Mozart in Bloom: David Fray and the San Francisco Symphony

My program, signed by pianist David Fray. Lucky me!

I believe a pianist of any level should attend as many live performances of other artists as much as possible, not only for educational purposes but for the sheer  inspiration.  On October 26th, I had the great pleasure of hearing the French pianist David Fray perform live.  Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 22 in E-flat Major, K. 482 (1785) was the centerpiece of the evening, flanked by Wagner’s Prelude to Act I of Lohengrin (1848) and Brahms’ weighty Symphony No. 4 in E minor, Op. 98 (1885). Asher Fisch led the San Francisco Symphony.

I had enjoyed Mr. Fray’s renditions of the Bach Keyboard Concertos through album purchases, but I had not yet heard him play Mozart and was thrilled when San Francisco Symphony announced the inclusion of this program.

Mr. Fray’s interpretation was exquisite.  I confess this was the most beautiful experience I have ever had listening to a Mozart piano concerto.  His touch was sensitive to the utmost without ever pussyfooting; he was deliberate when he saw fit, and alternately tender and tenuous or ever so slyly mischievous.  He approached the work very seriously as an intellectual but also with great feeling. His cadenzas were clearly thought out and yet the effect was akin to crimson hued silk ribbons tumbling forth pell-mell: a glorious, unbridled joy.

Most interestingly, I might have enjoyed the performance even better had I closed my eyes more; Mr. Fray is tall and strikingly handsome in a rather wild, Nureyev sort of way.  However, he sat hunched over the piano - on a chair and not a bench, no less - like the world’s most elegant vulture.  His gestures could almost be misconstrued as flippant.  When not playing, he gripped himself not unlike the classic psychiatric patient; head hung and chest caved in.  But while  his body conveyed a certain degree of sangfroid, the music told a different story: the melodies were so full of life, imbued with flesh and breathing and emotional depth.  It was somewhat of a challenge to reconcile the visual and the aural.

Mr. Fray’s control was impeccable.  He jumped directly into passages almost without preparation, and a rumbling bass passage electrified with its expertly handled yet organic crescendo-decrescendo swell.  Even the most accented notes were tinged with a bit of velvet.

The second movement, in C minor, saw a turn to the melancholy.  Despite the attempts of a flute and bassoon at lighthearted conversation, the mood darkened as the strings resurfaced.  Under Mr. Fisch’s direction and Mr. Fray’s interpretation the piano melody sang above these troubling undercurrents, cushioned and borne aloft by the strings.

The audience visibly perked as the familiar hunting melody of the third movement marked a return to gaiety.  A minuet-like section provided a lovely excursion. Towards the end, Mr. Fray brought this theme back hushed and tentative, working it up finally to its full playfulness.  It was as if the melody had tiptoed back in, looked around, and gradually lost inhibition to delight in itself.  The ending seemed characteristic of Mozart’s sense of humor - a bit of slow backtracking, and suddenly - surprise! - the end.

Mr. Fray had nearly launched himself bodily from the piano at the conclusion of several particularly exuberant passages, but thankfully he was still seated onstage when the audience made its pleasure and gratitude known.

The Prelude to Act 1 of Wagner’s opera Lohengrin was played in all its shimmering, ethereal glory.  The Wagnerian brass stepped in like a warm burst of sunlight towards the end, only to fade away as the strings transcended into the heavens once again.

The evening’s closer of Brahms’ Symphony No. 4 tossed me into a sea of turmoil and doubt, but what more wonderful way to experience such troubled emotions than with Brahms?  The sense of the epic was ever present, but individual voices broke through especially in the second movement with the plaintive cry of the strings.  If there was ever a symphony that started and ended with doom and gloom, this is it.  But as intimated in Thomas Mann’s novella Death in Venice, there can be a singular enjoyment in suffering.

After the concert, I was lucky enough to meet Mr. Fray and I expressed my appreciation of his performance.  He was gracious and signed my program.  Most of all, I was relieved that when Mr. Fray was away from the piano he had excellent posture!  

I am increasingly struck by how a pianist’s mannerisms and stage presence can enhance or detract from the performance.  After seeing Mr. Fray, I will be vigilant so as not to not develop any habits that might distract from the music.  I hope an artist like Mr. Fray is not troubled by this kind of worry, however.  When he plays, the music speaks clearly for itself.

Musical Insomnia

Brain bursting and blooming with music: impossible to sleep!
(Google Image Search)

It happens sometimes: A night of sleeplessness, my mind filled with music that will not let me rest. Last night's episode may be the result of latent anxiety about an upcoming recital, the first I will attempt in over a decade. Even though it is only a very small, informal recital, what matters is whether I can get over myself and do the music justice.  And, Ravel’s Valses nobles et sentimentales is a work that means a great deal to me. 

I wanted badly to get up and go to the piano, but that was out of the question lest I disturb the slumbering. (I can only imagine what it would be like to awaken to the jarring major 9th chords that open Ravel’s creation - likely pure terror and delight all in one, wild sensation!) 

So I did the next best thing: head practicing. 

I went through each waltz, separating out the left hand (I rely far too much on my right hand), testing my memory. I took special care to go over corrections and suggestions I’d received earlier that day from my teacher. 

Between these mental rehearsals, I took stock of my current repertoire.  Considering I haven’t played the piano for 12+ years, it is paltry indeed:

Susan’s Current Repertoire Chopin, Frédéric

• Études Op. 25, No. 1, No. 2, No. 3
• Trois nouvelles études Op. posthu., No. 1

Debussy, Claude

• Arabesque No. 1 (from Deux Arabesques)

• Clair de Lune (from Suite Bergamesque)
• Doctor Gradus ad Parnassum (from Children’s Corner)
• Jimbo’s Lullaby (from Children’s Corner)

Granados, Enrique

• Danzas españolas Op. 37, No. 5 [Andaluza]

Ravel, Maurice

• Valses nobles et sentimentales

• Prelude (from Le tombeau de Couperin)
• Menuet (from Le tombeau de Couperin)

Schumann, Robert

• Valse noble (from Carnaval, Op. 9)
• Chopin (from Carnaval, Op. 9)

 
… meaning, I can play the above for an audience with some confidence of doing a passable job.  


Then, I created a Wish List of pieces I would dearly love to play.  That list is much longer than my current repertoire.  I won’t bore anyone with the list, but let’s just say it includes Brahms, Scriabin, Schubert, and whole lot more Chopin and Ravel.  Did I mention that I’m a Romantic and Impressionist era junkie?

In this fashion, the hours passed.  I just spent the last couple of hours working on the Ravel, and although I am tired from lack of sleep I somehow retained my corrections as well as the left hand “focus” spots.  The head practicing worked! 

On performance day, I need to trust myself that my practicing will serve me well.  I’ve been plagued by split second doubts that have resulted in awful memory lapses, in passages I’d previously thought were “safe.”  

But, as my teacher said with a shrug of his shoulders yesterday when I told him my head gets in the way: “Well, leave it home!”  

There!  I’ll waltz up to the piano next weekend without my head, and trust that my muscle memory and heart will take care of the music.  

