Good. Big fan of Reger through his massive organ works, like the chorale fantasies, but I'm a pianist first and foremost, so this seems like a naturalGood. Big fan of Reger through his massive organ works, like the chorale fantasies, but I'm a pianist first and foremost, so this seems like a natural read. Similar to The Keyboard Music of J.S. Bach, with lots of musical excerpts to refer to and an author who is an unflinching critic of the composer in question. That is, both Schulenberg and Brauss admire and praise certain works, but also have plenty baldly critical remarks about weak compositions (the author of the Foreword even calls some “embarrassing�!). A particularly rich comment on op.24 "The choice of the French language for the titles in the first edition [points to commercially-driven composition] � The shallowness of this contribution fo the commercial gamut is deplorable and, with respect to compositional value, rather embarrassing. � Even the assumption that Max Reger might have considered these collections as a kind of testing ground� does not justify their publication." WHAT AN INDICTMENT
What makes this book doubly interesting is that Reger is not primarily known for his piano works, rather his organ works, mirroring my own route to discovering him. So it's a bit interesting to choose to write on a composer's secondary or minor oeuvre especially when his primary and major works aren't that well known. In other words, Reger is already a pretty minor composer, and these are relatively minor works of his. It turns out interesting, nonetheless, and is valuable to the musician or scholar who is interested in exactly this topic (the title does not lie).
It allowed me to explore some of my own budding thoughts I've had about Reger's interesting piano writing. I have my own private thesis that a lot of his piano music "suffers" (more on that word later) because he is trying to emulate the massive sonority of organ (a la Liszt’s transcriptions of Bach organ works). A lot of his works end in cataclysmic, cascading chords in fortissississimo which might be idiomatic for the wind organ but is oppressive on the percussive piano. Brauss seems to support this idea, but offers a better explanation: "It is again apparent how much Reger’s linear polyphonic thinking is based on his allegiance to the organ as the classic instrument for polyphonic structures." (p.98) So it's texture that probably drives him to ape the organ. Curious what happens with his writing for other non-keyboard instruments.
The book is brief but informative and interesting. It starts with a brief biography, then offers a review of his entire catalog. The meat of it all is the commentary on a select few of his solo piano pieces, chronologically ordered. As is standard for composers, Brauss divides Reger's output (is this considering piano only?) into three periods, the early Weiden, the middle Wild Munich, the late “Free Jena style� period. Of Reger's 146 numbered compositions, there are just 21 works for solo piano, although some of these 'works' have many (up to 35) mini-compositions within them.
Brauss interlaces the commentary with plenty of musical excerpts to refer to and admire. I mean admire in the fullest sense with Reger, since his scores are usually so dense they become works of pointillistic art in their own right. The text is full of insightful comments on the individual pieces that give a holistic impression of Reger: "textural austerity is unusual even for the mature Reger" ... "ascetic use of sonorities, so uncharacteristic of Reger", with honest critique like I mentioned before. Brauss uses the term "suffers" a lot, as in "the inherent elegance of Chopin’s music suffers" in Reger’s Chopin Studies, and "he sometimes got so entangled in [the craftsmanship] aspect of composition that the artistic, inspirational side of the creative process suffered considerably." This gives the impression that the theme for Max Reger is imbalance and compromise, as if he had finite or mismanaged resources to draw on, and one of his flaws was that he was not able to find a balance between them. This might be what people perceive as megalomania, when his ambition outsizes the musical depth. Even though Brauss suggests Reger was a pioneer and expert in the 'burlesque and humoresque', these little jaunty piano miniatures, I don't find any joy or humor in Reger's music. I don't particularly find this a drawback—like I said, I'm a fan of his organ works, which are even more austere—but I would be interested in a deeper biography that delves into why he was compelled to write this way.
Brauss also offers suggestions for programming (op17/6 ’suitable for pedagogical purposes� ... 17/5 ‘seems to be a good piece for a student recital� ... 18/5 “could serve as a particularly successful complement in any concert program”� op25/4 'The intermediate piano student intending to expand skills in the area of balancing sonorities with the proper use of the pedals might find some suitable training in this composition' �. op 32/4,6,7 'are the most impressive and best suited for public performance'). I haven't seen this a lot in musical writing. Usually biographers and scholars comment on how the composer used a certain piece (as a recital opener or finisher, or salon piece only, pedagogically, etc), but they have the benefit of history. Perhaps Reger's organ works get stage time (I randomly ran into a cathedral in Canada that had one of his Chorale fantasies as a prelude to mass), but in all my years of piano I've never once heard a Reger solo piece performed live. So I think Brauss has the freedom to speculate a bit here, which is fun, and organizes a catalog in an original way. I'd like to see other composers' catalogs described by suitability for concert, lessons, practice, and so on. The book ends with a timeline of his life and works for all instruments, a catalog of piano works, a discography (interesting), and bibliography. All useful resources.
