PRINCIPLES OF MUSICAL EXPRESSION AT THE PIANO (by Roberto Prosseda)

Many teachers speak first of technique, then of music. I believe, on the other hand, that technique and practice at the keyboard are only a consequential step to the musical idea, which should be the first object of study and investigation. Before we even get down to the keyboard to suion a piece, we should be clear about the emotional and landscape context in which the piece is set, and the emotional itinerary that unfolds over the course of the piece. In this series of texts, we give some hints for greater awareness about musical expression, talking concretely about phrase management, harmonic and melodic tensions, "depth of field" and "focus" of sound planes. Of course, it is impossible to give a complete idea of these concepts without a practical example, but we believe that even the reading of these brief insights can be a tool for reflection and awareness of the interpretive work that every pianist and musician must do with consciousness and clarity of purpose.

SHAPING THE PHASES

One characteristic of great performers, whether conductors, singers or instrumentalists, is that they always have a clear and detailed conception of the musical phrase, while maintaining an overall view of the composition they perform. And this has repercussions on each individual note, which, in its uniqueness, also responds to a collective balance, with the right expressive proportion vis-à-vis the context in which it is found.

Conversely, a typical aspect of amateur interpretations (even by talented amateurs) is precisely that of lingering or searching for the particular effect on each individual phrase, at the cost of losing the overall vision of the piece.

Having broad visual horizons during performance is, therefore, a primary requirement for the effectiveness of one's interpretation, and this is in no way inconsistent with the importance of giving adequate expressive consideration to each individual detail. Granted that without an a priori overview what I am about to say would remain a mere mannerist tinsel, let us try here to identify some performance parameters that show the awareness (or lack thereof) of a wide-ranging view of the "map" of the piece.

The first aspect concerns accentuation: just as in spoken language, the points where we rest the voice determine the plastic shape of the phrase, and consequently shape its expressive effect. The Italian language is particularly rich in nuance in this regard. The same sentence can be pronounced by giving different supports to each syllable.

How, then, to choose the form of a sentence? The first thing to do, of course, is to look for the suggestions that the composer himself often indicates in the score. Signs such as slurs, staccatos, accents (in their various types and gradations), as well as the dynamic indications of crescendo and diminuendo, are often the easiest way for the composer to make us understand his or her vision of the phrase. It is also true, however (and herein lies the beauty of musical interpretation) that often the same musical phrase can be read, respecting the indications in the score, with different dynamic forms. It is therefore useful, at the stage when one is searching for and defining one's interpretation, to try to play the same phrase in many different ways, always respecting the indications, and have the music itself suggest the solution that seems closest to our feeling. There remains no doubt that static and repetitive phrasing is almost never functional to the music, as is also the case in speech: only a foreigner or a robot would speak Italian without varying the accents on each word.

Often, moreover, it may happen that the expressive result is not the result of our own choice, but derives from the movement made by the hand and from unintentional appoggiaturas and accents that may result. A simple expedient may be, therefore, to sing the melody of the phrase with one's own voice, so as to have feedback independent of any technical problems. Almost always, after all, we already have in consciousness a beautiful and varied idea of the expression, but we risk losing sight of it if we do not acquire the proper awareness of it a priori, that is, before we play that phrase on the instrument.

FEELING THE HARMONIES

A fundamental element in understanding the dramaturgy of any piece of music is the harmonic structure. The so-called "gravitational tension," i.e., that generated by harmonic relationships, must be reflected in the dynamic form that the performer chooses to imprint on each phrase, so as to have greater expressive force. Leon Fleisher summarized this concept with the motto "support the composer": in fact, a dynamic appropriate to the harmonic tensions enhances their expressive force, while a dynamic contrary to them risks weakening them, if not even distorting them.

This aspect, too, finds a parallel in the spoken language: accented syllables are always those where we intend to put the most emphasis. Equally in music, it will be effective and natural to give greater dynamic tension to harmonies that hold the highest gravitational tension.

The greatest tension is usually on the dominant, or on the chords that prepare the dominant. Almost always, the tension relaxes on the tonic (not coincidentally, the dominant-to-tonic transition is also called "resolution").

A typical pronunciation error is precisely that due to not respecting the natural relationship between harmonic tension and dynamic tension. Giving accents on the notes on which harmonic resolution occurs is almost always a reason for weighing down the phrasing, which holds back the natural flow of the music. It is no accident that composers almost always instruct us to release tension coincident with harmonic resolutions. This is done through slurs: on the note where a slur ends, dynamic relief is implied.