Bringing Back the Romance

The fateful first chords that ensnared me forever

You know how familiarity has a tendency to wear off that initial starry-eyed enthusiasm one has for something cherished?  Practicing a piece over and over again, picking apart passages a phrase at a time or even a note at a time - ad nauseam - is inescapable if we are to play something well.  While that is all well and good, the rigors of study can make us forget why we even liked the music we're playing to begin with!

I fell in love with Ravel's Valses Nobles et Sentimentales at first sight (or hearing) at around age 8 while watching a 1966 recording of the Bolshoi Ballet perform excerpts of the simply titled ballet "Ravel Waltzes." It was hands-down the most romantic, mysterious, intoxicatingly beautiful work I'd ever encountered.  Since then, it had been a (sometimes forgotten) dream to play these waltzes.

The View from the Trenches
Since reigniting my efforts at the piano earlier this year, I've now been in the trenches for several months with Valses Nobles.  Eight waltzes, each of a very different character, have stretched my reading, understanding of phrasing, listening, hands (literally - there are some magnificent chords), and most prominently, my patience.

Whether it was getting the waltzes into my body the first time or memorizing them, it's been a challenge.  All of a sudden, passages I'd counted on playing smoothly would fall apart.  There were days I felt like I couldn't play at all - my hands simply wouldn't obey.  I'd play certain tough passages, each time the result worse despite herculean efforts at concentration.  I'd throw my hands up in the air with the drama of Moses in a classic MGM film and exclaim, "WHY?!"

On a particularly trying night of practicing, I sat in silence at the piano bench and felt rather empty. Suddenly, I knew I had let go for the time being.  I had to step away from the piano, and go back to find the romance within me I'd felt so keenly since childhood.

Recapturing That Feeling
I cued up a playlist that would run through an orchestrated recording of Valses Nobles with Charles Dutoit, and then the original piano solo version with Louis Lortie. I got comfortable on my bed, and closed my eyes.

It's amazing how sound can bring back so much.  I could picture it perfectly: A ballroom full of revelers who move purposefully yet chaotically.  Two people make a piercing connection but find themselves constantly thwarted in their attempts to reach one another. I could feel their desperation, their hearts' yearning.

I could smell the perfume and the delicious sensation of yielding to the intoxication of the first bloom of tentative but undeniable romance.  As the waltzes cycled I felt hope, desire, regret; the embers stoking once again. I could hardly sleep that night; the music swirled in my head and demanded attention.

And Then ... 
This past weekend I played all eight waltzes from beginning to end, entirely from memory for the first time.  After the final, haunting bass G note died away, my teacher Mr. LaRatta sat in silence for a moment.

"Do you know how proud I am of you?" he said slowly, his hands folded over the music book.

I looked expectantly at him, not quite believing what I was hearing.  My playing had been far from perfect ...

"No, I'm really impressed," he continued, "you're doing some very wonderful things with the music. I can see you dancing to this; I can hear it in your playing."

He could hear the dancing - that broke me out of my freeze.  He could hear the dancing in my playing!  That was the best thing I could have heard.  It meant that I'd begun to, in some way, recapture the wonderful feeling of the waltzes I'd cherished for so many years.

Before I knew it, I'd launched both fists into the air above my head and exclaimed, "YAY!"

And now, whenever I feel bogged down by the inevitable rigors of practice, I'll know when to take the occasional step back.  I'll know when I need to revisit my memories and stir up the timeless, magical feelings within me wrought by beautiful melodies.  It'll be time to bring back the romance.

A Love Letter to Hamilton

Hamilton with the top open, showcasing its timeless beauty

You might have seen the recent New York Times article about the increasing prevalence of (mostly upright) pianos meeting their end in a landfill dump.  I admit, just typing that sentence made my heart seize; the thought of any piano - even ones that I wouldn't really like playing - relegated to such a fate arouses such an immediate and visceral reaction.

I can understand the power of market forces; there simply isn't much demand for upright pianos anymore. What a remarkable journey since the mid-1800s, when the rise of pianism made one requisite in every well to do home.

It is true that a piano is an embodiment of lifestyle, onto which the hopes and dreams of generations are projected.  It's not too unlike the statement we make with our choice of car.  My Honda Civic Hybrid says: "I just want a reliable, slightly environmentally friendly vehicle to get me safely from A to B."  In contrast, a friend of mine recently ordered the new Tesla Model S: "I am the cutting edge of technology. I am sleek, I am cool!" (Or is it, "I am rich!"?)  So, too, is a piano, be it a practical studio piano or flashy, shiny grand.

The Story of Hamilton

It seems like an act of hubris to decry the dumping of upright pianos, when I myself have given up one. When I decided with conviction late last year that the piano and music needed to take its rightful place in my life, my dream piano replaced the old workhorse.  In came Steinway (born 1976), and out went Hamilton (born 1920).

Hamilton - that's what I called it - was a Hamilton full upright, with a big, brassy sound. It was found on Craigslist and had been languishing in an old house occupied by Stanford grad students. It was covered in dust, papers, and various beverage holders. Nobody knew where it'd come from and who actually owned it. It was being sold for a song, and within a week it was in its new home.  It cost more to move than to acquire!

The first time I played Hamilton after its move, I was shocked by how bright it was.  For the first few months, I consciously toned down my playing so as to not drown myself in sound - I couldn't hear myself in such an intensely acoustic swirl.  Some years later, I realized I was no longer playing quietly; I'd eased into playing Hamilton.

Sadly, Hamilton had suffered neglect for so long that the soundboard and strings were all but gone.  The lower register felts were literally non-existent, giving a dull, rumbly, bass-voiced lion purring kind of sound.

The E-flat two octaves down from middle C insisted on going flat, no matter how much it was tuned. In fact, the tuner had to tune 3.5 steps down from A440 for fear of the strings snapping right off if tuned any tighter.

Still, Hamilton was well loved, and well played, for a number of years.  Ragtime sounded particularly nice on it. Debussy, well ... not quite as much, but it allowed the music to manifest!

When Steinway finally arrived, my heart pounded with joy and excitement.  And yet, I hadn't fully realized that it meant Hamilton was going away.  Tears, unbidden, welled in my eyes and my instead of pounding, my heart seemed to stop. I trailed after the two men who were pushing it out of the door, and stood unsteadily outside as Hamilton was loaded onto the truck.

"Bye, Hamilton," I called out in a small voice, and the movers smiled at me.  

Vince from Sherman Clay San Francisco, to whom Hamilton was going, had led on that he intended the upright to go to a school or community center.  I hope against hope that this was the case.  I wonder, and yet I haven't dared to ask.  I don't know if I could handle the answer if Hamilton had met the fate that so many other uprights have.

As I write this, I've had to wipe my eyes more than a few times.  Again, I'm surprised by the fresh, palpable emotion the thought of Hamilton arouses within me.

Now I feel as though I've done what I should have done a long time ago: I've written a farewell, a kind of love letter, to Hamilton.

It still doesn't plug the hole I find in my heart, but it feels better.  Thank you, Hamilton.  You were well loved.

Chopin, Lizst, and the Rise of Pianism

Frederic Chopin at the piano with Georges Sand, painted by William Francis Marshall

This essay is for Dan Russell, friend, esteemed Google colleague, scholar in more topics I can wrap my head around, and a wonderful musician and composer, to boot!