Brauss also includes commentary with an eye toward actual performance ('mm.34-35 present some problems with respect to rhythmical coordination � an immaculate finger legato combined with subtle use of the pedal is probably the answer here � op37/7 it might be advisable to use larger arm motions for every note and descend into the keys with a flexible wrist in order to create a cushioned sound desirable for the required expression �. Bach Variations 'it might be advisable to change the angle of the hand continuously within each group of the three sixteenth notes.'). Part of his audience, probably the biggest part, is pianists themselves, who will benefit from these suggestions. Also very interesting and human to include this commentary in what are fairly abstract pieces. Let's not forget this is music to be shared, considered, and played by human fingers, and elements like the hand stretch or contortions required for a certain passage really enliven the score analysis.
There were several key things I did not know about Reger. He died at 43 (so young!), and he was extremely influenced by Brahms and even considered Brahms his “idol�. That’s a surprise to me since most of Reger’s music is really austere and dense, but Brauss reminds us that that impression comes from his characteristic mature style of his more notable late piano and organ works. His formative pieces are indeed very Brahmsian and copy textures and moods closely from Brahms� intermezzos and rhapsodies. He also had some direct and obvious influence from other Romantics like Grieg and Chopin. The question arises: what was Reger's influence on the world? Unfortunately, my impression is that Reger left very little influence on the piano world. I've never heard any composers say they've been inspired by Reger, and I also have never heard music that makes me think "wow this is so Regerian". Since he modeled his music so closely after Bach, Brahms, and Liszt, it took him a long time to find his own idiosyncratic voice in his mature works, so most of his early works are derivative. On the other hand, when he did find his unique language, he remains the only composer I know of who uses it, so he stands alone in his dense, oppressive, chordalized, chromatic world. For better or worse.
This is the kind of book that reignites my passion for music. I can’t wait to wake up and make noise. Maybe dabble in some ‘embarrassing� or ‘megalomaniac� music. Suffer a little. This might be a lot of "dancing about architecture", but I can't get enough of it. ...more
Awesome. This will be the daily driver, the book you pick up to warm up and start a practice session. Chock full of interesting and useful exercises tAwesome. This will be the daily driver, the book you pick up to warm up and start a practice session. Chock full of interesting and useful exercises that hit at the difficulties unique to each hand. To be clear, the core handbook is not intended to be method: it does not progress in difficulty and does not really walk a beginner through fundamentals. It's not meant to be read front to back but to serve as a exercise reference, where you check in at various points to get pointers and exercises on particular techniques. So a absolute beginner probably would want to start with the Noad or Parkening or Werner methods. The core handbook rep is also kind of ridiculous, for example the third piece presented is an insane concert slur study: . But this 'Complete Edition' sort of fixes these issues by providing a lot of selected repertoire that does progress in difficulty, from beginner to advanced pieces, so a player can follow that to progress and better gauge their development....more
Despite its length it feels like a breezy read through the lives and accomplishments of dozens of famous pianists. The big names Beethoven, Chopin, anDespite its length it feels like a breezy read through the lives and accomplishments of dozens of famous pianists. The big names Beethoven, Chopin, and Liszt only get a few pages each, and the rest of the journey is spent on learning about their colleagues and other interesting minor players. It is also super interesting to hear whenever he drops in brief historical context of the world outside the piano sphere: there’s a paragraph where he talks about Liszt living at the same time as Lincoln, which connected all sorts of weird neurons for me.
This isn’t so much about important composers or even important piano composers, but important piano players. Why do we care about who was good at playing piano? What do i personally get out of reading a book? well for a time I thought that one of my life’s goals was to be have a wikipedia page. The goal was phrased exactly like that—no idea what I would have done to get a wiki page, but I wanted one. This book, an anthology of who deserves to be included in the pantheon of great pianists, gives perspective on what it takes to be considered great or to be remembered. Who is worth a paragraph in this book? What did they do to merit a whole chapter? What kinds of things make waves? I have no real good answer after reading a bunch of these stories, but you get a sense: you’re either a genius, you work hard, or you’re really weird.
One thing I noticed is how he describes people who are both good players and compose, pushing the boundaries of the instrument and its music; versus his descriptions of those who are ‘merely� good pianists. He gives less space to people who got caught up in the stage and fame but haven’t left behind a legacy (e.g. Kalkbrenner). Then there are those who taught important students and maybe edited or wrote scholarly stuff about music, and left their legacy that way (Leschetizky). Then there are those who played well and composed amazing music, and those get the most space in the book and are the names we know today (Liszt).
It’s overall a super easy read and I learned a lot about minor pianists and their place in the development of the instrument and its repertoire. The book could be better organized into smaller chunks. Rather than 50 or so consecutive chapters, they could be read in ‘Parts� divided into the different eras of music. What makes it an easy read is he stays very surface level, never gets too philosophical, there’s not a lot of speculation about the different eras, or theories about greatness, or like reflections on pedagogy. It’s just a roll of� great pianists, how they played. All of this considered, it stays fresh and interesting because in order to be included in this pantheon, you have to had been innovating or doing something different. So even though it’s structurally repetitive over 500 pages, each new person brings something new to the instrument and its tradition. Which is crazy!
