Can you offer me any good approaches to take regarding walking bass lines?

—Peter

Dear Peter:

What a walking bass line does is to provide a living metronome for other notes being played in a piece of music.

Creating a walking bass line is like solving a puzzle. Fortunately, a large part of the solution is automatically worked out for you, because on the beat that a chord symbol appears, you should play the root of that chord (which is to say, the same letter of the alphabet as the chord symbol) or, if it’s a slash chord notation, the note on the right side of the slash. The part of the puzzle that you have to work out is to find notes to fill in the beats between the chord symbols.

The simplest solution is just to play repeated notes on the root of the chord for as many beats as the chord lasts until the next chord. This actually works because it fulfills the metronomic function of the bass line. You could start out this way.

But then, the bass line isn’t really walking yet. “Walking” means that it is traveling from one place to another. The question then is how to travel between the roots of successive chords. The answer is to move by steps (scales) or by skips (arpeggios) or a combination of both. What follows will illustrate specifically how to do that.

There are finite possibilities for root movement between pairs of letters of the alphabet. For example, using the note A as the starting point, it could be followed by another A (repeated note, up an octave, or down an octave), or by B (up a second or down a seventh), or by C (up a third or down a sixth), or by D (up a fourth or down a fifth), or by E (up a fifth or down a fourth), or by F (up a sixth or down a third), or by G (up a seventh or down a second). The addition of sharps or flats to these doesn’t fundamentally change the puzzle.

Out of all of these possibilities, the most frequently encountered is a root movement of descending fifths (or ascending fourths, which yields the same alphabet letters). The seven alphabet letters in the order of descending fifths (ascending fourths) starting with A are: A, D, G, C, F, B, E.

Four of these in sequence form a word that is easy to remember—BEAD—and you can create your own mnemonic for the following GCF. Just open a fake book to any random page and you will almost always find some segment of the BEADGCF sequence. I am fond of saying that this accounts for about 85% of jazz tunes.

In 4/4 time, it is common for chords to last two beats or four beats, and sometimes eight beats, and occasionally one beat. Now all you need is a system for walking in two, four, sometimes eight, and occasionally one beat between the pairs A and A, A and B, A and C, A and D, A and E, A and F, and A and G, and all of their transpositions.

The easiest solution is when the chord lasts only one beat. In this case, you just play the root of that chord and then the root of the next chord. There are no beats to fill in between the chords. That takes care of that.

Another very easy solution is when the chord lasts eight beats. In this case, play an ascending or descending scale that starts and ends on the chord root. For example, if you have an Amaj7 chord for eight beats, you would play ascending A, B, C#, D (barline), E, F#, G#, A or descending A, G#, F#, E (barline), D, C#, B, A. The fact that the downbeat after the barline is a letter of the alphabet that doesn’t match the chord symbol is accepted as an exception to the rule.

When the chord lasts two beats, that is fairly easy because you only have to come up with one note between the chord roots. A solution is to approach the next chord root by a step, preferably a half step, either above or below it.

For example, let’s take the frequently encountered descending fifths (ascending fourths) root movement. If the chord progression is A to D in half notes, approaching by a half step above the next chord root would be either A up to Eb and down to D, or A down to Eb and down to D. In either direction, this creates the interval of a tritone (A to Eb). This is a commonly-used solution when the first chord is a dominant seventh, diminished seventh, or half-diminished seventh.

A solution approaching by a half step below the next chord root would be A up to C# and up to D, or A down to C# and up to D. This is a commonly-used solution when the first chord is either a major seventh or dominant seventh. An approach by a whole step either above or below the next chord root works best when the first chord is a minor seventh.

Now all you need is a system for getting from A to A in four beats; from A to B in four beats; from A to C in four beats; and the same for A to D, A to E, A to F, and A to G.

Let’s take an example. In the tune “Autumn Leaves” with a key signature of one sharp, the first seven chords are Amin7, D7, Gmaj7, Cmaj7, F#min(b5), B7, and Emin7. Notice that these are the seven alphabet letters, starting with A, in the order of descending fifths (ascending fourths).

Each chord lasts for four beats. On beat one of each measure, you would play the root of the chord. Now there are three beats remaining in each measure and it’s time to solve the puzzle.

The descending fifths progression in four beats is the most straightforward walking bass solution. Play the root of the chord on beat one and then to go down the scale on beats two, three, and four, arriving another step later on beat one of the next measure. So, Amin7 to D7 would be A, G, F#, E (barline), D.

The customary solution for walking an ascending fourth root movement in four beats is to play the root of the chord on beat one and then to go up a whole step and two half steps, no matter whether the chord is major or minor in its basic quality. So, Amin7 to D7 would be A, B, C, C# (barline), D.