In contrary cases, where a composer explicitly indicates an accent or sforzato on the note of resolution of a cadence, these are generally special moments, where it is intended to create tension that is unexpected or otherwise displaced from the listener's natural expectations. Beethoven is a master in this regard, but even these exceptions must be understood in the context of an accurate fit between our phrasing choices and harmonic tension. Otherwise we risk playing the instrument well, but remaining "outside the music."

CONDUCTORS OF OUR OWN ORCHESTRA

In playing the piano, we simultaneously perform analytical and synthetic work: we are required to handle all the details of the performance, individual voices, individual timbres, and at the same time we must know how to create the right mixture between the various lines, give the overall sense of the phrase, have a complete vision of the development of the composition.

All this coincides with the work of the conductor, who, however, compared to pianists, must address other musicians (the instrumentalists of the orchestra): in our case, however, the orchestra coincides with the conductor. We have to "conduct" ourselves, as if each finger were an instrumentalist in the orchestra. Therefore, it is useful to think of doubling ourselves in the dual role of "conductor" and "piano orchestra": otherwise, we risk being an orchestra playing...without a conductor.

Let me explain further: the musical intentions and details of our interpretation must be extremely in focus in our minds (and in our hearts: we are talking mainly about emotional intentions), and must be thought about well before the moment we perform them at the keyboard. If this does not happen, the performance may lack clarity, or be too general in its expressive choices. It must not happen, then, that the orchestra prevails over the conductor, that purely technical or practical reasons (a difficult leap, or a quirk due to previous habits) negatively affect the performance.

A typical example: before the main voice enters on the accompaniment, there is a tendency to wait. This happens because the "ideal conductor" in us has not given the attack with the right advance: exactly as happens when a mediocre conductor does not give the attack to an oboe or clarinet that has the theme, and the instrumentalist enters late. Therefore, it is very important to have the conductor's gaze during the performance: to "foretaste" each entry of a new theme or voice, preparing it with the right mental anticipation, and "giving the attack" to the relevant finger, that is, imagining in advance the kind of sound we want to achieve for that voice, and the corresponding technical gesture.

When we become accustomed to thinking about music in this way, we will discover how it will sound more spontaneous and "real," and some passages that seemed difficult or musically cumbersome will immediately appear simpler and more natural. This will lead us to see the music from above, to look further ahead, and to be more conscious in conducting the phrase.

PIANISTS AND "PIANOFORTISTS"

What is authenticity in piano performance?

Every performer of classical music-as well as, one assumes, every listener-aspires to get to the heart of the message a composer has passed on to us through his or her works. However, notation on scores leaves many parameters ill-defined, left to the taste, culture, or momentary whim of the performer. Notation is also tied to the conventions and keyboard instruments of the time, which in the eighteenth century (but also in the nineteenth century, especially in the first half) were quite different from the modern piano: in timbre, dynamics, diversity of registers, and responsiveness of mechanics. The performer, in turn, is inevitably conditioned by the context in which he or she is playing, the acoustics of the hall, the reaction of the audience, and so on. This applies, all the more so, to the keyboard literature of the latter eighteenth century: years in which there was a gradual transition from harpsichord to fortepiano, and in which the two instruments often coexisted. The question about authenticity is, therefore, complex and of fundamental importance to every musician, and requires in-depth studies and knowledge of the original documents and sources that we still have today.

Beginning after World War II, a great deal of research has been done on the conventions, sonorities, and expressive customs prevalent at the time of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, and, of course, on the instruments they played. We should be very grateful to musicians such as Nikolaus Harnoncourt, Roger Norrington, Franz Brüggen, and, specifically for the fortepiano, to Malcolm Bilson, Robert Levin, Andreas Staier for their meritorious commitment to the search for the true and deep meaning of musical expression in Viennese Classicism (and beyond). Today, for any performer who wants to pose the problem, the starting point of philological research is much easier thanks to their work, even if not all pianists have yet realized how the pronunciation of an articulation or the form of a phrase can affect the musical (i.e., poetic and emotional) rendering of a composition. In other words, the risk of misunderstanding the musical meaning of a work is just around the corner when one does not know the conventions of notation and the reactions of the instruments of the time.