Another small organizational note that bugged me: even though he’s steamrolling a straight trail from beginning to end, Mozart to present day, it is narratively chronologically uneven. He’ll talk about Amy Bay, Godowsky, Hofmann, and Rachmaninoff before they are introduced properly in the timeline, so if you read this straight from beginning to end you have to know who these people are already. Check out the index: Rach is mentioned like dozens of times before he’s even “born� on p390. De Pachmann, who I’ve never heard of, debuts on p332. but he is definitely mentioned before. So when reading about a certain pianist, you don’t really know if Schonberg is comparing to a forerunner or someone yet to come.
I also came away from this crazily inspired with some crackpot ideas. We should teach piano starting with crazy modern stuff first, then end up at Bach at the end. I’m absolutely writing this book, don’t steal it. I also began to think about what kind of music I leave behind. Every time I think about sitting down to create music, I sit down and prepare to create “piano music�. Beethoven is spoken of being a musician first, a pianist second, in that he came up with the musical template, and then superimposed it on the piano. I am the opposite. I don’t usually have this abstract ‘music� in mind that i put down on paper, and then orchestrate. For me the starting point would always be blank piano staff, and then I take off. I’m inspired to explore making music going the other way around. ...more
Pretty straightforward if not dry history of the instrument. I guess I'm more interested in the modern history of the instrument and repertoire, post-Pretty straightforward if not dry history of the instrument. I guess I'm more interested in the modern history of the instrument and repertoire, post-double-action. The whole section on modern non-pedal harps is just 3�4 pages. I choose to interpret this positively: the harp world is vibrant and moving fast. Any history is doing its best job not if it can spell out how the harp world looks right this very moment, but if it brings you to the point where you can jump off into and discovery the dizzying variety of today's instruments on your own. Which this does. ...more
Come to think of it, I really have no idea how I came to like the music that I do. I grew up in a “musical� family for sure. We always went to church Come to think of it, I really have no idea how I came to like the music that I do. I grew up in a “musical� family for sure. We always went to church and that’s a very musical activity. Mom played church piano and was always picking songs and commenting on the radio, I remember to this day her commenting on everything from Enrique Iglesias to P!nk and 90s boy bands. Dad definitely had strong musical tastes, he was really into the 70s, from Earth Wind and Fire to the Commodores, and also soul like Sade. Siblings had piano and guitar lessons, but for whatever reason piano really grabbed me and I was the only one that continued lessons. And, you know, I never really branched out from there. I still listen to the same stuff I did in middle and high school. I surely know about a lot more different things but I always come back to the same type of music.
Which is�? Not even “classical, in a broad sense�. While reading this, I realized that I know so little about orchestra or large ensemble music. I don’t instinctively listen to big symphonies or concertos, let alone know the difference between different orchestras� or conductors� sounds. I stick mostly to solo instrumental music, maybe branching out to small ensemble chamber music, but overwhelmingly just solo instruments playing. Oh, I can tell you everything about the entire piano works of Rachmaninoff, Scriabin, Chopin, and a lot of the keyboard works of Bach and various performers and recordings of each, but when it comes to Beethoven Concertos or Mahler Symphonies I just don’t know that much.
Which was why this was so impressive and exciting to read. I basically listen to what I want to play myself. I listen to exciting piano music because it motivates me to practice and get better and execute that work myself. I listen to beautiful harp not only to be swept away by arpeggios but to gird myself up to work on scales and chords (yeah, harp is no exception to the golden instrument rule: you have to do scales). So I always find it pretty interesting when people get into music that they don’t play themselves. In the case of orchestral stuff, you could never really ‘play a symphony�, so it’s a lost cause. Except� in this case. Ozawa actually is an orchestra conductor, and is the closest thing we get to a single person who ‘plays� orchestral music. Murakami doesn’t play music at all, he says, but he is a great conversationalist with wide knowledge about all of this. So we get two kinds of people who converge on enjoying the same kind of music, with different relations to the music. It makes for great interviews. It’s not really a collection of “conversations�, as the subtitle suggests. Ozawa has little to no interest in Murakami’s writing, every time he tries to analogize the creative processes of music to writing, Ozawa just barely acknowledges it and moves on. Also, quite interestingly it seems that Murakami is the one driving most of the conversation, raising provocative questions, while Ozawa reacts and provides his own experience that informs his reaction to Murakami’s questions.
