patterns, polytonality, and so on. Some of the twelve-tone language is
not easy to master.
The work pays homage to two musical masters: Beethoven and Chopin. Gi-
nastera begins with one and ends with the other. The first movement of this
mammoth four-movement work is a set of thirty-two variations inspired by the
seven-note chord in bar 208 of the fourth movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Sym-
phony. The second movement is one of Ginastera’s fleeting, magical scherzos that
he originally composed for the right hand alone. Most of the writing rests in the
uppermost register of the keyboard. The pianist Hilde Somer was not very happy
with the “Scherzo” because she had wanted Ginastera to write a left-hand move-
ment for her concerto. So she decided to transcribe the movement herself for the
left hand, altering some of his original writing. After learning this movement for
the left hand, I have gone back to Ginastera’s original version because not only is
this what the composer had intended, but the writing also fits much more com-
fortably under the fingers of the hand for which it was written, making the com-
poser’s directions regarding tempi more easily observed. The third movement is a
poignant Adagio. The fourth movement’s dramatic cadenza functions to prepare
and introduce the finale that moves like the wind. The inspiration for the finale
is the final movement of Chopin’s B-flat Minor Piano Sonata. The polytonal lan-
guage and rhythmic energy are pure Ginastera. The composer remains true to his
inspiration, even ending the movement with a similar gesture that Chopin used to
end his ghostly finale. The Second Concerto is a great piano concerto that deserves
to become a staple of the twentieth-century piano literature.
15_328-Anderson.indb 133 8/11/15 7:59 AM

134 Barbara Nissman
CONCLUSION
What one realizes from studying all of Ginastera’s piano works is how passionate
he was about the piano and its repertoire. He managed to constantly challenge the
performer with his craftsmanship, always expanding the color possibilities of the
instrument. In the process, he managed to transport us to another world, a world of
magic, and always with joy and passion! We can’t help but respond emotionally to
music that goes straight to the heart.
The sheer physical act of playing his piano music has a cathartic effect, provid-
ing a release of raw, earthy emotions that seem to transcend thought. The driving
intensity, the excitement of this exuberant, unrestrained music burst forth to engulf
the listener, communicating with a directness that so often eludes many of today’s
composers. How wonderful to rediscover a composer who can make us feel, who
puts us back in touch with our passions and reaches deep into our soul. He has left
us a rich legacy that, fortunately, will last forever.
NOTES
1. Alberto Ginastera quoted in “Composers: On to Surrealism,” Time Magazine, October

18, 1963.
2. Barbara Nissman, “Alberto Ginastera: Composer of Latin-America,” Keynote Magazine
(August 1983): 12.
3. Ibid.
4. Deborah Schwartz-Kates, Alberto Ginastera: A Research and Information Guide (New
York: Routledge, 2010), 3.
5. Nissman, “Alberto Ginastera,” 12.
6. Ibid.
7. Ibid.
8. Alberto Ginastera, preface to Sonata No. 2 for Piano, Op. 52 (Boosey & Hawkes, 1972).
9. Albero Ginastera, Letter to Barbara Nissman, 1983.
15_328-Anderson.indb 134 8/11/15 7:59 AM

10
Improving the Long Line through
Score Markings in Piano Repertoire
Caroline Hong
It was the close of the first decade of my teaching career, and I was sitting as a
committee member on a doctoral exam for a composition major. He had studied
piano with me and prepared a recital as part of his degree requirements. One of the
committee members noticed the markings I had made in his score and asked where
he came up with them, to which the student replied that they were the markings of
his piano teacher. It was then through this committee member that I became aware
of James Thurmond’s book Note Grouping, and he said that Thurmond’s ideas of
score marking seemed to be similar to my own. It was a startling revelation to see
music expression and phrasing explained out of a book. For me, such concepts
came from a different direction—through hearing inspirational concepts given
out verbally in common settings, such as conservatory classes with Leon Fleisher
and other great artist-teachers. I was, in short, taught musical expression through
heuristics and concepts.
My first position at a small liberal arts college afforded me the opportunity to
teach music in a fashion similar to my conservatory experience: thoroughly, in a
way organically, with only four piano majors in the semester system that included
summer sessions between each academic year. Then I moved on to a large university,
where—faced with a new student demographic and confronted with the scheduling
constraints and fast jury-preps of academic quarters—I found it a real challenge to
involve my students in the same kind of artistic expression I had learned from my
former teachers.
Though I had shied away from writing about music earlier, after the aforemen-
tioned candidacy exam, I began keeping logs of the most frequent, problematic
issues in lessons. Anxious to help my students apply what I had learned about expres-
sive playing, along with the principles Thurmond espoused, I sought to develop a
collection of adapted technical exercises and musical examples drawn from the piano
135
15_328-Anderson.indb 135 8/11/15 7:59 AM

136 Caroline Hong
repertory with suggestions on how not only to improve expressive playing, but also
to apply all the other related elements, such as clarity, aural finesse, technical fluidity,
and longer lines. It was my plan to expand this into a method that would serve as a
reference manual for my students. With assistance from two of my piano students,
who were also composition majors and had mastered the Sibelius program, I started
to write. What follows is a small portion of these examples from the piano literature
that are meant to be illustrative and suggestive of larger concepts that will aid the
students in their efforts to play expressively.
I know that I am not alone when it comes to being involved in one of the most fre-
quently discussed issues in piano lessons, playing and thinking beyond the bar line.
After trying to teach through analogy (e.g., “the bar line is not a stop sign,” “think of
the bar line as a hurdle that you need to get over before landing,” “get over the bar
line before you take time,” or “prepare to take time,” etc.), I found myself resorting
to scribbling on scores, taking a bar line out, sometimes placing it elsewhere, but
mostly asking the student to ignore it.
I didn’t find this to be a problem with just my students. For years, on a very
popular show on the radio, a recording of the second movement of Beethoven’s
Sonata op. 13 was featured, one with unprepared pauses before every measure in
the first phrase. Or, how many auditions had I heard with similar habitual pauses
in the inspired melody found in the first movement of Beethoven’s Sonata op. 110?
Both works seemed more deserving of a soaring interpretation. It is a difficult rite
of passage for students who have had a lifetime of training to play “inside the box”
to learn to play “outside” or “without” the box, to see the longer phrase lines that go
beyond the bar line.
VISUAL CUES
For those who possessed a strong reliance on visual cues, such as bar lines, in the
learning process, providing them with a pre-prepared rescoring of passages has
proven helpful in their achieving longer phrases, and in successfully completing
an upward rising line while marking the high point of the phrase. The musical
examples that follow are obvious instances in which the highest point of pitch does
not coincide with a bar line, and thus instances in which the stress or “show” of the
high point should be displaced to coincide with pitch placement (see examples 10.1,
Example 10.1. Ravel, La Valse, mm. 687–693.
15_328-Anderson.indb 136 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 10 137
10.1a, 10.2, and 10.2a). In both of the aforementioned examples, the idea is to reori-
ent the student visually to the pinnacle of the phrase and not to be thrown by the
downbeats in expressing the upward line.
Example 10.1a. Ravel, La Valse, mm. 687–693, without bars.
Example 10.2. Rachmaninoff, Prelude, Op. 23, No. 4, mm. 50–52.
Example 10.2a. Rachmaninoff, Prelude, Op. 23, No. 4, mm. 50–52, rebarred.
In some phrases, we find examples in which an upward rising line is given the
dynamic marking of diminuendo rather than crescendo. When the downbeat is ac-
cented, diminuendo is disrupted. I found that taking the bar lines out and pencil-
ing in a descending numerical order, as opposed to a descending order of dynamic
indications, often worked better in equating each sonority with a successively softer
dynamic. In the end, students found that a line that suspends and disappears into
thin air is achievable (see examples 10.3 and 10.3a).
15_328-Anderson.indb 137 8/11/15 7:59 AM

138 Caroline Hong
Example 10.3. Chopin, Barcarolle in F-sharp, Op. 60, m. 32.
Example 10.3a. Chopin, Barcarolle in F-sharp, Op. 60, m. 32, with numeric indications.
Another rescoring of the bar line can be useful in trying to impart to the student
the importance of the second beat, as seen in the “Sarabande” of Bach’s Partita no.
1. Though the sarabande was a stylized dance by this time, I found it important to
acknowledge the practice of bowing on the second beat, relaying to the student the
importance of the event on the second beat, and not to play through it as though it
were an insignificant beat. Stress, time, or a flourish would all be ways to acknowl-
edge the second beat. Since it is natural for the student to accent the first beat of
a measure, making the second beat of the measure look like the first achieves the
desired effect of marking the second beat, even pausing or taking time before the bar
lines—all the things we teach against, but that are natural for the student to execute.
The end result is some semblance of a historically informed manner of interpreting
the sarabande (see examples 10.4 and 10.4a).
Example 10.4. Bach, Partita No. 1 in B–flat, BWV 825, “Sarabande,” mm. 1–4.
15_328-Anderson.indb 138 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 10 139
Example 10.4a. Bach, Partita No. 1 in B–flat, BWV 825, “Sarabande,” mm. 1–4, re-
barred.
The concept of layers or strata in music may be easy for the student to perceive, but
reflecting that understanding in the playing can become quite a different story. I am
reminded of Josef Hoffman’s performance of the Rachmaninoff Prelude in C-sharp Mi-
nor in the film Art of the Piano. After watching this segment of the film, my student was
able to hear how the strata are quite polarized in the beginning, with a merging of the
layers reaching an unexpected conflict resolution in the return of the opening material
or A section (tempo I, m. 45). I asked the student to play one layer, while I played the
other, and then we switched parts. I did my best to contrast my color and especially the
timing, or rubato, from the student’s to make the point of how separate our individual
parts should be. When the student put the parts back together, the color and timing of
the layers were distinct. The musical impression of a true crescendo through the piece
and the merging of layers had been achieved (see examples 10.5, 10.5a, and 10.5b).
Example 10.5. Rachmaninoff, Prelude in C-sharp Minor, Op. 3, No. 2, mm. 1–6.
15_328-Anderson.indb 139 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Example 10.5a. Rachmaninoff, Prelude in C–sharp Minor, Op. 3, No. 2, mm. 1–6; note
the part that is split.
Example 10.5b. Rachmaninoff, Prelude in C-sharp Minor, Op. 3, No. 2, mm. 1–6; note
the part that is split.
15_328-Anderson.indb 140 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 10 141
There are any number of pieces in the repertory that would benefit from using
these kinds of visual cues. The practice of varying timing, almost imperceptibly, of
a layer is also successful in works such as the preludes of Debussy. When there are
more than two staves, the identification of layers is a simple process. When not,
the student has to trust that the simple delaying (again as to be imperceptible to
the listener) of the entry of an individual stratum (see example 10.6) can help to
offset this layer without disrupting the overall temporal design. The student is often
afforded the opportunity to take time between bringing in each strata, rather than
being concerned that every entry must be exactly on time. This element of temporal
flexibility is also more conducive to incorporating color changes between the strata.
Example 10.6. Debussy, Prélude, “Le sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir,”
mm. 1–4, lower strata marked.
At one point in my teaching career, I entertained the idea that regardless of a stu-
dent’s ability, technically or musically, it would be helpful to have every student study
a Chopin nocturne for perfecting a flexible, physical approach to lyrical playing. I
leave the choice of their favorite nocturne to the student and have yet to experience
having all students working on this particular assignment during any one year. Ap-
plying the concept of rescoring the left hand in many of the nocturnes (and in the
waltzes and ballades), I was able to impart the important concept that “not all left
hand notes were created equal.”
Example 10.7a is a rescored passage from Chopin’s Nocturne, op. 27, no. 2
(example 10.7). The scoring gives visual cues to help the student perceive and play
a left-hand accompaniment figure properly. Having the student divide the part be-
tween the two hands, with a heavier tone in the lower bass notes, is helpful to the
student when the part is then played as written.
In Beethoven’s sonatas, the modified homophony texture requires the student to
identify the phrase arch yet play parts of the phrase as if they were different families
of instruments in the orchestra. However, I found in the works of Brahms that the
“modification” of the homophony sometimes threw the student off track in execut-
ing the phrase. In example 10.8, the issue is not helped by the odd number of mea-
sures in the phrase coupled with the dynamic indication. By moving the different
15_328-Anderson.indb 141 8/11/15 7:59 AM

142 Caroline Hong
Example 10.7. Chopin, Nocturne, Op. 27, No. 2, mm. 1–5.
Example 10.7a. Chopin, Nocturne, Op. 27, No. 2, mm. 1–5; left hand rescored for
playing with both left and right hands.
octaves of a phrase into the same plane, or tessitura, the unit of the phrase can be
identified and consequently shaped accordingly. This results in playing the moving
tessitura with a corresponding change of color without disrupting the phrase arch.
Another helpful way to approach this kind of phrase is to strive for the changes
between register to be dialogical while remembering that each two-note resolution
belongs to the same conversation (see examples 10.8 and 10.8a).
I am certain that many of my colleagues have their students practice passages
using blocked sonority as a means of physically orienting their hands to the
sonorities used in a composition. This is effective in saving wear and tear on
the hands and improves fluid playing. A passage from Debussy’s “Jardins sous
la pluie” with rescoring aiding the benefit of this type of practice is shown in
examples 10.9 and 10.9a.
15_328-Anderson.indb 142 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Example 10.8. Brahms, Intermezzo, Op. 117, No. 3, mm. 46–50.
Example 10.8a. Brahms, Intermezzo, Op. 117, No. 3, mm. 46–50, melody, only in
same octave.
Example 10.9. Debussy, Estampes, “Jardins sous la pluie,” mm. 64–70.
15_328-Anderson.indb 143 8/11/15 7:59 AM

144 Caroline Hong
Example 10.9a. Debussy, Estampes, “Jardins sous la pluie,” mm. 64–70, blocked
sonorities.
Despite the fact that the works of Debussy were written more than a century
ago, the augmented chord can still come as a surprise to the hand. But placed
within the context of canonized literature, this piece, and others of Debussy, seems
less of a problem than pieces that are saturated with other more unfamiliar sonori-
ties. One example of such a work is the Donald Harris Piano Sonata of 1957. As
Seon Ok Kim writes in her DMA document, “Analysis and Performance Aspects
of Donald Harris’ Piano Sonata” (1957), it is useful to use augmented triads as a
warm-up. Taking this a step further, it is additionally effective to isolate, identify,
and mark each type of sonority, and then use those sonorities as a warm-up. In
other contemporary pieces, intervals of 7ths and 9ths, in addition to nontriadic
sonorities, can be given the same treatment. The element of surprise to the hand is
minimized and is also effective in prevention of hand injury when playing difficult
and virtuosic twentieth-century music.
Labeling the augmented chords with something as simple as a plus (+) sign, and
moving directly from one to the next can create an exercise for training the eye to
move quickly and to physically anticipate the sonority, and it creates a warm-up
for the hands to acclimate them to this sonority. Isolating this parameter enables
the pianist to achieve physical comfort that is especially important for the hands in
style-forward pieces.
The labeling of sonorities can be helpful, but the practice of labeling rhythms
in fast, virtuosic passages is also helpful in achieving rhythmic flow. Patterns are
identified when making these notations, and marking the score makes it more likely
that the rhythm will be internalized. In Hyekyung Yoon’s DMA document, “An In-
troduction of Carl Vine’s Three Piano Sonatas with Emphasis on Performance and
15_328-Anderson.indb 144 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 10 145
Practice Suggestions for Sonata No. 2,” Vine’s pattern of descending numerical order
of 4, 3, 2, 1 is identified; each sonority moves successively from one-sixteenth note
of the beat to the next in reverse order (see examples 10.10 and 10.10a).
In a case where the playing of tricky rhythms is in combination with other play-
ers, such as in chamber or orchestra works, there is no place for hesitation or error,
so this kind of labeling can prove extremely reliable. Examples 10.11 and 10.11a
correspond to mm. 126–130 in Charles Ives’s Country Band March. They follow
a thirteen-measure rest (tacet) and double the rhythm played by the percussion.
Studying and marking the score as shown identifies a similar pattern to the Vine
examples of 4-3-2-1.
Example 10.10. Vine, Sonata No. 2, mm. 426–433. Faber Music.
15_328-Anderson.indb 145 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Example 10.10a. Vine, Sonata No. 2, mm. 426–433; note marked rhythms. Faber
Music.
Example 10.11. Ives, Country Band March, mm. 126–130.
15_328-Anderson.indb 146 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 10 147
Example 10.11a. Ives, Country Band March, mm 126–130.
Even though Sergei Babayan gave me guidance in matters of artistic vision, inter-
pretational prowess, and connection with my audience, my own playing also needed
correction regarding basic hand and foot coordination. Coordinating the pedal with
choral arpeggiation to maintain the sonority of the chord was a typical problem that
was quickly solved by adopting an “on the beat” or “hands together” approach. I
later found myself passing this on to students of my own, many of whom were in-
ternational, female, and had diminutive stature and small hand structure. In all cases,
the tendency was for the student to begin the arpeggiation of the chord prior to the
beat, then change the pedal on the downbeat, losing the bass note of the sonority
and obscuring the bassline. I can’t tell you how many times the students believed
that they were actually playing hands together, and not rolling some of the chord
prior to the beat! By actually writing it out, the student is much more in a position
to be able to coordinate the pedal with the bass note, make modifications at a later
point, and eventually be able to put the pedal with the left hand regardless of when
they begin playing the chord. The following is a simple suggestion to get the student
started (see examples 10.12, 10.12a, 10.12b).
Example 10.12. Chopin, Barcarolle Op. 60, m. 8.
The playing of the sonority from bottom to top can maintain all notes of the
sonority with the new pedal. Examples 10.12a and 10.12b are notations of how this
can be achieved. This type of measuring works particularly well in passages moving
quickly, or in Classical pieces where measured rhythm is desirable and reliable. The
arpeggiation in examples 10.13 and 10.13a is measured by forming a triplet with
the previous note.
15_328-Anderson.indb 147 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Example 10.12a. Chopin, Barcarolle Op. 60, m. 8, scored for arpeggiation.
Example 10.12b. Chopin, Barcarolle Op. 60, m. 8, scored differently.
Example 10.13. Schubert, Sonata D. 664, m. 1.
Example 10.13a. Schubert, Sonata D. 664, m. 1; note triplet formation.
15_328-Anderson.indb 148 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 10 149
Similarly in Schumann’s Kriesleriana, the maintaining of expressive counterpoint,

while arpeggiating vertically, presents additional challenges because of the closer
proximity of the arpeggiations (see examples 10.14 and 10.14a). Here the pedal
and bass note should coordinate on the beat, and the player should then determine
variations in timing. Again, this is simply a suggestion to get the student started,
and to make decisions based on their timing, taking into account elements such as
harmony, placement within the phrase, arch of the phrase, and so on.
Example 10.14. Schumann, Kriesleriana, “Sehr innig und nicht zu rasch,” mm. 18,
25–27.
Example 10.14a. Schumann, Kriesleriana, “Sehr innig und nicht zu rasch,” mm. 18,
25–27; note variations in timing.
Using the vertical plane as a point of departure, there are passages in the music
where the hands are at different points in dynamic shape because of their placement
in their respective phrase trajectory. Such passages are common in the literature, with
one hand expressing the end of the phrase as the other expresses the beginning. It
can be difficult for a student who is finally perceiving music horizontally or linearly
to express the different points in the dynamic and melodic arches between the voices
(hands). To illustrate the point of labeling dynamics to help with voicing and voice
entry, I begin with a very short example below (see examples 10.15 and 10.15a).
I use these polar dynamic markings to ensure that there is clear voicing. Only
when this becomes clear in the sound is one able to talk about gradations in the
dynamics to correspond with the general dynamic direction of the phrase. Examples
10.16 and 10.16a illustrate a slightly longer passage with both suspensions and
resolutions addressed and also consider the overall phrase shape. An extension of
this type of vertical point dynamic labeling can be used in order to achieve a more
15_328-Anderson.indb 149 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Example 10.15. Brahms, “Intermezzo,” Op. 118, No. 4, mm. 57–58.
Example 10.15a. Brahms, “Intermezzo,” Op. 118, No. 4, mm. 57–58, with extreme
dynamics.
Example 10.16. Bach, Goldberg Variations, BWV 988, Canon at the Interval of the
Sixth, mm. 1–4.
Example 10.16a. Bach, Goldberg Variations, BWV 988, Canon at the Interval of the
Sixth, mm. 1–4, with dynamics.
15_328-Anderson.indb 150 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 10 151
Example 10.17. Chopin, Ballade, Op. 52, No. 4, mm. 1–2.
Example 10.17a. Chopin, Ballade, Op. 52, No. 4, mm. 1–2, with dynamics.
difficult execution of the voices moving in opposite dynamic directions, such as in

Chopin’s Ballade, op. 52, no. 4 (see examples 10.17 and 10.17a).
Since linear playing is achieved by perception, and legato playing by finger legato,
and because of the importance of legato playing in piano music, I include a practice
technique that would come from a different part of this collection of examples that
is related to adapted technical exercises. I was introduced to “measured overlap” by
my pre-college teacher, Dr. Marylou Dietzer, who was extremely adept at making
technical exercises out of passagework, thus directly addressing and overcoming the
technical difficulties related to virtuosic passages (see examples 10.18 and 10.18a).
This is, again, a way to move more strategically through the lesson time by offering
a visual cue so that students are sure they are implementing the correct practice tech-
nique, ensuring that there is a limited possibility for incorrect execution. It also gives
the students something to take home, where they will be more likely to practice and
Example 10.18. Beethoven, Piano Concerto, Op. 37, No. 1, 1st mvt., cadenza.
15_328-Anderson.indb 151 8/11/15 7:59 AM

152 Caroline Hong
Example 10.18a. Beethoven, Piano Concerto, Op. 37, No. 1, 1st mvt., cadenza with
measured overlap.
consequently improve finger legato, regardless of whether they rely on the muscle
and temporal memory from the lesson.
Measured overlap is a practice technique that can solve shortcomings in consistent
legato playing by ensuring that every note is held until the next note is played. It is
very difficult to know if the student is actually practicing in this manner, because it
can seem tedious. I recommend practicing with them during the lesson. Obviously,
this method of practice could be applied to different passages earlier in the concerto,
when the pianist is playing with the orchestra. However, in the cadenza, the pianist is
exposed, and if only one page of measured overlap is going to be practiced, it is most
strategic to use these passages in the cadenza. Examples 10.19 and 10.19a show that
a nonpedaled passage that occurs immediately after a heavily pedaled passage needs
continuity of fluid and smooth playing. In this piece, the measured overlap practice
should be applied to this passage first.
Example 10.19. Beethoven, Sonata Op. 53, Rondo, m. 23.
Example 10.19a. Beethoven, Sonata Op. 53, Rondo, m. 23, with measured overlap.
On the issue of overlap, I have found that playing two-note phrases in Mozart (as
seen in examples 10.20 and 10.20a) can be executed beautifully when played with a
slight overlap. The tendency to “clip” the second of two notes is common because the
15_328-Anderson.indb 152 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 10 153
Example 10.20. Mozart, Sonata K. 333, mm. 1–2.
Example 10.20a. Mozart, Sonata K. 333, mm. 1–2; note staccato note.
less-seasoned pianist attempts to play the two-note phrase with the correct articula-
tion, causing the second note to be overly detached.
Some editions are overly edited, and I have found these encourage the student
to play with an undesirable articulation based on the visual perception rather than
the aural. It’s a trade-off, because an urtext score often does not contain sufficient
suggested fingerings for the student, especially those who may have had relatively
limited experience with a historically informed execution of Mozart’s works. In the
latter situation, much time should be spent on fingerings for passage work. In any
case, by simply holding the first of the two notes until the second note is lifted (with
supple wrist, still), it becomes nearly impossible to “clip” the second note, creating
a smooth execution and a louder first note by virtue of it sounding longer than the
second (see example 10.20b).
Example 10.20b. Mozart, Sonata K. 333, mm. 1–2, rescored.
15_328-Anderson.indb 153 8/11/15 7:59 AM

154 Caroline Hong
CONCLUSION
I have aimed to help the student and teacher work effectively through passages by
having visual cues ready for study. In this way, the lesson time, as one moves through
troubleshooting problematic passages and passagework, or through discussion of
practice techniques, eventually opens up a discussion of big-picture issues related to
execution, form, narrative, and other higher levels of thinking. If the examples or
excerpts are studied independently (i.e., outside the individual lesson, as in a larger
course), the students could then attain skill sets for troubleshooting on their own.
The end goal is for the student to gain the ability to become more independent in
identifying similar passages in their repertoire, then applying and modifying these
concepts to their practice and performance. In this way, the student begins on the
path of self-reliance and inspired problem solving—skills that we surely want to give
to our students— enabling them beyond their years under our tutelage.
15_328-Anderson.indb 154 8/11/15 7:59 AM

11
Aaron Copland and the Musical Idea
Hilary Demske
“It is precisely the heterogeneity of Copland’s compositions, reflecting the di-

versity and plurality of American culture, that unifies and defines his musical
Americanism.”1
Aaron Copland once joked with comedian Groucho Marx that as a composer he suf-
fered from a split personality. Since both of them were working for Samuel Goldwyn
Studios in Hollywood, Marx replied, “Well, it’s O.K., as long as you split it with
Mr. Goldwyn.”2 Copland’s wide range of styles includes a rousing patriotic orchestral
piece, a rigorously serial piano work, a jazzy burlesque tune inspired by a striptease,
and a simple song about a cat.3 This melting pot of styles personifies the American
spirit of diversity, placing Copland’s at the forefront of twentieth-century American
composers, where he has rightly earned the title “Dean of American Music.”4
Fortunately for pianists, there is no doubt about his instrument of choice. Cop-
land’s “use of the piano was so integral . . . that it permeated his compositional style,
not only in the frequent use of the instrument itself, but in more subtle and complex
ways.”5 Possessed with admirable technique, but not a virtuoso, Copland used the
keyboard to compose isolated musical gestures without a specific piece in mind.
When he began a new work, he would select ideas from these “gold nuggets”6 and
compose a draft for one or two pianos. Even when composing an orchestral piece,
Copland would first write down a complete sketch for the piano.
Given this inclination, it is not surprising that he chose the piano to represent
many of his more personal and experimental compositions. His pieces were influ-
enced by both Western and non-Western sources, jazz improvisation and serialism,
and programmatic and abstract philosophies. Despite this diversity, his music still
manages to have an instantly recognizable “Copland sound.”7 His preference for
sparse textures and long, angular melodies was influenced by Nadia Boulenger’s8
155
15_328-Anderson.indb 155 8/11/15 7:59 AM

156 Hilary Demske
idealization “of the long line: starting a piece at the first note and going straight on
until the end in some connected fashion.”9 His expansive and clear melodies, how-
ever, are often markedly disjointed with unbalanced angles resolving to unexpected
harmonies. In many ways, this aesthetic places more responsibility on the pianist;
fewer notes leave less room for error. Furthermore, the diversity of his styles demands
that even short pieces receive thoughtful consideration to assess and convey style and
character.
Pianists who play Copland inevitably expand their creativity and musical horizons
precisely because every piece has a distinctly unique set of influences, challenges, and
innovations. The following general principles are central to effectively performing
Copland’s piano repertoire:
1. Listen for color in the space between the notes.

