Is he the guy?
I face a contradiction in thought. I learned long ago to listen to intuition. It's something I have to learn, because intuition almost by definition is something that is accompanied by strong opposition. This opposition is either that everyone else thinks it's wrong, or that I think it's wrong. Or both. And so it is difficult even to speak my intuition.
The weight of opposition can be a tremendous burden to shoulder. But even if I cannot speak my intuition, I can live it. Living it means refusing to disavow it in my own thought. It means looking on previous times that my intuition was accurate and knowing that it is a real thing, even if I don't understand it. Most of all, living my intuition means not having to analyze it objectively to justify its existence.
I can look back to many intuitive moments in my life -- things I just knew and which turned out to be true despite almost a complete lack of empirical or objective evidence. In 2016, I told my wife that the only thing that could defeat Donald Trump in the general election was the Republican Party. (In other words, if Republicans voted the party, he would win.) I told one other person, who I knew would understand me. But I could never voice it publicly. It was my cowardly way of saying my intuition told me Trump would become POTUS. About a month ago, it happened again. I can't remember the exact circumstances, but the thought came to me that Trump would win again.
I don't believe it. See? I told you it comes with opposition, and sometimes I am the opposition. I have never seen such a storm of adversarial conditions, from almost every flank, confront a candidate. Parts of his base have become inhinged and virulent. The candidate himself is often his own adversary -- and yet he carries on, almost as if it were all something to dust off his shoulders with a sweep of the hand.
Every election, I secretly wish for a genuinely liberal nominee -- liberal in the original sense -- advocating for individual freedom from government, and the sanctity of life and of the Constitution. You know, that dreaded "18th-century mentality." But we haven't seen one of those for most of my lifetime. In 2008 I knew nothing about Barack Obama and hoped to hear good things from him, but within about five minutes of listening to him realized he was an empty suit. We still use names like Democrats and Republicans, but so many are politically homeless. This includes Tulsi Gabbard, by all rights a genuine liberal, who ran for President at the worst possible time, while the ideological magnetic poles were in the process of flipping.
And then comes along Robert F. Kennedy, Jr.
Is he the guy?
I saw RFK in a town hall, recently. The moderator confronted him about his views, saying that even his own family distances themselves from him. Was that argument supposed to prove him wrong? Because it works the other way. People who take a strong stance for what they think is right often are betrayed by those close to them. Aside from the immeasurable strength of character it builds, such alienation also means this is a person with something important to say. We should listen carefully.
"He's still a liberal" is the conservative's argument against him. "He's a conspiracy theorist" is nearly everyone else's argument against him. But those are the wrong arguments to make. RFK, Jr. is like Trump in his relentless nature. People genuinely appreciate a candidate who will defy the opposition rather than finesse it or cave in to it. He is unlike Trump in that he has real intellectual gravitas and, despite or because of his vocal problems, an obvious charm. Both Trump and Kennedy have a genuine love of the American people. It's hard to find anyone else who can work a room like Donald Trump. (He has always reminded me of Alan King in this respect.) But Kennedy has a strength and commitment that I think even Trump should envy.
I've been a voter since 1976. Since then, I never thought I'd wonder if it's worth voting. Until now. The corruption in the American political underbelly has been unmasked to the extent that, no matter what the public says, I can see how "the system" will suck any candidate into its machinery and and mold him or her to its desires to pit citizen against citizen so that we can put up no meaningful opposition to its lust for power. But my desire to vote has not yet been totally quenched, in part because of the entry of RFK Jr.
Ask yourself: If Kennedy were elected, and then succeeded in everything he lists on his campaign website, would it make a better world for you? Assuming he means it, and assuming these are important things to you, would it be worth having Kennedy as POTUS, even if he did other things you don't like? If so, the only question to ask is if he can actually do it.
He just might be the guy.
7/8/2023
Copyright 2023, Aaron Dyer
The weight of opposition can be a tremendous burden to shoulder. But even if I cannot speak my intuition, I can live it. Living it means refusing to disavow it in my own thought. It means looking on previous times that my intuition was accurate and knowing that it is a real thing, even if I don't understand it. Most of all, living my intuition means not having to analyze it objectively to justify its existence.
I can look back to many intuitive moments in my life -- things I just knew and which turned out to be true despite almost a complete lack of empirical or objective evidence. In 2016, I told my wife that the only thing that could defeat Donald Trump in the general election was the Republican Party. (In other words, if Republicans voted the party, he would win.) I told one other person, who I knew would understand me. But I could never voice it publicly. It was my cowardly way of saying my intuition told me Trump would become POTUS. About a month ago, it happened again. I can't remember the exact circumstances, but the thought came to me that Trump would win again.