Note: These essays aim to give a general overview of a particular topic - they are not in-depth explorations. Someday I'll have the excuse to write papers of that kind, but for now, I hope you find these interesting!  I enjoyed writing them.

Chopin, Lizst, and the Rise of Pianism

Out of the shadow and influence of Beethoven emerged a new generation of composers who espoused the Romantic ideals of subjectivity, individuality, and emotion, rather than the symmetry and intellectual qualities of the Classical era. This shift was a reflection of the upheaval in Western Europe with the Napoleonic wars and the subsequent struggle between a newly democratized public and the last vestiges of the previously ruling aristocracy. 

Music created in the 19th century was shaped by these themes, and composers explored their craft while adapting to a changing society that increasingly catered to a public of musical amateurs. The central status of the piano was established during this period by such eminent composers as Chopin and Liszt.

Beethoven was the key force in ushering the Western world into the Romantic era of music, with his emphasis on a deeply personal experience laden with emotion. In setting this blueprint, subsequent composers needed to find their own voices as they explored new paths - some, notably Brahms, struggled greatly, while others such as Berlioz reveled in Beethoven's legacy to fuel their own careers. 

The term 'romantic' itself saw an evolution: it originally referred to tales of heroism, such as the Arthurian legends, and during the 19th century came to describe the emotional and personal.

The backdrop for this shift was the push-pull between a public that had tasted freedom from the ruling aristocracy after the French Revolution. A series of revolutions broke out throughout Europe starting in 1830 with the "July Revolution" in France and 1848 saw a proliferation of uprisings. In the midst of this was the Industrial Revolution, which saw the automation of manual labor via advances in technology and manufacturing. Consequently, a previously vastly agrarian public was able to move to cities and pursue a wholly different life, a life that allowed for independence and upward mobility.

These developments had a profound effect in the shaping of music during the 19th century. Changes were occurring everywhere in Europe, and even as society embraced a new way of life both politically and socially, many hearkened back to the more traditional ways of life. This duality posed a challenge and a boon to composers: While they struggled with themes of old and new - science versus faith, mankind versus nature, nationalism versus integration - composers found a growing public with newfound wealth and interest in both consuming and making music. This led to the rise of the piano as the instrument of choice during the Romantic era.

Although the earliest piano was created in 1719 by Cristofori in Florence, it came into prominence much later. Improved manufacturing techniques in the 19th century made it possible for the well to do to incorporate a piano into their households, and with this arose the demand for music written for, taught to, and performed by amateurs. Thus it was in the Romantic era that pianism came to the fore.

Romantic pianism at its best was characterized by a combination of elegance, emotionalism, and a healthy dose of virtuosic display. Frederic Chopin and Franz Lizst were key in establishing a new genre of music meant for solo piano. "Incidental Piano Music" included etudes meant not only for purposes of teaching, but were so beautifully crafted they could stand alone as concert pieces. Other styles were based on dances, narratives, improvisation, or on Classical forms.

Born in 1810, Chopin lived the majority of his life in Paris but remained faithful to his native Poland. Although he was considered by contemporaries as a foremost pianist, Chopin seldom performed after his early tours in 1829 and his Paris debut in 1832. During his relationship with Georges Sand, an avant garde writer, Chopin's output was prolific. However, a trip to Majorca in 1838 worsened his tuberculosis and exacerbated his health significantly. After he and Georges parted ways he died soon thereafter, in 1849.

While he was a leading force in Romanticism, Chopin himself was highbrow in his preferences and ironically did not care much for the works of his contemporaries, nor did he like to mix with the public. His love of the piano and the distinctive sensitivity of his compositional style made him one of the foremost harmonists of the era.

Where Chopin was subtle, Lizst was flamboyant. The superstar of his day, this virtuosic pianist and composer inspired swooning audiences across Europe and had his fair share of tabloid-worthy scandals. Hungarian by birth, Lizst emigrated to Vienna, studying with such greats as Czerny and Salieri, and at 15 moved to Paris where he established himself as a composer and a concert pianist. After witnessing Paganini's feats on the violin in 1831, Lizst revitalized his career by shaping himself as a virtuoso performer. 

Unlike Chopin, Lizst was wiling to churn out music for the public but was undoubtedly the finest pianist of his day and incredibly gifted as both composer and performer. He was also a champion of budding musicians, and in 1848 he retired from performing to focus on composition and master classes. Lizst also dabbled in the religious order, even moving to Rome in 1861 to take holy orders although he was not ordained. He continued to support rising musicians until his death in 1886, of pneumonia.

The Romantic period saw societal upheavals that created a framework for music to evolve and adapt, with the piano becoming a solo voice for the expression of the beautiful, powerful, and passionate. The musical revolution Beethoven created with raw emotion and sheer force during the Classical period began to manifest itself in different ways, explored beautifully by composers struggling to find their own voices in this new era.

Hard at Work ... Writing!

This is not one of the music classes I've been taking!

I apologize for the intermittent postings and hiatus as of late.  I admit that I had too much on my plate the past quarter, but I love being busy and knowing that I'm accomplishing things - except when I feel so overwhelmed that I feel as though I haven't been able to finish anything!  I think we all know what that feels like.

One of the reasons I hadn't been posting regularly is that when I wasn't working, dancing, or trying to get my fingers to obey my will at the keyboard (and sleep?  Uh ...), I was studying for two music history classes through a wonderful music program offered online at Foothill College.

I wasn't a music major at university.  I did take a Basic Musicianship class, universally known to folks with any music background as "Clap for Credit" for an easy A, as well as an upper division class on J.S. Bach.  I also played baritone horn in the University of California Marching Band for four years, a participation without which I would have had no school spirit.

But now that I am embarking on a serious musical journey with the piano, I want to have a solid base in music history essentials.  I've now taken the Classical Era, Romantic-Impressionist-20th Century and beyond, as well as World Music.  Come fall quarter, I'll circle back to Baroque.  Dr. Robert Hartwell and Dr. Elizabeth Barkley have been my wonderful champions, and I enjoy their classes immensely.  (Dr. Hartwell was the one who encouraged me to audition for Mr. LaRatta!)

I've written a number of little essays and snippets for my music history classes, which I'll share here from time to time.  These classes and explorations are, after all, part of my journey in embracing music wholeheartedly.  I hope you'll enjoy them!

Crystal Chandeliers and Turning Gears

It's amazing how a single, simple concept prompted by imagery can change the way I approach a phrase or an entire piece.

Beautiful Like a Chandelier
A few weeks ago, I began to launch into Chopin's Étude Op. 25, No. 1 during my lesson.  The first melody note sounded, and before I'd even gotten to the next one, my teacher Mr. LaRatta stopped me.  "Have you ever seen those crystal chandeliers?  Yes?  Good.  Have you ever run your fingers across one and noticed how it just tinkles beautifully?"

He made a motion with his hands, mimicking the cascading, seamless sound of crystals delicately hitting one another in rapid succession.  I could hear it in my head.  "That's how every single note needs to come out, clear as crystal," he continued, referring to those in-between-the-melody rapid arpeggios that give the Étude its "Aeolian Harp" nickname.