2. Explore imaginative and improvisational gestures.
3. Emphasize both derivative and experimental styles.
FINDING COLOR IN THE SPACES
Copland’s colorful music requires the pianist to shape both the notes and the spaces
that are between the notes, a concept complicated by angular lines prone to unin-
tended accents. One example (see example 11.1) of his penchant for irregular lines
and phrases is seen in Down a Country Lane, commissioned by LIFE magazine for
“young piano students.”10
The pastoral mood can easily be lost through a clumsy execution of the hand
position shifts, creating undesired accents on the right hand thumbs in mm. 2 and
4. The final destination of the line is unclear because Copland habitually avoids
the tonic, starting phrases with a predominant (ii or IV chord) and ending them
with the dominant. Creating a wistful, longing quality depends on the performance
possessing nuanced sound, rubato, and dynamic control, a difficult task for even
advanced pianists.
In order to create color between each note, the pianist must first listen for color
between each note. This easily overlooked idea is at the heart of musical playing: pol-
ished, clear lines are played more with the ear than with the fingers. From a technical
perspective, it is essential for pianists to slowly rotate their wrists in order to play
the lines evenly and with nuanced color. Wrist rotation will help the pianist reach
the wide intervals with a relaxed, legato touch and eliminate tightness and tension.
Copland’s slurs indicate organically connected arm movements, therefore the end of
each slur signals an expressive breath leading to the next musical gesture.
Particular attention should be placed on mm. 9 and 10. Despite the close interval
range, rotation of the wrist is even more essential with these two measures. The deli-
cate, lingering quality in m. 10 relies on a warm, controlled sound that comes from
a relaxed rotation of the wrist and a relatively flat fingertip.
15_328-Anderson.indb 156 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 11 157
Example 11.1. Down a Country Lane, mm. 1–14. Boosey & Hawkes.
A similar focus on highly nuanced shades of color between the notes of a long,
unbalanced line is found in the Piano Sonata. Conservatively composed in Sonata-
Allegro form, the first movement notably builds to two dramatic measures of silence
(mm. 188 and 195) toward the end of the development (see example 11.2).
These rests clearly function as a continuation of the previous phrase’s intensity and
dramatic musical gesture; Copland meticulously changes the time signature for each
measure of rest instead of simply writing a fermata. The pianist needs to crescendo
through each measure and dynamically connect the notes around the rests in order
to convey a solid, continuous line.
The last movement of the Piano Sonata features a similar texture to Down a
Country Lane, sparsely written with legato slurs that can be easily overplayed by the
unsuspecting pianist. These “pervasive bell-like tollings of alarm and mourning”11
necessitate hand positions for each chord, but they still need to be played smoothly
and evenly (see example 11.3).
One solution is to play the melody note first with legato fingering, specifically
feeling a connected up-down motion for each gesture. More pressure and arm
weight naturally placed on the top note will result in a smooth decrescendo. When
15_328-Anderson.indb 157 8/11/15 7:59 AM

158 Hilary Demske
Example 11.2. Piano Sonata, mvt. 1, mm. 184–195. Boosey & Hawkes.
Example 11.3. Piano Sonata, mvt. 3, mm. 1–10. Boosey & Hawkes.
controlling this sound feels natural and effortless, play all of the notes of the chord
with the same feeling. If the sound is harsh or abrupt, make sure the thumb is re-
leasing on each note. The thumb should never grip or pinch the note but instead
drop freely and then relax, opening the hand very slightly.
Despite the ff dynamic markings and opening accents, the focus of the movement
should be on creating and controlling a nuanced and wide color palate. By increas-
ing or decreasing the speed of the initial attack, changing the weight of the follow-
15_328-Anderson.indb 158 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 11 159
through arm movement, and wrist rotation between successive chords, the pianist
can elicit a hauntingly beautiful mix of colors.
IMAGINATION AND IMPROVISATION
From a “street in Brooklyn that can only be described as drab,” Copland gave voice
to the American pioneer, the excitement of Mexico, the sounds of a jazz hall, a quiet
meditation, and the anguish of war.12 His boundless imagination and deep respect
for diversity translates into effortlessly sincere musical representations of traditions
and styles.
It is fitting that Copland’s childlike imagination was often meant for children. In
addition to the three major piano pieces (Piano Variations, Piano Sonata, and Piano
Fantasy), Copland composed an array of shorter, pedagogically inspired pieces writ-
ten to “provide challenging contemporary music for young performers.”13 He even
planned an ill-fated method book series called Piano Miscellany, with separate books
for children, teenagers, and adults, and wrote pedagogical pieces at various points
throughout his career. Boosey & Hawkes has compiled a number of his short pieces
in the volume Aaron Copland: Piano Album. These include “The Young Pioneers,”
“Sunday Afternoon Music,” “Petit Portrait,” “Midsummer Nocturne,” “In Evening
Air,” “Down a Country Lane,” and arrangements from Our Town and Rodeo. Addi-
tional works, such as “Four Piano Blues,” “Three Moods,” and “Two Piano Pieces,”
are found in the Boosey & Hawkes volume Aaron Copland: The Copland Piano Col-
lection. Interestingly, Copland’s most famous children’s piece, The Cat and the Mouse,
was not written for children but instead as an early foray into ultramodern composi-
tion.14 The piece’s immediate popularity has continued to grow, and it remains today
one of the most recognizable American works for the piano.
Overtly programmatic, The Cat and the Mouse was inspired by Jean de la Fon-
taine’s poem The Old Cat and the Young Mouse, about an old cat about to eat a young
mouse. The mouse tries to convince the cat to let him go, reasoning that he would
make a better meal for the cat’s progeny if he was allowed to live and gain additional
weight. The cat, however, is not convinced:
Replied the captor, “You mistake;

To me shall such a thing be said?
Address the deaf! Address the dead!
A cat to pardon!—old one too!
Why, such a think I never knew.
Thou victim of my paw,
By well-establish’d law,
Die as a mousling should,
And beg the sisterhood
Who ply the thread and shears,
To lend thy speech their ears.
Some other like repast
My heirs may find, or fast.”
15_328-Anderson.indb 159 8/11/15 7:59 AM

160 Hilary Demske
The poem then concludes with a take-away lesson for the reader:
He ceased. The moral’s plain.

Youth always hopes its ends to gain,
Believes all spirits like its own:
Old age is not to mercy prone.15
Although tightly unified, the piece needs an improvisatory approach to bring these
imaginative characters to life.16 Copland felt that performances or recordings that
repeat just one musical possibility “remove from music one of its most valuable assets
which is that of interpretation.”17 Although the theoretical underpinnings of The Cat
and the Mouse were rigorously ordered, the rhythm, timing, and dynamics in The
Cat and the Mouse should be highly flexible and improvisational (see example 11.4).
Example 11.4. The Cat and the Mouse, mm. 1–6. Boosey & Hawkes.
The vivid imagery of two animals scampering up and down the piano can be
heightened by strategically taking more time at the top of phrases, for example, at the
end of mm. 2, 3, and 4. The longest time should be reserved for the fermata in m. 4,
but an unpredictable sense of space before mm. 3 and 4 will significantly contribute
to the playful character. The ff gesture in m. 4 can then be played faster, with a clear
top note for each sequenced downbeat. The success of this opening passage depends
entirely on personalizing the notes, dynamics, and articulations—if the pianist does
not engage with the music and surprise himself with the abrupt character shifts,
the audience will also not be surprised. One helpful exercise can be to scat sing the
opening phrase on a single syllable while making a fluid hand motion and varying
the urgency of breath.
15_328-Anderson.indb 160 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 11 161
There is no limit to the narrative and musical possibilities; the more specific story
a pianist can imagine the better. Teachers can encourage unique interpretations by
asking questions like “What color is the cat: gray with white paws, or black with yel-
low eyes? What is the mouse’s name? Where do they live: on the street or in a house?
Who is the bad guy, the cat or the mouse? What is the mouse doing in this measure?”
If a passage is not effective, describing that you heard a “tired cat” or a “mouse with
a broken leg” can give the student an immediate connection between their playing
and the character development, both literally and figuratively.
Copland’s own playing evidenced his improvisational style. David Del Tredici
recalls an enlightening incident with Copland during a discussion about his Piano
Concerto.
Aaron said, “No one plays this right.” He jumped up and played the opening of the
second movement for me. I realized when I heard him that there was no way to write
it down exactly as he played. It was so idiosyncratic-like trying to write down a jazz
improvisation; there’s no notational equivalent.18
This sense of freedom is central to performing his piano music. Copland noted,
“Musical notation is severely limited––notes by themselves tell you not nearly
enough. This applies as well to the rhythmic life of a piece despite the fact that
rhythms are able to be notated with a fair degree of precision.”19
Pianists should likewise find the “rhythmic life” behind the rhythm, and discover
that music doesn’t have to be improvised to sound improvised.
EMPHASIZE DERIVATIVE STYLES

AND EXPERIMENTAL TEXTURES
Copland’s exceptionally wide musical landscape makes it particularly insightful for

the performer to understand an individual piece’s stylistic influences and innova-
tions. Many of his pieces have a hybrid of derivatives that draw freely from multiple
sources. Often these sources were manipulated into new musical molds that reflected
the particular piece; his pieces were guided by his ear more than any preconceived
formula. Copland distanced himself from the highly ordered and mathematical
structure of composers like Milton Babbitt, saying, “I always think of a theme. . . .
I haven’t that kind of [mathematical] brain. I feel lucky enough if I can add prop-
erly.”20 Although Copland’s pieces are tightly unified, he gave an even higher priority
to expressing the musical character.
One of his most important works is Piano Variations, a work overtly derived from
serialism, a method pioneered by Arnold Schoenberg that reorders a specific set of
notes into different combinations. Copland takes a four-note theme and transforms
it into every conceivable combination throughout twenty variations and a coda. The
work is a revelation, both in terms of providing a fresh perspective to the traditional
15_328-Anderson.indb 161 8/11/15 7:59 AM

162 Hilary Demske
variation form and pioneering new aspects of serialism. Copland wrote each varia-
tion separately and not in sequence, then ordered them in a way that gave the set a
unique structure. Arthur Berger writes that this “structure was an achievement. . . .
Its theme contained tones that were used for all they were worth by the time the
work was over. Each chord or figure could be traced directly back to it.”21
In addition to the juxtaposition of variation form with serialism, other influences
have been identified throughout the work. The seventeenth variation is particularly
intriguing, featuring a sudden change of texture in m. 236 (see example 11.5). The
right hand plays a repetitive E major chord over a variety of shifting time signatures.
Example 11.5. Piano Variations, Variation 17, mm. 229–240. Boosey & Hawkes.
This passage eludes a textbook definitive jazz rhythm, but shifting beats lie at
the core of its character. Scholars have puzzled over the slippery nature of the varia-
tion. For example, Julia Smith identifies parallels with the fox-trot and Charleston
rhythm in the texture. Carol Oja hears a jazz syncopation in the alternating groups
of two and three. Arthur Berger and Stanley Kleppinger side with an ambiguous,
generalized sense of jazz. And Neil Butterworth claims that all jazz aspects had been
eliminated through Copland’s new ascetic style.22 Add to the mix Michael Tilson
Thomas, who hears a Latin American style in the static texture, and the performer
has a wide variety of scholarly opinions at his disposal.
The best interpretation is the one that the performer is passionate about portray-
ing. Adapting any of the previously mentioned interpretations will result in precise
rhythmical execution and increased attention to sound, voicing, and dynamics—pre-
cisely the elements needed for a convincing performance. The reward of contemplat-
ing a derivative style is a more dramatic and personal performance.
In addition to incorporating familiar styles, Copland was adept at inventing
new, experimental textures. The beginning of the Piano Variations features a silently
pressed note (C-sharp) that causes sympathetic harmonic vibrations from additional
sharply played notes (see example 11.6).
15_328-Anderson.indb 162 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 11 163
Example 11.6. Piano Variations, mm. 1–5. Boosey & Hawkes.
Another simple yet effective innovation is found in Midday Thoughts, originally

sketched in 1944 for piano and orchestra. This charming work features two alter-
nating thoughts with unusual voicing and spacing textures. The second of the two
features a meandering melody that transfers between hands and inadvertently creates
an arpeggio (see example 11.7).
Example 11.7. Midday Thoughts, mm. 11–16. Boosey & Hawkes.
Copland draws a line connecting the D-sharp in m. 12 to the C-sharp in m.

13, identifying it as the main melody. The presence of two surrounding nonme-
lodic C-sharps in the measure, however, gives the impression that the melody
appears from the middle of an arpeggio; the first C-sharp naturally sounds like a
melodic note regardless of how softly it is played, the second C-sharp is correctly
the loudest, and the third pleads for tapering and sounds like an echo. This clever
technique is analogous to rubbing one’s eyes to make sure the picture is in focus:
the delicate blurriness is absolutely remarkable. Recognizing the unique effect of
15_328-Anderson.indb 163 8/11/15 7:59 AM

164 Hilary Demske
this texture will help the pianist taper even more into the last C-sharp and gauge
the appropriate amount of rubato for the arpeggio.
CONCLUSION
Copland’s music originated from an underlying musical gesture or idea for each
piece. His willingness to compose in a way that reflected the originality of each idea
resulted in stylistic diversity. He noted,
I can only say that those commentators who would like to split me down the middle
into two opposing personalities will get no encouragement from me. I prefer to think
that I write my music from a single vision; when the results differ it is because I take into
account with each new piece the purpose for which it is intended and the nature of the
musical materials with which I begin to work. Musical ideas engender pieces, and the
ideas by their character dictate the nature of the composition to be written.23
This primary focus on musical ideas resulted in Copland creating unique hybrid
forms that incorporate elements from disparate styles. Chopin created hybrid forms
by combining a fantasy and an impromptu, whereas Copland used a discarded se-
rial variation from the Piano Variations for the climax of the Hollywood film score,
The Heiress. Both methods succeeded in using well-known forms and applying
them in highly innovative ways. Musical confidence lies at the heart of Copland’s
repertoire—the audience laughed during his accessible Music for the Theatre and the
orchestra itself hissed during his radical Piano Concerto.24 But his dedication to the
musical idea allowed him to follow its outcome and be sure of the results.
Copland’s belief that music can inspire different people in different ways allows
performers to be confident and bold in shaping their personal interpretations. With
a strong musical idea at the forefront, the pianist gains deeper clarity of expression
and can discover the richness of the music. This is the ultimate goal that Copland
had for his music:
I think that my music . . . is a confirmation of life, of the importance of life. If there is

a unifying core in it all, it is a sense of affirmation. I would also like to think that my
music enlarges the listener’s sphere of reference, just as when I listen to a great work by
Bach or Palestrina, I have a larger sense of what it means to be alive than if I didn’t hear
that work. That is one of the great things about art . . . that it does enlarge the sense of
who you are and what life is all about.25
As pianists navigate Copland’s diverse repertoire, they can augment and personalize
the integrity of his musical ideas by listening to color between the notes, playing with
imagination and improvisation, and emphasizing derivative styles and experimental
textures. As a result, they will be able to add their unique voice to Copland’s Ameri-
can sound at the piano.
15_328-Anderson.indb 164 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 11 165
NOTES
1. Marta Robertson and Robin Armstrong, Aaron Copland: A Guide to Research (New
York: Routledge, 2001), 3.
2. Richard Kostelanetz, ed., Aaron Copland: A Reader, Selected Writings: 1923–1972 (New
York: Routledge, 2004), xxviii.
3. These descriptions refer to Rodeo: “Hoedown”; Piano Variations; Music for the Theater:
“Burlesque”; and Old American Songs: “I Bought Me a Cat.”
4. Howard Pollack, Aaron Copland: The Life and Work of an Uncommon Man (New York:
Henry Holt, 1999), 186.
5. Vivian Perlis and Aaron Copland, Copland since 1943 (New York: St. Martin’s, 1989),
255.
6. Ibid.
7. Kostelanetz, Aaron Copland, 349.
8. Copland studied harmony and composition with Nadia Boulenger at the American
School at Fontainebleau. She was one of the most important influences in his musical devel-
opment.
9. Kostelanetz, Aaron Copland, 349.
10. Copland wrote that “this composition is a bigger challenge than it first looks, and
even third-year students will have to practice before trying it in public” (Perlis and Copland,
Copland, 261).
11. Pollack, Aaron Copland, 351.
12. Kostelanetz, A Reader, xix. Pieces in these categories include The Young Pioneers, Three
Latin-American Sketches, Music for the Theatre, Three Moods: “Wistful,” and Fanfare for the
Common Man.
13. Perlis and Copland, Copland, 258.
14. The term “ultramodern” refers to Copland using “new tonal procedures and new means
of tonal organization.” Copland identified “modern” music as including Strauss and Debussy
during 1910–1920. Gayle Minetta Murchison, The American Stravinsky: The Style and Aesthet-
ics of Copland’s New American Music, the Early Works, 1921–1938 (Ann Arbor: University of
Michigan Press, 2012), 15–23.
15. The Fables of La Fontaine, trans. E. Wright (London: George Bell & Sons, 1882),
312–13.
16. The piece centers around alternating pentatonic and whole-tone scales, first introduced
in measures 1 and 2.
17. Perlis and Copland, Copland, 466.
18. Ibid., 321.
19. Ibid., 135–36.
20. Ibid., 356.
21. Arthur Berger, “The Music of Aaron Copland,” Musical Quarterly 31, no.4 (1945):
430.
22. Stanley V. Kleppinger, “On the Influence of Jazz Rhythm in the Music of Aaron Cop-
land,” American Music 21, no.1 (2003): 103.
23. Kostelanetz, A Reader, xxxii.
24. Pollack, Aaron Copland, 157.
25. Ibid., 426.
15_328-Anderson.indb 165 8/11/15 7:59 AM

12
Some Suggestions for Playing
the Piano Music of Samuel Barber
Jeffrey Jacob
The piano music of Samuel Barber assembles a wide variety of characteristics and
approaches to writing for the instrument. His mastery of integrating often disparate
musical styles is breathtaking. The titles of two of his five published piano works, the
Ballade and Nocturne, testify to his love and admiration for the music of Chopin.
Many scholars and performers have commented on the influence of American popu-
lar music on Barber’s works—jazz especially, but also folk music and other American
idioms. Examples include his Excursions, Souvenirs, and the astonishing jazz fugue,
the last movement of his magnificent Piano Sonata. Other influences, such as the
piano music by Debussy, Hindemith, and Prokofiev, have been more subtle, but
perhaps no less important.
Such variety of musical idioms places unique demands upon the performer. For
an effective interpretation of Barber’s piano music, I would emphasize three general
elements:
1. An intense, focused, legato melodic line that often must penetrate through
thick, accumulated sonorities.
2. Steady and propulsive rhythm, sometimes with jazz and blues influence—
strong accents, syncopations, and subtle rubato.
3. Contrasts, especially of dynamics and articulation.
Barber supervised the publication of five of his mature piano works during his life-
time. Scholars have unearthed several student works that are now published by G.
Schirmer, but they are of historical rather than musical interest. This chapter will
focus on the five compositions Barber himself chose for posterity.
166
15_328-Anderson.indb 166 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 12 167
EXCURSIONS, OP. 20
Barber described these pieces in a program note: “These are ‘Excursions’ in small
classical forms into regional American idioms. Their rhythmic characteristics as well
as their source in folk material . . . are easily recognized.”1 The overall trajectory of
Excursions, op. 20 resembles a piano sonata or sonatina: the first and last movements
are fast and rhythmically vigorous, the second is the slow movement of the set, and
the third, for all its lyricism, contains elements of a scherzo.
I. Un poco allegro
The first movement is characterized by sharp contrasts of sonority and dynamics.
The first three measures must be played piano without pedal. Give some dynamic
shaping to the right-hand 8th-notes. Suddenly in m. 4, the dynamics rise to poco
forte, and Barber includes two pedal indications (see example 12.1).
Example 12.1. Barber, Excursions, Op. 20, mvt. 1, mm. 1–4. G. Schirmer, Inc.
An effective expressive device in mm. 8 and 9 is a diminuendo for three beats, then
a quick crescendo on the fourth beat into the downbeat of the next measure. Bars
10 and 11 should be pianissimo, seamlessly smooth and with constant pedal. This is
suddenly and rudely interrupted in m. 13 by forte syncopations and vigorous 16th-
notes. Keep the dynamics in motion, using constant crescendos and diminuendos with
the right-hand melodic line.
In m. 23, the glissando should be stretched over a full beat and a half. The ac-
cented octaves in m. 29 should be played ff with great energy and vitality. In mm.
32–37, all of the dynamic contrasts are subito—there should be no subtle shaping
of the melodic line. From mm. 38 to 45, Barber has inserted numerous crescendo
markings. Create as much crescendo as possible, then suddenly drop back to piano
and begin the next crescendo (see example 12.2).
An important climax occurs in mm. 51–54. In m. 53, it is possible to make a
small accelerando through the downbeat of the next measure. Measures 58 to 83
recapitulate the musical material of the opening fifty-four measures and should be
interpreted similarly.
15_328-Anderson.indb 167 8/11/15 7:59 AM

168 Jeffrey Jacob
The 16th-note trills in mm. 84–90 must be played as evenly as possible and
without inflection. Examples of humor and playfulness in Barber’s music are rare,
but the right-hand chords, mm. 93–106, should reflect a lighthearted nature. Note
that nearly every measure has a different dynamic marking. Exaggerate the dynamics
so that the difference between forte and piano is huge; the unpredictability of the
dynamics adds to the humor (see example 12.3).
II. In slow blues tempo

This movement is a blues-inspired work for solo piano and requires much rubato.
It is important, however, in the first three measures and elsewhere in the movement
to establish a regular pulse so that we have, as it were, something to rubato against.
15_328-Anderson.indb 168 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 12 169
The triplets in mm. 3 and 4 should be very lazy and blueslike. One can stretch or
drag considerably the accented 8th-note pick-up to mm. 5 and 6 (see example 12.4).
However, play the next line (mm. 7–9) in strict time, arpeggiating the right-hand
chords very quickly and without pedal to keep the pulse steady and clear. Similarly,
in mm. 10 and 11, drag the upbeats and also diminish from mezzo forte to piano on
the downbeat octaves of the succeeding measures. (It is difficult to exaggerate this
effect!). Measures 10 and 11 can be taken quite freely, but return to a strict pulse in
mm. 12 and 13. Be sure to hold the G half-notes for a full two beats.
The lazy triplets resume in m. 14 and can be played quite freely. The sforzandi in
mm. 16–20 should be full, but not percussive or strident. Play the last beat of m. 24
slowly and without pedal so that we hear the melody clearly (now in 16ths) descend
to the low G. In mm. 29–34, Barber introduces a duet between the right hand and
the upper notes of the 6ths in the left hand. Make as much difference as possible
between the sharp dotted rhythms of the right hand and the lazy left-hand triplets;
the contrast is delicious (see example 12.5).
15_328-Anderson.indb 169 8/11/15 7:59 AM

170 Jeffrey Jacob
In mm. 34 and 35, return once more to a strict pulse. The following measures
can support some rubato, but maintain the integrity of the triplets. In mm. 41–43,
linger on the sforzando upbeats; play the downbeats of the next measures very gently,
then immediately attack the low register notes in the left hand. In the very last mea-
sure, the performer must choose between sonority or clarity, that is, hold the pedal
throughout the measure or change on the final left-hand 5th.
III. Allegretto
This consummately beautiful work is a theme and variations on a melody that
could be Barber’s variation of the folk song “The Streets of Laredo.” Underlying its
gentle, understated expression is the fact that its extremely complex cross-rhythms
make it one of the most difficult of any individual movements in Barber’s piano
music. The first two lines, for example, require the pianist not only to play several
measures of seven notes against eight, but do so in a gentle, seamless, and (seem-
ingly) effortless manner. How does one learn to play seven against eight? The author
recommends practicing hands together very slowly, inserting each right-hand note
between the appropriate left-hand notes (usually every other one), in a mechanical
fashion if necessary. As one becomes more familiar with the patterns and fingerings
(as seen example 12.6), practice hands separately playing the 8ths as evenly as pos-
sible. Then, try assembling it all again. The principal theme is introduced in mm.
5–9, and it should sing above the complex, interwoven counterpoint below. The first
variation, beginning in mm. 13, should be played gracefully, with light fingers and
some dynamic shaping, especially in mm. 14 and 15.
With mm. 17–29, use much pedal, changing only with harmonic shifts, that
is, twice per measure. In these measures, avoid accents, crescendo slightly into each
measure, then diminuendo starting at the midpoint of the measure. In mm. 25–29,
Barber has a ringing, focused melodic sound in mind with the right hand being
pianissimo over a murmuring left hand.
In mm. 29–30, snap the dotted rhythms quickly and precisely, but gently. In mm.
31–36, continue with subtle crescendos and diminuendos with molto legato through-
out. Although mm. 37–40 are marked mezzo forte with syncopated accents, the pas-
15_328-Anderson.indb 170 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 12 171
sage should not be overtly aggressive. Accents should be distinct, but mild, and the
left-hand 6ths must be as melodic and legato as possible––no easy task without the
pedal (see example 12.7).
Measures 41–44 are staccato, but delicately expressive. Suddenly, in m. 45, the
sonority shifts to forte and brillante, but without heavy accents. The extended passage
of octaves and chords in mm. 49–57 must be rich, sonorous, and smoothly flow-
ing with extensive use of pedal; it is important to employ arm weight with relaxed
forearms and flexible wrists to eliminate strident sounds and accents. The music
should glide. The last page repeats previous material and should gradually diminish
to the end.
IV. Allegro molto

This movement should be dry and without pedal throughout except for passages
where the composer has clearly indicated with pedal. Discretely pedal the chords and
chord changes in the first two measures, more for resonance than to preserve legato
connections. Measures 3–9 establish the pianistic pattern for the movement. Precise
shifts from subito forte to piano are crucial. Play the 16ths legato except, of course, for
the repeated notes. From mm. 10 to 14, everything should be staccato.
In example 12.8, mm. 14–16 are especially difficult; the right hand must remain
piano and staccato while the left-hand melodic material is sustained except when
interrupted by repeated notes. In mm. 19 and 21, and all similar passages of the
movement, crush the grace notes as fast as possible into the downbeats. In general,
the grace notes throughout the movement are not melodic in nature, but rhythmic,
emphasizing and accenting the notes they precede. The composer indicates pedal
from mm. 23–27, changing at least twice per measure.
15_328-Anderson.indb 171 8/11/15 7:59 AM

172 Jeffrey Jacob
In mm. 38–40, suppress the right hand a bit so the aggressive left-hand accents are
prominent. The right-hand accents in mm. 49 to 51 should color, but not disrupt
the steady 16ths. Pedal mm. 57–58, but avoid catching any echo of the grace-note
chords. Finally, in the last measure, avoid rushing the grace notes, which should be
quick but distinct.
SONATA FOR PIANO, OP. 26
Barber’s Piano Sonata is his masterpiece for the instrument, indeed arguably one of
the two or three greatest piano works by a twentieth-century American composer.
Barber summons the full resources of the instrument and the entire range of his
compositional ability in fashioning four startlingly diverse and powerful movements.
I. Allegro energico
In order to inject the maximum amount of rhythmic energy into the opening
theme, the author recommends playing the 16th-notes very quickly so that the
dotted rhythms are almost doubly dotted. This makes the smoothly flowing triplets
in m. 4 (and 9), and the rallentando in m. 8 effective contrasts (see example 12.9).
Example 12.9. Barber, Sonata Op. 26, mvt. 1, mm. 3–8. G. Schirmer, Inc.
15_328-Anderson.indb 172 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 12 173
Crescendo slightly from m. 4 into 5, then play a gradual diminuendo to m. 9.

