HOW TO CONCENTRATE DURING A PERFORMANCE
THE DANGER OF KNOWING TOO MUCH
PLAYING OCTAVES
HOW TO PLAY FROM A FAKE BOOK
PERFORMANCE ANXIETY, PART ONE
PERFORMANCE ANXIETY, PART TWO
CHANGING WHAT THE COMPOSER WROTE / URTEXT EDITIONS / RUDOLF SERKIN
BREAKING PIANO STRINGS
HOW TO PLAY THE PIANO
HANDS TOO SMALL / HANDS TOO BIG
SOSTENUTO PEDAL REPERTOIRE
PIANO BENCHES
CHOOSING A PIANO TEACHER
CONFLICTING ADVICE FROM DIFFERENT TEACHERS
THE GOALS OF MUSIC LESSONS
MOVING YOUR PIANO
PEDAGOGICAL PET PEEVES
JEFFREY CHAPPELL’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY
FAQ’S BACKSTAGE
LAST-MINUTE CONCERTO SUBSTITUTIONS
THE MEANING OF LIFE
and for more answers read the
GOUCHER QUARTERLY
interview
Dear Mr. Chappell:
Although I can play well and accurately when I'm alone, I recently performed for a gathering of people and found that I couldn't concentrate well under those circumstances. Do you have any helpful hints on improving concentration during a performance?
Dear Concentrator:
The first prerequisite for good concentration is to have a strong mind. The way to have a strong mind is to be well-rested. This means getting a good night's sleep. If you want to take it a step further, then the practice of meditation is a supplemental form of rest that will enhance the quality of your concentration.
The next step is to make listening your priority. Not listening to your thoughts about being nervous or about being fearful of criticism, but instead listening to the sounds that you are making. In the practice room, practice listening by playing a single note and listening to it fade away into silence. Keep listening to that long tone during its entire lifespan. Carry that quality of attention onstage with you.
Remember that being onstage inherently and automatically sets up a condition of heightened energy, emotion, and excitement. That means that if you believe you are experiencing the same amount of excitement onstage that you felt in the practice room, you are in fact probably projecting even more excitement than you realize. This stronger excitement works against being in control of what you are doing. A decrease in control means more mistakes, which means more self-reproach, which means less concentration.
In this case, the antidote is to slightly underplay your emotions onstage, and it will turn out that less is enough. Concentration will become easier. According to this approach, emoting is not your job. Instead, your job is representing the music, undertaking the simple actions involved in getting from one part of the piece to the next. Set up the conditions so that the AUDIENCE feels the emotions. Let yourself go in the practice room instead.
Your attitude also affects your concentration. The main reason that you are distracted when performing is that you are receiving the attention of other people that is coming in your direction. Instead, send your attention in their direction. Orient the purpose of your being there toward enlivening a wonderful experience for those people. It's about them, not about you.
And nobody came there to criticize you. Since you have been an audience member yourself, you know that people attend an event with positive inclinations. They want to take away the best of it and to overlook deficiencies. The fact that they showed up to hear you indicates that you have the benefit of the doubt. Even if you don't feel you played your best, you certainly provided a good experience for some listeners. In that case, mission accomplished.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
I enjoy playing music, but I'm afraid that gaining too much technical ability or theoretical knowledge could get in the way of my spontaneity. Should I be worried?
Dear Worrier:
It may not be necessary to gain technical ability or theoretical knowledge if you want to create your entire musical world just using the gifts and abilities that you already have. Many tremendously successful musicians in the field of pop music, for example, have done exactly this. It is possible to operate within a restricted set of parameters in order to generate expressive and durable artistic statements.
But if you are intent on gaining ability and knowledge, your question takes on validity.
Regarding technical ability: The only technique that can get in your way is the one that you haven't mastered. If you have to think about doing the technique, then it will distract you. Your goal should be total mastery so that you can spontaneously do anything that you want. There is no downside to that.
Regarding knowledge of music theory: There are two kinds of knowledge: experience and understanding. Experience is concrete, physical, and in the present time. Understanding is abstract, mental, and can be about the past or future.
It is possible to experience something without understanding it, and it is possible to understand something without experiencing it. If you both experience what you understand and understand what you experience, then you have complete knowledge.
The two words in the phrase "music theory" represent the two kinds of knowledge. Music is what you experience, and theory is the method of understanding it.
The theoretical knowledge of music is intellectual and analytical. It consists of naming things and identifying their relationships. Naming things enables you to communicate with other people about music. Identifying relationships enables you to predict results.
The answer to this part of your question depends on whether you are relating to music as a listener, improviser, composer, or performer.
As a listener, if you want to indulge yourself (as I sometimes do) by being wonder-struck at the mystery of a piece of music, you might be better off not knowing what its theoretical analysis consists of. It is not necessary to understand music at the level of your intellect. Music is the sound of feelings. Feelings are a form of understanding. Therefore, you can understand a piece of music at the level of your feelings.
As an improviser or as a composer, being able to predict results will increase your success. You will definitely be better off knowing all you can about music theory.
As a performer of someone else's music, knowing music theory will help you to understand a composition from the viewpoint of its creator. That would be the greatest understanding.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
I’m having trouble playing several octaves in a row with one hand, as in playing a scale, arpeggio, or melody in octaves. Do you have any tips?