Mr. LaRatta must have seen the dawning realization on my face.  "You know what I mean?"  "Yes!" I replied excitedly.  "Okay.  Now, DO IT!!" And he glared at me from over the top of his glasses.

I began again.  "Yes, that was it, much better!  You got it?"  "Yes!"  "Okay.  Now, always do it this way, for the rest of your life!" He glared at me again, then laughed, a twinkle in his eye.  "You got it, kiddo!"

Have I mentioned how lucky I am to be Mr. LaRatta's student?

Thinking in Circles
Similarly, imagery helped me understand Chopin's Étude Op. 25, No. 2.  It's a deceptively simple concert etude that evokes the sight of a butterfly flitting amongst blossoms.  When I first started learning it, I was tripped up by the quarter note triplet pattern in the left hand topped by eighth note triplets in the right hand.  Technically it was fine, but it didn't sound or feel right.

During one lesson, Mr. LaRatta stopped me after I'd played three bars.  He asked me to picture a big gear, moving counterclockwise at a moderate speed.  Next to it was a smaller gear, turning clockwise at a faster speed.  Two different gears, turning in different directions and at different speeds - and yet they worked smoothly together, the grooves fitting perfectly with each rotation.  What a difference this gave me for the piece overall!

Moreover, the gear imagery helped me understand how I should phrase the left and right hand parts.  Gears have a momentum; they have a flow to their movement.  So why would I ever accent beat 1 on the left hand?  That'd be one wonky gear!  I found that accenting beat 2, gently, gave the left hand the contour and motion it needed.

And the right hand?  Mr. LaRatta invoked the gear imagery once again.  I pictured the smaller gear rotating clockwise, at a good clip.  "The right hand moves in circles, you see," he explained, "each circle builds off the other every phrase; it starts smaller, then swells as it comes around, and begins again."  And, suddenly, I got it.  By leading up gently to the second triplet, I could feel the gear turning, and the melody flowed more naturally.

Smaller turns, bigger turns.  Big wheel, little wheel, opposite motions; the smaller one turning faster.  Suddenly the piece was no longer a series of notes to be contended with.  It had a shape, little highs and lows, little ebbs and flows.  And finally, that beautiful, fluttery sound began to take shape.

Hello (again), Steinway!

The hiatus is over!  After an awful dry spell of being simply flat out from work and feeling unable to even face the piano (much less get sleep), I am back to practicing and my lessons.  The most frightening thing about being lost in a vortex of work-induced stress was that during that time, I had no idea why I'd ever wanted to pursue studies in music at all.  It was a very scary feeling, and it was all too real.  All I could think about was how tired I was, how I wasn't even close to getting done all the things I needed to get done, and how I was going to get through it with spirit intact.  

The spring quarter at Foothill had begun and as I wrote essays about Chopin, Lizst, and the rise of pianism in 19th century Europe, an ember sparked deep inside me.  That night, even as I looked in the mirror and thought my face was going to fall off, I told myself, "Come hell or high water, I'm going to my piano lesson this week!"  No matter how terrible I sounded, I had to start again.

And I am so very glad I went to class!  After knocking politely and entering the studio, I saw that Mr. LaRatta was sitting in his upholstered armchair as always.  He peered up from his glasses, crossword puzzle in hand, and said, "And you are ...?"

Like an impetuous child, I stamped my foot and exclaimed, "I knew you were going to say that!  I knew it!!" and we both burst out laughing.  After he asked about my health, I asked him how he was.  "Oh, I'm just fine.  Well, I worry about my babies, you know," and he gave me a knowing glance.  I was moved by this unexpected revelation - after all, I've been his student only since January!  It's wonderful how he truly cares about his musical charges, young and old.

I asked for his forgiveness even before I'd played a scale for him - I'd obviously fallen off the wagon and my playing would show it.  Mr. LaRatta didn't answer me immediately.  Instead, he made a simple drawing with his pencil in the margin of the crossword puzzle he'd been working on.  "Tell me what that is," he said, and I replied, "It's an eight note."  "No," he said, with the air of someone patiently explaining something extraordinarily simple to a young child, "it's a threatening note."

I started at him with a deer-in-the-headlights-look.  "I beg your pardon?"

"If you're really not making any progress, this is what I'll send you, okay?  If you get this in the mail, you know you're in big trouble!"

Oh!  A threatening note in the mail!  I nearly fell off the armchair.

I've promised myself that no matter how tired I am, I am going to say hello to the piano every day.  I will feel the keyboard and know it a little, even if all I can muster is a scale or one Hanon exercise.  After I began to practice again for the first time since I fell off the track, I almost had to stop: the clarity and sheer beauty of Steinway's* sound was breathtaking.  I almost wanted to cry with joy; how could I have ever neglected it, and my own musical desires?

I suspect I would not have reacted so powerfully had it not been for the long period of running myself into the ground with my professional obligations - it's not that I necessarily disliked what I was doing, but the piano is something I'm truly doing for myself.  To rediscover that was like coming home.

And even if I had no other impetus to improve at the piano - and I have plenty - I certainly would not want to disappoint Mr. LaRatta.  The idea of that is much worse than the "threatening note" itself!

* I've taken to simply calling my piano "Steinway".  It feels both intimate and respectful!

Meeting "Manny"

With Emanuel Ax backstage at the San Francisco Symphony!

Last Thursday we were in for a real treat.  We had tickets for a San Francisco Symphony's Mavericks performance and even got a backstage tour, courtesy of the wonderful John Kieser, the Symphony's General Manager.  And guess who we had the honor to meet while backstage?  Besides meeting Susan Key, musicologist and Special Projects Director, we bumped into none other than the venerable Emanuel Ax, a world-renowned pianist with multiple Grammy awards - or as John greeted him, "Manny"!

Emanuel was in town to play Morton Feldman's Piano and Orchestra, a very minimalist piece marked to be played "as quietly as possible".  I'm not sure I should be repeating the following, but it's too good not to: When asked how his practicing was going, Emanuel responded with a laugh, "There isn't much to practice!" and proceeded to mimic playing one chord, waiting, plinking another note, waiting, and "tock!" another note, with a vaguely far-off expression on his face.

"Even with [John] Cage I've got something to practice, but this?" he shrugged and chuckled good-naturedly.  "You're really selling this, aren't you?" John joked, to which Emanuel replied without missing a beat: "Just ask the musicians ... sentiments range from 'extreme loathing' to 'intense dislike'," and I couldn't help but burst out laughing.  What candor!

Emanuel is a very affable gentleman, unpretentious and down-to-earth.  He seemed as much in awe of us as Silicon Valley professionals as we were of him as a world-famous pianist!  We were peppered with questions about iTunes, the iPhone 4S and of course Siri.  So of course we let him ask Siri a question or two.  Whether it was the noise backstage or the artificial intelligence's twisted sense of humor, Siri responded with a very off-color remark!  (I thought there was a filter for the word Siri used!)  How embarrassing.  Fortunately, Emanuel didn't appear to be offended, but he certainly was a little taken aback.