A very important detail in mm. 9 and 10 is the left-hand 16th-note coming after
the 3rd of the right-hand triplets. Measures 11–15 are more subtly expressive, but
with the same quick, jagged dotted rhythms. Use much resonant pedaling in mm.
16–18 (see example 12.10) where the composer provides us with the first major
climax of the movement.
The exposition’s second theme, initially introduced in m. 23, is in complete con-

trast to the aggressive rhythms of the opening. Barber repeatedly marks this theme
espressivo, and its essential character is melodic tinged with sadness and nostalgia.
Play the dotted rhythm precisely in time with dynamic shaping. The 16th can oc-
casionally be stretched ever so slightly to further emphasize and produce a smoothly
flowing, poignant line.
Measures 32 and 33 should be played as evenly as possible with light touches of
pedal. The difficult, extended climactic material, mm. 35–45, must offer the great-
est possible contrast to the wandering expressiveness of the second theme. Play the
repeated notes and chords aggressively with savage accents on the first note or chord
of the group. In mm. 41 and 42, after the downbeat sforzando and diminuendo, the
second half of each measure benefits from a quick, but substantial crescendo and
diminuendo with the rising and falling lines. In mm. 43 and 44 (see example 12.11),
most pianists use the left hand to play the bottom line of the treble clef triplets.
15_328-Anderson.indb 173 8/11/15 7:59 AM

174 Jeffrey Jacob
Note the doubly dotted 8th- and 32nd-notes at the end of m. 46. In mm. 47 and
48, crush the 32nd-notes into the notes they precede; they must be faster than the
already quick 16th-notes. A major ritard is recommended for mm. 49 and 50 as they
bring the movement’s dramatic exposition to a close.
The development section begins at m. 51 with the opening theme, now miste-
rioso, pianissimo: these are the same jagged rhythms at a suppressed dynamic level.
Use touches of pedal to keep the first nine measures from sounding thin and dry.
A major feature of the development is an intensification of the rhythmic contrast
first encountered in the exposition. Barber juxtaposes the angled dotted rhythms
with their opposite—liquid, smoothly flowing 16th-notes and triplet 8th-notes.
Therefore, in mm. 56–59, play the 16th-notes with seamless regularity. The dot-
ted rhythms return in mm. 60–62, this time with much pedal and resonance. This
alternation continues until m. 75.
As seen in example 12.12, the profoundly beautiful reintroduction of the second
major theme of the exposition begins quietly with great dignity and poignancy in m.
76. Very gradually, the sonority builds to forte in m. 84. Keep the tempo moderately
slow and inexorably steady throughout as sound and register expand. The stringendo
section, beginning in m. 86, can be played much faster with a sense of forward
propulsion leading directly to the beginning of the recapitulation in m. 110. The
thematic material from mm. 110–148 is the same as in the exposition and should be
performed in the same manner.
Beginning in m. 149, the second theme dominates the first half of the coda. The
left hand should be as soft as possible while the right-hand melody must be focused
and intense, penetrating through the accumulating left-hand sonorities. In m. 161,
use the left hand again to play the bottom line of the treble triplets. The right-hand
32nd-notes in mm. 162–163 are not athletic events; they should be played only
moderately fast and as evenly as possible. Begin m. 164 slowly, and gradually ac-
15_328-Anderson.indb 174 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 12 175
celerate into the last measure. The final triplet can be played slowly and decisively.
Terminate the sound abruptly.
II. Allegro vivace e leggero

The Sonata’s second movement is a scherzo. After the drama and rhythmic inten-
sity of the first movement, the second is a jarring change: lighthearted and delicate
throughout, a study in weightless articulation.
The opening theme should be as light as possible with some dynamic shaping. For
example, use a small crescendo and diminuendo in mm. 3 and 4. In the first two mea-
sures, listen for the right-hand B-notes moving to the A’s. As seen in example 12.13,
the resolution is clearly marked by the composer with down stems. Add enough
weight to the dynamic level of mm. 9–11 so that an echo effect is clearly audible
prior to the sequential repetition of the material that begins immediately in m. 11.
The author believes that the best approach to the use of pedal in mm. 1–26 is the
following: omit the pedal altogether in the first two lines, then lightly pedal mm.
9–14, no pedal again until m. 22, then pedal each measure until the end of the sec-
tion, m. 26. Change the dynamics and also the tone color in the B section beginning
with the two 8th-note upbeat to m. 27. The quick, legato crescendo in the right hand
should be assertive and distinct, a foil for the crisp mezzo forte staccato in the left
hand (see example 12.14).
Many pianists, including the author, take the entire section from mm. 31–80
somewhat more slowly than the beginning. This tempo reduction gives clarity to
the more frequent harmonic changes and to the rapidly shifting register of the
15_328-Anderson.indb 175 8/11/15 7:59 AM

176 Jeffrey Jacob
right hand. Measures 31–37 should be static, without accents or dynamic changes
until the crescendo in 37–38. Connect and phrase the left hand as marked in mm.
41–42 with a light, accompanying staccato throughout the right hand, then, deli-
cate staccato in both hands until m. 47. The author recommends light pedaling
through mm. 47–65; it supplies more color to the movement as a whole. Measures
65–71 consist of a duet between right- and left-hand melodic lines. Take care that
the inner left-hand line is distinct and not suppressed by the brighter right-hand
register (see example 12.15).
Stretch the diminuendo from mm. 75–81, that is, not too soft too quickly. Mea-
sures 81–102 are a repetition of the opening section. Barber marks mm. 103–114
quasi staccato. One strategy here is to play the right hand staccato throughout and
pedal or half pedal the first three 8th-notes of each bar. Be sure to bring out the left-
hand melody, marked mf, in mm. 109–114. After the fp in m. 114, the material is
once again static—a seamless sonority using much pedal until the crescendo in mm.
120–121. Play mm. 122–133 staccato as indicated, without pedal, and delicatissimo.
Add enough weight in mm. 156–158 so that a diminuendo to the very end is possible
and audible. The individual notes of the flourish in the penultimate measure should
be distinct, but otherwise as light and fast as possible (see example 12.16).
III. Adagio mesto

This stern, haunted (not haunting!) slow movement is one of Barber’s most pow-
erful creations. In the opening section, mm. 1–15, the melody, solitary and forlorn,
must be focused and intense, even at the mezzo piano dynamic level of its entrance in
m. 3, and especially with the crescendos and diminuendos in m. 5 (see example 12.17).
15_328-Anderson.indb 176 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 12 177
The rhythm of the melody should be precise so that the intricate combinations of
16th-notes, 32nds, and triplets are clear. In m. 8, play the right-hand intervals as softly
as possible so that the melody, now in the left hand, continues to penetrate through
the surrounding sonority. The chromatic theme introduced in m. 15 is even more
passionate. In m. 16, the crescendos are important and should lead to forte in the first
half of m. 17 followed by subito pianissimo. Pedaling should be clear in mm. 17–18.
15_328-Anderson.indb 177 8/11/15 7:59 AM

178 Jeffrey Jacob
The crescendo in m. 19 leads to one of the most devastatingly tumultuous climaxes

in twentieth-century piano music, found in mm. 20–27. Pedaling here depends
upon the piano and the hall. In bars 20, 22, and 24, the minimum number of pedal
changes is twice per measure. With more resonant instruments and halls, more pedal
changes may be needed for the second half of these measures (see example 12.18).
Discreet rubato is necessary throughout this climactic section to keep the music
from sounding woodenly metronomic. For example, stretch the grace notes and
rolled chords to heighten the sense of anticipation. In mm. 26–27, change the pedal
twice per measure with the bass register A-sharps. Although m. 28 begins piano, as
the melodic lines wander from alto to soprano, they should retain the same focused
sound as in the opening of the movement. The last three measures of the movement
should be harmonically clear with a huge ritard into a silence of nothingness.
IV. Fuga: Allegro con spirit

The last movement of the Sonata is one of the most astonishing examples of
compositional virtuosity in all of twentieth-century piano music. Barber combines,
and somehow manages to reconcile, two impossibly disparate elements: a wildly
15_328-Anderson.indb 178 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 12 179
complex fugue, that most rigorous of all the major forms of Western music, with un-
mistakable jazz elements. The fugue, in four voices, contains all the basic structural
components of the Baroque version of the form: subject, countersubject, exposition,
fragmentation, episodes, and restatements. Barber also adds further contrapuntal
elaborations, such as inversion of the subject, augmentation of both subject and
countersubject, stretto, and other contrapuntal subtleties.
The virtuosity of compositional skill is matched by the pianistic virtuosity re-
quired to play it. With the consistent repetition of subject and countersubject, it is
possible to suggest a general approach to articulation and expression through at least
the first half of the fugue. All of the individual 16th-notes of the subject should be
staccato except for those that are tied, which must be held for their full value and
connected to the subsequent, staccato 16th-notes. This articulation requires the per-
former to play the last full measure of the subject staccato. The author recommends
a supple wrist and enough arm weight to render the staccatos as crisp and short as
possible. The crescendo and diminuendo indicated by the composer for the first half
of the subject should be maintained consistently throughout (see example 12.19).
The countersubject, which begins in m. 4, consists of legato fragments at a p dy-

namic level. Barber’s phrase markings, carefully placed throughout the movement,
reveal his strategies for staccato–legato contrasts in all sections of the fugue. Play
all the notes within a given phrase legato. The silence dictated by the rests in the
countersubject is an important structural and musical ingredient of the fugue. Note
that the last four notes of the countersubject (first encountered in m. 6) are forte and
staccato as seen in example 12.20. Measures 7–12, which take us to the end of the
exposition, present the performer with one of the most difficult aspects of an effec-
tive performance of the fugue: an mf to f staccato subject, migrating to the alto and
tenor voices, and a legato countersubject disrupted by 8th- and 16th-rests.
15_328-Anderson.indb 179 8/11/15 7:59 AM

180 Jeffrey Jacob
Measures 13–17 offer legato fragments of the countersubject with an inversion of

the countersubject. These measures should be played expressively, but at a suppressed
dynamic level to provide a brief respite from the aggressiveness of the subject before
and after. In mm. 17–19, the subject returns with both subject and countersubject
played staccato except for notes with double stems. Beginning in m. 20, all voices
remain at the same dynamic level and are approximately equal. The subject and
countersubject, delicately subdued, then powerfully forte, become more and more
fragmented while rising to the first major climax in m. 34.
The wonderfully spacious, brilliantly inventive section from mm. 34–46, essen-
tially in F major, requires the liberal use of the sustaining pedal, and beginning in
m. 40, the sostenuto pedal (as indicated by the composer). Except for the fortissimo
flourish in mm. 34–36, the subject in this section should be played sensitively and
expressively, especially when it appears in augmentation and inversion (see example
12.21). The fugue’s second extended climax occurs in mm. 46–52. The fiendishly
difficult left-hand octaves in mm. 47–49 must be played cleanly and without pedal.
But one can pedal liberally the upper register right-hand 16th-notes in mm. 49–51.
After this brilliant climax we are surprised and delighted to encounter a scherzando
section beginning in m. 55 that is ingeniously constructed from fragments of the
countersubject and its inversion and augmentation. Barber asks the pianist to secure
the left-hand downbeat (E and B) with the sostenuto pedal, which should be held
until m. 64. The author recommends light touches of the sustaining pedal, to keep
the lines consistently legato (see example 12.22). Pedal liberally again in mm. 66–72.
Play m. 70, especially the left hand, with enough weight and sonority so that the
echo effect in m. 71 is clearly audible.
Just when we think Barber has exhausted all possible contrapuntal techniques
and complexities, he introduces double augmentation of the subject combined with
the original subject in m. 72. Pedal each quarter note until m. 78 and shape the
augmented theme with long crescendos and diminuendos. The music becomes more
aggressive in m. 83 and rises to a dramatic flourish in m. 87. Take care not to rush
the five-against-three cross-rhythms; at the same time, this passage is most effective
without a ritard (see example 12.23).
One can linger slightly on the triple B-flat octave, the downbeat of m. 88. The
author recommends playing mm. 88–91 a bit more slowly and deliberately so that
15_328-Anderson.indb 180 8/11/15 7:59 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb 181 8/11/15 7:59 AM

182 Jeffrey Jacob
Example 12.23. Barber, Sonata Op. 26, mvt. 4, m. 87. G. Schirmer, Inc.
the stretto of m. 90 (the overlapping of subject fragments) is obvious to the listener,

then a tempo from the last beat of m. 90 to the octaves preceding the cadenza begin-
ning in m. 98.
Play the cadenza freely. Barber has used two values for the grace notes here: he
begins with 16ths, then 32nds. The author recommends an extreme accelerando;
begin the first group of 16ths slowly and accelerate as much as possible through
the downbeat of m. 99. Play the following 8ths (more stretto) at precisely M.M. =
120, that is, relatively slowly and deliberately. Begin m. 107 slowly and mezzo piano
(depending on piano and hall resonance) so that this final accelerando and climax is
the most dramatic of all.
The savage extension of the cadenza beginning in m. 131 is marked senza pedale in
order to render the opening of the final statement of the subject in the right hand de-
tached and percussive. One can linger slightly on the chord in m. 144 and pedal very
briefly for resonance, then, a tempo, or as fast as possible, for the final two measures.
SOUVENIRS, OP. 28
Souvenirs was originally written for one piano four hands. Barber must have been
fond of these pieces because he arranged them for two pianos, orchestrated them for
a ballet, and also condensed them into the version for solo piano discussed below.
I. Waltz
The first twenty-eight bars consist of an elaborate, almost decadent introduction.
The waltz itself is less flamboyant in its slower tempo with restrained dynamics at least
until m. 73. In m. 3 (see example 12.24), carefully depress the sostenuto pedal to catch
only the A-note in the left hand. (Delay the right-hand entrance, if necessary.)
Stretch the crescendo beginning in m. 7 over a full eleven measures to fortissimo in
m. 17, that is, not too loud too quickly—no more than mezzo piano at m. 11. One
15_328-Anderson.indb 182 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 12 183
Example 12.24. Barber, Souvenirs, Op. 28, mvt. 1, mm. 1–4. G. Schirmer, Inc.
can accelerate the descending scale in mm. 18–21, but the chords in 21–24 should
be slower and rhythmically precise.
The waltz, beginning in m. 27, should be straightforward in a steady tempo.
Rubato here must be limited to stretching at the ends of major phrases, for example,
mm. 44 and 60. The expressive character of the section is achieved through subtle
dynamic shaping; see, for example, the crescendos and diminuendos marked by the
composer in mm. 31–32, 35–36 (example 12.25) and in similar passages. The grace
notes found in mm. 53ff are not melodic, but rhythmic in nature, that is, they serve
to add emphasis to the notes they precede and should be played quickly.
Be sure to catch the low G’s on the pedal in mm. 77–81 and 92–96. In m. 84,
one can linger ever so slightly on the second beat (right-hand G after the grace
notes). This entire phrase should be limpid, delicate, and graceful with restrained
dynamics (in contrast to the sonorous enthusiasm of the octave theme, m. 77ff ).
The second repetition of the octave theme beginning in m. 107 is more vigorous
15_328-Anderson.indb 183 8/11/15 7:59 AM

184 Jeffrey Jacob
than the original, but the right-hand octaves should not be harsh or percussive. In
the transition to the opening theme, mm. 122–138, the left-hand material is more
varied and interesting than the right hand; listen for the left-hand line as you play
and voice it accordingly.
Beginning in m. 138, the opening waltz theme recurs in its original register, but
now it is accompanied by beautifully crafted counterpoint in the soprano register (see
example 12.26). The author believes the two lines should be approximately equal—a
very difficult task with so many more notes in the upper, brighter register. Again, listen
for the waltz melody and play the upper register 8ths with light, weightless fingers:
grazioso. Measures 170–182 are the final statement of the waltz theme, this time forte
and in octaves. No harsh, percussive sounds here; in fact, continue to shape the line
with small crescendos and diminuendos until the fortissimo chordal flourish at mm.
182–190. It is crucial to secure the low D octave with the sostenuto pedal in bar 189.
The final section of the movement, from m. 194 to the end, consists of one ex-
tended diminuendo. The tendency here is to diminish too quickly. Consider that m.
194 is still forte then diminishing to mezzo forte in m. 198. Measure 201 brings the
release of the sostenuto pedal and a staccato left hand. Finally, in mm. 212 to the end
we have dry, arpeggiated chords rippling quickly and weightlessly.
II. Schottische
A principal feature of the “schottische” is the placement of the strong beats in
each of the first sixteen measures: sometimes on the downbeat, but more often on
the second 8th (see example 12.27).
The alternation of these accents, plus the rich, almost decadent harmonies, gener-
ate much rhythmic interest and harmonic sumptuousness. One can pedal freely in
15_328-Anderson.indb 184 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 12 185
this first section. Crush the grace notes into the pitches they precede; their essential
nature is rhythmic, not melodic.
In the five-eight section, mm. 17–49 (see example 12.28), shape the melodic
phrases as marked by the composer. The character here is gentle, limpid, and subtly
expressive. The repeated notes and dotted rhythms in mm. 25–38 should not be ag-
gressive, but tenderly breathless with ample use of pedal. Give enough weight to mm.
25–32 so that the pianissimo echo in mm. 33–39 is clear. Take time with the grace
notes in mm. 68–72. The resulting delayed downbeats are deliciously expressive.
Measures 73 to the end should be played as fast as possible. Measures 73–88 must
be staccato and dry except for 81–84. The sonority changes in this section require
pedal changes twice per measure. The sudden shifts of dynamics in mm. 88–94 are
important and cannot be exaggerated. Enjoy the (almost) pure B-flat major of the
final four measures.
15_328-Anderson.indb 185 8/11/15 7:59 AM

186 Jeffrey Jacob
III. Pas de deux

For all its simplicity, the “pas de deux” is one of Barber’s most beautiful slow
movements. Toscanini is said to have referred to Barber’s as simple yet beautiful. This
description is also apt for the third movement. An expressive strategy is to begin m. 2
mezzo forte and diminish immediately to piano. Do exactly the same for m. 3. After
beginning m. 4 piano, crescendo through the downbeat of m. 5 and diminish to the
end of the phrase (see example 12.29).
The next phrase (four measures) is an echo, a memory of the first phrase and
should be piano throughout. In m. 16, the sostenuto marking implies a stretching
of the last half of the following four measure. The hauntingly beautiful sequential
imitation between soprano and alto in mm. 24–41 (see example 12.30) requires
special care and control.
Practice each line separately for several measures using enough weight to produce
the most liquid legato possible. Summon the full sonorous resources of the instru-
15_328-Anderson.indb 186 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 12 187
ment for the climax of the movement in mm. 47–51. The soprano and alto imita-
tion resumes in mm. 55ff and 63ff beginning delicatissimo and rising to mezzo forte.
Stretch the grace notes preceding the downbeats in mm. 65 and 67; the resulting
delay of the actual downbeats produces a sense of longing that is intensely expres-
sive. At the very end, hold the chord in m. 79 for a full three beats, then just before
the final arpeggiated chord, play the 16ths steadily, in tempo, and with the slightest
ritard (see example 12.31).
IV. Two Step

In the “two step,” the rests are very important. They chop the melodic phrases
into fragments, as Barber intended, providing rhythmic interest and articulation. The
rests must be rigorously precise and clearly audible (see example 12.32). Here again,
it will be helpful to practice the right hand alone until one feels comfortable with the
articulation, the accents, and small dynamic shapings. Begin m. 17 pianissimo so that
the gradual, but quick, crescendo is in complete contrast to the previous dynamics. The
15_328-Anderson.indb 187 8/11/15 7:59 AM

188 Jeffrey Jacob
accents in this section, for example in mm. 7, 19, 20, 23, and so on, should be very
subtle with just enough weight to make the syncopation distinct and effective.
After nothing but dry, middle, and low register sonorities and melodic fragments,
the second part of the movement, beginning in m. 37, offers a major pianistic con-
trast. Be relentless in your efforts to bring out the long espressivo melodic phrases
in the right hand in mm. 40–49 and in similar passages; then, a complete change
of sound and register in mm. 48–56 beginning in the highest range of the instru-
ment and descending, as seen in example 12.33. The author recommends that this
and similar passages not be played pianissimo, but with enough weight to provide a
silvery, resonant quality of sound.
The alternation of these two sonorities continues until the return of the opening
section in m. 108. Hesitate slightly before beginning each scale in mm. 110, 114,
and so on, then play the scales and succeeding 8th-note melodic fragments precisely
in time, carefully following the progression of the melodic line as it migrates into the
left hand (see example 12.34).
15_328-Anderson.indb 188 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 12 189
A major question is posed for the performer by the scale material in mm. 126–
132: should a steady tempo be maintained throughout the Ossia supplied by the
composer, or should the tempo be distorted by playing the difficult 6ths and 5ths at
a much slower speed? The author recommends the former, but either is acceptable.
The lovely passage in mm. 139–143 recapitulates the legato theme in mm. 40–49,
but this time with pedal throughout. The arpeggiated chord, beginning with m.
148, comes at the end of Barber’s poco allargando. It can be rolled slowly but should
be very even. Follow Barber’s pedal markings carefully through m. 159, then play
everything staccato to the end. The D major arpeggios, mm. 159–162, must be in
strict time, but the last four 8ths can be stretched ever so lightly for a sense of finality.
V. Hesitation Tango
The title’s use of the word hesitation suggests the decadent possibility of stretching
the fourth beat, or, if you prefer, delaying the downbeat of certain passages, such as
the opening two measures. Play the staccato chords as crisply as possible and care-
fully observe the 8th rests, then enjoy the rubato by dragging the fourth beat into
the downbeat of the next measure with a small diminuendo (see example 12.35). A
significant feature of the first section of the movement (through m. 26) is the alter-
nation of dry staccato and smooth flowing legato in the right hand. The arpeggiated
chords sprinkled throughout the movement should not be rushed; they enforce the
“hesitation” at crucial points.
In mm. 20–23, it is challenging, but necessary, to hold the right-hand G-sharp

while the notes surrounding it are staccato. The author recommends touches of pedal
in mm. 24 and 25 in addition to Barber’s pedal marking in m. 26. Otherwise, it is
virtually impossible to play these measures legatissimo as indicated.
Play the extended section of melodic 3rds, in mm. 27–57, expressively gently, and
with a lilting quality. If possible, lean slightly into the top notes of the right-hand
3rds to produce a burnished silver sonority that penetrates through the moderately
thick accompaniment. It is very important to bring out the rising countermelodies in
the tenor voice in mm. 41, 49, and 53–54. The scale passages in mm. 57–58 can be
considered an intensification of these rising countermelodies, and they lead directly
to the climactic section of the movement.
15_328-Anderson.indb 189 8/11/15 7:59 AM

190 Jeffrey Jacob
Although this greatly extended climax, from mm. 59–84, is marked fortissimo
throughout (except for the subito piano in m. 71), Barber has in mind an emphasis
on full, rounded sonorities, not intense banging. Play this material with loose arms
and flexible wrists to absorb some of the arm weight and retain expressive control
(see example 12.36).
We note that there are almost no accents here, but the same long phrase markings
of the previous section should be observed. Use as much pedal as possible, changing
more or less once a measure. Consider slightly stretching the numerous triplets; in
any event, they should not be rushed. The scales in mm. 72 and 73 are not athletic
events, but another accumulation of sonority after the subito piano of bar 71.
Finally, the sonic fullness ebbs away, and we return to the opening thematic mate-
rial in m. 92. In the penultimate measure, catch the low D-sharp octave with the
sostenuto pedal while pedaling the glissando with the sustaining pedal. The glissando
should be of moderate speed and not be a rush of sound. Release both pedals on the
downbeat of the final measure so that the E to G-sharp octave is clean. Let the last
two measures simply evaporate (see example 12.37).
VI. Galop
The opening two sections of the “galop,” mm. 1–70, should be quick with a
minimum of rubato. In the first three measures, pedal the chords for resonance,
but respect the quarter rests. Beginning with the upbeat to m. 7, practice the right
15_328-Anderson.indb 190 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 12 191
hand alone. As seen in example 12.38, fill the line with short, expressive crescendos
and diminuendos, including the staccatos. The combination of a steady tempo and
extremely active dynamics will enhance the gaiety and vitality of the melody.
Measures 38 to 70 employ the full sonorous resources of the instrument. Pedal

with each chord change, that is, once per measure. As the section draws to a close,
bring out the countermelody, played by the left hand on the downbeats of mm.
55–70, as a duet with the right-hand octaves.
The middle section of the movement in mm. 71–125 can be taken much more
slowly than the first section. Here, the character is limpid, graceful, tranquillo. A
cantabile melodic line is essential throughout. The accompanying staccato 8ths in
the left hand should be as light as possible. Rubato is definitely appropriate here, for
example, stretching the right-hand 8th-notes in mm. 82–85 and in similar passages.
The reduction of texture to a single line at the section’s two major cadences suggests
major ritardandos in both passages. In mm. 106–125, the melody is in the tenor
voice and played by the left hand. It is impossible to maintain a cantabile melody and
at the same time observe the staccato indications in the material above and below the
tenor. This is possible in the original four-hand version, but the only solution here
is light, clean pedaling throughout (see example 12.39).
Note that in m. 125, Barber suddenly indicates “Tempo I,” so there is no gradual
build up or accelerando for the broken octaves in these measures, but an immediate
return to the tempo and material of the opening section. The coda, which begins
in m. 197, is similarly abrupt: subito piano beginning with the 8th-note pick-up
to m. 197 and a slightly slower tempo, which helps the pianist catch the low B
octave on the sostenuto pedal. Then, make a small accelerando accompanying the
crescendo molto. No ritardando in the final four bars, only brilliant and rhythmi-
cally steady chords and octaves.
15_328-Anderson.indb 191 8/11/15 7:59 AM

192 Jeffrey Jacob
NOCTURNE, OP. 33
The Nocturne is one of Barber’s loveliest, most sensitive, and most performed
works. It bears the subtitle “Homage to John Field,” but John Browning, who
premiered the work has said, “I think Sam was paying tribute not so much to Field
as to Chopin. . . . I doubt Sam loved Field’s music the way he loved Chopin’s.”2
Indeed, approach the interpretation of the work as if it were Chopin. Although
the following performance advice for the opening lines contains many very specific
comments, it is meant only as a suggestion or general guide.
Stretch the last three 8th-notes in the first measure to prepare for the entrance of
the melody in the right hand. Barber’s cantando indication suggests constant arm
weight in the right hand accompanied by a weightless, pianissimo left hand. In m. 3,
begin the 16ths slowly and accelerate gradually to the high C. Play m. 4 in relatively
strict time, but in m. 5, once again begin the 16ths slowly, then gradually increase
the tempo to the downbeat of m. 6. Use the same approach in mm. 6–10. The
countermelody in the left hand in mm. 8 and 9, as seen in example 12.40, should
be very distinct.
The character changes to appassionato in m. 11. Consider taking the section
somewhat faster with less rubato. In m. 13, roll the right-hand chords slowly for a
resonant effect. You can resume the use of delicate sonorities and subtle rubato in
mm. 15–19. Stretch the 32nd-notes considerably in m. 18, since mm. 18 and 19
articulate the end of the first major section of the work (see example 12.41).
15_328-Anderson.indb 192 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 12 193
Example 12.40. Barber, Nocturne Op. 33, mm. 5–9. G. Schirmer, Inc.
Play mm. 20–24 in strict time. There are two important aspects of this transition
material: the pedaling must be clean and precise so that the harmonic changes are
clear, and be careful not to rush the 16ths; they should be played deliberately so that
they emerge as an integral part of the melodic line.
The animando in mm. 25 and 26 indicates a faster tempo. But the climax of the
work in mm. 27 and 28 should be slower (Barber marks a tempo) and maestoso in
character. Begin the 16ths in m. 29 slowly so that the eventual accelerando into the
cadenza is more pronounced and effective. Ironically, the cadenza in m. 29, with its
rigidly repeating rhythmic pattern, allows very little rubato until the last line, where
Barber specifies a huge allargando.
15_328-Anderson.indb 193 8/11/15 7:59 AM

194 Jeffrey Jacob
The opening material returns in m. 30 with similar use of rubato to the end. It is
permissible to play the descending 3rds and 4ths at the very end of the work freely
(mm. 44 and 45). For example, make a slight accelerando at the beginning followed
by a huge ritardando. The passage should be ethereal, weightless. Think of Debussy
(see example 12.42).
BALLADE, OP. 46
This work was commissioned by the Van Cliburn Foundation for the Fifth Van
Cliburn International Piano Competition and was required of all participants. It
was completed in March 1977. Barber was battling depression when he accepted this
commission, and he struggled with the Ballade for several months. Although it is
an unsettled, sometimes turbulent work, we should perhaps resist the temptation to
read into its pages biographical emotions. Nevertheless, it is a powerful composition
that has entered the repertory, and rightly so.
The work is in clearly defined ternary form. In the score, Barber describes the
opening A section as “Restless.” The rapidly shifting harmonies should be in strict
tempo, except for tiny but perceptible pauses where Barber has inserted commas
(see example 12.43). Carefully pedal each chord in this section so that the har-
monic changes are as clear as possible. In m. 5, the first extended phrase comes to
an end, and Barber uses the word sostenuto. Like Brahms and many other compos-
ers, Barber uses this term to mean both sustained and slower. This is confirmed by
the a tempo in m. 6.
15_328-Anderson.indb 194 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 12 195
Example 12.43. Barber, Ballade Op. 46, mm. 1–5. G. Schirmer, Inc.
The huge crescendo in mm. 8 and 9 is unexpected and dramatic. Here also, pedal
each chord change so that the harmonies are clear. The triplets in m. 10 should be
precise and clearly audible as triplets. But the mini cadenza in m. 11 can be played
very freely. Most pianists begin the grace notes slowly and accelerate into the downbeat
of m. 11 (see example 12.44). However, clarity of articulation should trump speed.
In mm. 12 and 13, and all similar passages throughout the work, one must avoid
the impression that the first chord of the measure is an upbeat with the beginning of
the measure on the second beat. Play the first chord slightly louder than the second
so that the metric divisions are clear to the listener. In mm. 15–18, the opposite is
15_328-Anderson.indb 195 8/11/15 7:59 AM

196 Jeffrey Jacob
true; the first chords of the phrases are upbeats. Emphasize this by accenting ever so
slightly the downbeat chords. In m. 18, arpeggiate the downbeat chord slowly. In
mm. 24–26, play the 16ths evenly and precisely. Secure the downbeat chord in m.
30 with the sostenuto pedal, then pedal very cleanly each of the A minor and D-flat
major chords.
Release everything for a short, articulative pause before the tempestuous B section
beginning at the Allegro con fuoco in m. 33 (see example 12.45). Here, the right
hand must be staccato, but more importantly, the left hand, with the principal theme
in the extreme bass register, must be prominent. Begin m. 39 mezzo piano so the
crescendo through this measure is forceful and dramatic. In m. 40ff, Barber writes
“Singing” above the right-hand melody, but the left hand, with its surging 16ths is
also important—a duet perhaps.
In m. 43, begin the triplets precisely in time; accelerate freely in the last beat and
a half through the downbeat of the next measure. In mm. 44–47, bring out the top
of the right hand as much as possible. Beginning with the subito mezzo piano in m.
47, arpeggiate the left-hand chords as fast as possible to retain a sense of pulse. The
author recommends beginning the ritard into m. 52 with the last two 16th-note
chords of m. 50; the harmonic changes must be clearly heard in m. 51. Perhaps the
most dramatic way to approach the chord in m. 52 is to strike the left-hand E-flat
octave first, then jump quickly to the D-flat, which should be played with the mas-
sive right-hand chord: the climax of the entire work (see example 12.46).
A distant echo of the B section theme in mm. 53–56 is all we have for a transition
back to the opening section. Play the phrase quietly and freely. In mm. 86 to the
end, play the left-hand octave with enough weight to anchor the harmony and to
resonate to the very end. The last two chords should be played slowly, deliberately,
and with finality.
15_328-Anderson.indb 196 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 12 197
Example 12.46. Barber, Ballade Op. 46,

mm. 51–52. G. Schirmer, Inc.
NOTES
1. Samuel Barber, Samuel Barber: Complete Piano Music (G. Schirmer, 1986), 10.
2. Ibid.
15_328-Anderson.indb 197 8/11/15 7:59 AM