Dear Doubler:
Remember that the classic fingering for octaves is 1 and 5 on white keys, and 1 and 4 on black keys. This is because the fourth finger is longer than the fifth finger, and consequently more easily reaches the black keys.
If the octave passage in question includes both white and black key octaves, keep your thumb near the black keys so that the hand doesn’t move back and forth to travel from white to black. Your thumb should move in a straight line right and left, in other words, in order to negotiate the passage efficiently.
When you move from one octave to the next, don’t let your hand change shape. Keep the frame of an octave between your thumb and fourth (or fifth) finger at all times.
You can play octaves with an arm technique, a wrist technique, or a finger technique. In each case, only the arm moves as a unit from the elbow joint, or only the hand moves as a unit from the wrist joint (like waving goodbye), or only the fingers move. By “as a unit”, I mean “without bending any other joints.” One of these techniques works best for each musical passage. Try each to determine which one suits what you are working on.
If you need speed and efficiency, don’t lift your hand up in the air when traveling from one to the next octave. Move sideways only, staying as near to the key surface as possible.
As is always the case when playing the piano, you need to choose a focal point for your attention. I recommend that you think of, and if possible look at, your thumb as you play the octaves. Let the other note in the octave just be a companion to the thumb.
To reinforce this idea, practice the octave passage by playing only the notes that the thumb plays, omitting the other note in the octave.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
What suggestions do you have for using a fake book? I am a beginner at this.
Dear Beginner:
Here’s the Jeffrey Chappell step-by-step method for approaching a fake book lead sheet:
1. Play the melody with your right hand.
2. Play the melody with your right hand plus the roots of the chords with your left hand.
3. Play the melody with your right hand plus the chords, in root position, with your left hand.
4. Play the melody with your right hand plus the chords with your left hand, using root position as well as inversions to facilitate smooth connections. (Tip: For descending fifth progressions, all the connections will be step-wise, making things easier. And there are bunches of descending fifth progressions in fake book tunes.)
That’s it. Congratulate yourself. You’re playing a tune from a fake book.
If you want to do more, consider the following:
5. Include chord tones in the right hand as well as the left hand. Your left fifth finger will always play the root of the chord, and you will play the interval of either an octave, seventh, or fifth in that hand. Your thumb and second finger in your right hand will fill in other notes of the chord while the remaining fingers will play the melody.
6. Here’s a quick approach to a jazz “voicing” (distribution of chord tones): Left fifth finger takes the root of the chord; right fifth finger takes the melody note; add either the third or seventh of the chord in the left hand; then add the seventh or third (whichever the left hand didn’t take) in the right hand. If the melody note already is the seventh or third of the chord, use the fifth as one of the inner notes.
Enjoy.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
I would like to hear your advice about a concert I gave recently. I was striving to not only play well, but to enjoy playing, and was taken off guard by not being able to enjoy playing. I couldn't step out of my fear. Fear of playing the wrong notes, and fear of the difficult last piece on the program. I couldn't center myself. So I didn't enjoy the concert even though I had tons of appreciative people there.
Dear Performer:
You have to give up the idea that you are performing for the sake of your own experience. You’re not. You are there to bring to your listeners what you pray will be the awakening of a divine experience.
Every person present, including yourself, will react differently to the performance. Your own crappy feeling may have no relation whatever to someone else’s perception and experience. Trusting in that, you can play as you play. Someone might come up and tell you that you have saved their life that day. It happened to me once.
Fear comes from sensing isolation. Isolation in this case comes from feeling like attention is coming in your direction from everyone. Instead, as above, your attention can be going in their direction.
Some days we do get to enjoy playing. But the consensus so far is that it is not possible to predict when that will happen.
You also have to give up the idea that you are in control of what is happening. You’re not. Walking onstage is surrendering the self. Even the wrong notes are supposed to happen that way.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
I get very nervous performing and I have been considering taking beta-blockers to go onstage and perform. What is your opinion of this?
Dear Prescriber:
I disfavor using drugs to remedy stage fright, especially if other means are available. I’d like to suggest a couple of things for you to try.
You may notice that your hands shake when you get nervous (especially obvious to a pianist who is playing at the time). This is the body’s natural way of discharging the nervousness. It doesn’t mean that you are nervous, it means that you are becoming less nervous; it actually is a means to REDUCE your tension, so it’s a good sign. Therefore, take control of the process: purposely shake your hands back and forth. You could even make your whole body shiver in order to diminish your nervousness.
Part of having an experience is your reaction to it, which becomes a secondary experience. First you feel afraid, and then you feel like you don’t want to be afraid but you are, which tells you that you can’t help yourself from feeling afraid, which tells you that you are out of control. Break this loop by taking control of the fear: be afraid on purpose. In the privacy of your dressing room, pretend to be even more afraid than you really are. Shake your hands, hyperventilate, widen your eyes, and make sounds. Now you are the one who is driving your fear and it won’t be driving you. When you settle back to normal, you will most likely be much less anxious.
How did I overcome stage fright? By walking onstage pretending that I was at home in the greatest place in the world. After awhile, I ended up believing it.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
How do you feel about changing the notes of a piano piece that was written in the time period when the keyboard had fewer than 88 keys, i.e. adding notes that didn’t exist on the smaller keyboards when the composers wrote their pieces, using the octave above or below, or rewriting a passage that is a repeat in a different key of corresponding material?
Dear Arranger:
I have a divided perspective on this issue. My training tells me to give one answer, but my personal outlook allows a different answer.
