Archive for October, 2006
October 29th, 2006 by David H. Thomas
Today I performed at a church where the music minister regularly hires a full orchestra to feature the mystical and healing power of music in the service. The entire service featured the music of Mozart, a glorious collection of Wolfie’s best and most sublime, including the Andante from the flute concerto K315, Kyrie from the Coronation Mass K317, two movements from Vesperae solennes di confessore K339, and the famous Adagio from the Clarinet Concerto K622.
Written near the end of his life, Mozart achieved a perfect balance between profound meaning and simple expression in his clarinet concerto. The adagio begins with a simple, arching melody which rises higher with each two bar statement. A second arching line overlaps between solo and orchestra, with tension and resolution soaring over a satisfying peak. Then the “B” section changes moods, allowing the solo clarinet a free and wandering fantasy, a conversation with itself, which builds slowly to a fervent musical climax. Here the orchestra drops out and the clarinet is left alone to float down from the rich tension, back to the simple “A” part from the beginning. The movement ends with a long coda of new, rambling material, which settles, like a feather, gently down to a relaxed repose.
Before I played, this poem The Song and Prayer of Birds by Thomas H. Troeger (b 1945) was read by the minister:
The song and prayer of birds
is melody alone,
Their hymns employ no words.
Their praise is purely tone.
Their song is prayer enough.
Love hears what sound conveys,
and love does not rebuff
a creature’s wordless praise.
And so we trust that prayer
does not depend on words
to reach the source of care
who understands the birds.
After hearing this poem, I was inspired to play the pure meaning of the music, without thinking or second-guessing or analyzing. I just felt the phrases as they came and went, abstract shaped of sound and song. I was able to sing through my instrument as if it wasn’t there.
October 25th, 2006 by David H. Thomas
The other night we had a pops concert, a tribute to Arthur Fiedler. The program style reflected his unique balance of light music with one substantial classical piece. We played about a half hour of “medium” light classical, some Wagner overtures and a Puccini Arias arrangement for orchestra. After an intermission, we played the entire Tchaikovsky violin concert, a hefty chunk of music for a pops audience. Then came another intermission. Yes, two intermissions. At the Boston Pops, much of the audience is set up at tables, so they can eat and drink during the concert. Then two intermissions make sense. Anyway, onward.
The third half was all schlock. “Fiddle Faddle”, a tough little bugger, especially at the caffeinated tempos our conductor likes. Then a piece for typewriter and orchestra, very cute. Our principal percussionist dressed as a sleazy secretary, with a blue beehive wig and a cigarette hanging out of his/her mouth. The typewriter was the real thing, a heavy, old battle ax. The part was mostly the ticking of the keys, inter-spaced with the ripping of the carriage and the infamous little bell to warn you to return the carriage. Fun.
Anyway, one of the traditions of Fiedler was to spontaneously insert an encore in the middle of the third half. Our conductor warned us. On Saturday night he decided to do it. The piece was “Stars and Stripes”. My music had gotten shuffled into the mix of everything in my folder, and I couldn’t find it. He started the piece, as I frantically looked for the part. Bum, bum-t-um tum, tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-TUM! The music started. I’ve played it many, many times, but in different keys, and with different repeats, etc. It’s not an easy piece, and I don’t have it memorized. So I kept looking. It wasn’t there. I thought someone had played a joke on me, but our orchestra doesn’t play jokes, they just get even. I started at the beginning of the folder and turned each piece over. I’m right in the middle of the orchestra, dead center, in sight of all. There I am calmly (now I know all are looking at me, so calm is the key) paging through my music…The piece is not that long, so it’s about a third over…and finally, there it is, hiding between Fiddle Faddle and Buglers Holiday. I knew it, it was a conspiracy between the string and the brass! Anyway, I dove in and played the rest.
After the concert, as I walked out of the hall, the conductor happened to see me, and laughed as he said, “Dave, I had so much fun watching you frantically looking for your music during the march. Thanks for breaking the monotony and making me laugh!”
I smiled. At least someone enjoyed it.
October 23rd, 2006 by David H. Thomas
A musician sits practicing alone in his room, as he has done most of his life. He is a beloved performer, respected and revered by many. He is concentrated and fearless in his focus. Time passes effortlessly here. Time stops.
The light in his room dims. He looks up from the piece he is playing, the solo part from the slow movement of Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto. Above his music stand, there hovers a soft violet glow. He hears a chorus murmuring.
(voices of listeners from all time):You play the music in our hearts. You play things we feel. You are deep and wise.
(performer): No, I play what I am told to play. I play what I know you will feel. But I do not feel what you do. I am not wise.
This saddens us. You are not what you seem. Tell us why.