13
A Practical Pianist’s Introduction
to Messiaen: Technical and
Theoretical Approaches via the
Vingt Regards sur l’Enfant-Jésus
Christopher Taylor
Among Olivier Messiaen’s piano works, and within the piano literature generally, the
Vingt Regards sur l’Enfant-Jésus occupies a singular position. This formidable twenty-
movement cycle, extending across more than two hours, stretches the limits of what
a performer or an audience can grasp over the course of a single evening’s music;
nonetheless, unlike some even more massive works by Michael Finnissy, Kaikhosru
Sorabji, or Messiaen himself (Le Catalogue d’oiseaux), the Vingt Regards can serve by
itself as a practically feasible and musically satisfying recital program. By the time
Messiaen wrote the work in 1944, his compositional style was fully formed (not yet
entirely true for the Preludes of 1928–1929).
In fact, it contains more varieties of musical material than any of his later piano
works, of which some are rather experimental and brief in duration (Cantéyodjayâ,
Quatre études de rythme), and others are totally dominated by the birds that form
just part of the Vingt Regards cast. So even if we disregard the work’s intrinsic inter-
est and its dramatic effectiveness in recital—even, in my experience, winning over
audiences who might have been expected to react with suspicion—the Vingt Regards
constitutes a logical starting point when introducing newcomers to the pianistic is-
sues that playing Messiaen entails.
A pianist undertaking to learn and eventually memorize the Vingt Regards faces an
array of technical and musical obstacles. Apart from the sheer number of notes to be
assimilated, the harmonic, rhythmic, and formal language exhibits numerous traits
that will feel alien under the hands of a musician raised on the standard eighteenth-
and nineteenth-century literature. An inquisitive performer seeking guidance can
readily unearth a wealth of material written about Messiaen’s music, foremost among
which stand the words of the composer himself. An inspirational and dedicated
teacher, Messiaen left behind extensive documentation of his musical thinking for
his students and for posterity, notably La Technique de mon langage musical (1942),
198
15_328-Anderson.indb 198 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 13 199
the Traité de rythme, de couleur, et d’ornithologie (1949–1992), and the remarks ap-
pearing both at the front of and within the bodies of his published scores.1 Yet for a
number of reasons, I think a majority of these writings, whether by Messiaen or by
other scholars, are unlikely to seem entirely useful to performers on a practical level,
and indeed many seem apt to leave a skeptical student confused and unconvinced.
One potential barrier that may render Messiaen’s writings particularly perplexing
to neophytes is their religious content. Within an overwhelmingly secular era of mu-
sical history, Messiaen’s fervent, somewhat idiosyncratic Catholicism,2 immediately
evident in most of his compositions and writings, stands decidedly apart. The very
titles of the Vingt Regards and its individual movements can pose difficulties, and
not solely for the secular-minded: an English speaker, for instance, immediately faces
the issue of whether to translate Vingt Regards with “twenty views,” “twenty gazes,”
“twenty contemplations,” or with some other phrase. After that, and after one has
grasped the more basic images of the Father contemplating the infant Jesus (mvt.
1), the Virgin viewing the infant (mvt. 4), and likewise the prophets, accompanied
by the shepherds and Magi (mvt. 16), one must advance to more exotic situations
where the Son gazes upon himself (mvt. 5), where the Nativity star and the cross
contemplate the baby (movts. 2 and 7), and where even abstractions like time and
silence join the viewing audience (movts. 9 and 17). Surely significant numbers of
newcomers will find these recondite scenarios off-putting, and they may also be
hard-pressed to bear with Messiaen during the more florid passages in his descrip-
tive text (as an example consider the “proliferation of spaces and durations; galaxies,
photons, reversed spirals, inverted thunderbolts” that preface mvt. 6).
In general, those who do not share Messiaen’s theology may well worry that
their ability to comprehend, execute, and enjoy his music will remain forever
incomplete—a worry that I personally have had to entertain. It is, however, reas-
suring to recall how well centuries of experience have confirmed the power of
great music, by Bach or Palestrina, say, to break down religious barriers and bring
about overwhelming spiritual experiences for believer and nonbeliever alike. It is
also heartening to witness Messiaen’s generally nondoctrinaire attitude and respect
towards individuals and cultures outside of his own faith,3 a respect reflected in
his enthusiasm for incorporating into his language musical techniques originating
in India, Japan, Africa, and Classical Greece. Judging by reactions I have received
from listeners around the world, I have never doubted the ability of Messiaen’s mu-
sic to transcend the particularities of its religious origin and speak profoundly to
listeners of all philosophical backgrounds. But for those whose spiritual allegiances
differ from Messiaen’s, a certain effort of open-mindedness is required when work-
ing through his explanatory texts.
On a more technical level, much of the music-theoretical literature regarding
Messiaen’s music, including Messiaen’s own essays, is also likely to strike the typi-
cal performer as a problematic source of assistance during practice, let alone during
performance: indeed, readers mistrustful of abstract theorizing are unlikely to find
passages like those in the Technique de mon langage musical describing the central
15_328-Anderson.indb 199 8/11/15 7:59 AM

200 Christopher Taylor
importance of “modes of limited transposition,” “non-retrogradable rhythms,” and

“the charm of impossibilities” very plausible.4 Though I personally like to keep an
open mind about the usefulness of intellectually challenging musical analyses, and
am in fact convinced that Messiaen’s writings contain important truths about the
structure and the power of his compositions, I do believe it is possible to reformulate
many of his written principles in more down-to-earth terms. By doing so, I think
one can provide practical guidance to pianists simply struggling to learn the notes,
help them put Messiaen’s style into a larger historical context, and perhaps provide
some illumination regarding the mysterious, undoubtedly largely subliminal, effect
that they may find Messiaen’s music having on themselves and on their audiences.
The following tour of the Vingt Regards attempts to sketch an analysis in this spirit,
based largely on observations I have made in the practice room and have subse-
quently tested and found valuable onstage.
A number of features distinguish Messiaen’s harmonic language, giving it a dis-
tinctive feel under the pianist’s hands, and these are evident right from the open-
ing bars of the “Regard du Père,” the first of the Vingt Regards (see example 13.1).
The presence here of a key signature, F-sharp major, will likely strike us the first
time we open the score as a surprisingly traditionalist touch. Messiaen has at times
downplayed the intermittent references to tonality in his music,5 and it is true that,
from one point of view, his tonal moments can be more or less explained away as
outgrowths of his modal system (which will be introduced shortly). Nonetheless,
one cannot gainsay the importance that such harmonies are bound to assume
for students, who will welcome the chance to position their fingers in customary
ways, and for listeners, most of whom are bound to relish the sensual pleasures of
familiar sonorities. As a rule, Messiaen’s passages with key signatures evince dis-
tinctive and powerful emotional affects: often sublimely serene or tender (as in the
“Regard du Père” and the nineteenth Regard, “Je dors mais mon coeur veille”), or
alternatively passionate and triumphant (as at the climax of No.15, “Le Baiser de
l’Enfant-Jésus,” or No. 20, “Regard de l’Eglise d’amour”). The precise harmonic
rules governing these passages clearly differ from those that underlie Beethoven’s
Example 13.1. No. 1, “Regard du Père,” m. 1. Hal Leonard MGB.
15_328-Anderson.indb 200 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 13 201
music, for example, but to me their connection with the historical tradition seems
undeniable and of palpable significance for all concerned, whether they be com-
poser, performer, listener, or theorist.
Looking beyond key signatures, a fuller understanding of Messiaen’s harmonies
does oblige us to eventually grapple with the aforementioned “modes of limited
transposition.” Of the seven modes enumerated by Messiaen, the one most fre-
quently encountered is also, fortunately, one of the easier ones for a performer to
become conversant with, and it serves as a logical starting point for discussion: this
is Messiaen’s second mode, better known in the literature at large as the octatonic
scale (see example 13.2).
Example 13.2. Octatonic scale (Messiaen Mode 2).
There are a number of useful ways to describe this scale: first, it is characterized by
a strict alternation between half-steps and whole-steps, which after leading through
eight distinct pitches produce a complete cycle spanning an octave. Secondly, it can
be viewed as the result of combining two diminished 7th chords—example 13.2
being the outcome of superimposing the pitches from an F-sharp diminished sev-
enth (F-sharp°7) with a G°7. Alternatively, it consists of the pitches left over after
one starts with a complete chromatic scale and then subtracts out the notes from a
single selected diminished 7th chord (G-sharp°7 in the case of example 13.2). The
relationship between octatonic scales and diminished 7th chords runs deep: just as,
in essence, there exist only three distinct diminished 7th chords (the diminished 7th
chords based on C, C-sharp, and D are all quite separate, but once one gets to D-
sharp, one finds the same pitches reappearing that were already encountered in the
case of C°7), only three essentially distinct octatonic scales are possible, shown in
forms that start on F-sharp, G, and G-sharp (example 13.3).
If we were to construct one of these scales starting on A, the result would simply
recycle the set of pitches already encountered in the F-sharp octatonic scale, and
Example 13.3. The three transpositions of the octatonic scale.
15_328-Anderson.indb 201 8/11/15 7:59 AM

analogous recurrences are discovered when one attempts any other possible transpo-
sitions of the set. Our examination of this scale thus begins to illuminate the signifi-
cance of the forbidding-sounding name “mode of limited transposition.”
The octatonic scale was already starting to find uses in the nineteenth century; a
nice specimen comes from Liszt, whose use of it brings out plainly the just-noted
connections to diminished 7th chords (see example 13.4). Sixty years later, Scri-
abin provides us with an extensive trove of further examples, which capitalize on
the harmonic potential of the scale in a way that precisely foreshadows Messiaen
(see example 13.5).
Example 13.4. Liszt, Harmonies du soir (Transcendental Étude 11), mm. 135–36.
Example 13.5. Scriabin, Sonata No. 9 (“Black Mass”), mm. 55–58.
15_328-Anderson.indb 202 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 13 203
To understand octatonic harmony as practiced by Scriabin and Messiaen, one

should review example 13.2, and notice in particular the rich variety of chords fa-
miliar from standard tonality that are embedded in any octatonic scale: in this case
the pitches of F-sharp major and F-sharp minor triads are readily spotted, along with
the F-sharp dominant 7th, F-sharp with an added 6th, and F-sharp half-diminished
7th chords. Next, one should take note of the fact (unsurprising given the scale’s
highly symmetrical structure) that the hidden presence within an octatonic scale of
any particular chord implies the presence of that same chord transposed upward by
a minor 3rd. So along with the F-sharp major chord lurking in example 13.2, the
A major chord may also be found, and the existence of C major and E-flat major
chords follows logically in turn.
Example 13.5 illustrates Scriabin’s mastery of these principles, as he constructs
each successive bar upon a different dominant 7th chord, with the root of one chord
always separated from the root of the next by a minor 3rd—in other words, when
one isolates the sequence of roots (E, G, B-flat, D-flat), one can then combine them
to obtain a single diminished 7th chord. Though the individual chords are com-
fortingly familiar, their arrangement lacks the logic of tonality; having left behind
the directed, dramatic hierarchies of tonic, dominant, and subdominant, we enter
a relatively aimless realm, devoid of gravitational forces between harmonies, where
sonorities blend colorfully, one into the next—a realm that suits the spacious and
timeless inclinations of both Scriabin and Messiaen perfectly.
I have always felt that the ability to grasp a composer’s harmonic language, both
consciously and on an intuitive or tactile level, is an essential skill for a pianist. Dur-
ing practice and performance alike, I often refer back to this understanding even as
the notes continue to stream out through the fingers. For me, this imperative applies
at least as much in Messiaen’s music as in Mozart’s; therefore, as I first came to ap-
preciate the propositions of the previous paragraph, I resolved to train both mind
and hand to make use of them on the fly.
To get comfortable with octatonic playing, one must not only learn to execute the
scale’s three transpositions fluently, but also learn to group together mentally all the
chords associated with each scale. In other words, one needs to spend time playing
F sharp major chords, followed by A major, followed by C major and E-flat, fol-
lowed in turn by all the parallel minor triads, dominant 7th, and so on. Once these
extended harmonic families are assimilated, the opening measures of example 13.1,
with their juxtapositions of F-sharp major, A minor, and E-flat major, can become
internalized in a deeper and more dependable fashion. Regrettably, Messiaen’s use of
accidentals often fails to reinforce this way of thinking. I can, with effort, appreciate
the existence of a system of underlying the accidentals in passages like example 13.6a,
but I have always considered it essential to rethink them as shown in example 13.2b.
The revised notation, apart from avoiding hard-to-read vertical intervals like di-
minished 4ths and augmented 3rds, emphasizes the harmonic logic that I advocate
throughout this chapter. A more complex version of the same thinking proves simi-
larly helpful at the climax of No. 15, “Le baiser de l’Enfant-Jésus” (see example 13.7).
15_328-Anderson.indb 203 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Example 13.6a. No. 10, “Regard de l’Esprit de joie,” m. 88.
Hal Leonard MGB.
Example 13.6b. No. 10, “Regard de l’Esprit de joie,” m. 88, re-

vised. Hal Leonard MGB.
Example 13.7. No. 15, “Le baiser de l’Enfant-Jésus,” mm. 95–99. Hal Leonard MGB.
15_328-Anderson.indb 204 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 13 205
All the chords in m. 95 belong to the now familiar coterie derived from the
F-sharp octatonic scale (enharmonically speaking, we encounter F-sharp major, C
minor, F-sharp major, A minor, and so on). The following bar, however, makes use of
another of the three families, the one that stems from the octatonic on G-sharp and
comprises such chords as B major, D minor, and F major. Bar 97 then reverts to the
initial family, after which m. 98 explores the final option, the G octatonic grouping,
which features in particular C#7 along with some G minor and G major. Unmistak-
ably, Messiaen’s employment of the three octatonic families exploits the association
of the first with the tonic (F-sharp), the second with the subdominant (B), and the
third with the dominant (C-sharp). Not only do we get to enjoy the octatonic har-
mony’s kaleidoscopic evocations of timelessness, but we simultaneously feel some of
the tonality’s drama and impetus. A pianist who understands these theoretical facts
not only has better insight into the music’s psychological effect but also finds the
notes much easier to learn and memorize.
The remaining six of Messiaen’s modes play a lesser role in the Vingt Regards and are
generally somewhat harder to recognize. We will examine three of them briefly. The
first mode in Messiaen’s listing is simply the whole-tone scale, traditionally associated
with French music, but in fact playing a negligible role in Messiaen’s output. Obtained
by splitting the octave into six equal parts, and possessing only two distinct transposi-
tions, the whole-tone scale suffers from an excess of symmetry; whole-tone harmonies
(of which the augmented triad and the French augmented 6th chord are historically
the foremost examples), though distinctive and appealing, do create a rather monoto-
nous effect before long—the pleasant aimlessness of the octatonic domain morbidly
exaggerated. On the infrequent occasions that whole-tone chords appear in Messiaen,
they generally occur within a context of mode 3 (of which the whole-tone scale is a
subset), or of octatonic mode 2, which encompasses a subset of whole-tone harmony
(French 6ths being legitimate octatonic chords, but not augmented triads).
As seen in example 13.8, Messiaen’s third mode, a nine-note scale, can be pro-
duced by starting with a chromatic trichord, then copying it, transposed successively
at intervals of a major 3rd and a minor 6th. Alternatively, it may be viewed as the
result of subtracting away from a complete chromatic scale a single augmented triad
(E-flat augmented in the case of example 13.7). Just as the octatonic scale, composed
of two-note subcells that are reproduced at intervals of a minor 3rd, can be trans-
posed to start on C, C-sharp, and D before we reach E-flat and discover a replica of
the initial form on C, just so may mode 3 be transposed to steps C, C-sharp, D, and
E-flat before we find at E a duplicate of the initial version.
The large number of notes in this scale renders the passages composed with it
somewhat difficult to distinguish: they do not stand apart from a background of
freely chromatic music as clearly as octatonic sections do. Moreover, even though
Example 13.8. Messiaen Mode 3.
15_328-Anderson.indb 205 8/11/15 7:59 AM

the scale subsumes a healthy number of triads (unsurprising given the many avail-
able pitches), the triads follow a pattern more complex than in the octatonic case,
and less akin to patterns familiar from late Romantic chromaticism. Nevertheless,
with practice the hands can learn to recognize the feel of this mode—the embedded
whole-tone scale may aid with recognition—and the intellect can confirm its pres-
ence by noting the missing pitches that together make up an augmented triad (F, A,
and C-sharp, as seen in example 13.9).
Example 13.9. No. 13, “Noël,” mm. 26–29. Hal Leonard MGB.
The remaining Messiaen modes are all derived by starting with a set of notes that
span a major 3rd or less, then duplicating that cell at a level one tritone up. (Thanks
to this structure, they may all be transposed into six distinct versions before one dis-
covers a recurrent form.) Mode 4, for instance, grows out of a chromatic tetrachord
(see example 13.10). An inconsistently spaced-out scale like this seems in general
better suited for melodic rather than chordal treatment, and indeed one of its most
prominent uses occurs in the subject of the titanic fugue from No. 6, “Par Lui tout
a été fait” (see example 13.11).
Example 13.10. Messiaen Mode 4.
Example 13.11. No. 6, “Par Lui tout a été fait,” mm. 1–2. Hal Leonard MGB.
Nevertheless, mode 4 does perform harmonic duty in the left hand of No. 17, “Re-
gard du silence,” where it combines with mode 3 in the right hand (see example 13.12).
The tendency toward chromatic clusters makes the mode somewhat recognizable, even
in those cases where Messiaen omits the helpful indications in the score.6
Although analysis using Messiaen’s modes can clarify a good fraction of the Vingt
Regards’ many notes, the usefulness of this thinking eventually hits its limits. For-
tunately, in those passages where modes are difficult or impossible to detect, there
often exist alternative ways of understanding his choice of pitches. Typically falling
15_328-Anderson.indb 206 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 13 207
Example 13.12. No. 17, “Regard du silence,” mm. 1–3. Hal Leonard MGB.
into the category of passages where modes fail are the many evocations of birdsong.
Making sense of the notes in such sections can prove a great challenge, even for those
possessing ornithological expertise.7 I know of no fail-safe, universal method for
mastering them, but I do find that these birdcalls can usually be broken down into
manageable cells, many of which emphasize particular pitches or intervals. A good
illustration (example 13.13) is found in No. 8, “Regard des hauteurs,” the movement
that (uniquely) is avian from start to finish.8
Example 13.13. No. 8, “Regard des hauteurs,” mm. 10–11. Hal Leonard MGB.
The bracketed sets in this example all have the same basic intervallic content, a
combination of 4th (or 5th) and tritone that can assume a number of interrelated
shapes—further basic instances appear in example 13.14. This family of cells, known
in the set-theoretical literature as “016,”9 occurs so frequently in contemporary music
that I consider it a duty for pianists to know it in all its guises as well as they know
the various inversions of major and minor triads. Apart from showing up in many
birdcalls, 016 also finds memorably sinister employment at the opening of No. 18,
“L’onction terrible” (see example 13.15).
Example 13.14. Instances of set 016.
15_328-Anderson.indb 207 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Example 13.15. No. 18, “L’onction terrible,” mm. 1–3. Hal Leonard MGB.
One final method that Messiaen uses to generate notes deserves mention, a
technique he dubs agrandissements asymétriques. The technique dominates No. 3,
“L’Échange,” and can be found in many other movements, almost always serving to
create an overwhelming sense of dramatic buildup. To launch these sections, Mes-
siaen sets forth a measure or two of seed material (see example 13.16).
Example 13.16. No. 3, “L’Échange,” mm. 1–2. (The circled pitches are explained be-
low.). Hal Leonard MGB.
The seed then gets restated over and over, but with progressively accumulating
modifications each time. Certain notes within the seed get moved up by a semitone
when they recur; others move down by a semitone; the rest remain constant. Exam-
ple 13.17 shows the first transformation of “L’Échange’s” seed, with arrows indicat-
ing the directions in which pitches are being shifted. From there the transformational
process repeats in a remorselessly deterministic fashion, the tension accumulating
steadily. By the time we reach the last iteration, the seed has been stretched into a
wildly distorted shape (see example 13.18).
This process is simple to describe, but memorizing the resulting measures can
prove pretty confusing. A technique that I personally have found useful in these cases
is to focus attention on some particular small subset of the notes, preferably selecting
notes in outer voices that can, with some effort perhaps, be described in tonal terms.
In example 13.16, an F and two B-flats have been circled, and by concentrating on
15_328-Anderson.indb 208 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 13 209
Example 13.17. No. 3, “L’Échange,” mm. 3–4. Hal Leonard MGB.
Example 13.18. No. 3, “L’Échange,” mm. 23–24. Hal Leonard MGB.
these notes I can almost convince myself during performance that the key of the two
measures is B-flat major. Curiously, by relying on rather debatable analyses like this
(which may or may not correlate with anything Messiaen imagined during composi-
tion), I can face large assemblages of notes with increased confidence. And luckily,
all three circled notes change in the same direction during subsequent instances of
the agrandissements asymétriques; therefore with example 13.16 one can imagine to
be in B major, and so forth analogously on through example 13.18 (A major). The
remaining two notes circled in example 13.16, G and F-sharp, do not fit comfortably
into this “tonal” scheme, but nonetheless they deserve a little special attention during
performance. The falling-semitone type of relationship between them can serve as an
unchanging reference point through all the subsequent iterations, so that after the
pianist successfully lands on the last 64th-note (a relatively safe bet), a recollection
of this relationship can guide the right hand on the treacherous journey up to the
final flourish. Strategies of these types, where one focuses on selected notes and tells
oneself tonal or intervallic stories about them—even somewhat farfetched stories—
can be applied fruitfully to all of the cycle’s agrandissements asymétriques passages, and
indeed to many other parts of the work.
15_328-Anderson.indb 209 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Having devoted so much time to pitch content, we will spend the remaining
paragraphs discussing rhythm, a facet of composition that Messiaen ascribed equal
importance to. Probably the most salient feature of his rhythmic language, which
took inspiration from Indian and Classical Greek models and from Stravinsky, is
its additive character. Where most of the Western tradition has developed around
the concept of a steady stream of downbeats, subdivided equally into beats, each of
which itself subdivides (normally into twos or powers of two, less frequently into
threes, rarely into fives and sevens), additive rhythm begins with a relatively quick
basic pulse, typically notated with 16ths or 32nds, then builds rhythms upward
from that value and its multiples. As a rule, groups of two or four pulses, or long
values with twice or four times the pulse’s duration, are most common, but groups
of three or other odd numbers occur often enough to impart what Messiaen called a
“deliciously limping” quality.10 A good example of these sometimes tricky-to-execute
rhythmic hiccups is seen in example 13.19.
Example 13.19. No. 19, “Je dors, mais mon coeur veille,” mm. 15–17, with added
notations to suggest possible strategies for realizing the rhythm. (Note that, wishing to
avoid a mass of extra numbers of marginal usefulness, Messiaen consistently omits time
signatures; also, the common nineteenth-century convention that beamed groups of
three notes are triplets, even in the absence of a “3,” never applies.) Hal Leonard MGB.
Given the presence of dotted 16th-notes and double-dotted 8th-notes in this

excerpt, it follows that the fundamental pulse, the ultimate rhythmic common
denominator, has to be the 32nd-note, and the top line above the staff in example
13.19 illustrates that fact. The most common note durations actually encountered
are twice or four times this value, but the occasional threes and sevens produce that
distinctively Messiaenesque touch of unpredictability.
It would be theoretically possible to perform the measures above accurately
by having one’s internal mental metronome clicking away in steady 32nds (as in
example 13.19, top line), but I would certainly discourage that approach. Such
hyperactive ticking within the brain would not only tend to drag the tempo down
but would also subvert any sense of a flowing, flexible line. A better method, calling
for an imaginary click-track that switches back and forth between 16ths and 32nds,
avoiding the latter as much as possible, appears on the second line of the example.
15_328-Anderson.indb 210 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 13 211
And, since it replicates more closely the actual melodic material, it produces more
musical results. Of course, cultivating a variable metronome inside the head requires
some practice. But as a rule I have found that students who master the pattern found
in example 13.20 thereby obtain the key component for building a reliable inner
metronome that can adapt to anything in Messiaen’s corpus.
The third line in example 13.19 represents the actual pulsation that runs through
my mind during a concert. It is mostly identical to the second line, except: (1) to cut
back on excess clicking, it switches into 8ths in the second bar—with practice I have
learned to employ a third, extra-slow gear where circumstances warrant. But note that
I avoid moving directly from 32nd-note into 8th-note pulses or vice versa; (2) in the
third bar, I use a pattern that matches the first bar and also the basic model of example
13.20. In general, I dislike the sort of isolated 32nd-note click that one sees at the end
of example 13.19, second line, though I can think that way if forced.
Example 13.20. Pattern for building internal

metronome.
The above paragraphs should help with the practical realization of nearly every
unusual rhythm found in the Vingt Regards. However, there remain a couple of other
basic tenets in Messiaen’s rhythmic philosophy that performers ought to have some
consciousness of. La technique de mon langage musical lays particular emphasis, for
instance, on the notion of the nonretrogradable rhythm, which is to say, a rhythm that
comes out the same whether one reads its values from left to right, or from right
to left: in other words, a palindrome. One of the simplest and most recognizable of
these is a jaunty gesture (see example 13.21) that plays a key role in No. 10, “Regard
de l’Esprit de joie.”11 A more complex example is the constantly recurring tam-tam
motif in the bottom staff of No. 12, “La parole toute-puissante,” which, when one
measures its durations in terms of 16th-notes, corresponds to the numerical sequence
3–5–8–5–3 (see example 13.22).
Once I had, with considerable effort, this movement’s notes basically stored in
memory, I came to realize that I could increase my comfort and security while play-
ing by tracking the relentless reiterations of this numerical pattern—not going so far
as to count individual 16ths, but simply observing the way that the left hand con-
tinually mutates from shorter values toward longer values and back again. Keeping
the brain busy with such observations somehow helps one to maintain one’s bearings
and one’s confidence.
It seems doubtful that there are any listeners who can truly perceive that the
pattern in example 13.23 is palindromic; it certainly strains credibility to imagine
Example 13.21. Palindromic rhythm found in No. 10, “Regard de

l’Esprit de joie.”
15_328-Anderson.indb 211 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Example 13.22. No. 10, “Regard de l’Esprit de joie,” mm. 60–61. Hal Leonard MGB.
Example 13.23. No. 12, “La parole toute-puissante,” mm. 1–6. Hal Leonard MGB.
an audience member being outraged by a hypothetical Messiaen impersonator

who chose to write the pattern 3–5–8–6–3 instead of the actual 3–5–8–5–3!
Nevertheless, an alert auditor of “La parole toute-puissante” probably can obtain
some dim impression of values that, while irregular—very different from Classi-
cal rhythm—still somehow appear to be governed by a regular system. The exact
method by which Messiaen creates this effect may not be graspable by mortals who
15_328-Anderson.indb 212 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 13 213
lack printed scores, but as long as the music produces such interesting sensations,
the imperceptibility of its inner compositional workings ought not cause distress or
exasperation. Similar remarks will apply to the even more intricate and mathemati-
cal rhythmic trickery described next.
A second such rhythmic artifice is Messiaen’s method of canons par ajout du point
(“canons by the addition of a dot”) found for instance in the top two staves of No. 5,
“Regard du Fils sur le Fils” (see example 13.24). Here we see the top staff presenting
a rhythmic pattern of the form (measured in 16ths): 4–4–4–2–3–2–2–2–2–3–. . . .
The middle staff, meanwhile, imitates this pattern, but with every value increased by
an extra 50 percent: 6–6–6–3–4½–3–3–3–3–4½–. . . . The ajout du point terminology
thus refers to the way that quarters become dotted quarters, 8ths become dotted 8ths,
and so on. The complete top-staff pattern lasts for a total of thirteen quarters and then
cycles back to the beginning; the middle staff does likewise once its corresponding 19½
quarters finish. It follows arithmetically that the top staff completes its third cycle at
the exact moment that the middle staff completes its second; at that instant, Messiaen
breaks the pattern and moves on to the movement’s next section. As with the rhythmic
cycles in No. 12, “La parole toute-puissante,” I find it helpful in performance to try
to keep track of as much of this blueprint as I can (though I certainly doubt that con-
sciously following every number and every multiplication by 1.5 is humanly possible).
At a minimum, one should remain very alert to those places where each staff finishes
its cycle and repeats; without some sort of positional information like this, the odds of
finding oneself completely adrift in concert are high indeed.
Example 13.24. No. 5, “Regard du Fils sur le Fils,” mm. 1–4. Hal Leonard MGB.
A third arithmetical device in Messiaen’s toolbox is easy to describe, but consider-

