Music for 2 Keyboards

[ariellanyi]

When the septuagenarian Liszt was invited to Windsor Castle to play before his slightly younger contemporary, Queen Victoria, he launched into some of his compositions of recent vintage, of an austere, non-virtuosic style. The Queen demanded to hear the old works that had swept Europe off its feet 30-40 years earlier, but Liszt refused to oblige: "We don't play that kind of music anymore." Indeed, as I discuss in this blog, Liszt's late compositions have little in common with the works we still celebrate today, like the B minor Sonata and the Hungarian rhapsodies.

Here is a performance of Nuages gris (Gray clouds), a typical work from this period:

[ariellanyi]

One of the wiles that 20th century composers are great at is throwing us off guard. Whenever we feel that we have figured them out, Stravinsky, Bartok, and yes, Shostakovich, will throw a curve ball and disorient us, harmonically or rhythmically. This disorientation is responsible for much of the unsettling nature of some of 20th century music, and Shostakovich is a master at it. In my blog, I show how he does it in two short preludes from Op. 34.

Here is a performance of these two short preludes:

[ariellanyi]

Haydn's subtly orchestral adagio The orchestral nature of music written for keyboard is one of the first things young pianists learn about the music they play as they use their ten fingers to imitate various sections of the orchestra. Naturally, because of its percussive nature, the piano is less suitable to imitating the human human voice than string and wind instruments are. Haydn's keyboard music is no exception, but the Adagio I talk about in this blog is, as the composer combines subtle orchestral writing with a singing line that could have been an aria in a liturgical work.

Here is a performance of this moving piece:

[ariellanyi]

When one mentions the “Diabelli Variations,” the first thing that comes to mind is Beethoven’s set of 33 variations on Diabelli’s simple waltz, in response to his commission to Beethoven for one variation. But we tend to forget that Schubert was one of the many eminent composers and pianists of the time whom Diabelli asked to contribute ono variation to his project. His input to the anthology was a dainty and elegant variation in C minor (as opposed to Diabelli’s waltz which is in C major, as is Beethoven’s work), which is the topic of this blog.

And here is a performance of this charming, 1-minute waltz:

[ariellanyi]

Albéniz and Debussy were exact contemporaries, and they intensely influenced each other. Debussy, who had few good things to say about other composers (and many nasty things to say about most of them), greatly admired Albéniz and was influenced by him, and some of Albéniz's music sounds like Spanish-ized Debussy. The interaction between the two composers is the topic of this blog. The picture, BTW, is of the neighborhood of Albaicin, in Granada, and here is a performance of Albéniz’s  El Albaicin:

[ariellanyi]

What’s in a chromatic line?

On what can we base the interpretation of a baroque work for the keyboard in the absence of any clues from the composer? Unlike an oratorio or an opera, there is no underlying text to guide us. There are no indications of dynamics, and the instrument for which it was intended, the harpsichord, has zero dynamic range. For example, in the Handel fugue in A minor, any ideas about interpretation must be derived from the structure, the architecture of the music. But in this case, that structure itself, with its chromaticism and tonal ambiguity, is rather disorienting, and it provides little guidance to the performer. As I show in the blog, however, eventually the clue to the interpretation comes from the chromatic line.

Here’s my performance of this short fugue:

[ariellanyi]

Janáček's mystery of the barn owl. Conciseness, which we value highly in writing, is not necessarily an asset in music. In writing, an excess of smooth transitions ("on the other hand," "in other words," etc.) is usually a sign of verbosity. But without these transitions, classical music would sound exceedingly stark and forbidding, as indeed Janáček often does. The genius of this starkness is the topic of the present blog.

Here is a performance of Janáček's The Barn Owl Has not Flown Away!

[ariellanyi]

The dilemma posed by Barber's Pas de deux My favorite version of Ravel’s La valse is the orchestral one; I prefer it over the versions for both one and two pianos. Even the two piano version cannot render the richness of voices that the orchestral produces. But this is not always the case. Depending on the qualities of the piece, orchestras and solo pianists have various advantages and disadvantages in expressiveness, flexibility, and sheer power. In my blog, I make the case of my preference for the piano when it comes to Barber's Pas de deux, the third of the six-part Souvenirs ballet suite.