I don't believe it. See? I told you it comes with opposition, and sometimes I am the opposition. I have never seen such a storm of adversarial conditions, from almost every flank, confront a candidate. Parts of his base have become inhinged and virulent. The candidate himself is often his own adversary -- and yet he carries on, almost as if it were all something to dust off his shoulders with a sweep of the hand.
Every election, I secretly wish for a genuinely liberal nominee -- liberal in the original sense -- advocating for individual freedom from government, and the sanctity of life and of the Constitution. You know, that dreaded "18th-century mentality." But we haven't seen one of those for most of my lifetime. In 2008 I knew nothing about Barack Obama and hoped to hear good things from him, but within about five minutes of listening to him realized he was an empty suit. We still use names like Democrats and Republicans, but so many are politically homeless. This includes Tulsi Gabbard, by all rights a genuine liberal, who ran for President at the worst possible time, while the ideological magnetic poles were in the process of flipping.
And then comes along Robert F. Kennedy, Jr.
Is he the guy?
I saw RFK in a town hall, recently. The moderator confronted him about his views, saying that even his own family distances themselves from him. Was that argument supposed to prove him wrong? Because it works the other way. People who take a strong stance for what they think is right often are betrayed by those close to them. Aside from the immeasurable strength of character it builds, such alienation also means this is a person with something important to say. We should listen carefully.
"He's still a liberal" is the conservative's argument against him. "He's a conspiracy theorist" is nearly everyone else's argument against him. But those are the wrong arguments to make. RFK, Jr. is like Trump in his relentless nature. People genuinely appreciate a candidate who will defy the opposition rather than finesse it or cave in to it. He is unlike Trump in that he has real intellectual gravitas and, despite or because of his vocal problems, an obvious charm. Both Trump and Kennedy have a genuine love of the American people. It's hard to find anyone else who can work a room like Donald Trump. (He has always reminded me of Alan King in this respect.) But Kennedy has a strength and commitment that I think even Trump should envy.
I've been a voter since 1976. Since then, I never thought I'd wonder if it's worth voting. Until now. The corruption in the American political underbelly has been unmasked to the extent that, no matter what the public says, I can see how "the system" will suck any candidate into its machinery and and mold him or her to its desires to pit citizen against citizen so that we can put up no meaningful opposition to its lust for power. But my desire to vote has not yet been totally quenched, in part because of the entry of RFK Jr.
Ask yourself: If Kennedy were elected, and then succeeded in everything he lists on his campaign website, would it make a better world for you? Assuming he means it, and assuming these are important things to you, would it be worth having Kennedy as POTUS, even if he did other things you don't like? If so, the only question to ask is if he can actually do it.
He just might be the guy.
7/8/2023
Copyright 2023, Aaron Dyer
Authenticity
To have something to say. This is the challenge of human expression. To have something to say is to answer the question of who you are. It is to give expression to authenticity. I've heard it said that so-and-so "is a truly authentic person." Aren't we all inherently authentic? I would say yes. So what does such praise mean?
As a classical pianist I have recorded my playing many times. Years ago a friend who is a television producer wanted to record a live performance. I explained the importance of authenticity. I told him that what is seen has to be me actually playing what is heard. This was not easy to convey to someone accustomed to music videos where such fidelity is almost by definition unintentional.
Studio sessions are perhaps my favorite viewing. I hear some amazing performances:
Marco Postacchini Big Band (One finger snap),
WDR Big Band (La Fleur De Cayenne),
Postmodern Jukebox (Last Friday Night, especially for Nick Mancini on the vibes),
Leonid & Friends (Questions 67 & 68),
VOCES8 (Sleep, mainly because Andrea Haines is a goddess)
Jacob Collier (Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas).
I've seen a little bit of this with classical musicians, but either it's as rare as I think it is, or even more sadly I don't know where to find it. In these sessions you can see everyone working: musicians, technicians, camera operators, everyone. It's very nearly the ultimate in music listening for me. There's no dubbing, no splicing. It may be a third or fourth take, but it's only one take and what you see is what you hear.
Recording a live performance, though, is difficult for everyone. A live performance is one-and-done. My producer friend dropped part of his camera on the stage floor at the very last note of a quiet Rachmaninoff prelude. No retake! Entire audio recordings were lost because a stand-in technician messed up on the recording equipment. A live performance is a great way to bring people together to listen to music, but it is exhausting and often miserable because of all the things that go wrong. Still, it is important to do.
With all that in mind, authenticity occurs when the subject (speaker, musician, etc.) presents itself to the audience as it is, whole and complete. Everyone is whole and complete, but not everyone masters the art of presenting it to an audience. So let's talk about branding.
The original meaning of branding was indicate ownership of something by an distinctive, indelible mark. The implementation has evolved over the years, but its use is still essentially the same.