I studied at the Curtis Institute of Music during the time when Rudolf Serkin, one of the 20th century’s greatest pianists, was its director. Serkin was one of the pioneers in music scholarship, particularly research into a composer’s intentions as reflected in that composer’s handwritten manuscript.
Before the 1920s, the mission of a music editor was to immortalize his own interpretation of a piece of music by adding indications for dynamics, articulation, pedaling, fingering, hand distribution, and tempo, even including changing, adding to, or subtracting notes. This could be helpful for student musicians who needed ideas and direction, but it presented the problem of not knowing what, for example, Beethoven wrote versus what Hans von Bulow added to it. And who was Hans von Bulow when compared to Beethoven, after all? At any rate, the innocent performer might represent the editor instead of the composer.
After the 1920s (approximately), the revised mission of an editor was to deliver exactly what the composer put on paper with no interference. Now, if performers altered the text, they were at least doing it with full knowledge. And the performer could also choose to adhere to what was given with confidence that it would represent the composer.
These editions that were faithful to the composer were called “urtext” editions. At Curtis Institute, we were trained to use only urtext editions and to regard with disdain any other types of editions.
Furthermore, Mr. Serkin would never allow any changing of the text, not even altering hand distribution to facilitate a difficult passage. “Beethoven was a pianist,” he would say, “and he knew what he was asking for. It would change the actual sound of this arpeggio if it were played with two hands instead of one.” On the question of adding the obvious missing notes that, if only our current 88-note keyboard had been available to him, the composer would have written, Mr. Serkin was adamant. We would play only the notes as written. That’s what the composer played. End of story.
Furthermore, Serkin said to me that the Godowsky transcriptions of the Chopin etudes were “monstrosities.” Personally, I find them fascinating, inventive, brilliant, and amazing. (Incidentally, I also have Godowsky connections in my own training, since Godowsky taught Paul Van Katwyk who taught my teacher Jane Allen, and Godowsky taught David Saperton who taught my teacher Eleanor Sokoloff.)
My personal outlook is that the only rule in music is to do what sounds good. I have come some distance from my strict training, partly because of my functioning as a composer and improviser — expressions of musicality that were sidelined by my training in favor of interpreting music only. I am always open and willing to consider options. There are many cases where it is obvious that a composer would have continued a pattern into a low or high register that didn’t exist on his keyboard, if it had existed. I play the low G# in pieces by Ravel — Jeux d’Eau, Scarbo — when I play the Bosendorfer piano; he writes a low A, but it is paired with the G# above that as if it were an octave. The G# octave certainly sounds better. I have reinforced low bass notes with octaves in the Chopin G Minor Ballade on occasion, inspired perhaps by Vladimir Horowitz. But I don’t change Beethoven, perhaps as an homage to Mr. Serkin.
Serkin told me an interesting story when I studied the Beethoven Sonata Opus 109 with him. He said that in the first variation in the last movement, Busoni had written a version where he doubled as an octave the single left-hand bass note on each first beat. He said that he liked the sound, but that he couldn’t allow himself to play it. So he used his thumb on the single bass note, stretching his fifth finger over the note an octave below — but without playing that lower note! This way he could have it both ways and be satisfied.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
I recently witnessed you break a string while performing. What commentary do you have to offer on the resilience of the modern piano as compared with the piano of Beethoven’s or Liszt’s day? I understand that the strings don’t break anywhere near as much as they did back then. Do you believe that had you been a pianist at the time of the earlier piano you would have played with less force to keep the strings intact?
Dear Audience Member:
I don’t think it’s something that can be generalized necessarily. Certain individual pianos, some of them even Steinway concert grands, have shown a propensity for having their strings broken. Other pianos seem never to have this problem. But it is not according to brand name, size, or year of construction. It is just some overloaded feature in the mechanism that favors broken strings happening. Once in awhile, a player can use such force that strings can break, but that is rare. More often, the piano wire is worn out.
I suppose I would play an older-style piano differently than I do the modern instrument, not to avoid breaking strings but to take advantage of whatever sound palette was indigenous to it. I play the piano forcefully because that is how I get the sonority that I desire. I would adjust to another instrument according to its sonic properties.
I once broke the D two octaves above middle C during a concert performance of the Brahms Second Concerto, and I was only in the second movement. That was quite an inconvenience. While a student at Curtis Institute, I had a Steinway B in my apartment that had a propensity for breaking bass strings. I used to hang the broken ones on my wall as trophies.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
Is there some simple way to play the piano? It seems so complicated.
Dear Simplifier:
Actually, there is a lot to know, but it really boils down to this: to play the piano, put a finger on a key and push down. Then there is a corollary: And, at all times and to the maximum extent, touch the key in advance of putting it down.
You’d be surprised at how far just this bit of information will take you.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
It feels like my hands are too small to play octaves and other wide intervals on the keyboard. I'm young and I know that my hands will grow eventually, but your suggestions or tips would be most welcome!
Dear Growing Person:
You can stretch your hands---gently and carefully----as follows:
Put your index fingers on the edge of a table with the other fingers and thumbs hanging down. Don't just touch the tips of the fingers on the edge of the table, put the entire finger on top of the table S-T-R-E-T-C-H between the number 2 and 3 fingers by gently pushing down. Now switch and put the fingers numbers 3, 4, and 5 on the top edge of the table with the index fingers and thumbs hanging down. Stretch between number 2 and 3 fingers again.