Even if all philologists today agree on many aspects concerning the reading of articulations and the choice of tempos, there is still considerable variety in interpretive results that start from such "historically informed" premises. There is, therefore, no absolute truth about how a given embellishment is achieved, what the exact tempo of an Allegro is, or what the ideal instrument is for a given Sonata: comparing their recordings, it is evident how each adopts an approach equally consistent with philological knowledge, yet different and personal. And I am sure that Mozart himself never played the same Sonata in the same way, but reacted with a natural, creative adaptation to the stimuli and results given by the instruments he found under his hands from time to time. [It is true, however, that it was not until the early twentieth century, with the advent of recordings, that the tendency emerged for performers to want to leave an indelible mark on the history of music.]

Ergo: the truly great experts in philological practice, such as the names mentioned, are also sensitive musicians and people of broad culture. And they are never dogmatic. Vice versa, it is certainly not enough to boast of playing a fortepiano (perhaps after only a few months of practice) to rise to the role of champion of authenticity, nor can it be said that anyone who plays Haydn or Mozart on a modern Steinway is necessarily far removed from the authentic spirit of these composers. It still happens today, unfortunately, to run into overly "fundamentalist" reactions for or against historically informed practice: many pianists, often lacking any experience or knowledge of historical keyboards, claim that the modern piano represents the end point of keyboard evolution, as if earlier instruments stand to the Steinway or Fazioli as Neanderthal man stands to modern man. Personally, the idea that the piano has evolved in a constantly improving sense does not seem justifiable to me. The modern piano, especially in its more industrialized models, has certainly responded to the new practical demands of industrial production and the need to be well audible in ever-larger halls, but it has inevitably lost some of the colors and a certain sensitivity to the minute nuances of articulation that a handcrafted instrument of the 1820s could offer instead.

Conversely, just as saccharinely, some champion of historical instruments (perhaps a former pianist, now "repentant") looks down on anyone playing Bach or Mozart on the Steinway or Fazioli, assuming that any performance on the piano is certainly inferior to a performance on period instruments. It is not necessarily the case, however, that a period instrument is at all costs the most suitable for a piece of the same era. The difference, even in quality, between "peer" instruments was much greater then than it is today (but it is well perceptible even among modern instruments, depending on how they are tuned and maintained), and not all currently available fortepianos are in adequate condition for the needs of a concert or record recording: the restoration of a fortepiano is a complex work that requires great care and philological attention.

Everything must, therefore, be considered with common sense, and according to one's possibilities and needs. One can certainly play on a beautiful 1785 Anton Walter in a modern 2,000-seat hall, but are we sure that is the most appropriate choice? What will the audience perceive, and how much will be lost in the transition from the performer to the listener's ear? In the case of recordings, the position of the microphones also strongly influences the timbral result. The dynamic richness of a fortepiano can be còlected by microphones sufficiently close to the tailpiece, which, however, might somehow distort the sound of the fortepiano itself, or at least capture it very differently from how it is perceived by a listener sitting 10 meters away.

During Mozart's lifetime (and this is even more true for Haydn, who was born before him and died later), the evolution of the piano was experiencing a phase of continuous and rapid updates, and certainly this also influenced the writing of the Sonatas, as is evident if we compare the earliest Sonatas with the latest. However, the reverse phenomenon is also true: it was often the composers themselves, and Mozart first and foremost, who urged the makers to innovate their instruments (think of the fact that in 1785 he commissioned a pedalpiano from Anton Walter), so that they would be better adapted to their new expressive needs. Who knows whether in the last years of his life, having more advanced pianos available, Mozart preferred to play his early Sonatas on the pianos on which he had conceived them, or whether he disliked performing them more on the newer instruments? We cannot know, but I think it is useful to ask these questions.

I hope, in conclusion, that all pianists and music lovers have a way to approach the world of historical keyboards and can discover the great richness and variety of expression offered by pianos from the past. It would be nice if a well-structured (but not dogmatic) course in historically informed performance practice were soon established in all conservatories as an integral part of piano training, and not just reserved for those who intend to specialize in historical keyboards. When I studied at the Conservatory, I never had any opportunity to play a harpsichord or fortepiano, and I fear that this is still the case for most students today. However, the situation today is certainly much improved in this respect and bodes well for the future.

There still remains, however, a lot of prejudice on both sides: "fortepianists" on the one hand, and "piano players" on the other sometimes look at each other in a sly way, as if they belonged to two opposing factions. Instead, it would be nice if curiosity and the desire for knowledge and research overcame prejudices and dogmatism, and that by sharing knowledge, experience and enthusiasm, we could experience music by peacefully comparing ourselves, with mutual enrichment.

MANAGING THE DISTANCE

In defining the expression of a theme on the piano, an important parameter concerns distance: that is, how close or far we want to place that theme relative to us. We mean in this case both photographic distance and emotional distance.