He called up his wife, also a pianist, and told her excitedly, "I'm here with a gentleman from Apple, and a lady from Google!" and after he hung up, exclaimed, "I can't believe I'm standing here with two computer geniuses!"  and our reaction was "We're not that special, really ... We can't believe we're standing here with you!" to which his response was a smile and shrug.  What a hoot!

John wanted to make sure we didn't miss Susan Key's pre-performance talk, so before we knew it we had to go.  Before we left backstage, John took a photo of us with Emanuel and I told him what an honor it was to meet him.  He'd asked for our business cards and joked that he'd bug us every day, and honestly I wouldn't mind if he reached out!

I also had a wonderful conversation with John about Google Maps.  I noticed how, despite his importance in the Symphony and in the music community in San Francisco, he is a most gracious gentleman.  He must interact with many prominent folks who give good money to the Symphony, but he made little old me feel like an honored guest.  When speaking with him I felt as if I were the most important person to him at that moment.

The evening of music was an eye (and ear!) opener.  I'll share more about that soon, but I am still in awe that I've met the General Manager of the SF Symphony, one of its musicologists, and one of the best pianists in the world!  And as John wrote in response to my note thanking him for the wonderful evening, "... hopefully next time he [Emanuel Ax] comes, you will hear him play something more energetic!"

Amen.  Thank you, John and the SF Symphony!

Great-Grandpupil of the Masters

Franz Lizst, Johannes Brahms, and Maurice Ravel

One of the reasons I was (and still am) excited about studying with Mr. LaRatta is that his teacher was Rudolph Ganz, who had studied with none other than one of my favorite composers of all time, Maurice Ravel.  Ganz was responsible for bringing many new works to the United States, including the compositions of Ravel and Claude Debussy.

Ravel even dedicated one of his works to Ganz, the Scarbo from Gaspard de la Nuit.  It is notoriously difficult to play. Ganz had confided to Mr. LaRatta that the Scarbo was probably dedicated to him simply because he was able to play it!  Apparently his hands were enormous.  "If he ever took my hand, I'd double check to make sure it was still there afterwards!" Mr. LaRatta recalled, raising his eyebrows.

You can imagine that I've been completely in awe that my teacher studied with Ravel.  But there was more!  During my lesson last week, Mr. LaRatta told me that Ganz had also studied with Johannes Brahms, and with Franz Lizst!  My jaw dropped.

(Incidentally, my other thought was, "When was this guy born?!"  I looked Ganz up after I got home and indeed, he was born in 1877.  Liszt passed away in 1886 and Brahms in 1897.)

Mr. LaRatta recalled a recital in which Ganz played works by Brahms, Lizst, and Ravel, describing it as "the most electrifying" concert he had ever attended.  To be in the presence of a concert pianist who had studied with all three of these tremendous composers must have been absolutely amazing.  Sure enough, Mr. LaRatta recounted an extremely emotional and powerful experience.

My head is still reeling that this is the absolute closest that I've ever come (and likely ever will come) to these three composers - Mr. LaRatta is the link!  In a moment of passion and whimsy I thought: You know what?  That means I'm studying with the pupil of the pupil of Maurice Ravel, Franz Liszt, and Johannes Brahms.  I'm a great-grandpupil of the masters!

Not that this newfound knowledge accords me any special status, or indeed, any merit at all.  What it does give me, however, is a profound sense of history and heritage.  My piano teacher is passing on to me what he'd learned from Ganz, who had passed onto him what he'd learned from the masters.  All I can do is to turn to those black and white keys and those black notes on white paper, practice my heart out, and try to make some good on this amazing legacy.

Performance Jitters

First two bars of Etudes Op. 25 No. 1, by Chopin

This week I attended my first piano performance workshop as a participant, at Crestmont Music Conservatory.  Although I'd been there once before just to observe and knew that this was an informal event in a supportive environment, I was still really nervous.  It had been more than a decade since I'd sat down to play for a group of other people.

The workshop is hosted by Mr. LaRatta, and his presence was comforting.  I was to play third, after a Haydn sonata, and Piazzola's Milonga del Angel for two pianos (arranged by Pablo Ziegler), which sounded just like the LP recording I'd heard years ago, of Piazzola himself on bandoneon.  It was hauntingly beautiful.  When it was my turn, I stood up and walked over to the black and slightly worn Yamaha concert grand.  I suddenly felt like I was in grade school, at my piano teacher Sheila's monthly Sunday "Play Days", in which we students would prepare to perform a piece for each other as practice and then munch on delicious cookies in her dining room in the late afternoon sun, as reward.  No cookies here!

"I will try to play -" I began, and was abruptly cut off by Mr. LaRatta.  "I *knew* you were going to say that!" he exclaimed, and I turned bright red.  Why did I even say that?  Wow, I was really nervous.  "Now," he continued, his hoarse voice surprisingly resonant even from the back of the hall, "you will play the piece, no questions asked!"  So I began again.

"I am going to play Etudes Opus 25, Number 1, by Chopin."

"That's better," came the rejoinder.  I was so embarrassed, but I could hardly think about that now; it was time to play!

I'd never played on this piano before, but it didn't matter.  I was going to play as well as I was going to play, and unless the piano was truly a mess it wasn't going to make a difference.  Chie, one of my fellow participants, graciously volunteered to turn pages for me and her presence on my left side was comforting.

As I played, I found myself with the familiar feeling of what I call the "parallel universe" that occurs during performance of any kind (speech, piano, dance, what have you), except that it was pretty thick this time.  It was no surprise since I knew I was nervous.  I was grateful, however, that whenever I overshot a top note that broke Chopin's beautiful melody, I made no outward acknowledgement of the mistake; I didn't even feel any facial muscles twitch.  It's key that performers show nothing if a mistake is made.  

It's fascinating to take stock of what errors I make when I'm nervous - they are almost always unexpected.  That's why these workshops are so valuable; I learn where I'm weak where I haven't realized it, and I can strengthen mentally.  Now that I know my left hand, for whatever reason, wanted to skip to the next measure a couple of times, which has never happened before, I can be extra conscious of this at the next workshop.  I intend to play the same piece at the workshop until I feel more secure about it.  Technically, my playing was far from perfect, but I felt that I had infused it with some emotional depth and was glad about that.

After I finished, Mr. LaRatta gave me some pointers and sounded quite satisfied about my progress.  He asked me to hold up my hands, and I did, palms toward the audience. "You have really small hands, dear, but you don't sound like you do!"  I couldn't help but beam.  To be able to play Chopin's sweeping, arpeggiated passages with the right sound is a wonderful thing.  (Just wait until I have to perform Ravel's Valses Nobles, No. 1 - huge chords, huge sound!)

Several other performers played after me, including professional pianist Daniel Glover - what a treat to hear this Juilliard grad play!  He played two Schubert Lieder: Die Junge Nonne (The Young Nun), which I hadn't heard before and is entirely too beautiful, and the famous Der Erlkonig, which is based off of a poem by Goethe.

Having grown up knowing Der Erlkonig and the poem depicting the terrifying tableau of a young boy whose life is taken by supernatural forces in the dead of night, I threw myself into Daniel's hands and went along for the ride.  The hushed, penultimate phrase that announce the father's realization that his boy is dead ("In seinen Armen das kind war tot"), right before the two fortissimo chords of finality, made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.  If you haven't heard Der Erlkonig before, I swear by the late baritone Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau's version.  This still makes me want to cry, after all these years.