One theme to the ‘conversations� I was a little suspicious about was the two agreeing on this narrative that “East meets West� in the classical world. A couple quotes:
HM: I probably should’t generalize about all Japanese musicians, but I can’t help feeling that while they have a high level of overall technical mastery and can perform music that may be technically flawless, they rarely communicate a distinct worldview. They don’t seem to have a strong determination to create their own unique worlds and convey them to people with raw immediacy. (144)
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SO: We Japanese and other Asian people have our own special kind of sorrow. I think it comes from a slightly different place than Jewish sorrow or European sorrow. .. Which is to say that when an Easterner performs music written by a Westerner, it can have its own special meaning. �.. There may be uniquely Eastern ways of playing Western music. I would like to go on believing in that possibility. (209)
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HM: I’ve always thought that Das Lied von der Erde is the one Mahler piece in which an Asian conductor could bring out its special flavor. (231)
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HM: you mean, Japanese musicians don’t show their confidence so openly? � SO: Yes, maybe that or something like it. You’re not supposed to say or do anything that makes you stand out, or sounds as if you’re nosing into someone else’s business. Respect the consensus. � in any case, self-assertion is perfectly normal here in Europe. It’s the only way to survive. In Japan, though, people think and think and think about things until they finally take action� or take no action at all. � in the case of the string quartet, though, the European way is definitely superior. (318)
I don’t know. In terms of cultural mores it’s probably true, I mean we have our stereotypes about “subservient East Asian cultures�, but I don’t think it carries over to music. Ozawa gives a number of interesting anecdotes where this culturally plays out in rehearsals or whatever, but I can’t help feeling this is an odd conclusion. The “European way of self-assertion�, if that’s a true thing, is only superior if the context of a string quartet is inherently a masculine, assertive space. It doesn’t have to be. Just because it is a western form doesn’t mean that all members should be jockeying to show off. If the ensemble is able to speak together, consensus is far superior to self-assertion. I have no idea what Ozawa is talking about with the different kinds of sorrow. There are absolutely different ways of relating to modes of music. The melody of Sakura is a famous example, that is solidly in a minor scale, but is not a “sad� song at all. Klezmer music is in a mode close to the regular minor scale but it can be incredibly festive and energetic. I mean that there’s probably a million different ways of ‘having sorrow�, so to say that “Asians have a special type of sorrow� is probably true but next to meaningless. And Murakami’s first comment about empty virtuosity is the oldest story in the book. Who knows if it’s about Japanese musicians specifically, but I know a ton of impressive virtuosic pianists who barely “play music�. Heck, people even accuse Liszt of being one. Murakami’s saying something that could be applied to any nationality, to any artform, even. There’s people who write beautifully but don’t seem to be saying anything new. Possibly TC Boyle. Or people who were incredibly prolific authors but make junk. Trollope. I feel like they want there to be something special about East Asians playing Western music but I just don’t see it. I don’t even know how to start exploring the question of Asians in other countries.
That’s not to say there’s not better questions being raised in these interviews. Take this one. Murakami is by his own admission a dilettante and doesn’t know much about the performer’s side of music. So he asks this about notation:
M: If the score contains such detailed instructions that the performers are given hardly any choice, how are there so many different kinds of performances of Mahler? � it seems that the richer the information given to your conscious mind, the more subconscious choices you have to make.
This is a great question that I’ve thought about a lot. Two of my favorite composers are Bach and Scriabin. On the one hand you have a composer whose keyboard music contains no dynamics, no pedal markings, rarely a tempo marking, rarely any articulations of any kind. On the other you have a composer who regularly makes use of dynamics from ppp to fff, three staves, and obscure French instructions like “with a gentleness more caressing and poisoned�. When I play these two I don’t find myself constrained at all in how much I can express myself or wrestle with the music. It might be the same ‘genre� of music, but they exact such different demands on the player’s brain they seem totally different to me. With Bach, you’re trying to get those notes not to sound like a sewing machine or tree saw. With Scriabin, you’re figuring out how to play the piano in a ‘poisoned� way. In that space is room for an infinite number of interpretations.
HM: When people sing, they have to take a breath at some point. But “unfortunately�, he said, string instruments don’t have to breathe, so you have to keep the breath in mind as you play. That “unfortunately� was interesting. He also talked a lot about silence. Silence is not just the absence of sound: there is a sound called silence. (307)
There’s two good notes in this quote. The second about silence is less important so I’ll start there. It’s funny, I haunt the Composer subreddit a lot even though I don’t actively compose, and a comment I find myself making a lot on newbie compositions is that they don’t use rests enough. When people start composing, usually for piano, they usually blot out the right and left hands with so many notes and voices, they forget to make use of rests and silence. The first about breathing, is something I learned from playing flute. Since my main instrument is piano, it boggled my mind that you have to brush your teeth and swish some water before playing something like the flute. It was frustrating that I get hiccups every time I play. But flute did teach me the importance of breath, not just in order to make the right kinds of noises, but in order to shape the phrases. In marching band, I was lazy so I picked the instruments that don’t actually march, the “pit� instruments marimba, xylophone, and vibraphone. But I would always hear the director shout that everyone had to breath together. I got the basic idea but I never really understood until I started playing a wind instrument myself, that breathing with the music is an essential way of incorporating yet another part of your body into the music. It might not produce any audible effect, but when I returned to piano (and harp) and started consciously trying to breath more with the music, I felt even more in tune with the phrases and tensions I was creating, by using more of my body.
SO: Even if you’re playing in a small space, you always anticipate the sound you’ll need in a big hall.