How to vary the sense of photographic distance from a theme, through piano performance?

It is a matter of applying our everyday visual experience to the musical timbre and phrasing.

When we look at a tree from a few inches away, we can make out its slightest ripples: even with the slightest breeze, the leaves move, and the whole figure is never quite static. Conversely, if we look at the same tree a kilometer away, it will appear motionless, even in the presence of wind.

All this is easily transferable to musical performance. So, to give the idea of a phrase that is particularly close to us, it will be useful to diversify each of its notes, either dynamically or with agogica, by applying a slight, imperceptible rubato. Conversely, to place that phrase somewhere in space far away from us, more linear phrasing and less dynamic characterization will be effective. One can also give a sense of "blurring," using the softer part of the finger, so as to soften the timbral contours, as happens when looking at an object from far away.

Also from an emotional point of view (as well as from a photographic point of view), the feelings that are closest to us are those that manifest themselves to us with the greatest involvement: if a theme expresses an emotional condition that belongs to us, it will be affected by our sharing in it, even in phrasing. Conversely, if the same theme narrates a condition far away from us, which we think of as if it were a dream, or a memory, or a remote desire, simpler phrasing will be more functional.

Of course, given the same distance (emotional or photographic), we can always vary the light with which we view that theme: a distant object may be blurred, or it may shine like a star: the management of timbre, therefore, will help us to characterize the "photographic exposure" of that theme, according to the kind of light with which we want to illuminate it.

It goes without saying, of course, that before applying these techniques we will already have to have a very precise idea of the distance and "illumination" of each theme in a way that is functional to the dramaturgical structure of the composition, otherwise everything runs the risk of being uselessly an end in itself.

THE ORCHESTRA AT THE PIANO: STRINGS

The piano is an instrument seemingly limited in the variety of sound compared to an orchestra, yet it allows many different timbres to be evoked. This depends, first of all, on the clarity of the pianist's intentions: in other words, on the mental representation of the sound to be evoked. Nothing could be easier, then, than to imagine an instrument in the orchestra, starting with the strings.

String instruments have a very diverse sound output. The first element to consider is the movement of the bow. Notes played with the same bowing result as part of a single flow, as the weight of the violinist's arm transfers, via the bow, from one note to the next, allowing the musical tension between notes to be perceived. This is also easily achieved at the piano: here the arc can correspond to the movement of the pianist's arm, provided that one plays using the entire arm as leverage, and not just the movement of individual fingers or the wrist. One must use (at least partially) the natural weight of the arm, dosing it on each note and transferring it from one note to another. To give the idea of an entire phrase played under a single arch, it is possible, on the piano, to make a single, progressive movement of the arm, spreading its weight over several notes, and possibly managing the dynamic form (crescendo or diminuendo or a combination of the two) through the gradual release or suspension of the weight. If you play by unloading the weight of the arm on the fret, simply raise your elbow to subtract some of the weight from the fret, and in this way you will achieve a natural, gradual diminuendo on successive notes that are played within the same arm movement ("arcade"). Conversely, if during the "arcade" we lower the elbow, the weight of the arm will be gradually greater, giving the effect of a natural, progressive crescendo.

In string instruments, the arching can be up or down. Even on the piano, it is possible to decide whether to play a note (or group of notes) "up" or "down," with approaches and gestures corresponding to the arsi and thesis. The "up" (arsis) attack can be accomplished by raising the arm or forearm while lowering the key. This results in a subtraction of weight, which produces a kind of deceleration in the movement of the hammer. The result is a softer, airy attack, perfect for a sound that comes out of silence, or which, followed by a pause, prepares for its silence.

The "down" attack is given, as with the bow, by a progressive downward movement of the forearm or entire arm as the fret is lowered. This produces a sharp sound as the lowering of the arm results in an acceleration of the hammer on the string. This type of attack results in an affirmative, peremptory expression.

Other parameters for evoking string sound are related to the tactile texture of the bow's hairs. In general, the attack of the horsehair is quite soft, especially when considering an ensemble of strings, such as a row of the orchestra. To evoke this softness of tone, it is possible to touch the fret with the fleshiest part of the fingertip, keeping the joints of the phalanges relaxed, to create an effect of elastic softness. Conversely, the typical "pizzicati" timbre of the strings can be reproduced on the piano with a light, staccato attack, with the fingers in turn "plucking" the keys, releasing them an instant after lowering them, and as lightly and quickly as possible.