(By the way, I love the way Mr. Fischer-Dieskau graciously takes the hands of the pianist afterwards as they bow to each other and then to the audience, with a quiet "Guten Abend".  Such style!)

Performance-wise, I admit it was a relief to see that even professionals miss their top notes, too, and forget their place (a phenomenon I like to call "the brain fart").  We are all works in progress, and even Juilliard-trained musicians have to contend with mistakes and practice.  Of course I knew that already, but it takes seeing and hearing to have it hit home.  I felt so honored to be playing with this great group of pianists, and can't wait to return to the next workshop.  Hopefully my left hand will cooperate this time!

Ducks on the Pond

Gotta love it!

I can hardly believe it's been barely two months since I began piano lessons again, and while I have a tendency to only see what I can do better, even I am cognizant of the progress I've made.  I feel stronger, literally.  Mr. LaRatta focuses on technique: his approach is to "know your keyboard" so that you have the ability to tackle anything that comes your way, rather than learn technique as it is encountered through certain pieces.  As someone who prefers a cover-your-bases, academic method of learning (think university textbook vs. Rosetta Stone for foreign language methods), I am thrilled!

As a result, I spend time every week on Hanon and scales, working my way around the Circle of Fifths.  Each week I wonder what I'll get since it's not just straight up Hanon.  I play each exercise as is, of course, but mainly in an alternate way that makes these admittedly dry little pieces so much more fun!  I've been playing them with varying dynamic ranges, switching rhythms, transpositions, etc.  My teacher, in his usual sardonic wit, said a few lessons ago, "I mean, I could teach a monkey how to play this like it's written ... but like this," and here he briefly played my assignment of switching hands over/under and transposed a half step up, "That's the difference!"  And, it doesn't have to be boring!

The scales, too, keep me busy: up and down, contrary, starting at the end, the middle, what have you.  "How often do you look at your hands when you're typing?" he'd ask.  The whole point is to know the keyboard so well that you can feel comfortable with anything, "and be smug about it!" We both laughed at this, but for me the laughter stemmed more from the wistful thought, "Oh, wouldn't that be nice someday."

To get to that glorious someday, I'm working on all those lovely scales this way and that, with my eyes closed.  Yep, I love that part.  And even though F# kicked my butt, within a week it felt so much more comfortable.  I'm beginning to feel the space between the black and white keys, to be able to anticipate the relationship from one key to the next and to make a subtle shift in my fingers to do the right thing.  It's really working!  

In other words, the way I perceive the piano, and my relationship with it, has already shifted.  It's only been a couple of months since I began again so I can hardly even begin to articulate what this is, but I can feel the enormity of it.  It's breathtaking and exciting.  It's going to have a hugely profound affect on my approach to the piano (indeed, it has already begun).

Although to be honest, the vast majority of the time as I practice I don't think about this; you'll find me repeating sections ad nauseam in various ways, muttering under my breath such inspired statements as "why is this so hard right now?" and more emphatically, "Argh!!!"

(I am also working on the first three Etudes from Op. 25 by Chopin, and Ravel's "Valses Nobles et Sentimentales".  More on these to come!)

In the end I know that whatever I do, I need to trust Mr. LaRatta, myself, and the piano.  It's the basics I need to constantly turn back to, the same way I start every dance class and rehearsal at the barre.  Hanon and scales are the plies and tendus of music.

At the end of my lesson yesterday, Mr. LaRatta turned his large, bespectacled eyes to me and proclaimed, "You're not bad for a beginner; next week I'll teach you "Ducks on the Pond"!"  It took me a second to realize that he meant this cute little piece meant for the budding piano student.  Ha!  But from what I know about my piano teacher so far, this was a real compliment and he meant that I was making progress.  I've got to love and embrace the basics, to get my little ducks in a row and eventually be able to cross any pond and fly to any destination. 

Mr. LaRatta

At Davies Symphony Hall, Christmastime 

On Christmas Eve, a bright, chilly Saturday, I found myself in front of a large, white mansion-like residence with a tower(!) in San Mateo.  I could hardly think of the family gathering I'd be at only a few hours later, with Christmas tree, presents, and copious amounts of delicious food; I was here to play for Thomas LaRatta, in the hopes that I might gain a piano teacher.  I was a few minutes past noon; the outing had begun inauspiciously as I encountered an accident on the highway.  As a result, I was even more anxious now that I was late.

Dr. Hartwell from the music department at Foothill College, who had graciously made my introduction that led to this opportunity, had told me that despite Mr. LaRatta's octogenarian status, to not underestimate his clarity of mind and aural sensitivity for music.  When I met Mr. LaRatta, I was at first struck by his raspy voice; it is mid-tenor yet husky.  When he takes a breath, it's almost as if he's searching for air from someplace deep within; it's like a prolonged gasp.  I would learn later from him that this was the result of a battle with lung cancer some decades ago due to chain smoking - I cannot tell you how glad I am that he survived!  But, I digress.

He led me to his studio, a standalone structure away from the house - I have a feeling it must be connected to the garage, but if so, it's remarkably soundproof - it felt like a warm cocoon of carpet, books, CDs, more books, and of course, two grand pianos crammed right up against one another like giant, boxy sardines (if there ever were such sardines).  Its clutter and Mr. LaRatta's warm demeanor made me feel oddly comfortable, despite my not knowing what to expect.  He has a penchant for using endearments such as "dear" and "babe", which he apologized for, explaining that it was an old habit.  It didn't bother me at all; I found it rather fitting.

He began by inviting me to sit in an armchair hopelessly mismatched with the one he sat in, across from me.  He asked me to tell him about myself, my musical background, my goals.  He prefaced that this was just to get to know me a little bit.  He was being cordial to break the ice; I knew that this was a "nice to know" - what really mattered was my playing.

Finally, he sat me down at the piano on the right; it was a black Yamaha salon grand that was well worn.  My first reaction was, "Oh, no ... me and Yamaha have never been a winning combination!" - I've never cared for most Yamaha pianos, due to a prevalence of glassy, extroverted shiny sound; I always worry that the tones will run away from beneath my fingers as I helplessly played on.  I like warm-centered pianos for those Romantic and Impressionist treasures.  (Can you imagine requesting a piano for a recital or concert by saying, "Medium rare, please!"?  Neither can I, but it would be a good laugh.)  But my goal is to be able to play on any piano and in any situation, well.  And at the moment, I had no choice.

Before I could think any further, I shifted on the piano bench and lurched violently; the seat was giving way!  "Don't worry, you won't fall," Mr. LaRatta rasped, explaining that it was just old.  It was one of those concert benches that adjust by rolling a knob on the side.  It gave me such a fright - this was not helping!  My heart was pounding.

"Listen, I need to step out for a moment, dear, just play around and get to know the piano a little bit," he told me, and I nodded, bewildered, as he made his way to the door and left.

Uh, okay.  (Only later did I realize what a clever ploy this was.)