One's personal brand, then, says what? What you think? What you believe? Nowadays, your social media presence is an involuntary brand. The history of what you say is, with few exceptions, there forever. Anyone who reads it will form an impression of you based on this body of work. Whether you want one or not, you have a brand. Which brings me to this:
Your brand should be entirely intentional. Even if it changes.
Once I realized this, I changed my view of social media -- particularly Twitter, which is currently my only really active presence. I recognize my Twitter timeline as a character reference, and I actively build it with that in mind.
I have a firm rule never to engage in name-calling or profanity. It is difficult not to take things personally, but that is my primary objective. Engage with others without retaliation. Things may look bad in the heat of the moment, but when you come back later -- days, months, or even years -- and look at it, it should stand up to historical scrutiny. That's the test of it. I'm not declaring victory, only intent.
Personal branding, to me, is not about gaining fame (and social media followers). My default position is that fame would come posthumously, if at all. But I want to be the one who decides what my brand is. And to succeed in doing that, it must be authentic. And this brings me to my Beethoven Project.
The history of where I am as a classical musician has not been written largely because I don't know what it is. I know the sequence of events but not what they mean. What I can tell you is where I am now and where I am going.
The Beethoven Project is something I developed some fifteen years ago, maybe more. Primarily, it is to record all thirty-two Beethoven piano sonatas and all nineteen Chopin nocturnes. This is the minimum requirement, and is exceedingly difficult because I am paid nothing for it and have a day job. I am now in a position to do it. It will express authenticity by showing, in full detail, what I have learned and accomplished as a pianist over the last half century.
I am attempting to document it as I go. I'm interested in how documenting it online will affect my progress, and in answering questions others may have. The project will then yield a full performance of some of the primary classical repertoire. To do this will demonstrate a wide variety of skills, mainly the ability and determination to follow through to completion. I cannot imagine how transformative this project will be for me personally and musically, as well as yielding a fully-authentic statement of myself, and the most distinctive branding I could ever have imagined.
As a classical pianist I have recorded my playing many times. Years ago a friend who is a television producer wanted to record a live performance. I explained the importance of authenticity. I told him that what is seen has to be me actually playing what is heard. This was not easy to convey to someone accustomed to music videos where such fidelity is almost by definition unintentional.
Studio sessions are perhaps my favorite viewing. I hear some amazing performances:
Marco Postacchini Big Band (One finger snap),
WDR Big Band (La Fleur De Cayenne),
Postmodern Jukebox (Last Friday Night, especially for Nick Mancini on the vibes),
Leonid & Friends (Questions 67 & 68),
VOCES8 (Sleep, mainly because Andrea Haines is a goddess)
Jacob Collier (Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas).
I've seen a little bit of this with classical musicians, but either it's as rare as I think it is, or even more sadly I don't know where to find it. In these sessions you can see everyone working: musicians, technicians, camera operators, everyone. It's very nearly the ultimate in music listening for me. There's no dubbing, no splicing. It may be a third or fourth take, but it's only one take and what you see is what you hear.
Recording a live performance, though, is difficult for everyone. A live performance is one-and-done. My producer friend dropped part of his camera on the stage floor at the very last note of a quiet Rachmaninoff prelude. No retake! Entire audio recordings were lost because a stand-in technician messed up on the recording equipment. A live performance is a great way to bring people together to listen to music, but it is exhausting and often miserable because of all the things that go wrong. Still, it is important to do.
With all that in mind, authenticity occurs when the subject (speaker, musician, etc.) presents itself to the audience as it is, whole and complete. Everyone is whole and complete, but not everyone masters the art of presenting it to an audience. So let's talk about branding.
The original meaning of branding was indicate ownership of something by an distinctive, indelible mark. The implementation has evolved over the years, but its use is still essentially the same.
One's personal brand, then, says what? What you think? What you believe? Nowadays, your social media presence is an involuntary brand. The history of what you say is, with few exceptions, there forever. Anyone who reads it will form an impression of you based on this body of work. Whether you want one or not, you have a brand. Which brings me to this:
Your brand should be entirely intentional. Even if it changes.
Once I realized this, I changed my view of social media -- particularly Twitter, which is currently my only really active presence. I recognize my Twitter timeline as a character reference, and I actively build it with that in mind.
I have a firm rule never to engage in name-calling or profanity. It is difficult not to take things personally, but that is my primary objective. Engage with others without retaliation. Things may look bad in the heat of the moment, but when you come back later -- days, months, or even years -- and look at it, it should stand up to historical scrutiny. That's the test of it. I'm not declaring victory, only intent.
Personal branding, to me, is not about gaining fame (and social media followers). My default position is that fame would come posthumously, if at all. But I want to be the one who decides what my brand is. And to succeed in doing that, it must be authentic. And this brings me to my Beethoven Project.