ably harder to execute. As seen in example 13.25, the closing lines of No. 16, “Re-
gard des prophètes, des bergers et des mages,” provide an easy-to-observe instance of
it. Tallying up the durations of the left-hand chords in this example, we discover the
simplest possible arithmetical sequence, 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - . . . , continuing similarly all
the way to 16 (for reasons of space the excerpt only takes us as far as 9). Though the
15_328-Anderson.indb 213 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Example 13.25. No. 16, “Regard des prophètes, des bergers et des mages,” mm.
78–83. Hal Leonard MGB.
mathematics involved is trivial, this rhythm is nonetheless quite unlike anything one
finds in the traditional repertoire and takes effort to memorize, particularly as the
durations become longer. Because the right hand is clearly defining a metrical pat-
tern in 4/8, it is essential to relate the individual left-hand chords to this pattern, to
think in terms of “one-and-two-and-three-and-four-and,” and to master consciously
a fair number of facts about where the left hand falls. (For instance, “the chords of
duration 8 and 9 both occur on ‘three’”; “the chord of duration 10 occurs on the
‘and three’”; and so on.)12 Though such facts are not difficult to deduce, one cannot
expect to have enough time and composure to recompute more than a few of them
in performance. The same points of course apply to the opening of this Regard,
where the durations start at 16 and work their way down to 1, and doubly so to the
opening and conclusion of No. 18, “Regard de l’Onction terrible,” where one hand
accelerates according to this system and concurrently the other hand decelerates.
Finally, it is worth mentioning briefly another of Messiaen’s arithmetical predi-
lections—a fondness for prime numbers, which shows up at the conclusion of No.
6, “Par Lui tout a été fait” (see example 13.26). In this section, bars containing low,
fast chords alternate repeatedly with measures consisting of higher, slower chords.
The number of chords in the low bars follows an increasing pattern, 3–5–7–11 (the
last two not printed here), and the high measures have decreasing durations of 31,
29, and 23. Probably few musicians imagine that the days in middle school math
Example 13.26. No. 6, “Par Lui tout a été fait,” mm. 222–225. Hal Leonard MGB.
15_328-Anderson.indb 214 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 13 215
class devoted to remembering the sequence of prime numbers can find a professional
application, but the comprehension of these bars and their onstage reconstruction
provide us at long last with justification for having persevered through those lessons.
Of course, knowing that a particular bar contains thirty-one chords does not auto-
matically guarantee that one will play it accurately. I would certainly recommend
against the most obvious policy of internally mouthing the words “one, two, three,
. . . , thirty-one” while playing, just as in example 13.17, I recommend against being
guided by hordes of imaginary 32nd-note clicks. Instead, I believe one gets more
coherent and musical results by breaking the thirty-one down into beat groupings.
Because the number is prime, there will be no way to break it down evenly, but one
may by all means use some grouping like the one that Messiaen’s notated beams sug-
gest: seven groups of four, followed by an extra group of three. In fact, that arrange-
ment seems as good as any to me, and it is what I follow in performance.
CONCLUSION
I have presented a fair number of elaborate mental strategies designed to assist in

the understanding and memorization of Messiaen’s arithmetical intricacies, and
there may exist a few readers who will feel frustration or annoyance that so much
effort must be expended in pursuing the mastery of passages whose mathematical
underpinnings will certainly remain invisible to the overwhelming majority of the
audience. In fairness, I will happily concede to any such skeptics that Messiaen’s
compositional devices are often opaque for listeners; indeed, I am frequently inclined
to regard them as his private diversions, methods he devised that, apart from gen-
erating musical material consistent with the rest of his style, also amused him and
appealed to his mystical or numerological tastes. Messiaen himself acknowledged as
much, at least in connection with a compositional system he devised later in life that
involved an alphabetic code and the translation of words from various languages into
musical themes. Asked whether the resulting themes were basically just the fruit of
chance, Messiaen freely admitted it, but added:
I nevertheless exercise some control, and reserve the right to change the words [being
encoded] when the result isn’t interesting. . . . My method is only a game. A fruitful
game that has forced me to discover new musical variations.13
I am uncertain whether Messiaen himself would be willing to apply this remark to

the compositional techniques of the Vingt Regards, but I see no reason not to view
them in the same light. Perhaps the candor and realism of Messiaen’s words can
provide some encouragement to anyone who fears that he maintained unreasonable
expectations for his listeners.
Regarding the frustration performers may feel at being asked to execute such
inscrutable cognitive calisthenics, I hope to offer some reassurance that with the
above types of strategies the difficulties are quite surmountable, and that the effort
15_328-Anderson.indb 215 8/11/15 7:59 AM

to surmount them is both worthwhile and essential. A sloppy attitude to details in

the score, even those that seem impractical or imperceptible, is, I believe, liable to
spread and infect facets of one’s interpretation that are obvious to all, with unmistak-
ably deleterious results. A performer might, for instance, conceivably disregard the
prime number 31 in example 13.26, playing instead some arbitrary large quantity
of chords, with few ill effects. But an analogous approach in most other cases (play-
ing random quasi-palindromic rhythms in example 13.23, say) would surely lead in
short order to a train wreck. Though performers may chafe at the unusual mental
demands in Messiaen’s score, many of which audience members won’t fully appreci-
ate, the fact remains that the only practicable way to realize the inimitable and mag-
nificent potential of the Vingt Regards is to grapple with these demands and execute
them with all the loving attention to detail that any masterwork deserves.
For indeed, the Vingt Regards is a magnificently effective work, full of astonishing
pianistic sonorities, possessed of an immense emotional range, and reflective of the
singular mixture of spiritual sincerity, cultural eclecticism, and mathematical curiosity
that characterized Messiaen’s entire career. The cycle does not particularly adhere to any
of the traditional precepts of musical form, but it follows a clear dramatic trajectory
from the first statement of the theme of God in the opening bars to the triumphant
reaffirmation of the same theme twenty movements later.14,15 The overwhelming total
impact of the music can come as quite a surprise to listeners who expect contemporary
music to be passionless or baffling; and yet, Messiaen manages to achieve his visceral
effects without any compromise of his intellectual principles or his personal idiosyncra-
sies. Yes, the mental rigors of learning the work may seem daunting, but I have found
on balance that, like Messiaen, I enjoy the cerebral games; and even on days when I
find them vexingly difficult to implement, the rewards of being immersed in such
powerful music can always compensate for the inevitable struggles.
NOTES
1. These notations tended to become more extensive as Messiaen’s career progressed; by

the time we reach the Catalogue d’oiseaux (1958), we find programmatic annotations on every
line of many pages.
2. Though the word “mystical” is often applied to Messiaen, he himself resisted the term,
since he preferred to emphasize his spiritual roots in the official orthodoxies of the Catholic
Church and associated “mysticism” with a more individualistic approach to achieving union
with God; see Robert Sherlaw Johnson, Messiaen (Berkeley: University of California Press,
1989), 40; Claude Rostand, Olivier Messiaen (Paris: Ventadour, 1957), 23; Antoine Goléa,
Rencontres avec Olivier Messiaen (Paris: R. Julliard, 1961), 47; Paul Griffiths, Olivier Messiaen
and the Music of Time (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1985), 63.
Regardless, I find it hard not to sympathize with those who invoke the concept of mysticism
when describing the abstruse, ecstatic, and often highly personal imagery found in his writings.
3. “Fanaticism is diametrically opposed to all religious ideas. Religion teaches us above all
to love our neighbor . . . especially the neighbor who doesn’t share your convictions!” (Mes-
15_328-Anderson.indb 216 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 13 217
siaen quoted in Claude Samuel, Olivier Messiaen: Music and Color. Conversations with Claude
Samuel, trans. E. Thomas Glasow (Portland, OR: Amadeus, 1994), 105). Perhaps less encour-
aging was Messiaen’s first question regarding the possibility of Peter Sellars staging his opera
Saint François in 1992: “Is he a believer?” (Samuel, Olivier Messiaen, 262).
4. A case in point would be the book’s opening declaration: “[The charm of impos-
sibilities is a] charm, at once voluptuous and contemplative, residing particularly in certain
mathematical impossibilities of the modal and rhythmic domains: modes which cannot be
transposed beyond a certain number of transpositions, because one always falls again into the
same notes; rhythms which cannot be used in retrograde, because in such a case one finds
the same order of values again” (Olivier Messiaen, La Technique de mon langage musical, trans.
John Satterfield [Paris: Leduc, 1942], 13). I imagine many musicians would tend to doubt
that such definitions could lead to relevant insights regarding their own performance or ap-
preciation of the Vingt Regards.
5. “Some of my works contain tonal passages, but they are precisely blended with those
modes [of limited transposition] that color them and ultimately have little importance” (Sam-
uel, Olivier Messiaen, 49). In saying these words, it may be that Messiaen, faced with a certain
amount of snide commentary regarding his tonal moments and their allegedly self-indulgent
or even trite conservatism, felt some pressure to distance himself from them. See Griffiths,
Olivier Messiaen, 101–2, regarding the tonal movements in the Quatuor pour la fin du temps.
6. The superscript numbers in Messiaen’s annotations (“34” and “44”) refer to transposi-
tion levels.
7. See Allen Forte, “Messiaen’s Mysterious Birds,” in Messiaen Studies, ed. Robert Sholl
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), for examples of the theoretical complexities
Messiaen’s birdsong can give rise to.
8. This example was first discussed in Griffiths, Olivier Messiaen, 120–21, which includes
a figure similar to example 12.
9. For an explanation of this nomenclature, see Allen Forte, The Structure of Atonal Music
(New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1973)—the seminal book for this branch of music
theory.
10. Messiaen, La Technique de mon langage musical, 48.
11. Listeners have frequently used the adjective “jazzy” when discussing this excerpt with
me. Given the disparaging remarks Messiaen made regarding jazz (Samuel, Olivier Messiaen,
195), this reaction may seem paradoxical; still, it is hard not to sympathize, considering the
exuberant rhythmic energy the passage shares with jazz, along with the ubiquity of chords
built from triads with one extra “blue” note.
12. Even in cases where there is no explicit beat provided in another hand (e.g., No. 20,
“Regard de l’Eglise d’amour,” mm. 144–160), I still use the same system based on thinking
in 4/8.
13. Samuel, Olivier Messiaen, 124. Further details on Messiaen’s musical alphabet may also
be found there.
14. Since the presence of certain recurring themes does not in itself pose any particularly
unusual demands on the pianist, I have not devoted time here to analyzing them. By far the
most important theme is the thème de Dieu, along with its short subsegment known as the
thème d’amour; this central idea appears complete in three movements, with additional partial
quotations in four more. The “theme of the star and the cross” is much more restricted in
scope, found solely in the two corresponding movements (No. 2, “Regard de l’étoile,” and No.
7, “Regard de la croix”), and the “theme of chords” is fairly abstract and unlikely to leave much
15_328-Anderson.indb 217 8/11/15 7:59 AM

impression on the listener, given the fleeting and often disguised references to it scattered
across five movements. Although the positioning of the thème de Dieu makes it a powerful
unifying device, Messiaen is in general much less interested in exploring the developmental
potential of themes and motives than most of his predecessors. See Griffiths, Olivier Messiaen,
15–18, 242–43, and Jeremy Thurlow, “Messiaen’s Catalogue d’oiseaux,” in Messiaen Studies,
ed. Robert Sholl (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 121–22.
15. The cycle’s overall dramatic shape can be summarized as follows: The opening five
movements, predominantly slow and reflective, gradually immerse listeners in the vast depths
of Messiaen’s sonic world, introducing them not only to the theme of God but also to various
distinctive compositional techniques, like the ebullient birdsongs and the monolithic agran-
dissements asymétriques. The violent and surpassingly difficult No. 6, “Par Lui tout a été fait”
shatters the calm, and marks the start of a pattern of rotation among movements that are by
turns fierce, reflective, abstract, jubilant. The last category of course includes No. 10, “Regard
de l’Esprit de joie,” a virtuoso tour de force whose conclusion seems calculated to serve as an
opportunity for taking an intermission. The rotation among the types continues in the second
half, gradually becoming more extreme as the movements grow more massive. Following the
terrifying, apocalyptic No. 18, “Regard de l’Onction terrible,” and the sublimely peaceful No.
19, “Je dors, mais mon coeur veille,” the final, No. 20, “Regard de l’Eglise d’amour,” provides
an apotheosis of supreme grandeur, with kaleidoscopic glimpses of material from almost every
preceding movement and an exultant return for the theme of God.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Forte, Allen. The Structure of Atonal Music. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1973.
———. “Messiaen’s Mysterious Birds,” in Messiaen Studies, ed. Robert Sholl. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2007.
Goléa, Antoine. Rencontres avec Olivier Messiaen. Paris: R. Julliard, 1961.
Griffiths, Paul. Olivier Messiaen and the Music of Time. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press,
1985.
Johnson, Robert Sherlaw. Messiaen. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989.
Messiaen, Olivier. La Technique de mon langage musical. Translated by John Satterfield. Paris:
Leduc, 1942.
Rostand, Claude. Olivier Messiaen. Paris: Ventadour, 1957.
Samuel, Claude. Olivier Messiaen: Music and Color. Conversations with Claude Samuel. Trans-
lated by E. Thomas Glasow. Portland, OR: Amadeus, 1994.
Thurlow, Jeremy. “Messiaen’s Catalogue d’oiseaux,” in Messiaen Studies, ed. Robert Sholl.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007.
15_328-Anderson.indb 218 8/11/15 7:59 AM

14
A Pianist Looks at the Music
of John Cage, 1946–1948
John Milbauer
“I have nothing to say, and I am saying it.”

—John Cage1
Figure 14.1. Photo of the author in a performance of the Suite for Toy Piano. Califor-
nia State University, Chico.
219
15_328-Anderson.indb 219 8/11/15 7:59 AM

220 John Milbauer
My first brush with either John Cage or his music occurred when the composer
presented the Charles Eliot Norton Lectures “in poetry in the broadest sense” at Har-
vard College in 1988–1989. As an entering freshman from the upper Midwest long
before the advent of the Internet, I was too narrow to understand the significance
of Cage, of his music, or of the lectures, and now admit with a mixture of bemuse-
ment and embarrassment that I did not attend any. I heard reports throughout the
year from my classmates who did attend, one saying that the lectures constituted
“the most moving experience” of his life; I cannot say, however, that I was much
intrigued by the man who was reading words that had been randomly reordered by
a computer (with the aid of the I Ching) for over an hour each time. I was, after all,
very busy; I had to practice.
Nearly a quarter century later, as I performed the complete Sonatas and Interludes for
prepared piano throughout the Cage centennial in 2012, I excerpted twenty minutes of
the question-and-answer sessions that followed those Norton Lectures as a prelude to
the performances, broadcasting them in the hall to pique the curiosity of the audience.
Sitting backstage, I was put at ease by the gentle cadences of Cage’s witty, thoughtful
remarks, even though the performance of any work that invites the pianist to be on-
stage for more than an hour without pause is daunting.2 What I would give now to go
back to my freshman year and experience Cage’s delivery in person.
Obviously, my affection for Cage’s music has grown over the decades. To my ears,
he has written some of the most beautiful piano music of the last century (how he
would dislike that hierarchy), in particular his works of the 1940s. As significant as
the beauty of his piano music, however, is a parallel aspect: its capacity to change
how people listen. Global culture is increasingly visual and decreasingly aural (we
have 20-megapixel digital cameras but only low-resolution audio files heard through
lower-resolution earbuds); Cage, however, manages to fine-tune and open the ears,
encouraging the audience to listen with greater awareness. Program any of the fol-
lowing works of Cage adjacent to another composer’s music, and you will see how
both composers benefit.
An exposition of the complete keyboard works of Cage would be a book in itself,
so I have chosen only three works from my favorite years of Cage to present here,
including an early pair of pieces for unprepared piano, Two Pieces (1946), the Suite
for Toy Piano (1948), and Sonatas and Interludes for Prepared Piano (1946–1948).
There is much already written about these works from compositional, philosophi-
cal, and aesthetic standpoints; this chapter, however, is intended to be a performer’s
guide, discussing some of the issues surrounding the performance of Cage’s keyboard
music from this period.
TWO PIECES FOR PIANO (1946)
“The first question I ask myself when something doesn’t seem to be beautiful is why
do I think it’s not beautiful. And very shortly you discover that there is no reason.”3
15_328-Anderson.indb 220 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 14 221
The Two Pieces for Piano of 1946 are a wonderful introduction to Cage’s keyboard
works, both for pianists and for audiences. For unprepared piano and technically not
particularly difficult, these works are lovely, aphoristic gems. The first, gentle and
spare, is a silence-laden companion to the quicker and more skittish second. It could
be my overactive imagination that sees these as a nod to ancient paired dances, such
as the pavane and galliard, but given Cage’s lifelong association with dance, I suspect
that the comparison might be apt.
Each bears a title derived from its metric structure of nested proportions:4 the
first, I (3-5-2), consists of ten 10-bar sections separated by double bars, each section
clearly subdivided into figures of three, five, and two measures; the more rhythmi-
cally complicated second piece, II (2¼-3¾-1¾-2¼), is less consistently organized,
but often displays ten-bar groupings. To anyone who assumes that all of Cage’s
music is largely aleatoric or lacking specificity, these are wonderful counterexamples
fashioned of exquisitely constructed sonorities.
Both works utilize a gamut, a limited number of distinct pitch assemblies that
always recur in unchanged rhythmic guises. There are no octave displacements or
equivalents; rather, each sonority is associated with a specified register, a precise voic-
ing, a rhythm, a dynamic level, and an articulation. There is no harmonic direction
in a traditional sense, only arrangements and juxtapositions of sound in time. I hear
in these works an affinity for the mobiles of Alexander Calder from the same years:
bold sound-shapes, organized in space and time, floating around one another while
remaining unchanged and discrete.5 Example 14.1 shows several elements of the
gamut clearly arranged in a 3-5-2 bar scheme.
Looking at the score, one sees the large swaths of silence throughout the work. At
the suggested metronome marking, a five-bar breve easily lasts fifteen seconds, and
Example 14.1. Two Pieces for Piano, I (3-5-2), mm. 1–18. Copyright © 1974 Henmar
Press, Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
15_328-Anderson.indb 221 8/11/15 7:59 AM

222 John Milbauer
Example 14.2. Two Pieces for Piano, I (3-5-2), mm. 78–99. Copyright © 1974 Henmar
the last two lines of the work stretch to nearly a minute with only a few pp treble Es
and Ds lingering in the air (see example 14.2).
This brings us to one of the challenges inherent in performing Cage’s music: how
does one handle the silences? One would assume that a silence is easy to perform,
though I have found the opposite: under stage lights and in front of an audience,
holding a silence requires great energy and intention; otherwise, a half-minute si-
lence will seem awkward after only a few seconds.
When I first performed Cage, I was often uncomfortable during the “silences” and
played these two pieces much faster than the suggested tempo as a result. Questions
rattled in my head: “How did my hand get in my lap? When do I bring it back up?
Who is making that noise? Is my shirt still tucked in? Where should I be looking? Why
can’t I breathe?” These thoughts are similar to those one might have in a yoga practice,
as one seeks to quiet the mind. Fortunately, with time and experience (and, in my case,
with yoga), I have come to enjoy those silences as much as the notes, if not more. They
do benefit from clear choreography (I leave my hands silent and flat on the keys), from
a softened and unfocused gaze, and from an attention to deep breathing from the lower
abdomen. With these mechanisms in place, it becomes easy for one simply to listen,
or to listen simply, which was likely Cage’s intent. In time, one realizes that there is no
such thing as silence, not even, as Cage found, within anechoic chambers; that realiza-
tion is one of the most rewarding aspects of experiencing Cage’s music.
Since both of these pieces from 1946 rely on limited motives, always presented in
the same cloak of rhythm, dynamics, articulation, and voicing, a compelling perfor-
mance could hinge on presenting these motives as uniformly as possible. Here are
some tips that have been useful to me over the years:
• I play every figure from the surface of the key or from below the surface (some-
times starting with the key depressed near the “bump” in the action), and not
from above the key. This eliminates many variables that would result in an
uneven delivery.
15_328-Anderson.indb 222 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 14 223
• Consider that the key both falls and rises, and that both are equally important.
As pianists, we tend to focus on the former and ignore the latter, but in softer
works the rise of the key is especially significant, as it determines the end of
each sound.
• Consider which hand shape you will use for each sonority (flat, curved, rotated,
etc.), and whether or not you want to be consistent. Since many of Cage’s so-
norities range from p to ppp, I tend to play flat-handed, somewhat flat-fingered,
and using the softest part of the fingertip I can find, increasing my ability to
control the rise and fall of each key.
• I focus on the speed of the key, both down and up. Consider that there are
fast works that may call for a slow key speed (making gentler sounds within a
quicker piece), or for fast key speeds within a slow tempo (making a brighter
sounds within a slower piece). Consider also that the key speeds need not be
uniform down and up: one can have a fast descent and a slow rise, or vice versa.
Memory is another consideration in the Two Pieces for Piano, as it is in much of

Cage’s work. Most pianists tend to rely on physical memory, on the momentum
practiced for countless hours from one gesture to another. In slower tempos or in
more extended works, we are likely to especially be aware of harmonic motion, also,
to help us navigate. What happens, then, when we play works that have essentially
no physical momentum and no traditionally functional harmony to help guide us
through the work, as in both of these Cage pieces? Consider also that these two
pieces last about eleven minutes, but they employ only about ten gestures between
them that are ordered, reordered, and separated by extended pauses. As in Bartók’s
“Night Music” from Out of Doors, I have found that the energy and attention neces-
sary to play these works from memory can detract from the experience, so I prefer to
use the score, copied in miniature, which I lay flat over the pins.
The second of the Two Pieces for Piano of 1946 is quicker, trickier, and no less
delightful than the first. The frequent changes of dynamics and range might invite
a histrionic, romantically infected performance (example 14.3). I prefer, however,
to play the work more serenely, simply as written, and to choreograph my move-
ments to move as quietly as possible, because I find that this makes the work more
Example 14.3. Two Pieces for Piano, II (2¼-3¾-1¾-2¼), mm. 15–19. Copyright ©
1974 Henmar Press, Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
15_328-Anderson.indb 223 8/11/15 7:59 AM

224 John Milbauer
magical and animate. This physical and interpretive calmness relates to another
unique aspect of Cage performance practice: his music resonates most fully when
we abandon much of what we have learned to apply to common-era repertoire.
Cage invites us not to inflect everything, not to desire, not to manipulate, and to
step away from our needs to direct and to control. Rather than express ourselves,
we more aptly allow Cage’s sounds to speak for themselves. We have grown ac-
customed to a need for climax, for tempo rubato, for romantic performance prac-
tice—applied to everything we do from Bach to Chopin to Crumb. Cage invites us
to consider another possibility for enjoying sound and experiencing beauty: “I’m
perfectly happy about my feelings,” he remarked. “I don’t want to spend my life
being pushed around by a bunch of artists.”6
SUITE FOR TOY PIANO (1948)
“After I had been studying with him for two years, Schoenberg said, ‘In order to
write music, you must have a feeling for harmony.’ I explained to him that I had
no feeling for harmony. He then said that I would always encounter an obstacle,
that it would be as though I came to a wall through which I could not pass. I said,
‘In that case I will devote my life to beating my head against that wall.’”7
Written within a year of the Two Pieces for Piano, the Suite for Toy Piano (1948)
shares many of their characteristics: spare textures, clearly defined gestures, and
metric structures that are apparent and recurrent. The whole suite lasts only eight
minutes; Cage indicated that it could be played on a regular piano, too.
To perform this suite on a vintage toy piano—an instrument that is both an icon
of Western childhood and reminiscent of Indonesian metallophones—is delightful.
One of my teachers, György Sebők, said of Bartók that he united past and future,
East and West, and earth and cosmos. Something similar can be said of Cage’s work
for toy piano, as throughout the five unnamed movements we hear East and West,
young and old, serious and frivolous.
The first movement opens with a reference to five-finger patterns (as in Debussy’s
Étude 1: “Pour les cinq doigts d’après Monsieur Czerny”), but also recalling chant-
like part-writing (see example 14.4).
The second movement follows without pause, demonstrating more activity and
variety than the first. Though rhythm is perhaps paramount in most of Cage’s work
from this period, there is much attention to articulation here, creating charming
passages, such as in example 14.5. As seen in example 14.6, the middle movement
is formal and processional, yet highly personal. Its frequent open 5ths recall ancient
sonorities, especially in this captivating series of parallel 5ths near the end. The final
two movements include a lilting 4th (with sequences of 3rds that are not friendly to
large hands such as mine), and the jaunty romp of the finale.
15_328-Anderson.indb 224 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 14 225
Example 14.4. Suite for Toy Piano, I, mm. 1–11. Copyright © 1960 Henmar Press, Inc.
All rights reserved. Used by permission.
Example 14.5. Suite for Toy Piano, II, mm. 15–20. Copyright © 1960 Henmar Press,
Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
Example 14.6. Suite for Toy Piano, III, mm. 25–30. Copyright © 1960 Henmar Press,
When playing the Suite for Toy Piano, one should remember the great influence
of dance on Cage. This work was originally performed with choreography by Merce
Cunningham (“A Diversion,” 1948), and familiarity with Cunningham’s vocabulary of
movement from these years can provide much inspiration. The Merce Cunningham
15_328-Anderson.indb 225 8/11/15 7:59 AM

226 John Milbauer
Trust describes the work as possibly “referring to the legend of Krishna and the Gopis,”
though the history of how Cunningham’s choreography developed separately from
Cage’s compositional processes is a rich one.8
Toy pianos display much variety of action, sonority, range, and appearance. My
Schoenhut––a banged-up 1940s relic with a lid loosely attached by rusty nails––speaks
most clearly when the keys are pressed slowly; if I use too quick a key speed, the notes
are likely to jam. I suspect that Cage enjoyed the noisy action of toy pianos; in the
following passage from the second movement, the sounds of the action of the repeated
C overwhelm the resonance of the struck tone bar. On my instrument, this is among
the most delightful passages of the Suite, but also one of the trickiest: too fast a key
stroke and the key will jam; too slow, and the note will not sound (see example 14.7).
Example 14.7. Suite for Toy Piano, II, mm. 42–53. Copyright © 1960 Henmar Press,
I acquired my toy piano on eBay, and saw a few that included a bench. However,
given my size (six-four), I do not trust the stability of a toy piano bench, either old
or new. I prefer to sit on a cushion with my legs crossed (see figure 14.1, p. 219),
and practice sitting down and standing up at the instrument in the hall prior to
performance; this Suite, lithe and elegant, benefits from rehearsed movement on
stage from the pianist.
SONATAS AND INTERLUDES FOR PREPARED PIANO (1946–1948)
“I remember loving sound before ever taking a music lesson. And so we make our
lives by what we love.”9
Cage is perhaps best known for his prepared piano music, of which there are nearly
two dozen pieces, ranging from a few minutes (e.g., “A Room”) to the Sonatas and
Interludes, which exceed an hour without pause. To play any instrument is to enter
another world, but to play prepared piano is to enter one even more remote.
15_328-Anderson.indb 226 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 14 227
Figure 14.2. Photo of John Cage preparing a piano.

