Reunion with "Manny" at the SF Symphony

With Emanuel Ax after the performance at Davies Symphony Hall

After having met a very genial Emanuel Ax a year ago backstage at Davies Symphony Hall, I was excited to have the chance to see and to hear him play again. One reason for the anticipation was that the last time I’d seen Mr. Ax, he'd performed Morton Feldman’s Piano and Orchestra and had “very few notes” to play. He’d told me to come back when he was playing something “a little more substantial” for the piano. A couple of weeks ago I had the pleasure of hearing him play Beethoven’s Concerto No. 3 in C minor for Piano and Orchestra, Op. 37.

San Francisco Symphony Director Michael Tilson Thomas took the podium and began the evening with Gustav Mahler’s Blumine, which along with the introduction of Wagner’s Prelude to Act I of Lohengrin seems to be a favored program opener for the past couple of years. I believe this was the third time I’d heard it played by the SFS. I was struck by the ethereal beginning with solo trumpet; one felt as if floating atop the clouds of the Alps. Mahler deftly weaved melodies amongst various instrumental groups, leading to a climax not unlike that of the Adagietto from his Symphony No. 5 albeit without the ensuing glissando. The piece ended with an ardent and resigned sigh, a sigh that spoke to the joys of relegating oneself to the sweet vagaries of romantic love.

Emanuel Ax sat himself on a regular chair rather than a piano bench, and was very engaged with the orchestra throughout Beethoven’s Concerto No. 3 in C minor. I enjoyed his down-to-earth demeanor and the way he cocked his head in tiny, bird-like movements, cheeks quivering to the music. When the piano entered, solo, the clarity of Mr. Ax’s playing was a breath of fresh air despite the forthright, almost terse quality of the music. The comparison may be imprecise, but I was reminded of a crystalline, austere and highly structured German Riesling wine: steely, unadorned, and blindingly beautiful in its clarity and purity.

Beethoven kept his pianist busy in the first movement (Allegro con brio): arpeggios, runs, long trills, and very satisfying cadences when granted. Mr. Ax played the upper register triplets in the right hand with joy and aplomb. Towards the end of the movement we were treated to a furious cadenza that almost became a fugue but dissolved into silky, arpeggiated passages.

The second movement, Largo, opened with the piano alone. The mood was contemplative and hushed, having left behind the overt, sparkling tone of the first movement. Mr. Ax’s touch here made the piano sound warmly muted, and I felt as if I had gone inside myself for a heartfelt introspection. I noticed that Mr. Ax sometimes flapped any fingers not being used in a two-beat flutter, and lifted his hands in a little flourish when alternating them in arpeggiated passages. Otherwise, he never showed any distracting or flamboyant movements. All other physical gestures seemed to be in direct service to creating the sound quality he desired.

Rondo: Allegro began without pause after a surprisingly vehement finish for such a lovely, dreamy Largo. Beethoven seemed to have no qualms about returning to the furious, busy quality he is well known for. Harmonically I was a bit thrown off, since the piano solo starting the final movement sounded like it was in E minor - the Largo was in E Major - but only later did I realize Beethoven had set it all up to return to the "home key" of C minor. This moment of realization was delightful, but I couldn’t help feeling Beethoven had been toying with us all along.

Beethoven makes use of counterpoint in this final movement, with the strings coming in with a fugal section and what seemed like a two-part invention in a short, bubbly piano solo. Finally, we were granted the satisfaction of an emphatic V7 -> I (Dominant to Tonic) as a joyful coda in C major brought the concerto to a close.

The audience would not let Mr. Ax leave the stage, and after three curtain calls he granted us with a beautiful encore. I am ashamed that I do not remember what he played - I'm now thinking it was Johannes Brahms' Intermezzo. Allegretto Grazioso, from Klavierstücke Op. 76, but I'm not sure. [Update: It was "Des Abends" from Fantasiestücke Op. 12 by Brahms' mentor Schumann. Of course I realized this shortly after posting!] Mr. Ax enveloped us in a dreamscape in which time was suspended and we floated on silver clouds.

After the concert I was pleased that Mr. Ax remembered me upon meeting again, and he expressed happiness that I had finally heard him play “just a little more” than at the Feldman concert. The man has a wonderful sense of humor.

Of course I asked "Manny" to sign my program!

The entire second half of the program was Michael Tilson Thomas’ tribute to the style of concert program championed by Jascha Heifetz to bring attention to the “encore piece.” Mr. Tilson Thomas emphasized that the point of such programs was to create the perfect set of pieces to capture exactly the right mood. He referred to this kind of programming as a “bygone world of music-making” and urged us to hear the music “as one piece; don’t feel obliged to clap in between. Just enjoy the silence between them - you’ll know when we’ve reached the end.”