The history of where I am as a classical musician has not been written largely because I don't know what it is. I know the sequence of events but not what they mean. What I can tell you is where I am now and where I am going.
The Beethoven Project is something I developed some fifteen years ago, maybe more. Primarily, it is to record all thirty-two Beethoven piano sonatas and all nineteen Chopin nocturnes. This is the minimum requirement, and is exceedingly difficult because I am paid nothing for it and have a day job. I am now in a position to do it. It will express authenticity by showing, in full detail, what I have learned and accomplished as a pianist over the last half century.
I am attempting to document it as I go. I'm interested in how documenting it online will affect my progress, and in answering questions others may have. The project will then yield a full performance of some of the primary classical repertoire. To do this will demonstrate a wide variety of skills, mainly the ability and determination to follow through to completion. I cannot imagine how transformative this project will be for me personally and musically, as well as yielding a fully-authentic statement of myself, and the most distinctive branding I could ever have imagined.
[Written in 2017]
What if tokafi.com had asked Aaron their 15 questions?
Hi! How are you? Where are you?
I'm doing very well. I live in Dallas where I have been for most of my life. My family moved here from El Paso in 1968 and except for a year at Cincinnati Conservatory I have lived here ever since.
What's on your schedule right now?
I began a project a couple of years ago to record all of the Beethoven sonatas and Chopin nocturnes. Having a full-time job forced me to juggle priorities, so there are stretches of time when it seems like nothing gets done. But I have an upcoming performance in July -- July 11to be exact -- that will involve two sonatas and at least two nocturnes.
If you hadn't chosen for music, what do you think you would do right now?
No idea, but my full-time job now is as a programmer, so possibly that. I love to write so I like to fancy I might have been a novelist, but that's not exactly a career job one can apply for.
What or who was your biggest influence as an artist?
There have been so many, including my wife, who is a wonderful artist with fashion and jewelry. She is also a wonderful cook and I see artistry in what she does. I never escape the influence of my college piano teacher, Dr. Harris Crohn. Who he was as a pianist, and our time together when I was in school are still a presence in my life. Learning to see art in small things is, itself, an artistic influence.
What's the hardest part about being a musician and what's the best?
The hardest part is seeing how some musicians have achieved escape velocity from some of the confining elements that limit artistic expression, and then learning to recognize those elements in my own experience and how to go beyond them. The best part is the hours of practice. The solitude, the vision, the feeling of knowing what can be achieved are so fulfilling.
What's your view on the classical music scene at present? Is there a crisis?
I think one has to take the long view. There will always be a large segment of the population with no understanding or appreciation of it. But it's called "classical" music for a reason: It is based on reason and timeless values, rather than merely the latest trend. And so I think there will also be a generation that sees the value it brings to society, philosophy, education, art, and performance.
Some feel there is no need to record classical music any more, that it's all been done before. What do you tell them?
It is true that there is a huge body of classical recording, much of which can be obtained for free. My recording project is based not on whether I am adding something new or unique to the body of recorded classical music, but, in a way, *because* of the huge body of proven expertise. Part of my life work is to demonstrate the ability and skills required to produce such a recording. But as for marketable recordings, each performance is unique. It has a signature, fingerprints, and sometimes the story behind the performer leads to understanding the performer through listening to the music. Certainly, for one recording to compete with another for its own sake brings marketing challenges, but the world always loves a story, and I'm convinced it can lead back to a recorded performance as part of the story. Add to that the continued advancement of recording techniques, and the ease with which both audio and video can be produced and distributed, the market may be more wide open than one might think.
What constitutes a good live performance in your opinion?
It might be tempting to require a feeling of newness or spontaneity from the performer. But I'm not sure that's on track. Compare it to watching a sprinter like Usain Bolt. If you never saw him run in person, you might be awed by the first experience of seeing it. But what if you later learned Bolt was not running all out? You did not see his fastest time, or even a serious attempt to set a record. It might be enough, though, that you saw a demonstration of years of perfecting his technique, plus the raw physical talent and a demonstration of flawless running skill. For many people, a classical music performance might not be in a list of a pianist's best performances. By definition, it cannot be. But for self-confessed neophytes, it might be a marvelous experience, and that, I believe, is perfectly legitimate, even if for the pianist it was only a workmanlike job. So what one has to require is evidence of a serious pursuit of perfection, a genuine understanding (and, I believe, love) of the composition, and a deep respect for the audience that is evidenced in integrity of the pianist's approach to the performance.
What's your approach to performing on stage?
To be the listener. I'm a pianist because I love the music, because it has a visceral and spiritual impact on my life, and especially in that moment. Someone who attends my performance has made a conscious decision to listen to me and see if there is something of value to gain from it. I want each audience member to share the experience of awe and beauty and motion and texture and color and all the things that make me want to sit and practice every day.