Tentatively, I played a C major scale - totally safe and harmless - eight notes, two octaves.  Then it was the relative harmonic minor in A, during which I botched a G-sharp in descent.  An arpeggio.  I hesitated.

Then, I figured, why not?  Let's see what this piano sounds like.  I launched into Schumann's Valse Noble from Carnaval, the same piece I'd played on the Steinway that now graces my home, when it was still in the front of the Sherman Clay showroom in San Francisco.  I found the touch a bit unpredictable, but I tried my best to shape the tones - rich with grandeur in the opening, hushed and mignon in the middle.  As I came to the repeat, the door opened and Mr. LaRatta came in, his eyes sharp as he looked at me meaningfully, his palms pressing downward, "Shh," he said.  I quieted down, swelled, quieted again, lingered.  Then onto the grandiose waltz and finally into a hushed ending as he guided me from across the soundboard.

The remainder of the hour was Mr. LaRatta asking me what I've played, what I was working on, coaching me on my hands ("You have small hands, dear, can you really play those chords?" he asked, when I told him I was working on Ravel's Valses Nobles et Sentimentales - I played the opening chords for him.  "You really can!" he said, with satisfaction.), and dispensing interesting nuggets about music: "You have to play three composers: Bach for technique and voice leading, Brahms for depth, and Debussy or Ravel for coloring.  And that's it!  You've got it all, you can play anything!"

When he asked me why I hadn't brought a notebook for him to write assignments in, I was speechless; I couldn't say that he'd told me this wouldn't be a lesson; it was an audition, after all ... but as he chided me about my not coming with one, it dawned on me that he was in effect saying that he would teach me!

WOW!  "I would love to teach you.  In fact, I think it will be rather fun to teach you," he told me.  He told me I was well trained and that I played quite well.

Did I say, "WOW!"?  My first official lesson was scheduled for January 7th, shortly after the New Year, and before I left, he said, "Now you take good care of those hands, you hear?"  I figured it wouldn't be a good idea to tell him that I practice tumbling ... but I don't think I do anything dangerous.

I was dancing on air, exhilarated and almost incredulous.  I had myself a piano teacher!  And not just any piano teacher, it was Mr. LaRatta!  I couldn't wait to tell Dr. Hartwell and Sheila Raleigh, my first piano teacher.  Ironically, I still haven't told my parents, because they will probably tell me I should focus on important things.  Sigh.  They love music, but it's not something to be serious about.  I will break the news to them when I have made more progress.

After all this, my stomach made Chewbacca-like noises to inform me that I was incredibly hungry.  It was on to Jeffrey's in San Mateo, where I proceeded to wolf down a burger and onion rings.  It was the best meal ever.  After all that initial doubt, I'd received some validation from a well respected piano teacher that I was a competent player!  I still have constant self-doubt to deal with, but I have to take things one step at a time.  For the moment I could revel: I'd received the best Christmas gift; a new start with a piano teacher!

Back to the Future

My Certificate of Merit evaluation marks from 10th grade!

Now that I had my dream piano there was no doubt I had to practice.  It started out as the thought, "Okay, I'd better be worthy of my Steinway M!  Better start working!"  Once I began, however, it was evident that I wasn't going to stop at just "getting my chops back".  I wanted to draw all kinds of melodies out of this amazing instrument, all the pieces I'd played before and more.  Much more.  I wanted to be able to play well pieces I'd never even touched before (and are beyond my abilities currently, unless you count what I call "train wrecks") notably Ravel's Alborada del Gracioso.

I started with scales and arpeggios.  Around the circle of fifths I'd go, and at first I was absolutely appalled by the fact that I'd managed to forget how to play the flat keys.  Muscle memory supported me most of the way, until I fell apart, of course.  I turned to Hanon to work some dexterity and strength back into my fingers.  I'd never been proud of my technical ability on the piano - my strength was passion, not clean technique - and now it was humbling to know just how far I'd fallen behind.  But hey, I had to start somewhere!  I was so happy just to be playing, and those scales were rendered heavenly to my ears by my wonderful piano.

When I visited my parents a couple of months ago, I dug through a pile of sheet music from years past and found my Certificate of Merit evaluation grades and comments.  I'd completed the advanced levels of this music study program and even earned a Senior Medal granted by the Panel before I went off to university.  Thinking back, I don't really remember much about how I managed to study the music theory required to pass these exams, much less prepare the 4-5 pieces for the evaluation each time.  I read the comments, fascinated by how insightful they were.

For my rendition of Gershwin's Prelude No. 2, that deliciously slow, lazy one, one panelist pointed out that I was (incorrectly) accenting the second beat in walking bass line and I immediately recalled how I'd struggled with that.  Pow!  I was taken back to high school and my afternoons practicing this piece.  It felt amazing, humbling, exciting.  It was like a window into my past and yet still present, yet somehow secret, self.

But then I saw all my good marks and letters of invitation to play in various festivals and recitals: Schumann, Schubert, Bach, Panel Advanced Students, etc. and thought, "Well, I must not have been too bad a player" - it felt nice.  And it made me hopeful.

And there was the music theory.  If I wanted to have a solid background in the study of music, I needed to know at least as much as I'd learned before, and much more for any postgraduate study.  I would wake up super early, needing to figure out a plan, and I'd research for hours online while the sky was barely light.  I finally decided on taking a couple of online courses from Foothill College, one in music history and one in music theory.

Online classes are a godsend to folks like me, who are juggling a full time job along with everything else in life.  I embarked on this path after requesting to meet with the chair of the music department, Dr. Hartwell, who welcomed me warmly and was very supportive of my goals.  He asked me if I was planning to take piano lessons again, and recommended a certain Thomas LaRatta.  If I was interested, I was to tell him so that he could make an introduction for me.  One doesn't just call Mr. LaRatta!  I took note, but thought, "He sounds like a master teacher; he probably wouldn't accept me as a student!"

I got in touch with the one piano teacher I'd studied with as I grew up and visited her one afternoon with my sister, who was also her student.  Sheila Raleigh's little house at the end of the quaint country lane looked exactly the same as I'd remembered - even the lamp was in the same place.  I wasn't sure that I wasn't 13 again, approaching her house and anxious because I felt ill prepared for my lesson.  But no, this was years later, and we had a lovely time reminiscing and catching up.  I'd told her I wanted to study again, but she'd already retired and had prepared for me a small list of teachers who might accept adult students.

When I mentioned Mr. LaRatta, her eyes widened.  "Good heavens, is he still teaching?" she asked with incredulity (apparently he is getting on in years).  But she went on, eyes still wide to exclaim that if he was willing to teach me then "by all means, yes! ... Call him first!"  Okay, I told myself, I have to give it a shot now!

I asked Dr. Hartwell for an introduction to Mr. LaRatta, and before I knew it, I had an audition on Christmas Eve.  I started to practice my scales with a quality that carried a tinge of desperation (time was running out!) and chose 4 pieces to present: Bach, Schumann, Brahms, Ravel.  I knew I was missing a Classical period composer, but I didn't have time to prepare something else.  I needed to show what I could do, now, and could only work hard and hope for the best (and expect the worst).  This was the beginning of my new beginning, and I was excited, scared, elated.  I was really going to do this, and that's what counted. 

Dreams Do Come True!