Cage Trust.
When approaching Sonatas and Interludes, one should explore Cage’s relationship
with Hindu philosophy. In the 1940s, the composer was immersed in the writings
of the philosopher and art historian Ananda K. Coomaraswamy, a significant figure
at the time for introducing Indian culture to the West. Cage was drawn in particular
to the concept of the rasas, or “permanent emotions”: the four white emotions (hu-
morous, wondrous, erotic, heroic), the four black emotions (angry, fearful, disgusted,
sorrowful), and their common tendency toward tranquility. Since the work contains
sixteen sonatas and four interludes, one could deduce that there are two sonatas as-
sociated with each of the eight permanent emotions, but Cage never suggested any
such clear associations.
Cage appreciated that Indian classical music had very different aesthetics and pur-
poses from Western traditions: not necessarily to move listeners toward a climax, but
“to sober and quiet the mind, thus rendering it susceptible to divine influences.”10As
with the works discussed earlier, the Sonatas and Interludes invite a different kind of
performance practice, one more contemplative than ego-driven.
Getting Started
There are many issues to consider before programming a work for prepared
piano; the most significant is finding a suitable instrument. No matter how careful
15_328-Anderson.indb 227 8/11/15 7:59 AM

228 John Milbauer
one is with preparation, there will inevitably be wear and tear: steel strings are easily
grooved, for example, and dampers become misaligned as strings are stretched out
of parallel positions. Once I used the wrong putty to substitute for plastic, and over-
night the heat of the room caused the putty to soften and drip onto the fallboard.
Of course, traditional repertoire also causes wear on the instrument. Does a gently
prepared piano piece weather the instrument more than a pugilistic Prokofiev 6th?
Likely it does not, but do make sure to get the advice of the resident piano techni-
cian, and consult him or her throughout the process.
Every concert I have given with extensive prepared-piano repertoire has involved
much discussion regarding the instrument to be prepared. I prefer to use a piano that
has been decommissioned, ideally one that has been sitting unused in a basement or
rehearsal space. To bring such an instrument back to life for a brief moment of glory
onstage is gratifying, but preparing a well-maintained instrument raises justified con-
cerns. Any unevenness in action or voicing of a worn instrument can be remedied by
minor adjustments to the preparation (if the hammers are very hard, I might add a
touch of putty in places on the strings to add warmth to the timber, for example), and
old, neglected pianos often have splendidly resonant soundboards and cases. Once a
piano is found, consider the acoustics of the space carefully: a dry hall is not the best
space, as most Cage preparations cut the amplitude of the instrument by at least half.
Each of the Cage works for prepared piano has a “Table of Preparations” at the
beginning of the work. (See figure 14.2 for a picture of Cage himself preparing a
piano.) The table for Sonatas and Interludes calls for such vague items as a bolt, long
bolt, furniture bolt, small bolt, medium bolt, large bolt, and the preparer is left to
determine what these sizes are. My first attempt was unsuccessful: I bought every-
thing several gauges too large, and realized quickly that most of them were not going
to fit. My advice to the novice preparer: choose small at first.
Neither does Cage specify the composition of the hardware. Hardware in Cage’s
time had high iron content, and the resulting sound was more mellow and bell-like.
Hardware available in the United States today is generally made of low-carbon steel,
and yields a sound that is colder and a bit less rich. It is worth investigating recycling
centers and junkyards in pursuit of mid-century hardware.
Cage is specific, however, in the instructions for precise placement. He indicates
whether the object should be placed between the first and second or between the sec-
ond and third strings of a given note, for example. This is important, as the una corda
pedal is used extensively throughout Sonatas and Interludes. With an una corda shift of
the hammers to the right, we hear one sonority resulting from a preparation between
the second and third strings; with the release of the pedal and the return of the ham-
mers to where they strike all strings, the preparation between the first and second string
often results in a completely different sonority, an effect not dissimilar from harpsi-
chord couplings. It follows, then, that accurate application of the una corda is essential.
Cage’s precision in indicating the distance along the strings at which objects
should be placed is impressive, down to 1/dth inch. The irony (or joke) of this pre-
cision, however, is that as scales change from one piano to another, these measure-
15_328-Anderson.indb 228 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 14 229
ments change. Cage does not indicate which instrument he wrote for originally, but
he does indicate the intended resulting pitch, and that is often a more useful guide
than the actual measurements, which can be several inches off on a concert grand.
I have taken considerable liberties with the preparations, an approach encouraged
by the composer. Sonatas and Interludes call for plastic and rubber, but I have often
substituted putty for plastic, as I prefer the sound; for rubber I use very thin rubber
sheets from the hardware store (they come in 8½K x 11K sheets that are easy to cut
into strips). Sometimes even the smallest bolts and screws do not fit in their intended
places (especially in the top octaves), or the indicated harmonics are not possible,
so I simply choose sounds I enjoy. Another variable arises with the bolts and screws
that have a pair of nuts threaded on them as part of the preparation. Cage does not
indicate whether they should rattle or not, and if so, to what degree. I tend to enjoy
the rattles, but the vibrations of the instrument can cause the nuts to spiral down the
bolt’s thread throughout the work and eventually land on the strings, in which case
I reach in and spin them up between pieces.
The actual insertion of the hardware takes some understanding, and I regret that
my first preparation of Cage was done without the knowledge I have now. I stretched
and scraped strings unnecessarily to get too-large bolts and screws in place; I twisted
the screws into the strings, etching the steel; I used putties that left residue; I touched
the wound copper strings, leaving oil that would lead to premature corrosion. Now
I encourage pianists to use smaller hardware and to use a thin piece of wood (such
as a tongue-depressor) to open a space between strings so that the hardware can be
dropped into place with minimal metal-on-metal contact; I test putty on a single
string behind the bridge before applying it everywhere. I never touch wound strings.
Remember that your care in preparing a piano will affect another pianist’s ability to
have such repertoire approved in the future.
On Learning the Work

I have always learned the notes of Cage’s prepared piano music in advance of the
preparation, not altering the piano until shortly before the performance. The first
preparation of Sonatas and Interludes took several days of effort (and multiple trips to
the hardware store), but now I can prepare an instrument in a few hours. I find that
the initial preparation is only a basic setup, however, and that much of the artistry of
playing Sonatas and Interludes is in the fine-tuning and balancing of sonorities after
the initial preparation.
I first began exploring Sonatas and Interludes away from the piano, tapping my
hands on a table. The role of rhythm and meter in Sonatas and Interludes is at least
as important as the role of timber, and in this way I was able to focus on developing
rhythmic gestures, navigating metric shifts, and articulating accent patterns without
worrying about fingerings or dynamics at first.
Beginning with tapping rhythms also allows the musician in the initial encounter
to be unperturbed by the challenges of reading Cage’s manuscript, as ledger lines
15_328-Anderson.indb 229 8/11/15 7:59 AM

230 John Milbauer
often obscure noteheads, accidentals are difficult to decipher, and intervals bleed on
the page into clusters. Considering that the sonorities on the prepared piano will
be markedly different in the end, it makes sense to begin with rhythm and gesture,
elements that will not be altered.
There are two surprises when one first plays music on a prepared piano: first,
the bliss caused by the sounds that emerge; second, the startling realization that the
finger strokes used to learn the work are insufficiently strong. I find that a prepared
piano often sounds better with an adapted technique, as the preparations signifi-
cantly reduce the volume of sound produced; I learn the music with relatively heavy
strokes and use considerably larger arm movements, even in pp passages. Fortunately,
all of Sonatas and Interludes fits comfortably under the hand, so using more weight
is generally a pleasure, as in the ending of “Sonata I,” which I practice with as much
weight from the arms as possible, usually yielding a volume that on an unprepared
piano would be considered only mf, as seen in example 14.8. I tend to play much of
Sonatas and Interludes with a non-legato touch. In the B section of “Sonata IV,” for
example, a non-legato left hand facilitates controlling these heavily prepared notes
and allows the upper arm to bounce slightly in a manner that articulates and controls
pulse (see example 14.9).
Example 14.8. Sonatas and Interludes, I, mm. 18–26. Copyright © 1960 Henmar Press,
Example 14.9. Sonatas and Interludes, IV, mm. 29–36. Copyright © 1960 Henmar
There are many flourishes and arpeggiated figures throughout, as in “Sonata VI.”
Though at first they look daunting, they are comfortable when played with broad
sweeps of the upper arms and a bit of maneuvering in the hips. Even in the smaller
gestures, I tend to use fewer, larger, slower lateral arm movements, as I might in a
Chopin nocturne or a Debussy prelude, only with considerably more arm weight
applied (see example 14.10).
15_328-Anderson.indb 230 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 14 231
Example 14.10. Sonatas and Interludes, VI, mm. 13–15. Copyright © 1960 Henmar
Finally, keep in mind that few works in the repertory require the pianist to be
onstage without pause for more than an hour. There is no respite from the glare of
stage lights, no chance to use the bathroom, and no opportunity to regroup back-
stage should a problem arise. Before performing the work for the first time, make
sure to have several full-length rehearsals—most pianists have been initially surprised
by the stamina required.
A Brief Tour
As one becomes familiar with Sonatas and Interludes, obvious patterns emerge: the
sixteen sonatas are placed in groups of four, with the four interludes quartering and
bisecting the work:
Sonatas I–IV
Interlude I
Sonatas V–VIII
Interlude II
Interlude III
Sonatas IX–XII
Interlude IV
Sonatas XIII–XVI
Most of the Sonatas are in binary form, but the Interludes are generally freer and
more elaborate. The binary forms and large-scale organization of the work remind
me of J. S. Bach’s Goldberg Variations, and generally I approach each of the sixteen
sonatas with an ear for discerning a single emotional state, perhaps one inspired by
the rasas. If Cage’s music is approached cavalierly and imprecisely, the effect on the
audience may be one of undifferentiated sound; articulating Cage’s clearly indicated
intentions in each, however, will animate the work most effectively.
Each pianist will develop his or her own favorite moments in the work; I will share
just a handful of mine here. The end of the “Interlude II,” for example, is an other-
worldly, gong-laden meditation, and a gorgeous articulation of the midsection of the
work, as seen in example 14.11. “Interlude III,” opening the second half, begins with
a dramatic flourish that recalls the Overture that similarly opens the second half of
15_328-Anderson.indb 231 8/11/15 7:59 AM

232 John Milbauer
the Goldberg Variations (see example 14.12). The bold “Sonata XII,” ending the third
quarter, is one of the most dancelike of all. It is a dramatic preparation (see example
14.13) for the shift toward tranquility in the final sonatas.
Example 14.11. Sonatas and Interludes, Interlude II, mm. 45–51. Copyright © 1960
Henmar Press, Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
Example. 14.12. Sonatas and Interludes, Interlude III, mm. 1–3. Copyright © 1960
Example. 14.13. Sonatas and Interludes, XII, mm. 1–4. Copyright © 1960 Henmar
“Sonata XIII” is exquisite, and perhaps the most enchanting of all. The B section,
sitting high in the keyboard’s range, is still and spare, leading to this remarkable
scalar passage that reminds me of Goethe’s “der Fall nach Oben” (“the fall upward”),
a phrase that has been often associated with a passage from Beethoven’s Sonata op.
15_328-Anderson.indb 232 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 14 233
111 (see example 14.14a and 14.14b). The second- and third-to-last sonatas are
played together, “Gemini”—after the work by Richard Lippold. These two are an
eight-minute minimalist tour de force requiring great dexterity, evenness of touch,
and focus (it occurs about an hour into the work). My challenge in these is to finish
in more or less the same tempo as I start, as it takes great concentration not to rush
the incessant 8th-notes found in example 14.15.
The end of the work, “Sonata XVI,” imparts the tranquility that is the aim of the
eight rasas. To me this ending is not unlike the “Quodlibet” from Goldberg Variations
or the “Quartina” from Luigi Dallapiccola’s Quaderno Musicale per Annalibera; it is
a release, a summation, a metaphysical awakening. The final gongs are emblematic
of the entire work, suggesting temple bells, the chimes of a clock, or more simply,
awareness (see example 14.16).
Example 14.14a. Sonatas and Interludes, XIII, mm. 36–45. Copyright © 1960 Henmar
Example 14.14b. Beethoven, Sonata in C minor, Op.111, II, m. 73.
15_328-Anderson.indb 233 8/11/15 7:59 AM

234 John Milbauer
Example 14.15. Sonatas and Interludes, XVI and XV, mm. 1–10. Copyright © 1960
Example 14.16. Sonatas and Interludes, XVI, mm. 36–50. Copyright © 1960 Henmar
Each time I have performed the complete Sonatas and Interludes, I have been ex-
tremely moved by these last two lines of music, though I wonder what Cage would
say of that. “I don’t want to have my emotions pushed around,” he remarked more
than once. I am not sure that what I feel is tranquility, but certainly it is an acknowl-
edgment of great beauty, as there are few works in the repertory for the piano that
have brought me as much pleasure as the Sonatas and Interludes.
CONCLUSION
Consider that there are three parts to life as a musician, and imagine that they inter-
sect in a Venn diagram of overlapping circles. The first circle is one’s craft or tech-
15_328-Anderson.indb 234 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 14 235
nique; that is where musicians––young musicians in particular––put most of their

energy. The second circle, generally much less developed, is repertoire. How varied
is your repertoire? Are you aware of what you do well, and what is more of a stretch
for you? The third element, equally important, is audience. Who will listen to you
and why will they be drawn to your performances? This is likely the least developed
of the three elements.
Satisfaction for a musician perhaps resides in the space where these three circles
intersect and inform one another. With any two of the three elements, even if you
possess them in abundance, something important will be missing. If, however, you
possess all three, and especially if all three continue to expand, then you are prepar-
ing for a rich artistic life. Consider that it is in this overlapping of craft, repertoire,
and audience where satisfaction most readily lies, and then imagine how the music of
Cage could help you to cultivate all three. Your life will be richer, and your audiences
will thank you, as Cage leads us all, more than anything, to listen.
NOTES
1. John Cage, “Lecture on Nothing,” in Silence (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University

Press, 1961).
2. Cage’s Norton Lectures have been published as Mesostics I–VI by Wesleyan University
Press (1997).
3. This quote, often used and attributed to Cage, remains unsourced.
4. Among the clearest introductions to Cage’s use of nested proportions is the Wikipedia
article on Sonatas and Interludes, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sonatas_and_Interludes.
5. Shortly after these works were composed, Cage collaborated with Calder to create the
music for Herbert Matter’s 1950 film on Calder’s work, Works of Calder, narrated by Burgess
Meredith.
6. Cage, quoted in Richard Kostelanetz, Conversing with Cage (Florence, KY: Routledge,
1988), 177.
7. John Cage, “Indeterminacy: New Aspect of Form in Instrumental and Electronic Mu-
sic,” in Silence (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 1961), 261.
8. “A Diversion,” Merce Cunningham Trust, http://www.mercecunningham.org/index
.cfm/choreography/dancedetail/params/work_ID/35/ (accessed November 12, 2013).
9. Cage, “Lecture on Nothing,” 56.
10. Cage, Silence, 158, 226.
15_328-Anderson.indb 235 8/11/15 7:59 AM

15
The Importance of New Music
in the Pianist’s Repertoire
Scott Holden
Many years ago I read some comments made by world-famous conductor Klaus
Tennstedt regarding his surprisingly reactionary opinions on contemporary classical
music. Speaking to the New York Times, he boldly asked, “Is the time of composing
completely over? . . . At least for traditional instruments, I believe that everything
has already been composed.”1 Here was a well-known musician, stating in a major
publication, that “good music” basically died with Mahler. I’m not a composer, but
I can only imagine the ire this possibly generated within an entire industry of liv-
ing composers. Tragically, these views are all too common, but the fact that such a
statement was made by a highly influential musician has left me thinking about this
perception since I read it two decades ago.
In this chapter, I would like to discuss a few of my basic responses to what I feel is
a naïve, but unfortunately all too common, perspective of new music. Along with my
response, I will discuss some newer repertoire for the piano that belies this outlook,
deserves greater attention on the concert stage, and belongs in the repertoire of all
pianists. In the end, I hope the reader will better understand that the music being
composed today is just as profound, meaningful, and inspiring as was the music of
any number of centuries ago. I hope you will share my opinion that the aforemen-
tioned view is completely in error.
SEVEN SUGGESTIONS FOR APPROACHING NEW MUSIC
1. Create a Context for New Kinds of Sounds

It is unfortunate when renowned musicians make such sweeping declarations,
because there are legions of people who are listening. They have the ability to af-
236
15_328-Anderson.indb 236 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 15 237
fect generations of audiences who already may be biased against new music. When
a piano teacher speaks degradingly about contemporary sounds, an impressionable
student is eagerly formulating opinions. Some younger students may already have a
bias against dissonance. In response, I like to ask them, “When is the last time you
heard the downbeats of nearly any passagework by Mozart?” So frequently, when
simply playing those extracted downbeats with their crunchy accented passing tones,
the dissonance rivals that of Stravinsky.
Teachers need to properly prepare students when first starting to play modern
sounds. Our job is to plant and nurture seeds, not poison them. For example, if a
young, inexperienced student is to learn a simple piano piece by Bartók, it is help-
ful to also play some recordings of the mature concert works for the student. For
example, intervallic 2nd clusters will likely sound clunky and bizarre to an eight-
year-old playing something from Mikrokosmos. However, while teaching this, let the
student hear some of the middle movement of the Second Piano Concerto with its
furious passagework of clustered 2nds. This virtuosic cyclone of 2nds is nothing less
than astonishing. Those simple 2nds in Mikrokosmos will suddenly have a dazzling
context that could only add enthusiasm.
I like to point out to my students the avant-garde details of many now classic
pieces in the repertoire. Those works have made a common artistic transition: the
radical pieces of the past generation nearly always become the accepted mainstream
for the next. This maxim holds true in a surprising variety of examples. Stravinsky’s
Neo-Classicism was shocking in 1920; but within a generation, nearly every com-
poser working between the world wars had been influenced by this trend. Total seri-
alism was the language of choice for progressive composers in the 1950s. In another
generation, it was so mainstream that young progressive composers rebelled against
this tyranny imposed by yesterday’s avant-garde. The same pattern applies in popular
music. Led Zeppelin was the raw personification of rock-and-roll hedonism in the
early 1970s. Today, the rock band’s same explosive music is so pleasantly mainstream
that for several years it has been the soundtrack for Cadillac car commercials. (In
1970, a Cadillac would have been a splendid choice to cruise over for lunch and a
round of golf at the local country club. I smile trying to imagine the mangy rock
band showing up at such a venue in 1970: shirtless, long hair, and clad in outlandish
fur coats and excruciatingly tight pants. Somehow, that does not seem like the ideals
of the average 1970 Cadillac customer.)
Most composers who minded their manners and whose creations lacked pro-
gressive ideals are often now banished to life as a congenial footnote. The major-
ity of now famous composers altered the treatment of everything they inherited.
Because of this, it is not surprising that many of the classic works of the past were
first met with resistance. The spirit of that opposition is timeless—it is the same
misguided opposition that challenges the perception of new music today. The
music of today may be considered too raw, too chaotic, too harsh, just as so many
works by Beethoven/Berlioz/Liszt/Debussy/Ives/Schoenberg were perceived in the
past. The shelves of music history are stocked with examples of shortsighted music
15_328-Anderson.indb 237 8/11/15 7:59 AM

238 Scott Holden
critics proving this point. In 1842, London music critic H. F. Chorley wrote his
observations about Chopin’s Third Ballade, a piece that was just then celebrating
its first birthday. In the Athenaeum, he wrote: “Nothing but the nicest possible
execution can reconcile the ear to the crudeness of some of the modulations . . .
but it is their recurrence, as much as the torture to which he exposes the poor eight
fingers which will hinder him from ever taking a place among the composers who
are at once great and popular.”
When working with students, I believe we should celebrate the revolutionary facts
in any score. It is our job to lead students to hear and understand these progressive
details. A cross-relation in Bach is gloriously expressive; Beethoven’s ill-tempered
accents on the offbeats are explosive; Chopin’s “crude” modulations are sublime. If
students are only shocked by contemporary sounds, and then hide from them in the
safety of traditional older scores, I suspect they have not really been experiencing the
older music all along.
2. Continue the Historical Tradition of Performing New Music

If you go back two centuries, the bulk of the common repertoire that was taught,
performed, and listened to was music by living composers. Many of these new works
were startling in how they broke the traditional rules. Few audiences were interested
in older music; they wanted to hear the latest compositions, not the antique relics
of the past. Take a look at the concert repertoire of Liszt. Among the oldest pieces
in his concerts were those by Beethoven, written only a few decades earlier. The vast
bulk of his repertoire was the new music of his contemporaries or his own creations.
By doing this, Liszt was also building the careers of new generations of compos-
ers. Without Liszt, the careers of Chopin, Schumann, Berlioz, and Wagner would
have faced many more obstacles. One can read the myriad of letters from Wagner
to Liszt, where Wagner warbles on about the deplorable support for new music and
continually begs for more money because his new opera is nearly finished. The idea
of only performing music that was more than one hundred years old would have
been preposterous and impossible to such performers. It also would have created
even more impediments to the careers of these composers who struggled to make
a modest musical living.
3. Use the Right Terms

Why do so many people still insist on calling any music from Debussy onward
“contemporary”? Would that term be used in describing the events of the Wood-
row Wilson administration or a Buster Keaton movie? In my view, it is rather
misleading for a student to call the Prokofiev Second Sonata “contemporary.”
After all, it was written the same year that the Titanic sunk, a tragedy that is not
exactly breaking news. Similarly, Rachmaninov is a Romantic composer, not a
contemporary one, even though he has piano compositions written as late as 1934.
15_328-Anderson.indb 238 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 15 239
Rachmaninov writes very effectively for the piano; this is not in question. Though
some works were written in the twentieth century, his medium is a continuation of
the nineteenth-century tradition: think Tchaikovsky version 2.0. The same would
hold true for Scriabin before the Fifth or Sixth Sonatas. If an audition or competi-
tion specifies the performance of a “contemporary” work, then it I believe such a
term should mean a piece written within the last generation or two, not something
one hundred years old. If such an audition calls for a twentieth-century work, it
should reflect the ideals of twentieth-century modernism.
While we are at it, let’s define the term “experimental music.” Experimental is a
word often unfairly applied to the avant-garde. Sometimes it is used as a polite, but
all encompassing insult: “How was that new symphony?” “Well, it was, uh, experi-
mental.” It is misleading when telling an audience that the new music they are about
to hear is experimental because that conveys a cliché: “This is going to be rather ugly
and incomprehensible.” After all, every time even the most conservative composer
writes ANY note, isn’t it, in essence, an experiment? Doesn’t Mozart’s “Dissonance
Quartet” start with an experiment in the most improbable harmonies ever composed
in the beginning of a string quartet up to that point? Isn’t a fifteen-year-old Men-
delssohn’s composition of his first symphony a very successful (but almost freakish)
experiment in compositional prowess? And is it not a very difficult and virtuosic
experiment to try to write a triple fugue?
4. Enjoy the Privilege of Playing Music by a Living Composer

In my own studio, I have a rule: all my students will play a piece by a living
composer. Preferably it is something written during their lifetime. Pianists who do
not know the core repertoire starting from the post–World War II era are limited in
their perspective. But worse, they contribute to a growing problem. They help rel-
egate the piano repertoire to the very “museum-music” status we should be trying to
avoid. “Classical Music” is not a taxidermied art form. It is not a dead creature now
preserved for future generations. It should not be perceived as if it is eternally staring
with frozen glass eyes into a world it no longer recognizes. The significance of great
Classical music is that it can be relevant and potent today whether it is by Buxethude
or Pulitzer Prize–winning composer William Bolcom. Great music transcends the
time from when it was written.
Students will find that when playing new music and having the privilege of working
with a living composer, there is a tremendous and surprisingly large amount of free-
dom. Many times when I have spoken with a composer about my interpretation, he
or she almost always welcomes my ideas, even if they differ from their own. In general,
if it makes the music more convincing, they seem to welcome the alteration. This has
not been universal, but it is frequent. It makes me wonder if our solemn respect for the
urtext score has become a modern tyranny. Could our endless pursuit of the composer’s
most minute intentions actually be suffocating the very creativity they were intended
to release? (Of course, this is a balance that must be strictly checked.)
15_328-Anderson.indb 239 8/11/15 7:59 AM

240 Scott Holden
Another advantage of playing new music is that it has potential to create a power-
ful personal statement. For the student who must transverse the anxious battlefields
of music competitions, the selection of the perfect repertoire choice is an art within
itself. The jury will have collectively heard hundreds of hours of G minor Chopin
Ballades during their careers, maybe thousands. Why would someone want to will-
ingly throw themselves into such comparisons? The appropriate modern piece can
make a magnificent impression without having to be compared to a hundred memo-
rable performances. A jury will be naturally intrigued with a piece they do not know,
and that intrigue will create a positive memory for the judge.
5. Remember: All Music Is Romantic Music

I am a firm believer that in one sense, there is only one period in all of music his-
tory. All music, ultimately, is romantic music. I am not suggesting that all performance
practice should emulate the bittersweet languor of a Chopin Nocturne. John Bull
(b. 1562) and John Adams (b. 1947) have nothing musically in common, but both
are highly expressive and represent the characteristic expressive language of their day.
All music is romantic because all music is expressive. It just wears the appropriate
emotional and aesthetic clothing fashionable of its day.
The word “expressive” is very broad in definition. I believe that we tend to take
too much stock in traditional beauty. I too enjoy a good tune and sensual harmony;
don’t get me wrong. When Schumann writes a sequence, my heart melts. (No one
in the Romantic era writes a better sequence, yes?) But in virtually any piece by
Beethoven, boredom, violence, wit, and incongruently absurd musical ideas are all
found in abundance. It is expressive music. You want violence? Try the opening
of Op. 111. You want unyieldingly grotesque? Try the Grosse Fugue. How about
boredom? Try portions of the Diabelli Variations. These same emotions are being
expressed in modern music. Historically, traditional beauty, with its calling cards
of lush harmony and emotive climaxes, has been, and will always be a small, but
important, planet in a much broader galaxy of musical expressions.
Let’s say I am a big fan of Ethiopian food, and I invited you to try some sub-
Saharan cuisine. After our night of delicious wat bread and spicy injera meat, imag-
ine if your reaction was, “I didn’t like Ethiopian food because my favorite food is
chicken Alfredo, and there was no chicken Alfredo on the menu.” That would sound
rather provincial and harbor absurd expectations. Imagine that a person hears some
contemporary music with new sounds, textures, and a radically different aesthetic.
It would not be fair for them to criticize the music because it does not have a tradi-
tional melody and the same harmonic language of something written 170 years ago.
Judgment of music should be based on the context of what it contains and portrays,
not what you may think is missing. To say that you don’t like the music of Ralph
Shapey because there are not tuneful sequences like in Robert Schumann is not even
remotely logical. Both composers though are highly expressive.
15_328-Anderson.indb 240 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 15 241
6. New Music Is Difficult to Play, but So Is Old Music

The challenges of learning and performing any work are remarkably similar,
regardless of when it was written. Recently, I had a student perform Elliott Carter’s
2006 work Caténaires. It is an astonishing piece, not least because Mr. Carter wrote
it after the age of one hundred. At just under five minutes, the piece is an explo-
sion of disjointed notes devoid of any pattern, but in simple toccata rhythm. It is to
be played as fast as possible and has all the traditional humanity of my computer’s
HTML code. However, it bristles with virtuosity and a fire hose of ideas. It is noth-
ing less than dazzling. It took many months to memorize it; there were dozens of trial
performances. Passages were divided up and worked out with excruciating amounts
of slow repetition. One might say that such an effort is too much work for a mere
five minutes of music. Yet, thousands of pianists have spent years slaving away in
cramped windowless practice rooms in order to create the ultimate Feux Follet or
Rachmaninov’s Third Concerto. (For a pianist to simply perform Liszt’s Feux Follet
at half tempo in a nursing home should merit some sort of congressional medal; this
is fearfully difficult music.) So when it comes to something truly modern, pianists
shouldn’t grumble about there being too many ledger lines, difficult technical de-
mands, “unplayable” rhythms, and then say it is too hard to memorize.
7. Photocopying Is Stealing Music

This is my last suggestion, but an important one. If someone wants to play
something by a contemporary composer, please follow this suggestion. If a com-
poser is fortunate enough to have something published, some publisher has taken
a significant chance in that daunting venture. Most likely it will lose money for the
publisher. Edition Peters has made a lot of money publishing the Beethoven Sonatas,
something they have done almost since Beethoven wrote them. That very company
nobly continues to take chances on new composers today while those Beethoven
Sonata editions continue to dependably pay their bills. The engraving and printing
of new music is expensive. Sometimes publishers are hesitant to place music in a
library; inevitably, that hard-to-find score will be photocopied. It’s unfortunate that
while some students do not want to pay $45 for a rare score, they have no hesita-
tion about paying twice that for a pair of jeans. The irony is that those students will
likely spend more hours “in” that score than they will in that very item of clothing.
The photocopying of music steals directly from the composer and the publisher. The
standard rule must be that if you play the piece, buy the music.
A FEW RECENT CLASSICS
Before discussing some of the important, but perhaps lesser-known works that have
been composed recently, we would do well to note some composers and compositions
15_328-Anderson.indb 241 8/11/15 7:59 AM