What does the word 'interpretation' mean to you?
It means to play the piece. One does not simply recite a piano piece. Every performance is an interpretation. The first priority, then, is to recognize that you are interpreting for the audience. A deliberate divergence from the written page on the grounds of disagreement or artistic license is not really interpretation, but more of a quarrel. There is a fascinating version of "Rhapsody in Blue" that I heard on the radio some ten years ago. It was a deconstruction by a jazz ensemble. I loved it! I've been looking for it ever since (unsuccessfully, so far). But I don't regard it as interpretation. For me, interpretation is what you can't help but reveal when you attempt to fulfill a composer's intention.
True or false: It is the duty of an artist to put his personal emotions into the music he plays.
As opposed to the duty to take them out? I'm not sure that makes sense. I guess I would refer to my statement about interpretation. If what is meant, however, is an emotional display during a performance, I do not see it as a duty. Personal growth involves self-knowledge. I think this includes an awareness of whether the thing you want to bring out in a performance is the thing you actually are achieving. The intent to do it is not enough. It's all about execution. My premise is that playing a piece is an attempt to realize, in a real-time performance, what the piece means to you inwardly. If you don't, I think the audience will probably let you know if you disappoint them.
True or false: Music is my first love
I find that question superficial. It's like asking what is my favorite color. Music is language. I have dedicated a life work to mastering it.
True or false: People need to be educated about classical music, before they can really appreciate it.
False. Greater knowledge brings greater appreciation. But my dad was always my biggest fan. He was only marginally knowledgeable about classical music but he had a definite opinion on whether what he was hearing was authentic and whether it was the performer's best effort.
You are given the position of artistic director of a concert hall. What would be on your program for this season?
A wide variety. First, I would recognize that the wider my audience, the more I have to respect popular taste. That means 19th-century music. Second, I would ensure that works by living composers are on at least two programs. Second, I would leverage technology by using video during performances. Think about it: fifteen minutes before the concert you see an exerpt of rehearsal, hear the composer talking to the ensemble. Then, during the performance, you see closeups on huge screens of performers, or perhaps you see examples of visual arts that parallel the time or even the work being performed. Make it a full experience.
What's your favourite classical CD at the moment?
I rarely pop a CD in the player. But one of my favorite CDs is a performance of the Ravel G-major piano concerto. I couldn't even tell you the performer, but it's a fine recording and one of my favorite pieces. I have a love affair with French music of the early 20th Century. Years ago I heard Ivan Moravec play that concerto live with the Dallas Symphony. I don't know if that recording is available, but I'd love to have it.
Have you ever tried playing a different instrument? If yes, how good were you at it?
I played cello until I was about 14. I wasn't great, but I was first chair in the high school orchestra. That probably says more about the state of the high school orchestra than about any skill I had. I taught myself to play the guitar and organ. Actually, I had a semester of organ instruction. But it wasn't until thirty years later that I seriously applied myself to learning to handle the pedals. But if it comes to a competition between time spent at the piano and time spent at the organ, I have too little free time as it is, also having a full time job. So piano practice time is the 800-pound gorilla and always wins.
What if tokafi.com had asked Aaron their 15 questions?
Hi! How are you? Where are you?
I'm doing very well. I live in Dallas where I have been for most of my life. My family moved here from El Paso in 1968 and except for a year at Cincinnati Conservatory I have lived here ever since.
What's on your schedule right now?
I began a project a couple of years ago to record all of the Beethoven sonatas and Chopin nocturnes. Having a full-time job forced me to juggle priorities, so there are stretches of time when it seems like nothing gets done. But I have an upcoming performance in July -- July 11to be exact -- that will involve two sonatas and at least two nocturnes.
If you hadn't chosen for music, what do you think you would do right now?
No idea, but my full-time job now is as a programmer, so possibly that. I love to write so I like to fancy I might have been a novelist, but that's not exactly a career job one can apply for.
What or who was your biggest influence as an artist?
There have been so many, including my wife, who is a wonderful artist with fashion and jewelry. She is also a wonderful cook and I see artistry in what she does. I never escape the influence of my college piano teacher, Dr. Harris Crohn. Who he was as a pianist, and our time together when I was in school are still a presence in my life. Learning to see art in small things is, itself, an artistic influence.
What's the hardest part about being a musician and what's the best?
The hardest part is seeing how some musicians have achieved escape velocity from some of the confining elements that limit artistic expression, and then learning to recognize those elements in my own experience and how to go beyond them. The best part is the hours of practice. The solitude, the vision, the feeling of knowing what can be achieved are so fulfilling.
What's your view on the classical music scene at present? Is there a crisis?