My lifelong dream of having the perfect grand piano in my home has been fulfilled!  After having traveled extensively for work the last few years, I couldn't help but begin planning my life anew while I was still in Beijing last summer.  Now that I would no longer be living out of a suitcase, I knew the piano would be part of my grand plan.  I had no idea just how committed I would become, but boy was I excited about the prospect of piano shopping!

In the beginning, the goal was to replace the old workhorse, a Hamilton full upright from 1920 bought off of a Craigslist ad. (Incidentally, it cost more to move than to purchase.)  I'd be sad to see it go since it'd been part of my home, but I certainly wouldn't miss the dead lower register - the result of completely worn felts - and the fact that the piano had to be tuned two tones lower than A440 lest the strings snap out entirely.  But, after I started trying out pianos, it was clear that I'd be making an upgrade of a lifetime.

The search took about two months, with multiple visits to four (or was it more?) dealerships.  The search began at Colton Piano, which was much smaller than I'd remembered it as a little kid when it was still a superstore, and a Chinese salesman railed at my poor sister that her hands were mushy at the keyboard, "... like tofu!  Tofu!!!"  After the economic downturn, the owner decided to focus on dealing in Schimmel pianos.  They were black, shiny concert grands, lovely to look at, but the sound was too 'glassy' for me, like the vast majority of the pianos I tried during my search.  Let me explain a little what I mean by that.

I am a Romantic and Impressionist era junkie, and particularly enjoy playing Brahms, Chopin, and Ravel.  I prefer a very 'lyrical' center.  In general, I love a piano that doesn't show its character right away - you have to coax it into working with you until it sings just the way you want it to, rather than it 'running away' beneath your hands.

Searching for your very own piano is a highly personal and subjective process.  It's not just an investment: it's a window into your hopes and dreams.  The goal was to find an addition to my household and my family.  This was not going to be a 'Sunday driver', as Bosko, the attentive salesman at Carnes Piano, called expensive grands bought by respectable families to garnish their living rooms, only to languish away and never be played.  This, it seems, is a fate worse than death for a piano: to be relegated to the category of 'very expensive furniture'.

I was briefly infatuated with a 1985 C. Bechstein, a sturdy salon grand with a sound and touch that much more wonderful than anything I'd tried up to that point.  It became clear that I wasn't merely going to replace the 1920 Hamilton; I was going for my dream.  I couldn't sleep the night I realized this, thinking, "Good heavens!  How are the finances going to work out?  What is a feasible budget?"  I knew already that there was no going back, though, and secretly, I was glad.  Really glad.

One day we went up to San Francisco to visit the Museum of Modern Art.  But hey!  Wasn't there a Sherman Clay store right by the museum?  Maybe we could just pop in and check it out ...

We never made it to the MOMA that day (still haven't, actually).  As we walked in and took in the vaulted ceilings and lush interior of the showroom, I thought, "Oh, crap.  I'm totally out of my league."  I imagined every piano in there had to be far beyond my (recently raised) piano budget.  The lady sitting at the front paid us no heed.  Finally, the store manager, Vince, greeted us and I told him what I was looking for.  He was friendly but non-committal, and invited us to look around.  I was too scared to play any of the lovely Steinways gracing the room, for fear of falling in love with one of them and not being able to afford it.

Finally, I couldn't resist.  I played Valse Noble from Schumann's Carnival, and Vince came back to show us past a set of glass French doors - apparently he thought me a worthy candidate to talk to!  Inside this room were more Steinways grands, the crowning glory being a Model D on a raised platform.  Vince explained that the concert pianists who come into town to play recitals or with the San Francisco Symphony all choose their pianos here.  "Oh crap," I thought to myself at that point, "I'm *really* out of my league."

I couldn't help but ask about some of the artists who had passed through.  "Lang Lang?" Vince said, "yeah, he's smooth.  Really smooth," and when asked about Yundi Li, Vince chuckled that he was "kind of a nervous wreck."  Ha!

But before he could get too far I rather apologetically told him my budget range.  To my utter surprise, he responded that yes, there were grands in that range, and they were also having a sale.  "Oh, really?" I replied, raising my eyebrows.  Inside, I was jumping up and down, waving my arms wildly.

A few hours later, two pianos were on my mind: a 1934 Model L (5'10"), and a 1976 Model M (5'7").  The former had a bigger sound, but the latter was just so ... precious, in every way.  It was the piano at the front of the showroom, the one I'd first played the Schumann on that afternoon.

I could hardly think the rest of the evening.  I had the feeling that this was it, but that I would sleep on it.  As it turned out, I woke up in the middle of the night, thinking, "Oh my god, the piano!" and I knew.

The following Tuesday, the deal was sealed.  Vince stayed late at the store to accommodate our work schedules and traffic.  He seemed genuinely pleased that the piano was going to a family that would cherish it and play it often.  He threw in the DVD "Note By Note" about the making of a Steinway concert grand, a coffee table book on Steinway and its history, and even offered to trade in the Hamilton for more than we'd originally paid for it!  I was in seventh heaven.

It's been a few months after Steinway joined our family, and I still marvel at the sheer delight of sound and touch of this most amazing instrument.  This isn't just about Steinway worship, mind you; I've met Steinways I didn't like at all.  But this one is perfect, for me.  Even playing scales has me in raptures, and when I see "Steinway & Sons" above my hands as I play, I can't believe that I'm living my dream.  

On a Journey, At Once Familiar Yet New

It hit me like a ton of bricks one day, but in a good way: I knew, with a conviction I hadn't experienced in a very long time or perhaps at all, that I needed to play the piano again.  Not just to work back up to where I'd reached before I stopped practicing, but to go far, far beyond what I'd previously achieved.  I needed to prioritize music to its rightful place of prominence in my life.

Why?  There are many reasons that come with a sudden onslaught of passion, but when distilled with a cooler head I can pinpoint the following:

• I want to be able to play the music I love, in a way that satisfies me.
• I want to be able to share my personal joy of music with others.
• I want to research and learn all about the composers I so admire, and even the ones I don't (yet, anyway), and write about them and their music intelligently. 
• This feels like the most natural and right thing for me to do.

I can't really explain the last bullet point, but I'm okay with that.  Some things don't require explanation.

I'm fully aware that this is not going to be an easy path, and I haven't yet answered all my own questions: What exactly is it that I want to do if I commit myself to music and the piano?  What if I'm not good enough?  (Good enough for what?)  

The main point is, however, that this is a journey, and I'll never know what possibilities I may encounter or whether I'm good enough for whatever it is that I'm supposed to be good enough for, if I don't try.  Even if I don't end up doing a master's program or obtain some kind of official validation, what counts is that the journey, and the music, will be all mine.  It won't have been done for anyone else, or for anyone else's idea of what I should do with my life.   

In this blog I intend to chronicle the ups and downs, trials and tribulations, excitement and frustrations, what have you, of my journey with the piano, and with music.  

A choreographer once said when asked for what advice he'd give to aspiring dancers: "Commit to what you want to do, and stick with it," because there will be people who tell you you're doing the wrong thing, or that you can't do it.  

I am committing, however scary it is, because in doing so, I am now happier than I've ever been.