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!