HM: He said that the true sound is one that can be heard properly in either kind of place, big or small. There are musicians who play differently depending on the size of the hall, but that’s probably not the right way to perform.
SO: That’s probably the best way to put it. It’s tough to actually do it, but that’s the best way to put it. (303)
The last quote I’ll use is this one about space, which is a lesson I learned from organ. When I was taking organ lessons, Dr Wagner told me about an organ’s relation to its space, which is usually set. An organ will be installed in a grand echoey cathedral and any organist will have to adjust to that to make sure the noise isn’t a wash. If it’s installed in a dry hall, then an organist will have to be extra careful about legato to connect the notes. The skill of an itinerant organist who is playing on a different every week or so is then not only to be good technically at the keys and pedals and registration (stops), but also to be in tune with the acoustic space the organ is in, and play accordingly. As far as this exact claim that Murakami is making about how best to perform, I’m not sure. But I do know that when I judge pianists, I judge how well they play the soft parts. Anyone can bang on the keys and be loud and grating, but it is HARD to play soft, while keeping things even, supple, and interesting.
I think there’s too much more to say. Talking about music and the performance of music is one of my favorite things ever, so this was a joy to read. I’d be interested in reading more from solo performers, since the work of a conductor is a bit removed from what I do myself as an amateur musician (do you call conductors “musicians�?). I also have to hand it to Haruki for having such a deep knowledge of different recordings to be able to challenge a freakin conductor to these long in-depth interviews. And what I’ve now read of Murakami’s small non-fiction collection (this and What I Talk About When I Talk About Running) I really like. Bravo. ...more
As a pianist, I have spent at least twenty, probably closer to twenty-five, years with Chopin's music. Playing the fun waltzes, hammering out the poloAs a pianist, I have spent at least twenty, probably closer to twenty-five, years with Chopin's music. Playing the fun waltzes, hammering out the polonaises, wrestling with the titanic ballades and etudes. I successfully 'auditioned' to my second and final piano teacher with Fantaisie-Impromptu, and won Los Angeles regional honors playing his Etude in A-flat major 25/1. For the last two weeks, I have lived Chopin's life from Poland to Paris and Nohant, thanks to this scintillating biography that I could not put down. Walker achieves the perfect balance between biography and musico-graphy, narrating the important dramatic acts of his life without hyperbole, and analyzing his compositions with both musical and social rigor, without getting lost in the weeds. I'll probably continue playing Chopin forever, and I'm comforted and overwhelmed by the book's reminder that he was just a human. By playing or listening to his music, I now feel the slightest thread linking me to this extraordinary musician who lived 200 years ago halfway across the globe, who I have nothing in common with—except our mere humanity, celebrated through his universal music....more
I feel like I've been duped. Given the dust jacket description promising 'indispensible' and 'fascinating' letters, and various interesting reviews (I feel like I've been duped. Given the dust jacket description promising 'indispensible' and 'fascinating' letters, and various interesting reviews (), I was hooked. Salacious personal confessions? Undiscovered family drama? Does Modest ever get any attention? I bought this in hardcover so early it may as well have been a pre-order.
Of the nearly 300 pages in this edition, the content is as follows: a small preface and introduction, about 50 pages of letters by the parents, about 50 pages of letters by Pyotr's governess Fanny, and about 80 pages of letters by Pyotr himself, some musical tidbits and official government documents, and then scads of notes. I plowed through the letters by Pyotr, which were interesting on a very basic level, but not nearly as scandalous as the title "unlocking" and background censorship would suggest. Sure, he calls a couple men handsome, but that's about it. There's more diarrhea (no, literally, everyone seems to have IBS and talk about it) than drama. The parents were boring. It was endearing to see the father's love letters to Aleksandra, and he's probably the best writer of those presented here. Pyotr is quite a plain writer, but it's true, he does know how to turn on the vulgar to good effect. Here's a bit of fiery self-affirmation:
"I’m fed up with trying to be something that I simply am not, and forcing myself to act out of character, however lousy that character may be. I’ve simply got to the point where I want to say: “If you want to know me, love me, play me, sing me; crown me with laurels, adorn me with roses, burn incense to me, fine! If not, I don’t give a shit, and go to hell!" (125)
You do you, Pierre. And a scant few times he comes close to raw desperation:
"It’s only now, particularly after that business of the marriage (the failed marriage to a woman) that I’m beginning to understand that there is nothing more futile than trying to be the person that nature never meant you to be. (132)"
Sigh. We could've done with more of that. I'm sure there's more in the archive.
Still, a good 25% of the book is devoted to letters from Fanny Dürbach, who was the governess of the house and wrote letters to the Tchaikovsky boys. I don't know how to put this lightly—I couldn't give a shit about what his childhood nanny has to say. Absolutely nothing in there except her saying they're good at their studies, talking about how sick she is all the time, and creepily asking for photos of them about seven times.
Annotations and notes were disappointing. I hate endnotes. Despite large numbers of notes throughout, there were many cases of no notes on the thing I was willing to flip to an endnote about, like p119 makes mention of "the first movement of the symphony is almost finished": what symphony??