I think and feel as you do, but I am empty. I fill myself with things which give the impression I am full. I show you yourself.
But how can you show us so much knowing so little?
I feel my pain with doubt. I question everything. I challenge reality. But the structure of the music gives me strength. It quells my doubt.
But you do not feel what we feel, if you doubt your pain and question everything.
I feel what you feel in my own way. When I lay my head on the breast of my mother and weep from joy and gratitude at the gift of life she gave me, I feel what you feel when I play the music. But I do not feel the music as you do.
What do you feel when you play?
I see patterns of structure, puzzles laid out by the composer, shapes and form, lines and colors. I see how I must fit into that puzzle. I have many choices, but only a few good ones. I struggle to play effortlessly. I am a machine, a thinking machine, adjusting constantly to fit into the puzzle and become nothing but the composers dream.
But what do you feel?
I do not feel. I calculate, I listen, I sense. But I am not there to feel. If I feel, then I am lost.
Then why do we feel what you do not?
You feel what I do not because I do not allow myself to feel it. I give up my feeling so you may have it.
(the voices recede. the violet light fades above his stand. he is alone. he continues his practice, shaping the perfect phrases of Mozart’s perfect music. he is content.)
Inspired by the poem-
The Man with the Blue Guitar
by Wallace Stevens
October 21st, 2006 by David H. Thomas
When performing music, I have to balance a “subjective” interpretation from an “objective” one. This means I need to pay attention to the notes on the page and composer’s markings as much as my own interpretation of them. But both parts of the interpretation are important to good music making. The spirit of the music must be recreated, not just the notes and markings.
This week I had some trouble with my reeds warping. Those little pieces of cane don’t like the dry weather of approaching winter. So it feels like I’m going to squawk all the time. Not a pleasant feeling when you need to be relaxed to phrase beautifully. A squeak on a clarinet is not a pretty thing. EVERYONE hears it. I used to have a giggling fit when ever someone squeaked. Now, as a pro, I look innocent, hoping everyone thinks it’s my stand partner who did it. UGH!
October 13th, 2006 by David H. Thomas
You can’t even fart on the job. You go deaf from playing for decades among instruments as loud as a jackhammer. You are naked. You fight to control little pieces of wood which last only a few days at their peak. Then you begin again. If you have a bad day, everyone knows. You sit next to the same people all the time, sometimes for 20-30 years. You are all incredibly full of yourselves, otherwise you wouldn’t be where you are, yet most of you are also insecure from years of self-deprecating thinking, “It’s just not good enough!” “I failed to play perfectly, again!” “And again”.
You wake up in the morning after practicing 6 hours the day before, and it feels like you have to start all over from the bottom, pushing up the boulder inch by inch, striving for the top of the mountain whose height disappears beyond the clouds. It seems hopeless sometimes, spending all that time for what? to play 25 or 50 notes perfectly in tune and in rhythm, when thousands of others can already do the same. What the heck are you accomplishing for the needy world by doing that????? Oh yes, you can be proud of your accomplishments, especially to people who ask you “Do you get paid to do that?” Yes, I have really been asked that, more than once.
Yet you know that somewhere up the mountain, beyond the clouds, is some effervescent reward, a glass of champagne without the liquid, a feeling of speaking a language of gods, or at least understanding it deeply and attempting to speak it. If you have any sense, you are in awe of those who make great music, or if you are truly a great musician, you are humbled by your gift. But the striving to reach that reward seems disproportionate to it. It’s so ephemeral.
There’s the glow of basking in audience appreciation, but that happy bubble is usually popped moments later by the memory of the imperfections of your performance. It’s never perfect. Yet we strive and agonize for decades toward it. Perhaps it’s ego, proving our greatness, our superiority. But no, I don’t think so, at least not for long. Failing so much in the attempt to perfect is quite humbling. It must be the music, when we remember to listen as we play, when we notice Schubert’s or Brahms’ or Jeanjean’s exquisite melodies for the first time after playing them for 20 years. Perhaps that makes it worth it. Perhaps not.
Coming close to the sublime musical language of gods is what we all strive for. Even a small taste is enough to keep one coming back. When we remember this, the discomfort of daily life as a performer is worth it. Until then, it’s because, because, because we always have. Obsession has its sporadic rewards.
October 4th, 2006 by David H. Thomas
As an orchestral clarinetist, I don’t play concertos very often. I do it more often than others in my orchestra, but it’s by choice. There is no obligation to do so. My job is as a principal orchestral player, which has its own set of challenges specific to the job. I could be content to play from within the orchestra, but I like to be out front once in awhile.