THE ORCHESTRA AT THE PIANO: WINDS

The woodwinds

Oboe. Characteristics of the oboe are emission with a sharp attack and clear timbre, with a distinct pronunciation of each note. On the piano, these characteristics can be evoked by holding the finger outstretched, and touching the key with the tip of the finger, perpendicular to the key. It can also be effective to touch the key with the fingernail, this being the hardest part of the finger, which best transfers the sense of sharpness given by the double reed.

Bassoon. Also a double-reed instrument like the oboe, it differs from the oboe in that it has a more nasal sound, again obtainable by using the outstretched finger as with the oboe. Since it is a lower register here, an even sharper, more incisive touch may be useful to compensate for the heavier hammering.

Clarinet. A single-reed instrument, it presents a darker, softer sound. It can be summoned by always holding the fingers outstretched, but touching the key not with the tip but with the fingertip, and playing with the flexibility of the joints to achieve that typical timbral sinuosity.

Flute. It has a more "puffy," less concrete sound than the clarinet, especially in the lower register. To evoke it requires a soft touch and a very slow key attack, with very flexible levers, avoiding finger movement, and playing with the whole hand softly lowering the keys.

The brasses

Horn. It has a warm, mellow timbre. The finger that is most likely to evoke it on the keyboard is certainly the thumb, by virtue of its greater surface area of contact with the keyboard. It is advisable to play using the lever of the whole arm, without articulating the single finger, to maintain the tension and length of sound typical of horn playing. To achieve the smoothness of the attack, it is also important to lower the key slowly and with the full weight of the arm. There are numerous explicit examples of horn imitation in the piano literature. One of the most famous is the beginning of Beethoven's Sonata Op. 81a.

Trumpet. The ringing, open timbre of the trumpet can be reproduced with a direct, rapid attack, without any flexibility of the hand articulations. Light color can be achieved with a low wrist set-up. It is preferable to use the fingertip to give the sound adequate brilliance.

Trombone. Differs from the trumpet by a darker color, which can be evoked on the piano by using the softer part of the fingertip instead of the tip. The greater softness can be achieved by slightly flexing the joints of the hand and wrist, while still maintaining an attack that uses the leverage of the whole arm with relative support. Holding the wrist high will make it easier to evoke its amber color.

The bass tuba. It is characterized by a nasal timbre with a sharp attack and steady emission. This characteristic requires the use of the whole arm, without flexing the joints, and keeping a high wrist stance, touching the key with a large surface of the finger.

LISTENING TO THE TIME

The relationship with time is a foundational element of all musical interpretation. The "time of music, however, is quite different from the time that punctuates everyday rhythms, in that it extends into a closed sphere, delimited by the duration of the individual composition: it is a time at once internal and external to ourselves, that is, subjective and objective at the same time.

The listener's perception of time is itself subjective, and influenced by so many elements, related both to the performer and to contingent factors (room reverberation, distance from the sound source, degree of listener anxiety, rhythmic stability of the performance).

One of the main characteristics of great performers (whether musicians, actors, or dancers or speakers) is to never have a passive, subordinate relationship with time. Or, rather, of not considering time as an external entity to which they have to adapt, but, on the contrary, as something they themselves can shape, giving it the right form according to the expressive and dramaturgical needs that the music requires, and to the continuous feedback with the place where the performance takes place.

And, on closer inspection, some great musical masterpieces, such as, for example, Schubert's last Sonatas or Quartets, when interpreted by inspired and charismatic artists have the ability to bring us "out of earthly time," taking us into new perceptual dimensions that respond to other temporal laws.

To put it another way, great performers do not "go in time," but "create time." After all, the listener perceives the vertigo of speed or the suspended enchantment of an Adagio not only according to the actual rapidity of the metronomic tactus, but primarily according to the motor energy and musical tension communicated by the performer. This depends not only on the rapidity, on the skillful handling of agogics and dynamics, exploiting imperceptible changes in tempo and dynamic nuances in a way that is functional to the dramaturgy of the piece.

A long essay would not suffice to dissertate on the infinite possibilities of managing time in music, and this is not the place to attempt a more articulate analysis on the subject. This brief thought is intended, rather, to be an encouragement toward listeners and performers to be amazed and guided by the subjective perception of musical time, to "listen" to it in its peculiarities.

Too often, even today, there are music teachers who insist on "getting in time," on "respecting time," as if time were only that marked by the metronome rod or the hands of the clock, outside of music and ourselves. Instead, I am certain that the most fulfilling and intense musical experiences can occur when we recover a natural, organic relationship with time, inwardly listening to our own "subjective time," and letting this be shaped by the intensity of great music.