I think one has to take the long view. There will always be a large segment of the population with no understanding or appreciation of it. But it's called "classical" music for a reason: It is based on reason and timeless values, rather than merely the latest trend. And so I think there will also be a generation that sees the value it brings to society, philosophy, education, art, and performance.
Some feel there is no need to record classical music any more, that it's all been done before. What do you tell them?
It is true that there is a huge body of classical recording, much of which can be obtained for free. My recording project is based not on whether I am adding something new or unique to the body of recorded classical music, but, in a way, *because* of the huge body of proven expertise. Part of my life work is to demonstrate the ability and skills required to produce such a recording. But as for marketable recordings, each performance is unique. It has a signature, fingerprints, and sometimes the story behind the performer leads to understanding the performer through listening to the music. Certainly, for one recording to compete with another for its own sake brings marketing challenges, but the world always loves a story, and I'm convinced it can lead back to a recorded performance as part of the story. Add to that the continued advancement of recording techniques, and the ease with which both audio and video can be produced and distributed, the market may be more wide open than one might think.
What constitutes a good live performance in your opinion?
It might be tempting to require a feeling of newness or spontaneity from the performer. But I'm not sure that's on track. Compare it to watching a sprinter like Usain Bolt. If you never saw him run in person, you might be awed by the first experience of seeing it. But what if you later learned Bolt was not running all out? You did not see his fastest time, or even a serious attempt to set a record. It might be enough, though, that you saw a demonstration of years of perfecting his technique, plus the raw physical talent and a demonstration of flawless running skill. For many people, a classical music performance might not be in a list of a pianist's best performances. By definition, it cannot be. But for self-confessed neophytes, it might be a marvelous experience, and that, I believe, is perfectly legitimate, even if for the pianist it was only a workmanlike job. So what one has to require is evidence of a serious pursuit of perfection, a genuine understanding (and, I believe, love) of the composition, and a deep respect for the audience that is evidenced in integrity of the pianist's approach to the performance.
What's your approach to performing on stage?
To be the listener. I'm a pianist because I love the music, because it has a visceral and spiritual impact on my life, and especially in that moment. Someone who attends my performance has made a conscious decision to listen to me and see if there is something of value to gain from it. I want each audience member to share the experience of awe and beauty and motion and texture and color and all the things that make me want to sit and practice every day.
What does the word 'interpretation' mean to you?
It means to play the piece. One does not simply recite a piano piece. Every performance is an interpretation. The first priority, then, is to recognize that you are interpreting for the audience. A deliberate divergence from the written page on the grounds of disagreement or artistic license is not really interpretation, but more of a quarrel. There is a fascinating version of "Rhapsody in Blue" that I heard on the radio some ten years ago. It was a deconstruction by a jazz ensemble. I loved it! I've been looking for it ever since (unsuccessfully, so far). But I don't regard it as interpretation. For me, interpretation is what you can't help but reveal when you attempt to fulfill a composer's intention.
True or false: It is the duty of an artist to put his personal emotions into the music he plays.
As opposed to the duty to take them out? I'm not sure that makes sense. I guess I would refer to my statement about interpretation. If what is meant, however, is an emotional display during a performance, I do not see it as a duty. Personal growth involves self-knowledge. I think this includes an awareness of whether the thing you want to bring out in a performance is the thing you actually are achieving. The intent to do it is not enough. It's all about execution. My premise is that playing a piece is an attempt to realize, in a real-time performance, what the piece means to you inwardly. If you don't, I think the audience will probably let you know if you disappoint them.
True or false: Music is my first love
I find that question superficial. It's like asking what is my favorite color. Music is language. I have dedicated a life work to mastering it.
True or false: People need to be educated about classical music, before they can really appreciate it.
False. Greater knowledge brings greater appreciation. But my dad was always my biggest fan. He was only marginally knowledgeable about classical music but he had a definite opinion on whether what he was hearing was authentic and whether it was the performer's best effort.
You are given the position of artistic director of a concert hall. What would be on your program for this season?
A wide variety. First, I would recognize that the wider my audience, the more I have to respect popular taste. That means 19th-century music. Second, I would ensure that works by living composers are on at least two programs. Second, I would leverage technology by using video during performances. Think about it: fifteen minutes before the concert you see an exerpt of rehearsal, hear the composer talking to the ensemble. Then, during the performance, you see closeups on huge screens of performers, or perhaps you see examples of visual arts that parallel the time or even the work being performed. Make it a full experience.
What's your favourite classical CD at the moment?
I rarely pop a CD in the player. But one of my favorite CDs is a performance of the Ravel G-major piano concerto. I couldn't even tell you the performer, but it's a fine recording and one of my favorite pieces. I have a love affair with French music of the early 20th Century. Years ago I heard Ivan Moravec play that concerto live with the Dallas Symphony. I don't know if that recording is available, but I'd love to have it.
