"I can't play slow music. I don't understand it, I've never been good at it, it's boring, and it makes me sound terrible." -- Me, 1994-c.2009
We all have an Achilles heel. Sampson had Delilah, Hitler had Russia, Paganini had Berlioz, Nixon had his enemies list, Solo had his Leah, my mom has her brownies, Burlusconi has every woman in his country, and I have slow music. Some people overcome theirs enough to get by, some can't even acknowledge theirs even to fix it, and some use theirs to set off a brilliant cascade of lethal fireworks for all to enjoy (President Bush and microphones). Often times the discovery of such things unfolds like a little mini-drama. A young, innocent soul is born, starts to grow and learn, and then has some part of his development fed nuclear waste. This toxic appendage simmers beneath the surface for years, then bursts through the skin in...ok, you get the picture.
Others are lucky enough to fight theirs to a stalemate and then agree to go grab a coffee and become friends.
Ever since the infant days of my musician self, I've detested slow music. I flew through the Suzuki books at sometimes two or three songs a week, and spent an entire two months on the damn Brahms waltz in book 2 (never really learned it...my poor, poor teacher). I used to see how fast I could play every song I knew, and then see how many times I could do that without screwing up. Fiddle music was a mere matter of predestination. I gained the infamous reputation of being the one kid at Suzuki camp that none of the gladiator-type piano ladies could follow.
When I was 14, I asked my teacher why she didn't want me to play Hindemith Trauermusik. It is, by nature, a slow piece, but I had played just about all the dessert music out there at this point and wanted a challenge. She said that I was too young to understand such music, and I was rather put out. I then tried reading it (sans piano) and thought it was the most nauseating, intangible, trite piece of trash I'd ever heard. That's that, back to the Campagnoli caprices.
However, shortly before this incident I had discovered the 2nd movement of the Ravel G major piano concerto. My favorite part, the sweeping 8th note ostinati above the cor angleis solo, pretty much disqualified it as old school "slow music," but it was at least a start. It remains to this day one of my most favorite pieces of music that holds a secret, intimate, warm, youthful, and life-changing personal association that only three people on this earth know about.
At 16, I undertook slow music with David Holland at Interlochen: the 2nd movement of the Vanhal viola concerto. Being a man of large stature, I'm rather surprised David didn't squish me like a bug after I worked on the lovely thing for two months and got about as far as Ellie Roosevelt did with cooking anything tasty. I played the movement three years later for the ASTA competition, and was told to "Keep the Schnittke, clean up the Bach, and dump the Vanhal--it doesn't suit you at all."
Also, while at Interlochen, I purchased a strange piece from the ScholarShop; John Corigliano's "Fancy on a Bach Air." Grade-A slow music, but very cool because the tempo is "blob = c.56." In other words, do whatever the hell you want. Took it to a practice room in a rush of excitement, played the first ten notes, and then shelved it for an entire two years. Holland's comment on my impasse was that I was "afraid of dying."
More than likely so. However, this brings me to the turning point in my little dissertation. I just spent the better part of two hours practicing the slow movement of the Schubert Arpeggione Sonata. It was very rewarding, extraordinarily soothing, and if I may say, started to sound pretty delicious toward the end. My mom, who was listening from her office nearby, came out a little while later and said, "I remember when you used to say (see quote at top of page). I've noticed that's not been true in the last few years. What changed?"
I was then faced with answering such a question. I remembered what my old teacher said about not being old enough, and delved along those lines. At the time, I assumed not being old enough meant not knowing what it's like to truly be in love, or to experience loss, or to feel deep heartbreak. So then for me it was easy to toss off as wait 50 years and you'll get it. Since I can't order the Senior Scramble at Denny's, there must be more to it than that. I remembered what Holland said about dying. True, I'm much more comfortable with death now, but that's still not it. I recalled an earlier conversation with mom, when I expressed the recently-discovered pleasures of driving to town and back never once coming anything close to the speed limit (never would have happened as recently as two years ago). When you're going 35 in the 50, everything you do is a decision. Driving becomes an art: lane placement, engine rpms, tastefully carving your own path out of curves, giving the guy in front of you a half-mile to do his own thing, letting whomever by when the come zooming up behind you, enjoying the scenery. All this without even consciously thinking to do so--you don't need to, the simple things become pleasures in and of themselves. It's not driving with blue hair, it's driving with aesthetic command. Also, along these lines, I just wrote a letter to a dear friend today mentioning how something seemingly insignificant she gave me a half-year ago was one of my most well-loved trinkets in my box of cool things from my life. I concluded to her that again, it's the simple things that make life beautiful, the small things that matter most.
So, armed with these answers, I told mom that I could finally play slow music simply because it is beautiful. I'm no longer a kid who thinks in terms of more is greater and faster is better. Fast has its place, fun has its say, but the simple--the slow, thoughtful, meandering, sentimental, seemingly meaningless yet profound--has its beauty.
The Corigliano has become one of my most cherished pieces in my repertoire, the Vanhal (though it is in F) leaves me feeling as if an angel kissed the hand of the author just before he set pen to paper, and the Arpeggione is going to be performed with utmost love and care for the first time ever in my life next Sunday at 2pm.