We were indeed treated to a palette of beautiful colors and moods:

• Copland: Music from the film Our Town
• Debussy: La Plus que lente
• Delius: On Hearing the First Cuckoo in Spring
• Sibelius: Valse triste
• Rachmaninoff: Vocalise, Op. 34, no. 14
• Delibes: Cortege de Bacchus, from Sylvia

Mr. Tilson Thomas was right; everyone knew when the program was over. Delibes’ piece shook us out of our melancholy reverie with trumpets! Percussion! The works! Everything screamed “finale” and the Cortege brought a wonderfully satisfying orchestral sound, full of triumph.

The entire second half was, for me, a nostalgic trip back to the jewel-box musical gems of my youth. Pieces I’d loved as a child but never heard again for years were brought back to me on a warm summer wind. It was magical. Even after I had returned home, I felt a light sheen of fairy dust on my shoulders.

Burn, Baby, Burn! The Piano Workout

Which one burns more calories - dancing this waltz or playing it on the piano?

After playing the opening waltz of Ravel’s Valses nobles et sentimentales - a furiously exuberant whirlwind of a piece - I am heaving and sweating like a racehorse after a full sprint. This happens every time I play it, regardless of the weather or my physical state.

This led me to wonder, how many calories am I burning, after having played this 2 minute waltz? What about after the entire cycle of waltzes, which is about 18 minutes long?

I don’t sweat after some pieces, but with others, the physical labor required is undeniable. (Brahms’ Rhapsody No. 2, Op. 79, comes to mind.)

It’s not that I’m mindlessly pounding away at the keyboard, but a good deal of full-body effort is applied in the goal of drawing out the color and depth of the music. I can feel my abs engaging at the buildup to a climax, or in the control required in a sudden quietness. (I wonder if Suzanne Somers ever experienced that!)

After a quick search, I found that people have indeed tried to determine how many calories one burns with any sort of physical activity, including the piano. NutriStrategy has quite a list - it even distinguishes “Farming - feeding horses and cattle” from “Farming - feeding small animals.”

According to this list, playing the piano is wimpier than playing the trombone, but it trumps playing the cello on the calorie-burning scale. Upon seeing this, I couldn’t avoid the feeling that this was total absurdity. The exercise you get depends on your physiology, what you’re playing, for how long, and various other factors I’m sure.

I’m not suggesting that we consider playing the piano as a holistic form of exercise. There’s no substitute for getting out there and doing good cardio like jogging, dance, or other traditional ways of working up a good sweat.

And obviously, playing the piano is not about exercise, but wondering about the energy I’m expending in bringing certain music to life was worth the moment of curiosity! Not because I realized that I don't care how many calories I burn: Every time I play that Ravel waltz and feel my heart racing and my body warm, it is pure bliss on every level - musically and physically. And that’s what counts. 

Patience, Grasshopper!

That frustrated person is me, talking to me ... 

Did I mention that I finally applied to, was accepted, and began work towards an MFA? I’m so happy, although it’s been challenging given my workload with a full time job and practicing. However, I am proud that I’ve pledged further commitment to music and the piano.

I’ll be perfectly honest: This path is not easy for me. I began learning four new pieces this year, and it has proven a significant test of resilience and prioritization. It’s not as if I’m learning four concertos, but these pieces aren’t exactly small. I’m learning a French Suite by J.S. Bach comprised of seven dances, a Beethoven sonata, a Brahms Rhapsodie, and a mercifully more compact Liszt waltz. There are of course the technical drills as well, and the upkeep up the complete set of Ravel Valses nobles et sentimentales.

It’s valuable practice to play regularly in front of others to get used to the act of performance. With these pieces, it has taken me much longer to have mustered the courage to bring anything to the wonderful performance workshops offered to me and my fellow pianists. Despite knowing that the workshops are a safe environment for students and professionals alike to try out their pieces, 80% of the time I still think, “Ouch, I’m out of my league!”

Feeling unworthy, last semester I attended several workshops to learn from others but didn’t play anything myself. I not only felt guilty about that, I struggled with an overall sense of slowness. I felt weighed down by the nagging feeling that I wasn’t making enough progress.

Case in point: I’d originally hoped to present at least one entire work by the end of the spring semester. Instead, I slogged laboriously through my pieces at home and felt like I was getting nowhere. Still so many mistakes, still so slow! my inner voice harangued. 

In my more delirious moments, I’d sometimes picture a sturdy woman wearing a bandana and apron over her skirts, her beefy arm held aloft as she shook a flour-encrusted rolling pin and shrieked in a vaguely German accent, “You want to plays Brahms?! You must do better! Get to work!!” Ja, gnädige Frau! (Yes, ma’am!)

In other words, I felt inept as a pianist. It took me awhile to realize that it was pointless to focus on the concept of making progress - why not just concentrate on learning all the notes down pat so I could get to the exhilarating part - figuring out how to make music?