Have you ever tried playing a different instrument? If yes, how good were you at it?
I played cello until I was about 14. I wasn't great, but I was first chair in the high school orchestra. That probably says more about the state of the high school orchestra than about any skill I had. I taught myself to play the guitar and organ. Actually, I had a semester of organ instruction. But it wasn't until thirty years later that I seriously applied myself to learning to handle the pedals. But if it comes to a competition between time spent at the piano and time spent at the organ, I have too little free time as it is, also having a full time job. So piano practice time is the 800-pound gorilla and always wins.
Beethoven Opus 2 Piano Sonatas
Beethoven dedicated his opus 2 piano sonatas to his teacher, Franz Joseph Haydn. This was a grown man, not some adolescent neophyte trying to imitate Haydn's works. This is not to say Haydn did not influence Beethoven. Of course, he did. But 20-something firebrand composers are busy making their own statements.
And let's not mistake early music for easy music. Opus 2 has this in common with Haydn's work, -- technically easy passages offset by brilliant virtuosic passages not for the faint of heart. Some pianists may find these early sonatas more adaptable to an undeveloped technical prowess. But a more formidable technique is not too big for these pieces.
In fact, it is music like this that is so difficult to perform, because even minor mistakes stand out to the untrained ear. On the other hand, minor bobbles mistakes in Beethoven's opus 106 (Hammerklavier) might to most listeners go wholly unnoticed.
The stylistic difference between opus 2 and opus 106 seems, to me, galactic in scale. But neither is insignificant and I am not just humbled but somewhat humiliated at my attempt to do justice to these early strokes of genius.
And let's not mistake early music for easy music. Opus 2 has this in common with Haydn's work, -- technically easy passages offset by brilliant virtuosic passages not for the faint of heart. Some pianists may find these early sonatas more adaptable to an undeveloped technical prowess. But a more formidable technique is not too big for these pieces.
In fact, it is music like this that is so difficult to perform, because even minor mistakes stand out to the untrained ear. On the other hand, minor bobbles mistakes in Beethoven's opus 106 (Hammerklavier) might to most listeners go wholly unnoticed.
The stylistic difference between opus 2 and opus 106 seems, to me, galactic in scale. But neither is insignificant and I am not just humbled but somewhat humiliated at my attempt to do justice to these early strokes of genius.
Opus 2, Number 1, F-minor
It's the first sonata in the book. How hard could it be? And, in fact, the opening pages are not technically challenging. Not, that is, in the sense of whether one can execute all the notes a tempo. All four movements can be performed in fifteen minutes. Any decent pianist can do it. But there is that matter of style. Beethoven's writing is a mixture of bumpy road and smooth, abrupt dynamic changes, along with the sarcasm of Haydn and the charm of Mozart. This is all good news, for there is so much meat to chew on and digest, so much to work with when making artistic decisions. But that's bad news, because there is a long trail of "right" and "wrong" decisions, performance practices of the day, and how I feel about it in a 21st-century context.
The second movement is of particular interest because it is one of Beethoven's few slow movements that pretty much stays throughout the way it starts off. Contrast this with the slow movements of the other two opus 2 sonatas, which sort of blow up in the middle. But this one has a lot of Mozart in it, and I'm reminded of Mozart's K. 333 sonata throughout the three sonatas of opus 2. (This is especially true in nearly all of the A-major sonata that follows it.)
The last movement of opus 2 number 1 reminds me of performing Grieg's lyric piece "At the cradle." Every performance of that is so incredibly slow that I cannot relate to it. When I performed it I worked to moderate my tempo downward somewhat, but it still had to sashay a little where other performances seemed to plod. (Perhaps "sashay" is the wrong word, here.) So, with this last movement of Beethoven, other performances seem to forget that Beethoven was, y'know, 26 years old. Not refined. Not restrained. Not even reasonable. The last movement is where Beethoven cuts loose. When he says prestissimo I think he's pretty damned serious about it. And that's how I play it.
The second movement is of particular interest because it is one of Beethoven's few slow movements that pretty much stays throughout the way it starts off. Contrast this with the slow movements of the other two opus 2 sonatas, which sort of blow up in the middle. But this one has a lot of Mozart in it, and I'm reminded of Mozart's K. 333 sonata throughout the three sonatas of opus 2. (This is especially true in nearly all of the A-major sonata that follows it.)
The last movement of opus 2 number 1 reminds me of performing Grieg's lyric piece "At the cradle." Every performance of that is so incredibly slow that I cannot relate to it. When I performed it I worked to moderate my tempo downward somewhat, but it still had to sashay a little where other performances seemed to plod. (Perhaps "sashay" is the wrong word, here.) So, with this last movement of Beethoven, other performances seem to forget that Beethoven was, y'know, 26 years old. Not refined. Not restrained. Not even reasonable. The last movement is where Beethoven cuts loose. When he says prestissimo I think he's pretty damned serious about it. And that's how I play it.