Now put fingers 2 and 3 on the table with numbers 4 and 5 and the thumbs hanging down. Stretch. Put 4 and 5 on the table with 2 and 3 and the thumbs hanging down. Stretch.
Now put fingers 2, 3, and 4 on the table with number 5 and the thumbs hanging down. Stretch. Put number 5 on the table with 2, 3, and 4 and the thumbs hanging down. Stretch.
Now put the thumbs on the table with the other fingers hanging down. Stretch. Done.
Do this often and never uncomfortably. See if that helps.
Here is what some people do that you should NEVER do: put the thumb and index finger of one hand between two fingers of the other hand, separate that thumb and index finger, and stretch the two fingers in a sideways direction. Not only is this harmful, but it doesn't really stretch what needs to be stretched.
Good luck.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
I am teaching an adult student with very big hands. For example, it is easier and more comfortable for him to play a fifth using 1 and 3 than it is using 1 and 5. Should I try to have him conform to standard fingerings? Any words of wisdom you can offer would be greatly appreciated.
Dear Teacher:
That is a fascinating question. It kind of splits down the line of "things every pianist needs to be able to do" versus "accommodating individual characteristics".
The real answer is to be able to do anything. So, from that standpoint, he should be able to use any fingering and any hand position. After that is established, he can choose to do whatever he wants to.
Have the student play all intervals with all pairs of fingers. So, play all 12 minor seconds, all 12 major seconds, all 12 minor thirds, etc., in ascending and descending chromatic order (example: minor seconds: C-Db, C#-D, D-Eb, etc.) with the following fingering combinations: 1-2, 1-3, 1-4, 1-5, 2-3, 2-4, 2-5, 3-4, 3-5, and 4-5. It's rigorously methodical and therefore potentially tedious, so perhaps you should assign a couple of intervals per week if that would make the going smoother.
Also have him play various 5-note combinations all fingered as right hand 1-2-3-4-5 and left hand 5-4-3-2-1, with different distances between the keys such as: chromatic (example: C-C#-D-D#-E), major and minor diatonic (C-D-E-F-G or C-D-Eb-F-G); whole tone (C-D-E-F#-G#); diminished 7th chord (C-Eb-F#-A-C); augmented triad (C-E-G#-C-E); and quartal (C-F-Bb-Eb-Ab), and have him transpose them to all 12 positions. If he can play the groupings both as chords and as ascending/descending single note patterns (or even other creative patterns for that matter), it would be good also.
Now that I've dreamed that up for you, I think I'll start having all of my students do it.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
I was reading your article on pedals and was wondering if you could name some piano pieces that utilize the sostenuto pedal.
Dear Pedaler:
Samuel Barber: Piano Sonata, Op. 26; fourth movement; Schirmer edition, page 34 and page 36
Aaron Copland: Piano Variations, last four measures
Elliott Carter: Piano Sonata; Mercury Music Corporation edition, page 8 and page 39 and elsewhere.
Percy Grainger: a very high percentage of his piano solo works. Example: “Piano Album”, Schirmer edition, page 44 (arrangement of “Molly on the Shore”). But I just grabbed that example at random by flipping the book open.
If I spent even more time researching this, I could find even more instances for you. It tends to be, of course, later-20th- and 21st-century composers who use this indication. Some performers use the sostenuto pedal at their own discretion to facilitate passages in Debussy’s and Ravel’s music in particular and elsewhere ad libitum.
Closing thought: organ transcriptions for solo piano would be the ideal material for this usage. I don’t see any indications in Busoni’s transcriptions at a quick glance, but Harold Bauer used it on page 9 of the Schirmer edition of Bach’s Toccata in D Major (harpsichord, not organ, actually) and pages 3, 4, and 5 of Arthur Brisker’s transcription of Bach’s Great Fantasy and Fugue in G Minor, Carl Fischer edition.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
My piano teacher doesn’t like the chair (adjustible and with rollers) I use and wants me to get something else. The best, it seems to me, would be one of those adjustable piano benches (black, tufted and with knobs on either side for adjustment). Do you have any idea how much they cost and where I could get one? One store quoted me $650, which is quite a bit more than I was counting on.
Dear Student:
I don’t advocate those “artist’s benches”, as they are called. They cost a bundle. After about a year of use, they develop squeaks and start rocking from side to side when you sit on them. The design of the knobs on the side to raise or lower the bench by 1/100th of an inch per complete rotation is ridiculous — you could get tendonitis before you even start to play your instrument just by adjusting the bench.
Look for something else. There are many designs available.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
I’m looking for a piano teacher for my teen-age son. How do I find someone?
Dear Shopper:
That depends on what the goal of the student is. One goal might be to acquire keyboard skills at a level that would allow for composing, understanding music theory, supplementing the study of another instrument, or basic accompanying duties. In that case, a knowledge of chords and scales, as well as rudimentary maneuvering around the keyboard, is what is called for. Another might be to develop the abilities associated with playing compositions written specifically for the piano. In that case, control of tone and dynamics, and the array of touches to produce it — including all the variations of speed, direction, and amount of weight of the fingers, hands, and arms — is what is called for. In the first case, you can learn on an electronic instrument. In the second case, a real piano is absolutely necessary.