On some days when I wasn’t too tired after a full day’s work and (frustrated) practicing, I would play through several pieces that I’d already learned - Chopin, Ravel - and simply let go to feel the music. In the end, exhausted but happier, I would feel that maybe - just maybe - I was a halfway decent piano student!

I’m actually glad it turned out to be tough. My journey back to the study of piano and music is about learning and growth, and I now see how fortuitous it was that I began learning several new pieces at once. It has been a test of my patience, fortitude, and concentration.

I count having muddled through the first movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata Op. 26, No. 12 at the workshop a milestone of sorts. And recently, I played the first three dances from Bach’s French Suite No. 5. Even though my fingers went pell-mell during the Courante, it was a psychological victory, a victory towards the project I like to call “Get Over Yourself!” 

I felt myself glow a little when my piano teacher told me I have the “right feeling” for each of the dances.

Every experience means more learning and accumulated growth over time. The challenges of the last semester have given me new perspective. It is a humbling and welcome journey. I feel I can forgive myself more.

And hey! If playing classical music on the piano were that easy, all this wouldn't be so much fun, now would it?

Happy Birthday, Johannes Brahms!

"I shall never write a symphony! You can't have an idea what it's like to hear such a giant marching behind you."

Johannes Brahms was born on May 7th, 1833 in Hamburg, Germany. In celebration of the 180th anniversary of the birth of one of my favorite composers, I thought I'd share a review I'd written last year about a performance of his First Symphony by the San Francisco Symphony, originally posted on the Symphony's now defunct social site. Brahms' first symphony was long in coming. It took more than a decade to complete (1862 - 1876), and the composer was haunted by the inevitable comparison to the late behemoth of the symphony, Beethoven. He was at once expected to carry on Beethoven's legacy and yet to forge new paths. In this remarkable work, he accomplished both. As New York Philharmonic Program Annotator James M. Keller wrote, "...Brahms has digested and, to a certain extent, purified Beethoven's visionary achievement in the realm of the symphony. In so doing, he earned his own stripes as a symphonist, and with them the right to move forward as Beethoven's truest heir."

The haunting, inexorable dirge of the timpani opens the First Symphony.

Symphony Night Thoughts: Soaring with Brahms

On Friday, September 16th I could hardly contain my excitement. I admire Yo-Yo Ma, who was on the program that night to play Hindemith's Cello Concerto, but what I was truly looking forward to was Brahms' Symphony No. 1 in C major, Opus 68. While I eagerly anticipated hearing how MTT (Michael Tilson Thomas, the San Francisco Symphony's respected leader) would guide the music, I felt no little anxiety: What if I didn't like what I would hear? I grew up absolutely in awe of Herbert von Karajan's recordings of Brahms' Symphonies, and you know how it goes; the first version you hear is usually the one you like best.  

Although the Symphony in its entirety is wonderful, my favorite movements are the first and the second. The plaintive, slow scream of the strings in the first movement ascends ever higher as the timpani almost goads them on in an inexorable march towards the inevitable. It's enthralling. When listening at home, I would wait until I was alone and turn up the volume until the whole house was filled with Brahms. For me, hearing the first movement is at once a guilty indulgence and an atonement. I don't know of what other music has this effect on me. (Wagner may come close, but the effect is wholly different and I hesitate to use the term 'atonement' in his case.)

Speaking of Wagner, this brings me to the second movement. I am usually reminded of Wagner in certain sections, but where Wagner would have continued the surge of emotion and brought it to the forefront quite overtly, Brahms pulls back just when you think your heart will burst its dam and flow over. This, to me, embodies so much of what I've learned about Brahms as a human being - tender and passionate, yet fastidious and careful. (I fully admit to not being a Brahms scholar; I've only read Jan Swafford's biography of the composer, and Avins and Eisinger's anthology of his letters.) The second movement is replete with the banked fire that I so love about Brahms' music; the way he reins himself back to a self-conscious gravity just when the lush melody swells so ardently seems perfectly fitting. The sensation is overwhelmingly bittersweet, noble, and beautiful.

I admit I found the opening of the Symphony a bit rushed; I revel in the slow, tortuous ascent of the beseeching violins underscored by the dirge-like beat of the timpani. But for this, I was in raptures. This was the first time I'd experienced Brahms' Symphony live; the effect was electrifying. I felt my spirit soar and my heart pound with the beautiful phrasings MTT drew from the musicians. By the Symphony's triumphant end, I was on my feet and just a little disappointed that the evening of music had drawn to a close. But in my head and in my heart, the music played on. 

Auditory Adventures in Triptych: San Francisco Symphony Redux

Finally, my first San Francisco Symphony performance this season! 