There's only one manuscript excerpt, and it's of his writing as a child? (p39) Lame. Come on, I want to see his handwriting, especially during the so-called racy or passionate ones. There's a musical manuscript excerpt, which was neat, and several 'musical souvenirs' at the end, which are typeset, but add overall little value.
I suppose if this volume is contextualized, then sure, this serves its purpose as a supplementary text. The basic letters and such are already published, and this is meant for someone who is looking to supplement that. And perhaps being published with Yale it's directed for research purposes. But independently for recreational reading enjoyment, even for this superfan of Tchaikovsky's music and person, this was not interesting....more
This is a fascinating exercise workbook meant to introduce the musician to the relevant parts of the body, and also provide tips on how to identify anThis is a fascinating exercise workbook meant to introduce the musician to the relevant parts of the body, and also provide tips on how to identify and stretch certain muscles and joints. It's basically a brief, fun anatomy textbook. It has detailed and simplified diagrams of relevant bones and muscles. It has valuable practice exercises (as in: get up and stretch!) to identify certain muscles and movements, and to improve playing positions and to learn how to make healthy movements. It's written very conversationally and meets its goals well: it gets you thinking about the parts of the body recruited in playing music. I have to admit, I was a little skeptical of the idea of "body mapping" as it sounded kind of pseudo-science, but the term just refers to "kinesthetic awareness of your body". Get to know how standing works, how holding the flute works, how breathing works. Trevor Wye in his wonderful practice books issues the edict: "never sit while practicing" but does not explain why. This book does explain what you compromise by sitting. And what in the world does "breath support" actually mean, and how do you do it, besides some vague "push the diaphragm" advice? What the heck is the diaphragm? Can you point at it, or describe how it's shaped? Would you bet on it? This book answers those questions. (I was wrong on all counts.)
Fantastic resource. Not only should every flutist read it, I think it should be included in general wellness knowledge, since everyone could benefit from knowing more about how the body is put together. The text is written as if you're a flute teacher, but older (teen+) students would benefit from reading this directly just as much. I'm actually a pianist, so I'll pick up the companion What Every Pianist Needs to Know About the Body, and I look forward to learning even more about this poor, embattled body, so that I can treat it right....more
More of a collection of short historicofictive stories than a novel, Europe Central discusses the life of Soviet and German artists and minor characteMore of a collection of short historicofictive stories than a novel, Europe Central discusses the life of Soviet and German artists and minor characters throughout WWII and a little beyond. Plenty of time (~250 pages) is given to Shostakovich's struggle, which I have newfound appreciation for. I plain don't like his music, I can name just about 5 of his works that I like, that's it. But this helped me see the outline of his life. Throughout the book Vollmann loosely alternates between Soviet and German sides, telling stories about the lives of each. Thankfully, it's all relatively straightforward writing, no inverted spiral text or mysterious line breaks or unnecessary run-on sentences. First third of the book was very good ("Woman with Dead Child" about Käthe Kollwitz, the grim woodblock artist, was very good), but the middle third was great and contains all my favorite chapters:
"Clean Hands" concerns the idealist, handsome (they call him handsome like 40 times) aryan obersturmführer Kurt Gerstein, who was hired for SS because he is an expert in cyanide disinfectant... but he has doubts. He doesn't want to be a Nazi. So the story goes, he appropriately tries to resist at every level, but in the end, it doesn't work out well. This was my favorite chapter. Very personal and tragic, and a story that I hadn't heard before. Worth discussing in detail, too. Brings up all sorts of questions about "what would you do" and "where fault lies" and "following orders" etc.
"Airlift Idylls" is about a mysterious would-be assassin of Shostakovich, who takes a lot of sleeping pills. Disorienting, startling, and moralistic, and probably deserves a second reading.
"Red Guillotine" follows Hilde Benjamin, the eponymous harsh judge of East Germany, who is known for handing out death sentences. Clipped, precise, and provocative: the story of trying to restore order to post-war Germany through capital punishment keeps the tension high, and also, she might have married a Jew...
This is "intermediate-/tertiary-level" historical fiction, in that Vollmann doesn't spend much time on the major, core historical facts. Actual combat is barely discussed thank God, the events of the Holocaust are just hinted at, Stalin and Hitler have very little airtime, and so on. You have to know "what happened" in order to make any sense of this book. I just so happen to know almost nothing about what happened, so it's a good thing I care about Shostakovich otherwise this would be tough going.
The book gets into a rhythm of repeatedly being introduced to characters (mostly Germans) then being led to the end of their stories where everyone is convicted or killed or commits suicide� it has a numbing effect. Are we supposed to react every time? Again Vollmann just reports it straight, doesn’t seem too dramatic, not a single exclamation point in dialog or anything. You get the sense if he had the time and the wrists to be able to type up stories for each of the 6 million Jews killed, he would, just to prove to you how awful this war really was. (I just noticed he doesn't cover any stories of the concentration camps or anything like that, which would seem to be the obvious target if you're going for emotional impact. Again, that suggests this to be an intermediate-level historical fiction book: he assumes you've read Anne Frank, Elie Wiesel, and Schindler's List and so on, no need to retell it.)