In any case, there are certain things that all keyboardists/pianists must be able to do. Unlike many other instruments, on the piano you may sound more than one note at a time. Therefore, the basic skill required is to do more than one thing at a time. That means simultaneous different loudnesses, speeds, and articulations between the two hands or even in one hand at a time. This is inescapable, and in fact it is the glory of keyboard playing.
Then there is the question of what kind of music the student intends to play. If the goal is to be an improviser, composer, or arranger, then you will need a teacher who can handle those topics. If the goal is to play music from a printed page, in other words, to be an interpreter, then you will need a teacher who can handle that. Most teaching is done in this latter category, since most teachers teach classical music and classical music is written, not improvised.
Then there is the question of what style of music the student wants to play. Most classical music teachers don’t teach much jazz or pop music. They could, however, if they would teach written transcriptions or arrangements of jazz or pop music. The student comes to no harm by it. When a student plays from a printed page, they still must be able to render the score accurately. Whether it’s Beethoven or John Williams, the same problems of reading pitches and rhythms, and adhering to indications of tempo, dynamics, and pedaling, must be solved. The style of music doesn’t change those elements of notation.
If the goal is to become expert in jazz improvisation, it will be best to find a teacher who is a professional in that field. It is unusual to find one teacher who can cover both classical music and jazz, in which case perhaps two teachers, one for classical and one for jazz, might be the best solution.
There are methods of teaching that do not heavily rely on the printed page. In this case, the teacher demonstrates the music by playing it for the student, and the student imitates the teacher. If I reach over to the keyboard and play a note with my index finger, then ask you to do the same, it would take a couple of seconds for us to complete that transaction. If I tell you that there are seven letters of the alphabet that correspond to musical tones, and that they are written on these five lines, and that I indicate one of those seven letters by fixing it to one of the lines, and that from there you can deduce which lines and spaces belong to the other six letters, and that your fingers are numbered from one to five starting with the thumb as number one, and then if I ask you to put finger number two on the note that is written on the page, and then if you decipher which note it is and play it with your index finger, it would take much longer than a couple of seconds. The former method is an example of the Suzuki method, named for an influential Japanese teacher, and the latter method is an example of the “traditional” European method. I personally favor a mix of the two methods with my young students.
Finally, if the student knows exactly what kind of music they want to play, for example the works of a certain composer or stylistic period, then you might want to find a teacher who will help with that project. If the student doesn’t know what kind of music they like, then you might want to find a teacher who will provide a survey of the keyboard literature. My experience has been that adult students usually fall into the first category and younger students usually fall into the second. Your teen-age son should probably spend time exploring many musical options in order to draw informed conclusions about his direction.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
I have studied with different teachers, and they give me conflicting information. What am I supposed to do?
Dear Conflicted:
One teacher taught you one way, another taught you a different way. So how should you play the music, this way or that way? The answer is that you should be able to do anything.
Furthermore, you need to know why you are doing things in a particular way. If you knew that, you might not be asking this question.
You are doing things in a particular way in order to produce a specific result. Technically speaking, the way of positioning your hand, the direction from which it approaches the keyboard, the amount of curvature or straightness in the fingers, the speed at which you put the keys down, the sensation of heaviness or lightness in the arm, the amount of flexibility in the wrist, and each of these things combined in all of their varying degrees results in a different sound and a corresponding musical effect. Musically speaking, your choices regarding tempo, dynamics, articulation, pedaling, rubato, tone quality, and even fingering will project different shades of expression. When playing a piece of music, the question always is: what result do I desire at any particular time?
One reason that some teachers promote just one way of doing things is that they desire one specific result. But another possible reason is that they may never have actually made their own aware choices about what they are doing. I'm sorry to say that some teachers just teach what they were taught by their teachers, so their advocacy of how to do things is based only on a sense of authority.
Ideally, learning music is not a matter of following orders. The job of a teacher is to acquaint a student with options. The job of a student is to accomplish the ability to implement those options. Then the student can choose with awareness from a wide range of options in order to produce the results that they desire.
I would say that the only bad thing is the lack of awareness. As a teacher, I constantly want to know whether my students are doing things on purpose. Perhaps a student plays forte where the score is marked piano. Was that a decision based on personal musicality or scholarly research? If so, I can support the decision even if I don't agree with it. Or did the student not notice the marking or not realize that they were playing loudly? If so, then my job is to awaken the student to what they are doing.
This is why I have no disagreement with any of your previous teachers, except when they didn't explain why you are supposed to do things their way. If you are doing things without knowing why, then you can only repeat the trick that you have learned, like a trained animal. You will lack the autonomy to generalize your choices and to apply them in different situations. In that case, your human potential remains undeveloped. Developing that potential is the essential goal of piano playing.
By the way, I can say without having heard you play that there is nothing wrong with your piano playing. You already have the ability to do certain things, and that is good. All you need to do is to add more abilities.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
I am trying to come up with a statement of what the goals are for my piano lessons. What would you say the goals should be?
Dear Goalie:
The goals of music lessons are different for the student and for the teacher.
For the student, the goal of music lessons is to eliminate the need for a teacher.
For the teacher, the goal of music lessons is to be surpassed by the student.
It is important always to move in the direction of these goals even if the distance covered is small.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
I will be moving across the country and want to know how to move my piano most safely. The van I have arranged to move my furniture is not climate controlled but the move will only take four or five days. I’m sure this will be a good quality moving company. What should I worry about? Thanks for any advice you can give.
