A Boring Post About Piano Technique

Sixteen years of playing the piano, three full years of which were spent at the great Colburn Conservatory, and I never played a Mozart sonata until this semester. Should I feel guilty? Maybe not yet, but I do feel like I have been missing out on something truly beautiful. With the exception of Beethoven, I have avoided Classical-era music for as long as I can remember and have always regarded it as the brusselsprout of Art music repertoire. Mozart seemed pretty, and Haydn occassionally silly, but only when I heard them on the radio or at a concert, perhaps programmed next to some other piece of greater interest to me. My previous teacher had tried encouraging me to play a Mozart sonata during my first year with her, but I managed to procrastinate it off my to-do list and she only ever heard me play the last movement of a Mozart concerto. Years later she would finally hear me play Haydn, but only after two years with Mr. Perry had guilted me into conceding that Classical music might actually be worth studying. Now, finally, I may understand what it is that everyone seems to love about this music, and maybe also why I have been avoiding it.

Much of my dislike for Classical music may have to do with my technique. I am 6’1” and somewhat gangly, and so my arms and fingers are very long. I can comfortably reach the span of eleven notes and I can achieve a big sound without working too hard. But therein lies a problem. My long limbs and fingers are somewhat like heavy rowing oars, and in this case I am trying to use them with the precision needed in fencing. Like a lance, I can make very large gestures and hit objects at high speeds, but when it comes to very fine control on a small scale, I simply do not yet have the coordination. During my first year with Mr. Perry, he acknowkedged the benefits of my large hands, and also told me that I would have to work extra hard to strengthen them. Another observation he continued to make was that I always produce a “thick” sound, even when a “fine salted broth” sort of sound would have been more appropriate. He said this results from pushing into the keys. Weight and strength “dirty” a pianist’s sound, and the resulting microscopic change in the way the hammer strikes the string causes more wild overtones to pour out of the piano like gamma-rays. Every pitch starts to sound like a heavily orchestrated chord, and this sound is very appropriate for Russian romantic piano concertos and much 20th century music (not surprisingly, the two styles I seem to play best), but certainly not for the transparency of Mozart and even Beethoven.

Technique is often referred to as the “anti-Music”, but this recent venture into the world of Classical music has taught me otherwise. Changing my technique to something more Classically appropriate has changed the way I interpret the music itself. Every tiny subtlety changes the emotional impact of the music (in this case, wrong notes start to cross into the realm of somewhat-unforgivable), and so I need to be in a state where I can be aware of these small changes. When the skin itches, you scratch it. This is not because scratching your skin eliminates the itch, but it overloads your nervous system so that your brain can no longer detect the itch in the midst of so much activity. This is the same with playing piano. If I want to be physically aware of the sensation at my fingertips so that I can control exactly how I am touching the keys, then I need to deactivate everything above my wrists and play mostly with my fingers. What often happens, though, is that my arms figure that if they are not needed, they should go stiff, and that is no better than just using them outright. But if I can make it work, this also helps to eliminate the "thickness" that comes from playing from my arm muscles and I am not left physically exhausted by the end of a performance.

What I have learned in playing more classical music is that often the most beautiful moments are less exclamations than allusions. These moments can be a small wink, a slight of hand, or a brief seductive smile, and in every case they add a tremendous depth because they appear quietly and infrequently in the midst of such simplicity. This perspective could actually be extremely useful in any other music, which is probably why, consciously or unconsciously, so many teachers of any instrument like to start their students off with a large helping of classical repertoire. I am a little disappointed not to have realized this until now, but I am at least comforted to know that I honestly love and appreciate Classical music, rather than hating it for being that "thing" my piano teachers made me play.