The narrators for both Soviet and German sides all use Us/We/Our pronouns � I wonder if the Us and Our pronouns used to give sense of how pointless allegiance is. It's Our army, We are fighting, Our boys on the front � but it's the same story for both sides of war. You can swap out the names Stalin and Hitler and it becomes the same story.
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I still have not found someone who can pull off like “music is war� metaphors. They always come off pretty lame. For the most part it's the same cliche here, as Vollmann uses Shostakovich's symphonies as metaphors for the bigger war going on, but sometimes he strikes gold:
Feculent under-chords tainted the music, which rode over them with just the same businesslike viciousness, like a tank squashing down corpses on the roadside.
And there's this sudden, beautiful passage on reading and lending books that shows up (p520-521):
so that after immense effort he began to retain something of her likeness although the likeness was necessarily softened by his fallibility […] the entire image cobwebbed by a sheet of semitransluscent Thai paper whose white fibers twisted in the lacquered space between her and him like gorgeous worms [...] So he lent her books. After all, one of life’s best pleasures is reading a book of perfect beauty; more pleasurable still is rereading that book; most pleasurable of all is lending it to the person one loves. [...] And now she saw before her those wide white margins and those generous white lines-between-the-lines which encouraged every word to preen itself like the treasure that it truly was. [...] Every sentence she read brought nearer that moment when she would have finished the book, that moment when the extremest final tendril of orgasm elongates, tapers, and begins to become a memory ... This house was empty now. But he wasn’t worried; he knew where she was. She was inside the white book. And as long as she dwelled there, she was with him. He was in ecstasy.
Why don't you just write shorter books that are entirely beautiful like this!
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As with most Vollmann books the end material is a big chunk of interest. He doesn’t have much besides the staggering 51-page list of sources � most pages have MULTIPLE citations for quotes or events , or endnotes with extra historical tidbits.
Why does this have to be so long? (Besides the fact he simply decided to include stories of so many people) Long books are rarely "perfect". It’s easy to pick at a 1,000 page book and find faults or places for improvement. Typos. Suggestions. Harder to find errors in a 5-page short story, harder still in a 12-line sonnet or poem. But “perfection� is not the only quality, and I think “long books� let you judge from other dimensions: immersion and attention-holding, for one. It’s a different type of writerly skill to be able to hold someone’s attention on the same people and stories over 700+ pages. Over the month or so of reading this book I’ve had the chance to listen to all of Shostakovich’s symphonies and the relevant Cello sonata and Eighth String Quartet; a man with a Nazi armband walked Seattle downtown and got punched out; I talked with my friend who spent a week in Berlin and Dresden and spent most of the time at memorials and museums—and I mention or mull over the book every time. Since you’re actively reading it, the book stays alive in conversations. Long books give you the opportunity to focus on this world for a while, and they keep the topic humming in the back of your head as you read.
I always insist that I’m no history buff, and I like components of Russian culture but not necessarily its history (I distinctly remember enrolling in classes with Michael Heim and J. Arch Getty at UCLA and skipping most of the sessions (They are w-o-r-l-d renowned scholars of Russian literature and history, it turns out later.)). But the book has reminded me that I ought to read more Russian literature, and study more of this history. Don’t worry, I didn’t invent some mythic obligation, I genuinely feel the want to know more about this history, for my own good.
That’s another thing particular to Vollmann: he’s a pretty cold writer. Not a bad thing. But when I leave the book, I’m not “distraught for leaving people I got to know so well� or “sad the story’s over�, which is the feeling from books like A Little Life or War and Peace, big so-called character-driven novels. I never expect to get that from Vollmann. But I can expect to have spent a month learning about a decade of history through the interesting lives of interesting people. They may not be glamorous or exciting, but they were THERE.
Frankly, there were large, portentous sections that I didn’t enjoy. To me, Vollmann remains just like Joseph McElroy: their books are always difficult and honestly not always rewarding in the expected ways. But I remain inexplicably intrigued and will continue searching their books for what they have to give. I refuse to recommend the books as wholes to anyone. The 3 or 4 chapters I highlighted as “my favorites� are excellent, and I would check those out to sample Europe Central. Please do.
My third Vollmann, after The Rifles and Whores for Gloria. I'll have to take a break, but I'm undaunted, and more interested than ever to tackle Imperial or The Dying Grass: A Novel of the Nez Perce War. I've added a dozen Russian classics to my to-read list—not necessarily mentioned in the book, but because this book did spark a mild interest in Russian history and I'm determined to learn more. (I also happened to listen to a podcast about Russian poetry that got me interested in Akhmatova) I also have a copy of and should begin soon Life and Fate, which is considered "The War and Peace of WWII". Vollmann gives a nod to L&F in the endnotes, so I don't think he wrote Europe Central to try to supplant L&F's place. Let's not forget about the Germans, too. Vollmann mentions a few times Parzival and Dr. Faustus, so I'm interested to read those original stories as well....more
As someone who, like Max Reger, "lives inside fugues", I can't recommend this book.