Dear Mover:
I had a piano moved from California to Baltimore. I used Schafer Piano Company — they specialize in coast-to-coast piano moving. They list an 800 phone number.
I was concerned that they would be moving the piano during the WINTER in a truck that was not climate-controlled. But it arrived in tune and in perfect shape.
A piano technician that I asked about this told me that the life span of a piano is many years, and that a brief period of a few days under not perfect conditions was similar to someone smoking cigarettes for a few days versus being a life-long chain smoker. It might have uncomfortable short term effects, but would be negligible overall.
But this person should talk to other piano tuners about the possible bad effects of moving a piano across the country in a hot truck. More than one opinion is better to have.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
My piano teacher told me never to bang the piano. How can I avoid doing that?
Dear Intimidated:
This is one of several bits of inherited “wisdom” that, to my annoyance, continue to circulate in the piano teaching community after making an appearance at least a century ago. I will list the main ones here, starting with your issue.
I imagine that “don’t bang the piano” might have meant “don’t play loudly” to certain prudish persons who wished to discourage excesses of expression from their piano students. But you can’t realize the great piano literature with a limited dynamic range.
The piano was built for sound, and is in fact named after its property of playing both softly and loudly (since it was originally called a “pianoforte” or “fortepiano”). I am hoping that you will, in fact, play very loudly when the composer asks for it.
Perhaps it was feared by some teachers that “banging” could damage the piano as well. That is simply not a concern, unless you attacked it using some kind of heavy tool instead of your hands. The piano is built to take a tremendous amount of force from its players.
To “bang” the piano could only mean one thing to a reasonable musician: don’t make harsh sounds on the instrument. If you remain relaxed, especially in your wrists, it will be impossible to make a harsh sound no matter how loudly you play. You can also minimize harsh sounds by keeping the wrist low and curving your fingers. A high, unbending wrist combined with straight fingers will bring you a harsh sound quite easily. Try it. Some piece that you play might call for just such a sound.
Also: Every day, thousands of piano teachers tell millions of students that Middle C is the middle of the piano keyboard. It isn’t. It is not the middle of any instrument. Instead, it is the middle of the grand staff. It is the note on the single ledger line between the treble staff and the bass staff. If you start at both ends of the piano keyboard and play chromatic scales towards the middle, you will end up on E and F above Middle C. This is the center of the keyboard. If you want to utilize every possible advantage in your piano playing, sit with this center in front of you. It maximizes your reach in either direction on the keyboard, unless your arms are noticeably different lengths.
Also: It seems to be an accepted fact that you should change fingers on repeated notes. This is not always desirable. If you have repeated notes that must be played fast, then it is almost always the best thing to do. And if you have repeated notes that are slow and should each sound different, as if they were different syllables and vowels sung by a singer, then you should change fingers on each note. But if you have repeated notes that are of a slow to moderate tempo, and if you want identical sounds on each note, then you should make identical movements with your hands to create those sounds. Use the same finger over and over again.
Also: I am sometimes approached by concerned students who try to match the tempo marking in a piece of music to the suggested range for that tempo as it appears on their metronome. But there is no absolute and objective number of beats per minute that equals "allegro", "andante", or anything else, and it is meaningless to follow these well-intentioned general indications. Only the actual experience of playing a specific piece of music can give you the range of its tempo, which will lie somewhere between the slowest speed and the fastest speed at which it can be played without sounding ludicrous. In addition to this, there is the fact that different composers used the same words differently. "Lento" for Chopin is probably faster than anybody else's, while Beethoven's "adagio" might be slower than anybody else's. Only the study of many works of music, both by different composers and also by the same composer, can develop your sense of appropriate choices for tempo. Use the metronome for what it does best--to help practice maintaining a uniform tempo. But as to what the tempo is, that is your choice, not the metronome's.
My main point is that you should do everything that you do as a conscious choice. Don’t just do something, or not do something, because somebody taught you that. You should know the results of each course of action you take and you should know the reasons why you take it.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
I have read your resume and official biography. Can you provide a slightly more personal version of your musical life in chronological order?
Dear Reader:
I am the first professional musician in my family, unless you count my grandmother, who was the organist at my grandfather’s church. Both of my parents were aeronautical engineers, but my mother played Chopin and my father played boogie-woogie. What happened then was that I spent the first 30 years of my life totally focused on one thing — classical music. That was the Chopin side. Afterwards, I added jazz to my pursuits. That was the boogie-woogie side. But I also started reaching in all directions. Improvisation, composition, teaching, journalism, and musical theater have all figured strongly since that time.
My first great teacher was Jane Allen, who took me as a student when I was 13 years old. She told me that I would have to work, and so I did. By the time I was 15, I had the technical ability to play the most advanced pieces in the repertoire. Then my family moved away from St. Louis, so, at Jane Allen’s invitation, I left home at the age of 15 to stay behind in Missouri as her protégé and to study for two more years. I was then accepted to the Curtis Institute of Music in 1970 as the student of Eleanor Sokoloff, with additional lessons from Rudolf Serkin. I loved every minute of my four years there. I finished by winning the Philadelphia Orchestra Concerto Competition and by spending the summer of 1974 at the Marlboro Music Festival.