242 Scott Holden
that have already garnered lots of attention extraordinarily quickly. I mention these in
case one may not be familiar with them. Nearly every piece discussed in this chapter can
be found and heard on YouTube.
Carl Vine
Carl Vine’s First Piano Sonata has already become a staple of the repertoire. Vine
(b. 1954) is the most commissioned composer of his native Australia. Written in
1990, this two-movement sonata is an absolute showpiece of driving cross-rhythms
and frenetic pianism. It is possibly the most important two-movement piano so-
nata since Elliott Carter’s 1946 epic work. Vine’s music is essentially tonally based,
and the motives are extravagantly harmonized with lush density. Transcendentally
difficult, it was performed numerous times at the Van Cliburn Competition within
a few years of it being written. It continues (and trumps) the extreme pianistic
traditions put in place by Ravel’s Gaspard de la nuit. Sergei Babayan’s recorded
performance (on ProPiano Records) is nothing less than astonishing and is well
worth hearing; it is a freakish display of digital clarity and austere control in spite
of the incendiary chaos. Also worth exploring are some of his lesser-known pieces,
such as the very effective Five Bagatelles (1994) and the recent Toccatissimo (2011),
a five-minute furious showpiece that he describes as “not being for the faint of
heart.” Like the Sonata, this work requires a particularly strong left-hand leggiero.
The 2006 Anne Landa Preludes is a set of twelve preludes that can be performed
individually or in a grouping of the performer’s choice. A dazzling variety of tex-
tures and sonorities are explored to great effect. No two preludes are alike. Two
additional solo piano sonatas have been composed, but so far have remained in the
shadow of the ever-popular First Sonata.
Lowell Lieberman
Lowell Lieberman (b. 1961) has quickly become one of the most performed living
composers on the concert stage and is prolific in every genre. His Gargoyles (1989) is
a twelve-minute tour de force in the virtuoso tradition of Prokofiev and is commonly
heard in recital by high school students and beyond. Lieberman’s fingerprints are
omnipresent in his scores. These include grotesque hijinks, mildly exotic harmony,
and conventional virtuoso writing. At times his heroic themes are cinematic, and one
can almost imagine E.T. triumphantly escaping the evil scientists in the finale of the
Second Piano Concerto. He breaks no new ground here that could not have been
done eighty or ninety years ago. Personally, Gargoyles has already worn out its wel-
come in my studio (it has already been professionally recorded fifteen times), and I
would encourage students to explore his latest creations as a viable alternative. There
are other conservative but attractive and well-crafted pieces in all genres, including
nocturnes, sonatas, variations, and, so far, three piano concerti.
15_328-Anderson.indb 242 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 15 243
György Ligeti
György Ligeti’s Études for Piano need no detailed discussion here but must be
included. In my opinion, they have already cemented themselves among the most
important études of the twentieth century, if not of all time. The last of the eighteen
études was completed in 2001. Because Ligeti was not a pianist, his treatment of the
instrument is shockingly original. They extend the demands of the performer further
than any piano étude of the twentieth century. Ligeti draws on a host of improb-
able influences: Central African rhythms, cruel Nancarrow-esque canons, and the
mind-bending processes of M. C. Escher. Ligeti’s études will continue to torture and
stretch even the most fractal-minded pianist for generations to come.
I have omitted some of the more notable composers of our time who have received
much well-deserved attention. You may wish to look into the ABC’s of major living
composers, including Adams, Bolcom, and Corigliano, who have all made major
contributions to the piano repertoire. Bolcom’s 12 New Etudes won the Pulitzer
Prize, and Adams’s 1997 “Century Rolls” Piano Concerto is easily the most original
American piano concerto since the Barber Piano Concerto of 1962.
NEW FRONTIERS FROM ASIA TO AFRICA
Most of the composers I speak about are Americans. But, to begin with, here are a
few intriguing composers from elsewhere.
Karen Tanaka
Tanaka (b. 1961) is part of a wave of Asian composers making significant contri-
butions to new music. Tanaka takes spiritual influence from Messiaen (as inherited
from Takemitsu), not only in her frequent homages to nature but also in her refined
exotic sense of sonority. Her three Crystalline pieces are simply magnificent. Com-
posed between 1988 and 2000, they are not meant to be performed as a set. Each
work makes a musical realization of a crystal’s translucent pointed edges and shift-
ing symmetry. Just as the subject matter implies, there is no warmth or humanity
here. The most upper registers of the piano portray cruel brilliance with scintillating
light and color. In “Crystalline II,” the harmony shifts with micro-evolving arpeg-
giation in freely pan-tonal groupings. Prickly repetition of asymmetrical toccata-like
rhythms will enable the sensitive pianist to be swept into the swirling overtones. The
performers will want their reading glasses; an abundance of ledger lines makes the
score difficult to read but well worth the effort.
A much newer set of Tanaka’s works, Our Planet Earth, reveals a very different and
versatile side of Tanaka’s talent. This set of fifteen prelude-like pieces was composed
in 2010–2011. As opposed to the Crystalline series, they are surprisingly tonal, with
earthy titles that pay tribute to everything from the ozone layer to the late Lonesome
15_328-Anderson.indb 243 8/11/15 7:59 AM

244 Scott Holden
George, the famous tortoise who was the last of his Galapagos species. The thirteenth
of the series, “Light,” is a world away from the cool prismatic reflections of the earlier
Crystallines. Everything about the shimmering pianism is much easier to navigate here
and could easily be performed and enjoyed by younger performers with its warm
harmony, traditional symmetry, and simple undulating texture. Tanaka transcends her
unique status as an Asian female composer here, but at the same time she is simply a
humble celebrant of the natural elements around her, which she views with childlike
wonder. This music would make an easy introduction to a living composer for a young
student with limited experience in new music.
Tanaka draws on her heritage in less overt ways than other Asian composers of her
generation, including Bright Sheng (b. 1955) and Tan Dun (b. 1957). Sheng’s 1990
My Song is a strong reflection of his Chinese heritage, with quotations of Chinese folk
melodies spread over four movements. My Other Song was commissioned by Yefim
Bronfman and premiered in 2007. Also set in four movements, it continues in the same
vein, using pentatonic modes and harmonies. Sheng has also written a piano concerto
that was premiered in 2000 by Emmanuel Ax (who is always friendly to new music).
Dun’s 2008 Piano Concerto was premiered by superstar pianist Lang Lang. Sub-
titled “The Fire,” it is an extravaganza of splashy and percussive effects. Dun’s music
is highly affected and combines elements of Chinese traditional sounds with those
of the Western avant-garde. He is well known for his propulsive soundtrack to the
hit movie Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. According to the composer, the pianist
is likened to a martial artist in this score, who must strike at the piano with fists
and forearms, among other warlike effects. No boxing gloves are required, however.
Debussy was the first Western composer to truly depart from Western influence,
and he looked to Asian aesthetics for inspiration. Future Western composers followed
this trend for several generations until Asia began to produce great composers who
recognized the deep value of their own musical tradition. Indeed, it was John Cage
who convinced Takemitsu that he should embrace his own heritage, rather than
avoid it. This paradigm of a foreigner’s recognition and then later native embrace
has typified many musical exchanges over the centuries. Dvorak was captivated by
American spirituals, just as the Rolling Stones were influenced by Delta blues singers.
The same model exists in the musical heritage of Africa. The unique rhythmic
traditions of Ghana inspired a wide variety of Western composers, including Reich,
Ligeti, and Curtis Curtis-Smith. But just as Sheng and Dun have embraced their
Asian legacy, African composers are doing the same and have come into their own.
This can be seen in a recent publication edited by Ghanaian-American pianist Wil-
liam Nyaho, who has sought to promote the music of Africa. This publication is
an anthology of five volumes and presents composers of African decent. One such
composer, Fred Onovwerosuoke (b. 1960), was born in Ghana to Nigerian parents,
and has become the Bartók of his continent, studying the musical legacy of Africa
and composing works that fully incorporate this heritage. His 2010 collection of
twenty-four piano études draws on his exotic origins, and a few selections of these
would make an unexpected addition to any recital.
15_328-Anderson.indb 244 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 15 245
REINVENTING THE PIANO
Stephen Scott
Stephen Scott is a Colorado-based composer born in 1944 and has spent his career
writing for “bowed piano ensemble” since 1977. The ensemble consists of ten per-
formers utilizing the entirety of the instrument. If one were to play an audio sample
for someone unfamiliar with the genre, it is doubtful they could identify the source
of the sound. The haunting orchestral sounds this medium evokes mostly derive
from the bowing of the piano. The strings of the instrument are literally bowed with
strands of rosin-covered nylon fishing line. Performers pull the bows through the
strings into which they are internally looped. Other performers keep pitched time
by striking the interior of the piano with piano hammers and other objects. Selected
strings are muted and create a tonal thump when played from the keyboard. The
wide spectrum of exotic color this creates dwarfs the conventional possibilities of the
instrument. With the piano bow, the pianist finally has the unprecedented ability to
crescendo on a single note. As opposed to these “soft bows,” performers also use “hard
bows.” These are smaller bows that are mounted on wooden tongue depressors and
create a much reedier sound, like the short jabs of an accordion.
Scott did not invent this medium, which made its debut in the mid-1970s with
Curtis-Smith’s piano rhapsodies. With Scott though, the genre is exponentially more
developed. Scott’s language is tonal minimalism, with a rich harmonic pallet. His
minimalism is not as process oriented as Steve Reich’s, nor as eclectic as John Ad-
ams’s. With its infectious groove, at times it feels like sophisticated pop music. There
is not an audience in the world that would not be fascinated by this music. I have
never rehearsed his music without a sizable crowd of curious bystanders involuntarily
drawn in and entranced by the ensemble.
There are technical challenges at every level. One problem to be solved in re-
hearsal is exactly where each performer needs to stand, and how they are going to
move around the instrument without bumping into each other. All the devices have
to be built by hand and from scratch; your local music store is not going to carry
piano bows. The best instrument for the performance will be a nine-foot piano for
maximum sonority. A smaller instrument makes it difficult for the ten performers to
work together. Because of the close quarters, I have always joked that the ensemble
needs to count well, and to always wear deodorant. Scott’s mesmerizing CDs have
been issued on New Albion Records.
Milen Kirov
Bulgarian composer Milen Kirov has turned the Stephen Scott model upside
down. Instead of many performers utilizing a single instrument, a single pianist
performs on two instruments at the same time. In the 2010 Vortex Étude, the pia-
nist plays a prepared piano with his right hand, and his left hand accompanies on a
separate unprepared piano (the two keyboards form a right angle). In Thracian Blues
15_328-Anderson.indb 245 8/11/15 7:59 AM

246 Scott Holden
(for the same medium), the music swings in hard-driving jazz rhythm but also draws
on his Bulgarian heritage, using traditional asymmetrical rhythms of 2+2+3. There
is a visual novelty to be sure––but the two radically different sounding instruments
seem to display an acoustic duet between two people with superhuman coordina-
tion. Even more original is that the pianist can create layers of sound, even on exact
unisons. In essence, it is this very style that drives much new music of today: the
combination of avant-garde techniques in an open marriage with popular idioms
and exotic ingredients. In short, the music of today can be commonly reduced to a
single word: eclecticism.
Burton Beerman
Composers have been writing works for prerecorded tape and piano for many
decades. This can be a fussy medium because of the technical requirements. What
if there is a problem with the CD playback? What if the performer’s timing is off?
The recording is certainly not going to wait for the pianist. Beerman (b. 1943) is
a composer who has transcended these limits by using software that has the ability
to interact directly with the performer in real time. In his 2006 Conversations, the
computer has the ability to instantly adjust to the timing of the pianist, regardless
of when the pianist plays. The software then processes specific notes played by the
pianist and makes dazzling electronic effects based on those pitches. The outcome is
truly conversational if not mind-bending. Of course, the performance of such a work
requires extremely complex software, but one can envision that this medium will
become simpler, and even eventually replace the old format of a prerecorded track.
Steven Ricks
Steven Ricks (b. 1969) has added another dimension. His 2011 work Medusa in
Fragments combines a live solo piano performance with a twenty-minute DVD film
and dazzling prerecorded effects. The pianist accompanies and interacts with the
DVD’s operatic soprano portraying Medusa, while fragments of her poetry swim
across the screen. The effect is viscerally disorienting. The live performer intermingles
with the fluid and frenetic film; the boundaries of each part are indiscernible. Using
amplification and surround sound, the audience is inundated with palpitating imagery
and lush hallucinogenic electronics that pulse like an epileptic seizure. The electronic
sounds are undeniably alluring. Yet these new avant-garde sounds derive from the ex-
ploitation of old things like texture, explosive dynamic range, and frightening instabil-
ity (in fact, the same elements that are fascinating about Beethoven’s music).
Larger boundaries are blurred here. The line between theater and music is moved
or, perhaps, united. Specifically, in the fifth movement, the live pianist has spoken
lines and carries on a conversation (albeit oblique) with the soprano on-screen. The
film’s blitzkrieg editing techniques provide so much verve to the soprano that she
seems more alive than the stationary pianist in front of the audience. In an increas-
15_328-Anderson.indb 246 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 15 247
ingly visual world, it can only be expected that many more works will emerge in this
multimedia medium.
Nikolai Kapustin
One of Ukraine’s unlikeliest exports is Nikolai Kapustin. Born in 1937 and trained
in the grand pianistic tradition at the Moscow Conservatory, his music combines the
extreme pianism of Rachmaninov, but one entirely in the jazz language of an Oscar
Peterson. In the past two decades, Kapustin has gone from cultlike obscurity (where
even obtaining his scores literally required black market connections) to mainstream
embrace. There is now a Kapustin Society based in London that regularly issues his
scores, and major missionaries of his music include the indefatigable Marc-Andre
Hamelin, among many others.
Kapustin combines conservative structures such as sonata form or dance suites
with a lavish jazz language. The improvisatory quality is omnipresent, yet every last
detail is clear in the score. The music is unfailingly pianistic, both in the physicality
of the hands, and in his overall output for the instrument. As of this writing, there
are more than 140 opuses, including twenty piano sonatas, six concerti, and a sub-
stantial output in every traditional genre for the piano. Selections from his twenty-
four preludes would make a fine substitute for the overly played Gershwin Preludes.
Kapustin certainly does not hold the exclusive rights to jazz-inspired works, and
notable inclusions would be Paul Schoenfield’s Four Parables for Piano and Orchestra,
which has garnered considerable well-deserved attention. In this 1983 work, the
composer combines klezmer folk sounds with jazz riffs so recklessly driving that they
seem to be on amphetamines. Henry Martin (b. 1950) continues this “third stream”
tradition with his own set of twenty-four preludes and fugues. Martin’s language is
far more diverse and sophisticated than Kapustin’s. More recently, his massive sixty-
minute work Fosteriana includes twelve character pieces that reveal the full gamut of
Martin’s diversity of style while paying tribute to Stephen Foster.
David Rakowski (b. 1958) has written one hundred études for piano referencing a
variety of genres including rock, funk, and pop culture with a heavy dosage of jazz. Ra-
kowski has one of the most entertaining websites of any composer that I know of, and
this wit is found in the titles of his études, such as in his Étude 68, “Absofunkinlutely”
or Étude 38, “Silent but Deadly.” Don’t let the funny titles fool you––he’s already
taught courses at Harvard, Stanford, Columbia, Princeton, and New England Conser-
vatory. These are well-crafted and brilliantly challenging études with a syncopated drive
that would make James Brown’s backup band “get on up” with envy.
THE NEW ROMANTICISM
The excesses of total serialism have long been purged away from their ghastly heights
of the 1960s. Very few still compose in that antiquated style any longer. As new
15_328-Anderson.indb 247 8/11/15 7:59 AM

248 Scott Holden
generations of composers have sought to reach audiences at a far more emotional level,
we have heard composers returning to tonality, simplicity, and traditionally romantic
gestures. Some of the earlier pioneers of this change in direction include Richard Faith,
David Del Tredici, Ellen Taaffe Zwilich, and Wolfgang Rihm, among others.
Aaron Jay Kernis

Born in 1960, Aaron Jay Kernis has become one of the leading composers of
his generation and is often associated with this new Romanticism. Kernis is on the
faculty of Yale, and has won numerous honors for his work, including the Pulitzer
Prize for his shimmering Second String Quartet. His largest piano piece is the five-
movement suite Before Sleep and Dreams. Written in 1990, the work has its spiritual
ancestor in Schumann’s Kinderszenen. The work makes a poignant depiction of a
child going to sleep. Kernis uses extended tonal harmony with many piquant non-
harmonic pitches. Much of the twenty-minute score is quiet and contemplative. The
last movement radiates with sensitively nuanced tonal chords. Each chord here is a
miracle of sonority, often set over long pedal points built on resonant 10ths. The
surprise B major ending has to rank as one of the most exquisite B major chords in
the entire repertoire. The real emotional centerpiece, though, is the third movement,
“Lullaby.” The music is darker and portrays a raw throbbing grief. To this writer, it
seems to be more of a lullaby for a child who has died than for the living. This move-
ment was published first, and so it is possible to perform it on its own. None of this
music is especially difficult in terms of traditional technique, but it is challenging to
memorize and demands extraordinarily sensitive ears and a piano with a long sustain.
Kernis has written other works for piano, including the popular and occasion-
ally obnoxious Superstar Études. So far there are three works in this series, the last
composed in 2008. Channeling the raw athletic pianism of Jerry Lee Lewis, the first
étude has already slammed its way into the repertoire. The last of the études com-
bines occasional blues harmony and riffs with a raw Bergian expressionism. “Speed
Limit Rag” (2001) breaks no new ground, but it is a charmingly lazy affair. The
catchy tune and slow-motion left-hand stride is reflective of its ragtime heritage. The
humid cocktail hour harmonies may even inspire the performer to leave a tip jar on
the piano. This would make an interesting alternative to Bolcom’s familiar Grace
Ghost Rag and is sure to make an audience grin.
Richard Danielpour
Like Kernis, Richard Danielpour (b. 1956) rejected the serial tradition in which
he was trained and embraced a far more ecumenical sound that combines Bernstein
swagger with free tonality and a visceral romanticism. He has written an extremely
effective set of twenty preludes spread over two books from 1992 and 2009. Titled
The Enchanted Garden, each piece is a titled portrait derived from one of the com-
poser’s vivid dreams or from a memory that has a dreamlike quality. The “garden”
15_328-Anderson.indb 248 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Chapter 15 249
here is Danielpour’s imaginative mind. A student could easily choose a few of these
virtuoso preludes and present a diversity of styles that are guaranteed to connect with
an audience. The composer has a large orchestral output, and has already composed
four piano concerti, the most recent one dating from 2010.
Douglas Pew
A third generation of American Neo-Romanticism is well represented by Douglas
Pew. Born in 1980, he was a Fulbright Scholar in Poland. Still young, Pew has been
garnering attention in the opera world with recent commissions by the Washington
National Opera at the Kennedy Center. His 2008 Bagatelles won first place in the
2009 SCI/ASCAP student composition competition. Drawing heavily on hard-
swinging jazz rhythms, these virtuoso works drive with energy and propulsion. They
are not simply well-crafted improvisations; they integrate sophisticated harmony
within the jazz climate. Pew has a particularly strong sense of sonority, and he uses
the entire keyboard to great sonorous effect. The Seventh Bagatelle, “Locomotion,”
swings with unyielding drive, as if it were being played by two of Oscar Peterson’s
right hands at the same time. Unlike Kapustin’s piano works, the harmony is derived
from jazz, but ultimately transcends the style.
Pew’s five-movement, twenty-five-minute suite A la Orilla Azul Del Silencio was
inspired by the final poems of Pablo Neruda. Sensual, other-worldly, and showcas-
ing his rich harmonic pallet, the movements are freely tonal and transcend any
sense of measured time. This is gorgeous piano music. There are no jazz harmonies
to be found. “Llueve” is almost hallucinogenic as it slowly undulates around the
same C for five minutes, while other lines sensually swim around it. Pew writes
well for the pianist’s hands, only the hand-crossing choreography has to be worked
out. The language is luminous and chromatic, with just enough hints of tonal-
ity to help juxtapose the improbable harmonic shifts. His sonic approach to the
keyboard here has its ancient roots in Debussy’s pianism, demanding hushed pia-
nissimo dynamics and a nonteleological approach to development. The writing is
without bar lines or meter; the rubato effects are cleverly calculated through spatial
notation. Pew has a unique voice that is sure to connect with audiences, saying
something fresh, profound, and meaningful.
CONCLUDING THOUGHTS
The future of new Classical music is just as promising as ever, perhaps even brighter.
Composers are refracting their influences from an astonishing diversity of inspira-
tions. For each composer listed here, there are hundreds of others who make sub-
stantial contributions to the repertoire. Of course, within a few years, there will be
even more works that are waiting to be discovered. The earlier question of whether
or not “the time of composing is over” is misguided. The real question at hand is
15_328-Anderson.indb 249 8/11/15 7:59 AM

250 Scott Holden
whether or not our time will become a greater era of performing new music. I hope
every musician’s “music museum” is going to need some contemporary remodeling,
starting with a significant addition well into the twenty-first century.
NOTE
1. Allan Kozinn, “Klaus Tennstedt, a Conductor of Romantic Works, Dies at 71,” New
York Times, January 13, 1998, http://www.nytimes.com/1998/01/13/arts/klaus-tennstedt-a
-conductor-of-romantic-works-dies-at-71.html.
15_328-Anderson.indb 250 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Index
Adams, John, 240 Babayan, Sergei, 147, 242, 256

Africa, 244 Babbitt, Milton, 161
Agrandissements asymétriques, 208–9, Bach, C. P. E., 1; Magnificat, 2; Probestücke,
218 2, 4; Prussian Sonatas, 2, 4; Rondo in
Ajout du point, 213 E major, 6; Versuch über die wahre Art
Albeniz, Isaac, 60, 64n24 das Klavier zu spielen, 3; Württemberg
Alberti-bass, 83–84 Sonatas, 2, 5
aleatoric, 221 Bach, J. S., 2-3, 8, 25, 88, 90, 100, 102,
Allegro Barbaro, 120 164, 224, 238; Chromatic Fantasy and
Araponga, 102, 105 Fugue, 5, 7; Goldberg Variations, 150,
aria, 100–102, 106 231; The Music Offering, 101; Partita
Art of the Piano, 139 No. 1, 138-39; Toccatas, 88
articulation, 12, 19, 24, 30, 51, 80, 88, Bach, W. F., 3
109–11, 153, 160, 166, 175, 179, 187, Badura-Skoda, Eva, 8, 21n8, 256
195–96, 221–22, 224, 231 ballade, 41, 44, 141, 151, 166, 194–97,
Assez modéré, 6, 10 238, 240
Athenaeum, 238 Ballet Russes, 82
audience, 4, 6–7, 11, 17–18, 25, 67, 77, Barbara, Princess Infante Maria, 8
80–81, 95, 98, 119, 132, 147, 160, 164, Barber, Samuel, 166, 243; Ballade, 166,
198–200, 212, 215–16, 220–22, 231, 194–97; Excursions, 166, 167–72;
235, 237–39, 245–46, 248–49 Nocturne, 166, 192–94; Piano Sonata,
augmentation, 83, 179–80 167, 172–82; Souvenirs, 182–92
Auric, Georges, 82 Baroque, 5, 8, 20, 77, 88, 100–102, 179
avant-garde, 66, 72, 237, 239, 244, 246 Bartók, Béla, 66, 79, 119, 120–24, 126,
Aztecs, 126 224, 237, 244, 257–58; Allegro barbaro,
Ax, Emmanuel, 244 120; Night Music, 123, 223; Out of
aymara, 129 Doors, 123, 223
251
15_328-Anderson.indb 251 8/11/15 7:59 AM

252 Index
Bartoli, Jean-Pierre, 42 Charleston, 162

Beerman, Burton, 246; Conversations, 246 chiaroscuro, 46
Beethoven, Ludwig van, 3–4, 8, 13, 23, 25, Chopin, Frédéric, 42, 44, 60, 62, 64n22,
66, 77, 132, 141, 200, 237–38, 240–41, 79, 85, 88, 132, 133, 141, 164, 166,
246; Concerto No. 1, 151–52; Concerto 192, 224, 230, 240, 256; Ballade Op.
No. 3, 77; Concerto No. 4, 131, 133; 47 no. 3, 238; Ballade Op. 52 no. 4,
Emperor Concerto, 6, 79; Prometheus 151; Etude, 256; Nocturne Op. 27 No.
Variations, 6; Sonata Op. 13, 136; 2, 141–42, 147–48, 151; Polonaise in A
Sonata Op. 53, 152; Sonata Op. 90, 6; major, 72; Sonata in B flat minor, 133;
Sonata Op. 110, 136; Sonata Opus 111, Waltz, 141
232–33; Symphony no. 9, 133 chorale, 31, 77, 100, 111
Behágue, Gerard, 98, 107n3, 107n8 choreography, 46, 222, 225–26, 235n8, 249
Berger, Arthur, 162, 165n21 Chorley, H. F., 238
Berlin Hochschule, 66 chorões, 90, 91, 95
Bernstein, Leonard, 23n39, 104, 248 chromatic, 5, 11, 13, 15, 19, 24, 43, 48–53,
binary form, 9, 84, 231 60, 71, 83–84, 87, 115, 177, 201,
blues, 159, 166, 168–69, 244–45, 248 205–6, 249
Bolcom, William, 239, 248; Grace Ghost Ciclo Brasileiro, 106
Rag, 248 ciranda, 92, 105, 106
Bouguereau, William-Adolphe, 44 classical, 4, 5, 8, 10, 43, 46, 66, 83, 120,
Boulenger, Nadia, 155, 165n8 129–30, 147, 167, 199, 210, 212, 227,
bowed piano, 245 236, 239, 249
Brahms, Johannes, 42, 66, 68, 69, 70–73, Claudel, Paul, 91
77, 132, 141, 143, 150, 194; Academic Clavicembalist, 9–10
Festival Overture, 73; Concerto No. Cocteau, Jean, 82, 86
2 in B-Flat Major, 68; Rhapsody, Op. Collet, Henri, 82
119, 70 come chitarra, 128
Bronfman, Yefim, 244 como guitarra, 227
Browning, John, 192 Concert champêtre, 88
Bruckner, Anton, 65, 67 contrapuntal, 5, 42, 44, 62, 87–88, 100,
Budapest Academy of Music, 66 179–80
Butterworth, Neil, 162 Coomaraswamy, Ananda K., 227
Copland, Aaron, 129, 155; Aaron Copland:
cadenza, 132–33, 151–52, 182, 193, 195 Piano Album, 159; The Cat and the
Cage, John, 219; Gemini, 233; Sonatas and Mouse, 159; Down a Country Lane,
Interludes, 220, 226–34; Suite for Toy 156–57, 159; The Heiress, 164; In
Piano, 224–26 Evening Air, 159; Midday Thoughts,
Calder, Alexander, 221–22, 235n5 163; Midsummer Nocturne, 159;
canons par ajout du point, 213 Music for the Theatre, 164–65; Our
capoeira, 102 Town, 159; Petit Portrait, 159; Piano
Carter, Elliott, 241 Concerto, 243; Piano Fantasy, 159;
Casella, Alfredo, 87 Piano Miscellany, 159; Piano Sonata,
Casteñeda, Carlos, 125 159; Piano Variations, 159; Rodeo, 159;
Catalogue d’oiseaux, 216n1 Sunday Afternoon Music, 159; Three
Caténaires, 241 Moods, 195; Two Piano Pieces, 159; The
La Cathédrale engloutie, 129 Young Pioneers, 159
Chabrier, Emmanuel, 63 Cortot, Alfred, 42, 63n4
15_328-Anderson.indb 252 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Index 253
Cunningham, Merce, 225–26 43; Huit pièces brèves, 41; Impromptu,

Curtis-Smith, Curtis, 244 41; J’allais par des chemins perfides,
Cuzco, 130 49–50; Nocturne, 53–57, 60–63,
Czerny, Karl, 3, 224 64n18, 64n20, 64n26; Romances sans
Cziffra, Georges, 27 paroles, 41; Theme and Variations, 41,
53; Valses-Caprices, 41, 49
Dada, Dadaism, 85, 86, 89 Feux Follet, 241
Dadaism, 12, 13, 27 figuration, 11, 31, 44, 68, 110–11
Dallapiccola, Luigi, 233 Finnissy, Michael, 198
dance, 7–12, 16–18, 21n4, 21n5, 21n6, flamenco style, 23, 127
23n29, 23n32, 23n33, 62, 91, 98–99, Fleisher, Leon, 135, 256
100, 118, 123–28, 131, 138, 221, 225, Fleisher Manuscript Collection, 20
232, 247 folk material, 126, 129, 167
Danielpour, Richard, 248–49; The form, 231, 235n7, 239
Enchanted Garden, 248–49 foxtrot, 162
Debussy, Claude, 53, 59–60, 63, 63n13, Frederick the Great, 1, 2
80–81, 87–88, 129, 141–44, 165n14, Freundlich, Irwin, 80, 89n1
66, 194, 224, 230, 237–38, 244, 249, Friedman, Ignaz , 30
257; Etude No. 1, 224; Jardins sous la Friskin, James, 80, 89n1
pluie, 143, 144 fugue, 25, 75, 77–78, 166, 179–80, 206,
derivative style, 161 239–40, 247
Diabelli Variations, 240
Diaghilev, Sergei, 82 gallant, 20
Dietzer, Marylou, 151 gaucho, 11
Doguereau, Paul, 53, 64 Geiringer, Karl, 2
Dohnányi, Christoph von, 65 Ghana, 244
Dohnányi, Ernst von, 65; Piano Quintet op. Gillespie, John, 9, 22n21, 22n25, 22n26
1, 66; Serenade in C Major op. 10, 66 Ginastera, Alberto, 118; Concierto
Doyen, Ginette, 26 Argentino, 129, 132; Danzas Argentinas,
Dubal, David, 81, 89n4 126–29, 132; Doce Preludios
duet, 30, 41, 54, 169, 176, 191, 196, 246 Americanos, 129; Estancia, 129; First
Dun, Tan, 244; Piano Concerto No. 2, 244 Piano Concerto, 119–20, 132; First
Durey, Louis, 82 Piano Sonata, 118–20, 124, 127;
Malambo, 123–24, 129; Ollantay,
Embolada, 100 132; Pampeana, 132; Popol Vuh, 119;
empfindsamer Stil, 3 Rondo on Children’s Themes, 123, 129;
empfindsamkeit, 8 Second Piano Concerto, 132–33, 137;
empfindung, 3 Second Piano Sonata 123, 129; Suite de
El Escorial, 20, 20n2, 21n11, 22n19, 22n27 danzas criollas, 129; Third Piano Sonata,
en dehors, 83, 86, 102, 108 120, 131; Tres Piezas, 129; Variaciones
exoticism, 10, 23–24 Concertantes, 118
Giulini, Carlo Maria, 65
Faure, Gabriel, 41; Ballade, 41, 44, 166; glissando, 85, 167, 190
Barcarolle, 41–42, 44–52, 57–59, 62– Goethe, 232
63, 63n10, 63n12, 64n24; Berceuse, 83; Gondellied, 29
La bonne chanson, 49–50, 63n13; First Gordon, Stewart, 80–81, 89
Piano Quartet, 43; First Violin Sonata, Grabowski, Cristophe, 42
15_328-Anderson.indb 253 8/11/15 7:59 AM