Here is a performance of this delightful piece:

[ariellanyi]

Debussy’s nod to the past and to the near future Debussy, the relentless innovator and perennial warrior against all Germanic influences in music, from Bach to Wagner, sought inspiration in the French baroque, primarily Rameau and Couperin. The Sarabande from Pour le piano is both a nod to an old tradition and a break from it, which is the idea this blog explores.

Here is a performance of the Sarabande:

[ariellanyi]

If a hyper-intelligent Martian who never heard music in his life and had no notion of the concept, five minutes after landing on Earth were made to listen to Haydn's C major sonata Hob. XVI:48, he would reach two conclusions based on the sound patterns he heard: (a) that something very simple is going on here, and (b) that there's a great deal of sophistication in this simplicity. A year later, that same Martian, after having listened to all of the piano output of Mozart and Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, and Brahms, Chopin and Liszt, Debussy, Ravel, and Bartok, etc., would still insist that Haydn's C major sonata is one breathtaking piece of music, in its subtle simplicity. Read more about this amazing sonata in my blog.

And here’s my performance of it:

[ariellanyi]

Thesis, antithesis, and synthesis in Beethoven's Tempest sonata.  Composers are experienced practical dialecticians, routinely engaged in reconciling opposites. A prime example, with a twist or two, appears in Beethoven's Tempest sonata, as I show in this week's blog. 

Here is a performance of it:

[ariellanyi]

The last three pieces of Schubert's Moments Musicaux are fraught with gloom, pessimism, and ambiguity. As I show in the blog, the brief moments of respite are undercut by menacing tones in the minor key and premonitions of doom. And yet, in the last moment, Schubert chooses to end the piece in an open octave, providing a closure of sorts, but no resolution of the many tensions, letting the listener choose between an optimistic and a pessimistic conclusion.

Here is a performance of the last three pieces:

[ariellanyi]

Schubert seems to have invented a new genre with the Moments Musicaux cycle of seemingly unconnected pieces. Its closest relative may be found in literature, in picaresque novels, like Don Quixote, relating sundry scenes of different moods, held together by a common hero but otherwise unrelated. As I show in the blog, in the case of the Moments, that hero would be none other than Schubert himself.  

Listen to the first three pieces of the Moments. The second part is of heartbreaking beauty. The third part is the most famous one.

[ariellanyi]

How do we play early music on a late piano? In my blog, I discuss this hot topic not with reference to the much emulated, iconic masterpieces of early music, but to a particular piece, the Fantasia for keyboard by CPE Bach, a free-form fantasy of the type that has not had much following later.

Here is a performance of this unusual Frantasia:

[ariellanyi]

Are coincidences from providence? It is no surprise to find traces of Chopin in Scriabin, who greatly admired the Polish composer. But can there be influences of Schubert in Scriabin? This is the question I address in my blog. Awareness of Schubert at the turn of the 20th century outside the Germanic space was minimal. Are then the Schubertian elements we identify in Scriabin the product of our corrupted imagination (in other words, coincidences) or are they genuine, however unlikely, influences?

Here is a recording of this amazing sonata:

[ariellanyi]

This is Wagner's magic helmet (Tarnhelm). Put it on, and there's no telling what you'll be transformed into. Maybe a toad... Fittingly, its associated leitmotif is harmonically ambiguous, and while you wear the helmet you're in tonal no man's land. But Wagner didn't invent the idea of transformation through ambiguity. As I show in my blog, Diabelli variation 20 serves precisely as such a magic helmet that mediates the transition between the second and the last part of the work.

Here’s a performance of this variation:

[ariellanyi]

Bells... 

What can be more straightforward in music than representing bells? If music can represent anything, it is bells. 

So what makes Grieg's bells sound so queer and so... unGrieglike? This is the question I'm trying to answer in my blog, wondering whether the imitative notes are meant to represent some extra-musical reality, or merely an impression of it, swirling in the composer's head.

And here’s what it all sounds like...