I then continued my studies at the Peabody Conservatory with Leon Fleisher, finishing a Master’s Degree in 1976. While at Peabody, I came to the attention of Sergiu Comissiona, who was then the conductor of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. During Comissiona’s term, I was invited to perform with the BSO throughout the state of Maryland several times a year, as well as at Carnegie Hall and Wolf Trap Park. On one occasion, I was called to substitute for Claudio Arrau, performing the Brahms Second Concerto on four hours’ notice with no rehearsal and to critical acclaim. During this period, I also was engaged to perform with other major orchestras such as those of Pittsburgh, Houston, Indianapolis, and St. Louis. Many of my concerts were broadcast on national radio. I toured Latin America and appeared at the La Gesse Festival and the Festival d’Ete in France. I also received a Solo Recitalists Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts.
When I diversified my activities and started playing jazz, I eventually became the Director of Jazz Studies at Goucher College in Baltimore and co-chairman of the Jazz Department at the Levine School in Washington, D.C. I also became composer-in-residence for the Mid-Atlantic Chamber Orchestra. I gave concerts with the Lenox Ensemble, an improvisation group of classical musicians in Washington, D.C. I started writing articles and reviews as a contributing editor for Piano&Keyboard Magazine. I attended the BMI Musical Theater Workshop in New York for four years, learning to write for musical theater. At various times, I have been active as a chamber musician, orchestral pianist, silent film improviser, voice coach, recording artist, television soundtrack musician, theory teacher, ballet accompanist (Nureyev and Fonteyn), proofreader, adjudicator, and lecturer. I still continue to perform concertos by Mozart, Brahms, and Rachmaninoff nonetheless. I love teaching, and I can teach people how to do any of the things I have listed.
If I have a specialty, it is French piano music. To be fair, I must say that Ravel is my favorite composer and that it is Faure’s music that I am in love with.
— J.C.
“How do you memorize all those notes? It’s amazing!”
I don’t know how I do it. I’m the one who is the most amazed.
“How many hours do you practice?”
As many as I need to.
“Are you from a musical family?”
I’m the first professional musician. Both of my parents were aeronautical engineers, but my mother played the piano and the cello, and my father played the piano, violin, flute, double bass, recorder, penny whistle, and ocarina. At the age of 40, he took up the guitar. My sister plays the piano and my older brother plays the harmonica. He is the only other musician I’ve met who shares my exact musical instincts and imagination when it comes to timing, phrasing, and arranging tunes.
“What kind of piano do you own?”
I have two Yamahas.
“Where are you from?”
I was born in St. Louis, Missouri, and I live in the Washington, D.C. area.
“Have you made any recordings?”
Yes. You can get them from my website.
“Do you have any good students?”
I have only good students.
“How old were you when you started playing the piano?”
I began formal lessons at the age of 7, but I was playing before that. My earliest memory of playing the piano is standing up to reach the keys and improvising a piece of music about the ocean. Strange, for someone living in Missouri.
“When did you know that you wanted to be a musician?”
When I first heard music.
“What is the span of your hand on the keyboard?”
I can reach a tenth.
“Who is your favorite composer?”
Ravel.
“Don’t your hands ever get tired?”
No, I’m just getting started.
“What are you thinking about while you’re playing onstage?”
You hear what I’m thinking.
“Your music made me cry.”
Was it that bad?
Dear Mr. Chappell:
What is the real story behind those last-minute substitutions that you have done when another pianist has canceled a concert? Like, how many hours was it really from the time they called you to the time of the concert?
Dear Curious:
Well, the story goes something like this:
“I see that Claudio Arrau is playing the Brahms Second two weeks from now. What if he cancels? Maybe I should start practicing.” I was talking to my friend George Orner, who was the principal second violinist in the Baltimore Symphony at the time. I was just joking. I didn’t practice the piece.
That was October, 1977. In early July, I had performed the Brahms Second Concerto at the Metropolitan Opera House at Lincoln Center in New York. I was in the orchestra pit, and the Stuttgart Ballet was onstage dancing to the music, which they had choreographed. Although I had first studied the piece in 1972 and had memorized it then, I was reading from the score for security during the ballet performances because I had to completely subsume my own interpretation of the music in favor of the dancers’ requirements. Four movements long and over forty minutes playing time, the Brahms Second Concerto is one of the biggest and most difficult pieces in the piano repertoire.
The summer and early fall of 1977 found me in kind of a funk. For one thing, I had been sick for some weeks that summer. For another, I had finished my studies at Peabody Conservatory and was wondering and worrying about my future career as a concert pianist, which didn’t look too certain. I hadn’t touched the Brahms Second Concerto since July; in fact, I wasn’t practicing the piano much at all. I was reading a lot, focusing on classics such as the Iliad and the Bible as a self-directed study in the humanities.
At 3:30 p.m. on November 2, 1977, I was reading a passage from Ecclesiastes that said, in effect, don’t imagine that you know what will happen next, when I received a phone call from Ann Goldberg of the Baltimore Symphony. “Can you play for Arrau tonight?” Ann was the person who engaged the soloists with the symphony. I flashed back on my remark to George Orner. I wasn’t sure I understood what she was asking. “Arrau is sick,” she went on. I asked, “Do you mean, could I be on hand in case he can’t do it?” “He is not going to play. Please hold.” This was one of several times that I was put on hold during the conversation. Ann was taking calls from all over the country. She had called the managers of Andre Watts, John Browning, and several other luminaries, and all of them were calling her back to say no.