After the recently ended musicians’ strike at the San Francisco Symphony, I was eager to attend my first performance of the season on April 13, 2013. I admit to having been curious: In the aftermath of a bitter struggle would there be any discernible shifts, attitudinally and musically? The evening’s performance, conducted by Herbert Blomstedt, got off to a shaky start with Richard Wagner’s Prelude and Liebestod to Tristan und Isolde, grew in confidence with Ingvar Lidholm’s stunner Poesis, and finally came into an assured voice by the evening’s closer of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 3 in E-flat major, Eroica. 

I am a fan of the Tristan chord, and awaited it with much anticipation. Unfortunately, for the first several minutes of the piece I was far too distracted by the repeatedly uneven entrances of the wind musicians that I couldn’t help feeling somewhat robbed. I wondered if they were under rehearsed, unable to concentrate for whatever reason, or - heaven forbid - they didn’t care. Thankfully, as the melody and instrumentation picked up in intensity and the full orchestra rose higher and higher together for the first climax, it was the music itself that spoke prominently. After this, I let the the ebb and swell of Wagner’s exquisite music-drama take me where it willed. The destination was, in the end, transcendent and fulfilling.

If it weren’t for Herbert Blomstedt’s guileless and humorously detailed overview of Swedish composer Lidholm’s 1963 work Poesis as the orchestra assembled, I’m not certain I would have enjoyed the piece as much as I did. Although there are no traditional melodies or rhythms, there was a kind of pleasingly controlled chaos within a clearly premeditated structure. The resulting sound was wild at the fringes and yet very contained. I found myself liking the piece better than any of the works I’d heard at the Symphony’s American Mavericks series, featuring compositions from the likes of John Adams, Morton Feldman, Edgard Varèse, and others.

Innovative uses of instruments were delightful, including a timpani solo played as if on timbales in a Cuban jazz ensemble. Other applications were, although compelling, cringe-worthy: I wondered on what criteria the poor Steinway concert grand had been chosen for the slaughter as San Francisco Conservatory trained Keisuke Nakagoshi slammed his arms with the force of his entire body repeatedly over the keyboard.

The coup de grâce of the piece began with a sustained B-flat, initiated by a solo bassist. It was joined by the lead trumpet, then by his colleagues, followed by the trombones and horns, and slowly by all the other sections. The sound of one note unfolded and trickled outward into the extremities of the orchestra. As my ear took in each timbre, combined with the acoustic location of the sound’s origin and the effect of gradual layering, the effect was understatedly stunning. This tableau was rudely shattered by a very abrupt and forceful tumble to an unmistakable end. I was left slack-jawed and strangely delighted.

After having had the intermission to mull over my Lidholm adventure - including the one section where trombones and trumpets almost quoted Stravinsky’s opening to Agon - I and my fellow concert-goers were firmly returned to that juggernaut of classical music: Beethoven. And this was not just any Beethoven; this was the Symphony No. 3 in E-flat major, Opus 55, Eroica. 

It was clear from the opening that the San Francisco Symphony was in full form once again. My fears about the musicians’ cohesiveness from the uneven Tristan experience almost vanished, but not entirely: I noticed that all the woodwind musicians who had played Tristan had been swapped out with another crew for the Beethoven. This ‘changing of the guard’ is obviously par for the course in any evening, but I took special notice this time. The current collective was musically spot on.

Many will disagree with me, but my gut feeling has always been that this symphony’s final movement could easily have been that of the 3rd, Scherzo: Allegro vivace. It feels a fitting bookend to the turmoil and pathos of the first two movements, an unequivocal psychological and emotional resolution to all that has led up to it. Instead, it feels as if we are taken onto a somewhat desultory journey in the final movement, Finale: Allegro molto.

Musically, the 4th movement is far from uninteresting; the main theme undergoes twelve variations, some charming and some serious, with my favorite being the imposing and beautiful fugue. Of the music itself I have no quibble; it is the placement or presence of the movement in this particular symphony that I don’t yet quite understand. To me, it just does not possess the same kind of cohesive gravitas of the preceding movements to wholly belong.

I will no doubt seek to listen to this thought-provoking symphony again in different incarnations and see what insights or epiphanies might occur to me someday. And even if its secrets remain forever elusive, I will always delight in the unfolding of this watershed symphony, the one after which symphonists could never turn back.

The evening’s performance made it clear that the San Francisco Symphony has returned, albeit still rough on the edges. The final chord had barely dissipated when the audience roundly sounded its approval. Although one couldn’t be sure whether this was earned wholly by the Symphony’s musical capabilities or had originated from ticket holders’ collective relief that the organization hadn’t fallen apart, the sense of potential was palpable. Let us hope that with management and musicians reconciled, an even stronger musicality will reign supreme in a city that so richly deserves it.