The jacket description is accurate. This book is a collection of esAs someone who, like Max Reger, "lives inside fugues", I can't recommend this book.
The jacket description is accurate. This book is a collection of essays describing in both subjective and objective terms 16 of JSB's fugues. What I mean by this is -- do not be misled by the (in my opinion, overreaching) title, that this is a general work describing abstract fugues and their artistic value. It's a collection of "reviews". The disjoint nature of the essays is not in itself a fault, as this is not marketed as a novel. The author's voice constantly straddles the line between technical and popular, which as a non-professional musician I thought would appeal, but instead feels tedious to read through. This, combined with the essay format, create an odd reading experience, somewhere between erudite academia (say, published in the BACH journal) and casual, recreational reading (like Gardiner's: "Bach: Music in the Castle of Heaven").
In the preface, the author states "readers will need the sheet music with the bars numbered". Unless the reader is intimately familiar with all the pieces, this is an absolute prerequisite, given the relative dearth of inline music examples. The scores are given on the CD and are obviously available on the internet, but Kerman could very well have made his most important points with more excerpts throughout the text. I find this problematic, as similar general audience texts (Poli's "The Secret Life of Musical Notation") are much more effective as single-volume, self-contained books that don't require flipping through other texts. (Complicating the matter not trivially is that Kerman's selection comes from four (five?) different major collections--WTC I & II, English Suites, Kunst der Fuge, misc works--meaning that even as someone who owns it all in separate "complete" editions, I had to drag from my piano five different volumes...)
Reading through the essays gives a certain insight to the composition and certainly guides you in what to look for in other pieces. Kerman does a good job at cultivating an appreciation for the technical minutiae and emotive appeal of the fugue to those otherwise underexposed to it. He is unafraid of criticizing pedestrian moments in Bach's music (calling parts of WTCII B-flat major "decidedly anomalous" and "hard to digest"), which is a very positive trait, as putting anyone--long-dead composers included--on a pedestal is harmful and undermines other, genuine assessments.
Overall, it is hard to say that this book really fulfills any need in the literature on either Bach or fugues in general. I suppose it is a nice, casual volume to introduce someone, say, a non-musician who just got into Bach's music, or who enjoys listening to string ensemble arrangements of the Goldbergs, to the aspects of fugues worth investigating and listening for.
For Bach's keyboard works, I would turn to Schulenberg's consistent, if not somewhat clinical, treatment and description of all of Bach's non-organ keyboard music in "The Keyboard Music of J.S. Bach". For an exegesis on fugue in general, well, I would agree with Kerman that the so-called popular literature is lacking outside of austere counterpoint textbooks, but unfortunately his book does not fill that hole. Or, perhaps that is an artificial hole, and fugue is itself a technical notion that must be approached with technical description if we are to say anything more useful about them....more
I devoured this book in just a few days. From start to finish Poli narrates a journey of discovery through manuscripts and museums, starting from justI devoured this book in just a few days. From start to finish Poli narrates a journey of discovery through manuscripts and museums, starting from just 6 elements of musical notation that we see day in and out as musicians. The book is a call for a certain interpretative skepticism, something that we do not often get taught nor teach our students. When you see a hairpin, what is the composer trying to say that he couldn't by simply using cresc./decresc.? What exactly is the difference between sforzando and rinforzando? One's loud, the other's kinda loud? Do we know? CAN we know?
I'm left with a hunger for more. After convincing the reader that we've been taught wrong, from this dogmatic body of accreted, ostensible tradition, how does the author suggest we change this pervasive trend? He mentions several times where he comes to realize something through a novel interpretation from a student. We seem to learn more from less indoctrinated, creative, instinctual uses of notation, such as those employed by students. Although Poli makes a mention to his students in the Acknowledgements, I don't remember encountering any discussion on this general trend in the book.
The scope of the book, again, leaves me wanting a second volume. What about contemporary composers? Are we to assume that music of the 20th century and beyond do not have these nuanced interpretations? The composers that are alive today, could we learn something by asking them about their own uses of notation? In the other sense of contemporary -- what about less important composers of the Romantic era? Did Alkan's music require these interpretations? Possibly beyond the scope of even a second volume, what about other instruments? Certainly Chopin did not employ an entirely separate system for his orchestral music. There are a handful of examples from ensemble pieces, but, after all, piano is the focus of this particular book.
What's remarkable about this book is, even if you disagree with him entirely on his interpretative decisions, the book is asking the important questions about fidelity to score and performance in general. If we can't execute Chopin's pedal markings exactly as written because our modern pianos are too sonorous compared to his 19th century Pleyels, then are we doomed to perform and hear substandard music? Is it substandard if we deviate from the score, or does that count as interpretation?
Can't wait to see what he writes next. Comment...more
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