Teri Gold, a singer whose student recital I had recently accompanied at Peabody, was working as Ann’s assistant. She told me later that she had said to Ann, “What about Jeffrey?” I was a known quantity at the Baltimore Symphony, having been a concerto soloist with them several times already. Ann asked, “Does he play the piece?” Teri went to get the list of my repertoire from a file cabinet. As she put it, “Jeffrey, my hands were shaking when I reached for that file.”
Thank you, Teri Gold.
When Ann came back to me on the phone, I asked, “Could I just play through the piece once and then let you know?” “No, we need to know now. Please hold.” I ran to my music cabinet, pulled out the Brahms score, and carried it back to the phone. I opened it on the floor in front of me and started turning the pages with one hand while holding the phone with the other. Ann came back. “Jeffrey?”
I had one thought: if I didn’t do this, I would hate myself for the rest of my life. “Okay, I’ll do it,” I told her. “All right, when I’ll get Comissiona’s approval, I’ll call you back,” she said, and hung up. Sergiu Comissiona was the conductor. At 4:00 o’clock, she called back. “You’re on.” The concert program would begin at 8:15.
The only other phone call that came that afternoon was from the symphony board member who was hosting a reception for Arrau that night; could I attend in his place? Yes, of course, was my reply. I made a call to George Orner to ask for a ride to the concert. A piano student came to my door, totally forgotten, whom I had to send away. I didn’t even take time to call my parents.
I played through the piece once with the music and then once without the music. I did my afternoon meditation. I ate some scrambled eggs. Then I got dressed. As I fastened the cuff links on my tuxedo shirt, I asked myself what I was doing. “I’m playing the Brahms,” I answered to myself.
George picked me up a little after 7:00. “Psychic,” he said to me as I got in his car. At 7:30, I was meeting with the conductor in my backstage dressing room at the Lyric Theater. As I played through the piano part on a tiny upright piano, he sang along and conducted. He was concerned that I wasn’t making a big sound. “I’m saving it for the concert,” I told him.
The concerto was the second half of the program. I waited through the first half and the intermission. Then it was time. I walked onstage. I had decided that it would be a distraction to read the music, so I was performing the Brahms Second Concerto for the first time in public by memory. I played the first movement. There was applause afterwards. I played the second movement. One little slip-up in the second theme, but retrieved on the repeat. Again, applause afterwards. Third, fourth movements went by. Last chord. I stood up, turned to Sergiu, yelled “Jesus Christ!” which, in the roar of applause, I’m not sure even he could hear, and gave him a hug. Standing ovation. I walked offstage. My head, from the concentration and energy, felt as if it were expanded to arm’s width.
There were excited reviews in the paper the next day. Word was out. That night, the repeat of the previous evening’s program (some joked that it had been the rehearsal) brought numerous friends and colleagues to the audience. They formed a long line to greet me backstage after the concert. “So this is what it takes to get you downtown,” one of them said.
Subsequently, whenever Comissiona introduced me to someone, he would say, “This is Jeffrey Chappell, who substituted for Claudio Arrau on four hours’ notice.” As the number of years from the actual event lengthened, the number of hours in the story shortened. After awhile, he would say “Three hours’ notice.” Then, “Two hours.” “One hour.” My legend is greater than I am.
As a reward, the symphony hired me back to play the Khachaturian Concerto with them the following season. That performance took place in March, 1979 and was conducted by my teacher, Leon Fleisher.
At 5:00 p.m. on Monday, October 11, 2004, while giving a piano lesson at Goucher College, I received a phone call from my manager. Could I play the Khachaturian Concerto with the Annapolis Symphony that week to substitute for a pianist who had canceled? I hadn’t even looked at the piece since my last performance of it twenty-five years before with the Baltimore Symphony. Two nights later, I was in rehearsal. This time, I used the music so that I could maximize my practice time on the text and not on memorization.
Although the Annapolis Symphony had sent out an alarm to managers all over the United States, expecting to fly the substitute soloist in from anywhere, I had to drive just 45 minutes from my Washington, D.C. area home for the rehearsals and concerts. I took the week off from teaching and instead spent my time napping and practicing. I called it my Khachaturian vacation.
I also took the time to send out an e-mail to various people to let them know that I was making a last-minute substitution for another pianist who had canceled, with details of the performances in case they could attend. One of them wrote back, “What do you mean, ‘last-minute’? You have two whole days.”
The two performances on Friday and Saturday garnered standing ovations as well as compliments from the conductor, David Itkin, and the musicians in the orchestra and in the audience. At Saturday’s reception after the concert, an elderly woman approached me to express her enjoyment of the performance. She told me that it was amazing to her that I could pull off such a feat in so little time—how did I do it? I replied that I didn’t know how I did it, and that I was the person who was the most amazed by the whole thing. She cut right through it. “No, you’re not,” she said.
— J.C.
Dear Mr. Chappell:
You asked if I had any questions at all. I do. What is the meaning of life?
Dear Questing:
To understand the meaning of life, it is first necessary to understand the meaning of meaning. Let me explain this by giving an example: If I were to walk past the house where you live, it would mean nothing to me because I have no connection with that house. If you were to walk past that house, it would mean a lot to you because you have a lot of connections with that house. Therefore, meaning results from things connecting with other things. The more connections you can find in your life, the more meaning it will have. And if you can know that you are connected with everything else, then your life will have the most meaning possible.
— J.C.