Opus 2, Number 2, A-major
All of the opus 2 sonatas have interesting questions of pedaling on a modern piano. The second of these, in A-major, is one of those that can be successfully done without using the pedal at all. I don't know that this was Beethoven's intention, or even necessary. But stylistically, it can work because of so much staccato work in the piece. I practice with and without pedal, in part because I can't make up my mind whether to have or to have not. It's not a matter of right or wrong, but simply that it's fun to play the piece without using the damper pedal.
Playing without the pedal is particularly gratifying in the second movement. There is very little need for the damper pedal. In some of the trills, maybe. But you can eat these french fries without any ketchup at all, if you get my meaning.
The classical style did not demand constant pedaling. The harmonic structure of 18th-century music complied with the concept of articulated phrasing. Things were defined and precise. But there was some demand to extend the range of how many notes could or should be sustained throughout a passage. It was as pleasing then to hear full, rich chords sustained in the ear, just as it was for Palestrina, Chopin, or Prokofiev. So, pedal is a special effects device for Beethoven. It is used for color, even for mixing in some dissonance now and then. When I have to be a "responsible" pianist, it's time to use some pedal. But I try to put my foot flat on the floor until it's time to use the pedal.
The fun of pedaling early Beethoven is in deciding what to mix and how much and for how long. My own feeling is that right around the frequency of the human voice (roughly 100-500 hertz) is where mixing sounds is most understandable, precisely because it is the frequency of the voice. This is how we hear things most easily. This is roughly two octaves, one on either side of "middle C." Pedaling as a scale or arpeggio passes through that range adds nice color to it. It's sort of the fulcrum of the harmonic balance, and as the fulcrum moves in either direction, the sound sometimes seems more unbalanced to me.
But we're talking here about the sensibility of Mozart and Haydn. Later Beethoven was written for a more advanced instrument, with a wider range of notes on the keyboard, and a bigger dynamic range. Yet, even when we get to the third of the opus 2 sonatas, we'll glimpse the tip of the iceberg of Beethoven's demand for more aggressive pedaling.
Hearing the last movement performed was what first attracted me to this piece. It's a clinic in how to construct a graceful movement out of long arpeggios. It's also a clinic in how much contrast you can create with a middle section of angry, staccato, chromatic scales. It's almost off-putting to me to hear the middle section attempt to destroy all that came before it. Then the first theme returns, and elegance and reasonableness are restored...only to revisit the anger briefly, just before the piece concludes. I guess it's to be expected, but at least peace wins out in the end. So there's that.
Playing without the pedal is particularly gratifying in the second movement. There is very little need for the damper pedal. In some of the trills, maybe. But you can eat these french fries without any ketchup at all, if you get my meaning.
The classical style did not demand constant pedaling. The harmonic structure of 18th-century music complied with the concept of articulated phrasing. Things were defined and precise. But there was some demand to extend the range of how many notes could or should be sustained throughout a passage. It was as pleasing then to hear full, rich chords sustained in the ear, just as it was for Palestrina, Chopin, or Prokofiev. So, pedal is a special effects device for Beethoven. It is used for color, even for mixing in some dissonance now and then. When I have to be a "responsible" pianist, it's time to use some pedal. But I try to put my foot flat on the floor until it's time to use the pedal.
The fun of pedaling early Beethoven is in deciding what to mix and how much and for how long. My own feeling is that right around the frequency of the human voice (roughly 100-500 hertz) is where mixing sounds is most understandable, precisely because it is the frequency of the voice. This is how we hear things most easily. This is roughly two octaves, one on either side of "middle C." Pedaling as a scale or arpeggio passes through that range adds nice color to it. It's sort of the fulcrum of the harmonic balance, and as the fulcrum moves in either direction, the sound sometimes seems more unbalanced to me.
But we're talking here about the sensibility of Mozart and Haydn. Later Beethoven was written for a more advanced instrument, with a wider range of notes on the keyboard, and a bigger dynamic range. Yet, even when we get to the third of the opus 2 sonatas, we'll glimpse the tip of the iceberg of Beethoven's demand for more aggressive pedaling.
Hearing the last movement performed was what first attracted me to this piece. It's a clinic in how to construct a graceful movement out of long arpeggios. It's also a clinic in how much contrast you can create with a middle section of angry, staccato, chromatic scales. It's almost off-putting to me to hear the middle section attempt to destroy all that came before it. Then the first theme returns, and elegance and reasonableness are restored...only to revisit the anger briefly, just before the piece concludes. I guess it's to be expected, but at least peace wins out in the end. So there's that.