254 Index
grace notes, 11, 83–84, 171–72, 178, 182– khenas, 129

183, 185, 187, 195 Kim, Seon Ok, 144
Greisinger, Walter, 3 Kirby F. E., 80
Guia Prático, 91 Kirov, Milen, 245–46; Thracian Blues,
245–46; Vortex Etude, 245
Handel, George Frideric, 8, 72 Kleppinger, Stanley, 162
harpsichord, 1, 5, 8, 20n1, 20–21n3, Kodály, Zoltán, 126
21n14, 21n15, 22n27, 23n40, 88, 228 Koechlin, Charles, 87
Harris, Donald, 144 Kriesleriana, 149
Hauptmann, Moritz, 29
Haydn, Josef, 3–5, 8, 21 Lampadius, Wilhelm, 28, 40n5
hemiola, 16, 19, 23n39, 45, 48, 50 Led Zepplin, 237
Hindemith, Paul, 166 Lelchuk, Nina, 27, 256
Hinson, Maurice, 24n43, 81, 86, 89n2 Lieberman, Lowell, 242; Gargoyles, 242;
Hoffman, Josef, 139 nocturnes, 242; Piano Concerto No. 2,
homophony, 141 242; sonatas, 242; variations, 242
Honneger, Arthur, 82 Ligeti, György, 243; Etudes for Piano, 243
Horowitz, Vladimir, 28, 87, 89, 256 Lima, Souza, 91
Howat, Roy, 42, 53, 63n2, 63n8, 63n11– Liszt, Franz, 44, 62, 70–71, 120, 202,
12, 64n16, 64n18, 64n20 237–38, 241, 256–57; Transcendental
Hugo, Valentine Gross, 82 Etude, 70
La Llave de la Modulacion, 9
idiom, 10, 62, 166–67, 246 Long, Marguerite, 42
idiomatic, 12, 48
idiosyncratic, 46, 161, 199 Maestro di capilla, 8–9
Impressionism, 77 Magnificat, 2
improvisation, 7, 13, 15, 99, 102, 155–56, Malambo, 129
159–61, 164, 249 Mariz, Vasco, 98
Incas, 126 Marvin, Frederick, 9, 20n2–3, 21n10,
Infante Maria Barbara, 8 22n18, 22n23, 22n26–27, 23n28,
Italian bel canto, 88 23n33
Ives, Charles, 145; Country Band March, Mayans, 126
145–47 Melodia das Montanhas, 92
Mendelssohn, Felix, 25; Andante and
Jägerlied, 31 Rondo Capriccioso, 36; Presto Opus
Janacopulos, Vera, 91 67 No. 4, 26; Caprices Opus 16, 27;
jazz, 13, 155, 159, 161–62, 165n22, 166, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 35–36;
179, 217n11, 246–47, 249 Seven Characteristic Pieces, 38–39;
Sonata Opus 106, 27; Songs without
Kabalevsky, 109; Clowning, 110–13; A Sad Words, 25–26, 28–34, 40n2; Spinning
Story, 112–16 Song, 26–27; Variations Sérieuses, 38
Kalkbrenner, Friedrich, 26 Messiaen, Oliver, 198; Le Baiser
Kapustin, Kikolai, 247 del’Enfant-Jésus, 200, 203–4;
kechua, 129 Cantéyodjayâ, 198; Le Catalogue
Kernis, Aaron Jay, 248; Before Sleep and d’Oiseaux, 198; Je dors mais mon
Dreams, 248; Superstar Etudes, 248 coeur veille, 200, 210, 218; L’Échange,
15_328-Anderson.indb 254 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Index 255
208–9; Noël, 206; L’onction terrible, nuance, 11, 30, 42, 49, 84, 156–58, 248
208, 214, 218n15; Par Lui tout a été Nyaho, William, 244
fait, 206, 214, 218; La parole toute-
puissante, 211–13; Preludes, 220, 230; octatonic scale, 201–3, 205
Quatre études de rythme, 198; Regard Oja, Carol, 162
de l’Eglise d’amour, 200, 217n12, 218; Ollantay, 132
Regard de l’Esprit de joie, 204, 211–12, Onovwerosuoke, Fred, 244
218; Regard du Fils sur le Fils, 213; Orledge, Robert, 42, 63n7, 64n19
Regard des hauteurs, 207; Regard des Ormandy, Eugene, 258
prophètes, des bergers et des mages, ornamentation, 3, 6
213–14; Regard du silence, 206, 207; ostinato, 5, 7, 10–13, 15, 17–22, 23n36,
Regard du Père, 200; La Technique 83–86, 102, 124, 133
de mon Langage Musical, 198, 211, Out of Doors Suite, 123, 223
217n4, 217n10; Traité de Rythme, de
Couleur, et d’Ornithologie, 2; Vingt Palestrina, Giovanni, 164, 199
Regards, 198–200, 205–6, 211, 215–17 palindromic, 211, 216
meter, 10–11, 15, 42, 53, 57, 62, 85, 109, pampas, 126
110, 124, 229, 249 Parade, 82, 85
metronome, 53, 125, 178, 210–11, 221 Paris Conservatory, 81
Mikrokosmos, 237 parlando, 123
Milhaud, Darius, 91 pas de deux, 10, 186
Mitchell, William J., 3 passacaglia, 10, 21n5, 74, 76–77, 101
mode, 9, 13, 17, 43, 129, 200, 201–2, pedal, 24, 41–42, 46–48, 61, 63n11, 80,
205–7, 210–11, 217n4–5, 237, 244 85–86, 94, 101–2, 122, 147, 149, 152,
modes of limited transposition, 200–201 167, 169–78, 180, 182–85, 189–91,
Modinha, 100 193–96, 228, 248
modulation, 9, 11, 22n26, 32–34, 43, 81, Pew, Douglas, 249; Bagatelles, 249; A la
83, 238 Orilla Azul Del Silencio, 249
Montserrat Choir School, 9, 20n2, 22n16 piano concertante, 67
Mozart, Wolfgang, 3–5, 8, 13, 21, 23, 25, piano concerto, 77, 90, 119–20, 123, 129,
42, 62, 152, 203, 237, 239 131–33, 161, 164, 244, 258
The Musical Offering, 101 piano sonata, 5, 118–20, 123–24, 127, 129,
mysticism, 216n2 131, 133, 144, 157, 159, 166, 167, 172,
242, 247, 255–56
Neapolitan, 10 Picasso, Pablo, 82
Nebra, José, 9, 22n22 polyphony, 20
Nectoux, Jean-Michel, 42, 63n1, 63n3–4, Poulenc, Francis, 80, 89n5; Concerto for
63n6, 64n15, 64n21, 64n23–24 Two Pianos, 88; Hymne, 81, 87–88; Le
Neruda, Pablo, 126 Coq, 86; Les Six, 81–82, 86–87, 89;
Night Music, 123, 223 Mouvements Perpétuels, 81–82, 84–89;
Nin, Joaquin, 9 Pastorale, 87, 88; Tres modéré, 84; Trois
nocturne, 41–44, 49–50, 53–57, 60, Pastorales, 87; Trois Piéces, 81, 86–89;
62–64, 88, 141, 159, 166, 192–94, 230, Toccata, 88–89
240, 242 prelude, 12, 41, 60, 62, 64n24, 100, 129,
note grouping, 135 139, 141, 198, 220, 230, 242–43,
Les Nouveaux Jeunes, 82 247–49
15_328-Anderson.indb 255 8/11/15 7:59 AM

256 Index
Principe de la Gracia, 10 Saint-Saëns, Camille, 62–63, 73; Danse

Prokofiev, Sergei, 89, 120 124, 129, 131, macabre, 73
166, 228, 238, 242, 258; Toccata, 81, Salle Huyghens, 82
87–89; Sonata No. 3, 131; Sonata No. Satie, Erik, 82–83, 85–86, 89
7, 124 Sauer, Emil von, 27
pulse, 8, 10, 16, 19, 49, 123–25, 168–70, Scarlatti, Domenico, 8, 9–10, 21n11–13,
196, 210–11, 230, 246 22n19–20, 22n22, 22n26, 23n38, 131
punas, 130 scat sing, 160
scherzo, 25–27, 35–36, 132–33, 167, 175
Quaderno Musicale per Annalibera, 233. See Schoenberg, Arnold, 53, 161, 224, 237
also Dallipicallo Schoenfield, Paul, 247; Four Parables for
Quantz, J. J., 2 Piano and Orchestra, 247
Quartina, 233 Schubert, Franz, 25, 71, 148
quodlibet, 233 Schumann, Clara, 37
Schumann, Robert, 23n38, 29, 40n7, 72,
Rachmaninoff, Sergei, 137, 139, 256–57 79, 131, 149, 238, 240, 248, 255;
Radcliffe, Philip, 29, 40n6 Carnaval, 72, 79; Sphynxes motive, 79
Rakowski, David, 247 Scott, Stephen, 245
Ravel, Maurice, 23n33, 62–63, 80, 82, Scriabin, Alexander, 60, 202–3, 239
88, 136, 242; Gaspard de la nuit, 242; Sebők, György, 224
Miroirs, 257; Le Tombeau de Couperin, sensitive style, 3, 6
88; La Valse, 136–37 Shapey, Ralph, 240
Reichardt, 3 Sheng, Bright, 244; My Song, 244; My
Rhapsody in Blue, 132 Other Song, 244
rhythm, 2, 6, 9–11, 13, 15–16, 19, 32, 42– sigh motive, 114
43, 46, 48, 50, 53, 55, 57–63, 63n10, silence, 5–6, 67, 157, 178–79, 199, 206,
71–72, 77, 87, 92, 95–96, 98–100, 102, 221–22, 235n1, 235n7, 235n10
111–13, 118–19, 123–26, 128–31, 133, Slonimsky, Nicolas, 132
144–47, 160–62, 165–67, 169–75, 177, Smith, Julia, 162
180, 183–85, 187, 191, 193, 198, 200, Somer, Hilde, 133
210–13, 216, 217n4, 217n11, 221–22, sonata, 20n3, 22n19, 25, 41, 46, 66, 81,
224, 229–30, 241–44, 246, 249 167
Ricks, Steven, 246–47; Medusa in sonata form, 5, 120, 129, 247
Fragments, 246 sonority, 12, 21n13, 77, 94, 137, 142, 144–
Ritornello style, 32 45, 147, 166–67, 170–71, 174, 176–77,
Rococo style, 8 180, 185, 189–90, 221–23, 226, 228,
Roger-Ducasse, Jean, 53 243, 245, 248–49, 257
Romantic idealism, 67, 76 Sorabji, Kaikhosru, 198
Romantic music, 240 sound signifiers, 113
rondo, 6, 36, 50, 53, 123, 129 spiccato, 35, 37, 39, 40n10
Rosen, Charles, 25, 40 Stalsis, Perry, 1
rubato, 71, 84, 95–96, 99, 102, 139, 156, stile brilliante, 13
164, 166, 168, 170, 178, 183, 189–94, stilegeist, 72
224, 249 Strauss, Richard, 67, 165n14; Death and
Rubenstein, Arthur, 91 Transfiguration, 67
15_328-Anderson.indb 256 8/11/15 7:59 AM

Index 257
Stravinsky, Igor, 82–85, 87, 89, 132, Vamos Maruca, 102

165n14, 210, 237; Les Cinq Doigts, 84; Van Cliburn Foundation, 194
Les Noces, 87 Vargas, Getúlio, 91
stretto, 179, 182 Variaciones Concertantes, 118
structure, 9, 29, 31, 32, 37, 50, 53, 62, 64, Variations, 11, 13, 18, 20–21n3, 21n4, 25,
72, 74–75, 111, 119, 206, 247 29, 132, 215; Goldberg, 8; Prometheus,
suite, 81, 83, 100, 102, 106, 123, 129, 220, 9; Variations Sérieuses, 38–39
224–26, 247–49 Verklaerte Nacht, 53
surrealism, 82–83, 85, 89, 134n1 Villa-Lobos, Hector, 90; Alma Brasileira,
Swieten, Gottfried van, 3 95, 99, 106; Bachianas Brasileiras, 90,
syncopation, 11–12, 111, 119, 162, 166– 92, 94, 98, 100–103, 106; Brinquedos
167, 188 de Roda, 92; Choros, 90, 92, 97–100,
106, 108; Ciranda, 92; Coral, 101–2,
Tables of Preparation, 228 106; Dansa, 101–2, 106; Festa no
tactile, 203 Sertão, 106; Guia Prático, 91, 105;
Talliaferre, Germaine, 82 Melodia das Montanhas, 92; O
Tanaka, Karen, 243; Crystalline, 243; Our Polichinelo, 92–93; Rudepoema,
Planet Earth, 243 92–97
Taverna, Alessandro, 27 Vine, Carl, 144–45, 227, 242, 256; Anne
Tennestedt, Klaus, 236 Landa Preludes, 242; First Piano Sonata,
tetrachord, 11 242; Five Bagatelles, 242; Toccatissimo,
textures, 4–5, 9, 17, 31, 42–43, 48, 57, 60, 242
87–88, 92, 94–95, 99, 101–2, 111–12, Viñes, Ricardo, 81–82, 87–88
116, 141, 155, 157, 161, 257 Vingt Regards, 198–200, 205–6, 211,
Thomas, Michael Tilson, 162 215–17
Thurmond, James, 135 virtuosity, 13, 17, 20, 23n41, 26, 41, 46,
timbre, 29, 228–29 62, 89, 92, 118, 178–79, 241
toccata, 5, 81, 87–89, 100–111, 119, 123, visual cues, 136–53
129, 131, 133, 241, 243 Vivaldi, Antonio, 100
Toscanini, Arturo, 186
touch, 24, 25, 27, 30, 35, 78, 80, 88, 89, Die Walküre, 67
110, 120,122, 156, 230, 233 Whitman, Walt, 125
transposition, 34, 200, 201–3, 205, 217n4, wrist rotation, 156, 159
217n5, 217n6
Tredici, David del, 161, 248 Yoon, Hyekyung, 12
una corda, 228 Zeitgeist, 72
15_328-Anderson.indb 257 8/11/15 7:59 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb 258 8/11/15 7:59 AM
About the Editor
Richard Anderson is a professor of piano in the School of Music at Brigham Young

University, where he has taught piano performance, piano pedagogy, music theory,
and composition and served as the coordinator of group piano for forty-three years.
He has published two textbooks for group piano at the college level, published
articles in Clavier and the Piano Pedagogy Forum, presented numerous pedagogy
workshops, and frequently serves as an adjudicator and judge. He received his de-
grees from Arizona State University, Northwestern University, and the University of
Colorado. His teachers have been Dr. Donald Isaak, Gui Mombearts, Keith Walling-
ford, Paul Parmelee, and Reginald Stewart. He and his wife, Susan, reside in Lindon,
Utah, and have five children and eighteen grandchildren.
259
15_328-Anderson.indb 259 8/11/15 7:59 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb 260 8/11/15 7:59 AM
About the Contributors
Hilary Demske is an assistant professor and director of Piano Studies at Utah Val-
ley University in Orem, Utah. She holds degrees from the Juilliard School, Peabody
Institute, University of Michigan, and Munich Conservatory. A Steinway artist, she
records for Albany Records.
Alexandre Dossin is considered by Martha Argerich an “extraordinary musician”

and by international critics a “phenomenon” and “master of contrasts.” Brazilian
pianist Alexandre Dossin keeps active performing, recording, and maintaining a full
teaching schedule. A prizewinner in several international piano competitions, Dos-
sin has degrees from the University of Texas at Austin and the Moscow Tchaikovsky
Conservatory in Russia. An active editor and recording artist, he has more than
fifteen recordings released internationally, including critically acclaimed CDs with
Naxos and editions/recordings for Schirmer. Dossin is a professor of piano and piano
literature at the University of Oregon School of Music.
Timothy Ehlen is associate professor of piano at the University of Illinois at Urbana-

Champaign. He first gained international attention after winning the World Piano
Competition in 1987. Ehlen has recorded the complete Beethoven piano sonatas for
the Azica label, completed in 2014. His solo CD containing the Schumann Fantasie
and other works was released on the Azica label in 2006 to critical acclaim. An inter-
national Steinway artist, Ehlen studied with John Perry at the University of Southern
California and Paul Schenly at the Cleveland Institute of Music.
Robin Hancock is on the piano faculty at Brigham Young University and holds
a doctorate from Boston University. He studied with Paul Pollei and Anthony di
Bonaventura. He has a varied career as soloist, chamber musician, accompanist,
261
15_328-Anderson.indb 261 8/11/15 7:59 AM

262 About the Contributors
clinician, and lecturer. He is a frequent guest speaker on Rachmaninoff. He is a

member of the internationally acclaimed American Piano Quartet, and a member of
the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
Joel Hastings is an assistant professor of piano at Florida State University. He

is the winner of numerous competitions, among them the 8th International
Web Concert Hall Competition and the Washington, D.C., International Bach
Competition. His discography includes live recordings of Franz Liszt’s song and
operatic transcriptions, and Frederic Chopin’s twenty-four études. For the Naxos
American Classics label, he has recorded solo piano music by American composer
Carter Pann. A co-organizer of a piano retreat in Prague, he has also taught in
China and at festivals in Europe and Poland.
Scott Holden is actively engaged as a soloist, chamber musician, and teacher. He

holds music degrees from the University of Michigan, Manhattan School of Music,
and the Juilliard School, where he was awarded the Horowitz Prize. In addition to
his American studies, he also spent a year studying and performing in Budapest at
the Liszt Academy, where he was a Fulbright Scholar. His teachers have included
Charles Fisher, Nina Lelchuk, Arthur Greene, Martin Canin, Ferenc Rados, and
Arkady Aronov. Additional studies have been with Paul Badura-Skoda, Eugene Isto-
min, Leon Fleisher, and Byron Janis. Holden has performed throughout the United
States, in Canada, Mexico, Europe, Russia, Hungary, and China. A prizewinner in
numerous piano competitions, his 1996 Carnegie Hall debut recital was a result of
winning first prize in the 1996 Leschetizky International Piano Competition. He
has performed in Alice Tully Hall and the Kennedy Center, among other venues.
Performances and recitals have been broadcast on NPR, NBC, CBC, and he has
given numerous performances on local networks. He is a member of the American
Piano Quartet, which has made numerous international tours and recordings. He is
currently the director of keyboard studies at Brigham Young University.
Caroline Hong holds a doctorate from Indiana University and received training
from the Juilliard School, Peabody Conservatory, and the Sergei Babayan Interna-
tional Piano Academy. She is internationally active as soloist, chamber musician,
artist-teacher, guest-lecturer, and adjudicator. Hong has served on the faculties for
Vianden International Chamber Music Festival, Longwood University, Peabody at
Piano Summer Program, and is an associate professor at The Ohio State University.
Her debut CD with Fleur de Son includes the First Piano Sonata of Carl Vine, the
Etude-Fantasy of John Corigliano, and Solo by Lukas Foss, which was reviewed favor-
ably by American Record Guide.
Jeffrey Jacob received his education from the Juilliard School (master of music) and
the Peabody Conservatory (doctorate), and counts as his principal teachers Miec-
zyslaw Munz, Carlo Zecchi, and Leon Fleisher. Since his debut with the London
15_328-Anderson.indb 262 8/11/15 7:59 AM

About the Contributors 263
Philharmonic, he has appeared as piano soloist with more than twenty-five orchestras
internationally, including the Moscow, St. Petersburg, Seattle, Portland, Indianapo-
lis, Charleston, São Paulo, and Brazil National symphonies. A noted proponent of
contemporary music, he has premiered works written for him by George Crumb,
Vincent Persichetti, Gunther Schuller, Samuel Adler, and many others. He has
recorded more than one hundred contemporary piano works on many CD labels.
He recently received the Artist of the Year award from the International New Music
Consortium at New York University.
David Korevaar is Helen and Peter Weil Professor of Piano at the University of
Colorado Boulder, where he has taught piano and piano literature since 2000. He
has performed and recorded a wide repertoire of music, with numerous critically
acclaimed recordings of music by composers from Bach to Liebermann. He has writ-
ten on a number of subjects, with a particular emphasis on French piano music. His
DMA document at Juilliard on Ravel’s Miroirs received the schools Richard French
award for outstanding doctoral document. He has contributed essays to two recent
books in the field, including Unmasking Ravel (University of Rochester Press, 2011)
and Perspectives on the Performance of French Piano Music (Ashgate, 2014).
John Milbauer is an associate professor of music at the University of Arizona.

He received his BM and Performer’s Certificate from the Eastman School of
Music; his MM from the Juilliard School; and his DMA from the Manhattan
School of Music. He also holds a certificate from the Liszt Academy, Budapest. A
Steinway artist, Milbauer has performed frequently across the Americas, Europe,
and Asia. He is under exclusive recording contract with Fleur de Son/Naxos, and
recently released a solo CD featuring the music of Crumb, Debussy, Bartók, and
Adams. American Record Guide (Jan/Feb 2013) wrote of the release: “[Milbauer]
employs a full dynamic and expressive range and a sense of texture and sonority
. . . performs Debussy with astounding delicacy, and conveys unspeakable wonder
through an intimate touch . . . astonishing versatility.” He has previously recorded
for the Eroica, Universal, and AUR labels.
Louis Nagel combines an active concert and teaching schedule at the University
of Michigan. He has performed in highly acclaimed solo recitals and concerto con-
certs in major U.S. and European cities. Professor Nagel has studied with Rosina
Lhevinne, Josef Raieff, Joseph Bloch, and Vladimir Ashkenazy.
Barbara Nissman has been critiqued as follows: “I have trouble articulating the
difference between Nissman and other pianists. She seems willing to go over the
cliff, hand in hand with the composer.” Hailed as “one of the last pianists in the
grand Romantic tradition of Liszt, Rachmaninoff, and Rubinstein,” Nissman con-
tinues the grand bravura tradition of romantic pianism. She has performed with
the world’s leading orchestras and has worked with some of the major conductors
15_328-Anderson.indb 263 8/11/15 7:59 AM

264 About the Contributors
of our time, including Eugene Ormandy, Riccardo Muti, Stanislaw Skrowaczewski

and Leonard Slatkin. Her recordings of Prokofiev, Bartók, and Ginastera are con-
sidered “definitive,” and she has garnered critical praise for her series of recordings
of nineteenth-century composers, all of which are now available on her new record
label, Three Oranges Recordings (http://www.threeorangesrecordings.com). She
is the dedicatee of Ginastera’s Sonata No. 3, and her recording of his Three Piano
Concertos is now available. Scarecrow Press has published Nissman’s book, Bartók
and the Piano: A Performer’s View, which includes a CD insert of Bartók’s music
performed by the author. Her website is www.barbaranissman.com.
Timothy Shafer has concertized extensively throughout the United States, Asia, and
Brazil, performing, teaching, and discussing the rich heritage of piano repertoire.
With degrees from Oberlin Conservatory and Indiana University, Shafer is the recip-
ient of Oberlin’s Rudolf Serkin Outstanding Pianist Award, IU’s Annual Concerto
Competition, and the PMTA Teacher of the Year award. Shafer is currently professor
of piano at Penn State. He is a frequent concerto soloist with regional orchestras, and
is active as a chamber musician and soloist.
Christopher Taylor has performed extensively around the world, having appeared
in recent years not only throughout the United States but also in Europe, China,
Korea, the Caribbean, and elsewhere. Critics hail him as “frighteningly talented”
(New York Times) and “a great pianist” (Los Angeles Times), and numerous awards
have confirmed his high standing in the musical world (a Van Cliburn Competition
Bronze Medal, an Avery Fisher Career Grant, an American Pianists’ Association
Fellowship). Apart from concertizing, he has taught at the University of Wisconsin-
Madison since 2000 with a Paul Collins Endowed Professorship and pursues a wide
variety of additional interests—most recently using his mathematical and computer
skills in the design and construction of a new double-manual keyboard instrument.
Jerry Wong has performed throughout the United States, Europe, and Asia in such
prestigious settings as the Kravis Center in West Palm Beach, National Concert Hall
of Taipei, National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC, Opera City Hall in Tokyo,
PianoForte in Chicago, Severance Hall in Cleveland, Shriver Hall in Baltimore,
and Weill Recital Hall in New York City. Frequently sought after as an adjudicator,
clinician, and lecturer, his master classes have brought him to such noted institu-
tions as Cleveland Institute of Music, Indiana University, Northwestern University,
St. Petersburg Conservatory (Russia), Tainan National University of Arts (Taiwan),
University of Michigan, and Yong Sieh Tow Conservatory (Singapore). Additionally,
he has presented lecture recitals to the Music Teachers National Association state
conferences of Indiana, Ohio, and New York and the Music Teachers Association
of California. Wong is an associate professor of piano at Kent State University in
Ohio. During the summers, he is codirector of the Piano Institute at Kent State and
a member of the Kent/Blossom Music Festival faculty.
15_328-Anderson.indb 264 8/11/15 7:59 AM

The Pianists Craft 2

Uploaded by

Document Information

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

The Pianists Craft 2

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

The Pianist’s Craft 2

15_328-Anderson.indb i 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb iii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Unit A, Whitacre Mews, 26-34 Stannary Street, London SE11 4AB

Copyright © 2015 by Richard P. Anderson

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Printed in the United States of America

15_328-Anderson.indb iv 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb v 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb vii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

7 Drinking from the “Source of Universal Folklore”: Villa-Lobos, Bach,

15_328-Anderson.indb viii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

2.1 Fandango, mm. 1–5. 11

15_328-Anderson.indb ix 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb x 8/11/15 7:58 AM

4.14 Fauré, Barcarolle, Op. 66, No. 5, mm. 1–2. 51

15_328-Anderson.indb xi 8/11/15 7:58 AM

5.7 Dohnányi, Variations on a Nursery Song for Piano and

15_328-Anderson.indb xii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

8.3 Op. 27, No. 10, “Clowning,” complete, altered.

15_328-Anderson.indb xiii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

9.13 Ginastera, Tres Danzas Argentinas, Op. 2, No. 2, “Danza de la

15_328-Anderson.indb xiv 8/11/15 7:58 AM

10.8a Brahms, Intermezzo, Op. 117, No. 3, mm. 46–50, melody,

15_328-Anderson.indb xv 8/11/15 7:58 AM

10.20b Mozart, Sonata K. 333, mm. 1–2, rescored. 153

15_328-Anderson.indb xvi 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb xvii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb xviii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

signatures; also, the common nineteenth-century convention

15_328-Anderson.indb xix 8/11/15 7:58 AM

14.11 Sonatas and Interludes, Interlude II, mm. 45–51. Copyright

2.1 Technical Gestures in Soler’s Fandango. 19

15_328-Anderson.indb xx 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb xxi 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb xxii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb xxiii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb xxv 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb xxvii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb xxviii 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb 1 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb 2 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb 3 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb 4 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb 5 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb 6 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb 7 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb 8 8/11/15 7:58 AM

15_328-Anderson.indb 9 8/11/15 7:58 AM

The fandango is one of Spain’s most important contributions to dance.29 It is com-

15_328-Anderson.indb 10 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Example 2.1. Fandango, mm. 1–5.

A pianist possessing Solerian technical capabilities must lock on to the ostinato

15_328-Anderson.indb 11 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Example 2.2. Fandango, mm. 25–30.

15_328-Anderson.indb 12 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Example 2.3. Fandango, mm. 62–68.

The ostinato theme with improvisations alternating harmonically between A and

15_328-Anderson.indb 13 8/11/15 7:58 AM

Example 2.4b. Fandango, mm. 76–77.

Example 2.4c. Fandango, mm. 84–85.

Example 2.4d. Fandango, mm. 88–95.

15_328_02_Hancock.indd 14 8/11/15 8:29 AM