On the other hand, there are many clarinetists who solo exclusively, such as Richard Stoltzman. Once, while having a drink with him after he played a concerto with us a few years back, he said something like this to me, “I wish I had the skill to play in an orchestra like you. I became a soloist because I didn’t get a symphony gig”. Mind you, this was meant as a light and supportive comment to me. He is made to be a soloist, and I am quite sure he is every bit as much or more skilled as I to play in an orchestra. The point is, it’s a specialization, like being a medical researcher versus being a doctor. Both are skilled in medicine, but one is more public.
Playing a concerto is a very different experience from playing in the orchestra. Not better or worse, just different. The feeling is more exhilarating, but also more stressful. The playing position is usually standing, not sitting, which changes the way the instrument feels as I play. Even the approach to sound is different, more open and “soloistic”. By contrast, as a principal clarinetist, where I also get to “solo” from within the orchestra, the feeling is usually more reserved so as to blend better. Think of two paintings, one of a really cool looking cat, the other has a cool cat somewhere in the painting with people and furniture and books around it. I’m still the cool cat in each, but less prominent in one.
The pressure of concerto-ing is higher, much higher. After all you are standing out there right in front with everyone staring at you, rather than sitting, somewhat hidden about halfway back in the orchestra. Preparing a concerto is also far more time consuming than orchestral music. In my case, this is partly because I am much more familiar with orchestral music than concertos, since it’s my regular job. So the preparation is intense and long. It usually starts many months in advance. I pick apart the piece and focus on the really difficult passages, breaking them into manageable mini-projects which I slowly build back together.
To hone my musical ideas, I listen to several recordings of reputable soloists, taking style from those players and forming my own interpretation from them. While learning the piece, I allow my imagination to run free with the interpretation, taking far more liberty in my phrasing that I would in the final performance. This is to encourage my muse to be creative. I find this is necessary to help break free of the habitual constraints of playing orchestral repertoire. In that case, I am interpreting only a small part under the larger interpretation of a conductor’s.
Sometimes I hire a pianist to rehearse with, to get a feel for interacting with the accompaniment.
Yet, as a concerto soloist, one has more liberty to create a style which matches one’s ability. Many factors are the choice of the soloist. Obviously the selection of a particular concerto is one. Otherwise there is the choice of tempos, the amount of rhythmic freedom, the amount of dynamic contrast, etc. Naturally, a soloist should emphasize his or her best features. If he is a more expressive player, the tempo can be set accordingly. If pyrotechnics is her specialty, then the style is set accordingly. Here again, as an orchestral player, I need to adjust my attitude toward having more control over the interpretation. But the resulting freedom can be very gratifying.
As the final days before the first rehearsal approach, I meditate on the music I will play. I hear it in my head, sometimes to the point of madness. Little snippets will run in a playback loop, over and over and over. But, thinking about the piece, getting one’s mind around it, is as important as actual practice. When I play, I will go over the most tricky spots, playing slowly, cultivating a calm physical and mental attitude. I often say to myself, like a mantra, “You know this piece, you can play it, your fingers can play it. Trust yourself”. It’s so easy to become frantic as the day approaches.
I had one stressful incident in my preparation for a concerto recently. I had stayed up quite late working on reeds. (another post altogether) I placed the reeds on my practice table, cleaned the cat litter box, put out the trash for morning pickup, and went to bed. I acknowledged that I should have started working on those reeds a few days earlier to have them stabilize by the performance. (reeds, made plant cane, need several days to adjust to being wet and played) The next morning, the reeds were missing, gone. I looked all over the house, near the cat box, in the bathroom, in the trash, outside. I don’t have a dog, so I only had myself to blame.:) In my fatigue, I must have inadvertently thrown them out with the cat litter and trash, which was then picked up the next morning.
Now I was really behind. I had to spend several more hours that day getting enough reeds going to give me a decent choice before the performance. A delicately timed schedule is easily upset.
Getting the right reed is crucial. Ideally, I can get on stage just before the first rehearsal to test my reeds and pick the one which flourishes in the hall. Our hall needs a full, resonant sound. It’s difficult to pick a reed for that in my small living room where I practice.
After the first rehearsal of the piece, I can usually begin to enjoy the whole event. I say begin to enjoy. It’s not over yet. However, many of the unknowns are now known. I know how the piece feels live, I know how my reeds are doing, or not doing, I know how the conductor will follow me, I know how I’ll interpret the piece. I also know there’s not a whole lot more preparation I can do. Back to the little mantra above, “Trust Yourself.”
Now, my focus is to stay primed and calm, ready and poised. I care for my body and smile a lot at my Muse, for that’s who will transform me from a person playing a concerto into a musician playing music. It’s a world of difference.