We all have an Achilles heel. Sampson had Delilah, Hitler had Russia, Paganini had Berlioz, Nixon had his enemies list, Solo had his Leah, my mom has her brownies, Burlusconi has every woman in his country, and I have slow music. Some people overcome theirs enough to get by, some can't even acknowledge theirs even to fix it, and some use theirs to set off a brilliant cascade of lethal fireworks for all to enjoy (President Bush and microphones). Often times the discovery of such things unfolds like a little mini-drama. A young, innocent soul is born, starts to grow and learn, and then has some part of his development fed nuclear waste. This toxic appendage simmers beneath the surface for years, then bursts through the skin in...ok, you get the picture.
Others are lucky enough to fight theirs to a stalemate and then agree to go grab a coffee and become friends.
Ever since the infant days of my musician self, I've detested slow music. I flew through the Suzuki books at sometimes two or three songs a week, and spent an entire two months on the damn Brahms waltz in book 2 (never really learned it...my poor, poor teacher). I used to see how fast I could play every song I knew, and then see how many times I could do that without screwing up. Fiddle music was a mere matter of predestination. I gained the infamous reputation of being the one kid at Suzuki camp that none of the gladiator-type piano ladies could follow.
When I was 14, I asked my teacher why she didn't want me to play Hindemith Trauermusik. It is, by nature, a slow piece, but I had played just about all the dessert music out there at this point and wanted a challenge. She said that I was too young to understand such music, and I was rather put out. I then tried reading it (sans piano) and thought it was the most nauseating, intangible, trite piece of trash I'd ever heard. That's that, back to the Campagnoli caprices.
However, shortly before this incident I had discovered the 2nd movement of the Ravel G major piano concerto. My favorite part, the sweeping 8th note ostinati above the cor angleis solo, pretty much disqualified it as old school "slow music," but it was at least a start. It remains to this day one of my most favorite pieces of music that holds a secret, intimate, warm, youthful, and life-changing personal association that only three people on this earth know about.
At 16, I undertook slow music with David Holland at Interlochen: the 2nd movement of the Vanhal viola concerto. Being a man of large stature, I'm rather surprised David didn't squish me like a bug after I worked on the lovely thing for two months and got about as far as Ellie Roosevelt did with cooking anything tasty. I played the movement three years later for the ASTA competition, and was told to "Keep the Schnittke, clean up the Bach, and dump the Vanhal--it doesn't suit you at all."
Also, while at Interlochen, I purchased a strange piece from the ScholarShop; John Corigliano's "Fancy on a Bach Air." Grade-A slow music, but very cool because the tempo is "blob = c.56." In other words, do whatever the hell you want. Took it to a practice room in a rush of excitement, played the first ten notes, and then shelved it for an entire two years. Holland's comment on my impasse was that I was "afraid of dying."
More than likely so. However, this brings me to the turning point in my little dissertation. I just spent the better part of two hours practicing the slow movement of the Schubert Arpeggione Sonata. It was very rewarding, extraordinarily soothing, and if I may say, started to sound pretty delicious toward the end. My mom, who was listening from her office nearby, came out a little while later and said, "I remember when you used to say (see quote at top of page). I've noticed that's not been true in the last few years. What changed?"
I was then faced with answering such a question. I remembered what my old teacher said about not being old enough, and delved along those lines. At the time, I assumed not being old enough meant not knowing what it's like to truly be in love, or to experience loss, or to feel deep heartbreak. So then for me it was easy to toss off as wait 50 years and you'll get it. Since I can't order the Senior Scramble at Denny's, there must be more to it than that. I remembered what Holland said about dying. True, I'm much more comfortable with death now, but that's still not it. I recalled an earlier conversation with mom, when I expressed the recently-discovered pleasures of driving to town and back never once coming anything close to the speed limit (never would have happened as recently as two years ago). When you're going 35 in the 50, everything you do is a decision. Driving becomes an art: lane placement, engine rpms, tastefully carving your own path out of curves, giving the guy in front of you a half-mile to do his own thing, letting whomever by when the come zooming up behind you, enjoying the scenery. All this without even consciously thinking to do so--you don't need to, the simple things become pleasures in and of themselves. It's not driving with blue hair, it's driving with aesthetic command. Also, along these lines, I just wrote a letter to a dear friend today mentioning how something seemingly insignificant she gave me a half-year ago was one of my most well-loved trinkets in my box of cool things from my life. I concluded to her that again, it's the simple things that make life beautiful, the small things that matter most.
So, armed with these answers, I told mom that I could finally play slow music simply because it is beautiful. I'm no longer a kid who thinks in terms of more is greater and faster is better. Fast has its place, fun has its say, but the simple--the slow, thoughtful, meandering, sentimental, seemingly meaningless yet profound--has its beauty.
The Corigliano has become one of my most cherished pieces in my repertoire, the Vanhal (though it is in F) leaves me feeling as if an angel kissed the hand of the author just before he set pen to paper, and the Arpeggione is going to be performed with utmost love and care for the first time ever in my life next Sunday at 2pm.
Fast is slow, and Slow is fast.
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