These two patterns will get you through about 85% of jazz because of the ubiquity of the descending fifths (ascending fourths) root movements.

Another easy solution for when the chord lasts four beats is to play only the chord tones as an arpeggio. The chord A (add accidentals according to the chord quality) would be ascending A, C, E, A or descending A, E, C, A; and with the seventh would be ascending A, C, E, G or descending A, G, E, C. Then you proceed to the root of the next chord.

If the root of the next chord is not a step away from the note on the fourth beat, there will be some potentially inelegant skipping to the next root. Again, this is acceptable because the bass line not only maintains its metronomic function but it also travels from one root to the next. However, you can create solutions that are more elegant by combining steps and skips.

Here are some possible solutions for the other root movements in four beats (add accidentals according to the chord quality), but you may invent many others:

A to A (repeated note): A, B, C, B (barline), A
A to A (up an octave): A, B, C, E (barline), A
A to A (down an octave): A, E, C, B (barline), A
A up to B: A, E, C, A (barline), B
A down to B: A, E, D, C (barline), B
A up to C: A, B, C, D (barline), C
A down to C: A, E, A, B (barline), C
A up to E: A, B, C, D (barline), E
A down to E: A, E, C, D (barline), E
A up to F: A, C, D, E (barline), F
A down to F: A, G, F, E (barline), F
A up to G: A, C, E, A (barline), G
A down to G: A, B, C, A (barline), G

There are a couple of other artistic considerations when constructing a walking bass line. One is to go in contrary motion to the direction of the melody when possible. For example, in “Autumn Leaves” with a key signature of one sharp, the D7 measure has the melody notes D, E, and F# ascending on beats 2, 3, and 4. If you use the ascending walking bass solution for ascending fourths in four beats, you have the notes D, E, F, and F# on beats 1, 2, 3, and 4. The E in the bass is dissonant with the D in the melody, and same for the F in the bass with the E in the melody. Simply using the descending fifths solution instead of D, C, B, A will completely avoid this problem. Besides, contrary motion has a more balanced effect overall, even if dissonances don’t exist between the bass line and the melody line.

Another is to animate the bass line occasionally with some swing eighth notes. The easiest implementation of this is to repeat any of the bass notes on any beat of the measure, doing this once per measure. Using “Autumn Leaves” as an example, the Amin7 measure in the ascending pattern could be A-A (swing eighths), B, C, C#; or A, B-B, C, C#; or A, B, C-C, C#; or A, B, C, C#-C#.

Another is to alternate ascending and descending motion in the bass line so that it doesn’t travel too far in one direction.

Another is to keep in mind the approach-the-next-root-by-a-half-step rule even with chords lasting more than two beats.

If you are playing a walking bass line on an instrument other than a double bass or a bass guitar, then it is important to play the line in the actual range of a double bass or bass guitar. Many pianists let the line come too close to the center of the keyboard, for example.

As you develop sophistication in your walking bass lines, you may not choose every time to play the root of the chord on the beat that a chord symbol appears. This will work as long as you clearly define the identity of the chord with your choice of notes. A walking bass line in four beats for the chord A (add accidentals according to the chord quality) could appear as B, A, C, E; or C, D, E, A; or C, E, A, C, to give just three examples.

The last piece of advice is that you should listen to bass players and take inventory of what they are doing. If possible, talk to bass players about how they create their own walking bass lines.

—Jeffrey Chappell

Often a music critic will say that a pianist had nice colors, and teachers and pianists always talk about touch and tone. What does “colors” mean? How can an interpreter change colors? Doesn’t the composer decide the colors? Can you change the touch and tone without changing the dynamics, or is touch a myth? What is “voicing of textures”, “aural imagination”, and “orchestral sonorities”, for which Daniel Barenboim praised Radu Lupu’s playing in an article that I read recently?

—Simeon

Dear Simeon:

First of all, color, tone, tone quality, sound quality, sonority, and timbre are all essentially the same thing.

If someone says that a pianist has nice colors, it means that the pianist is using artistic ways of enhancing the basic sound of the piano.

The basic sound of the piano is what you get by simply pushing the keys down. Someone who is playing the piano just to hear notes—for example, while working on a theory exercise—simply pushes the keys down.

But pianists who study compositions written specifically for performance on the piano spend their lives developing the artistic enhancements that create colors, in order to convey nuances of musical expression.

The composer doesn’t decide the colors, unless the composer is writing for and combining the sounds of several instruments, and especially for an orchestra. Then the composer decides what the desired colors are. The composer for the piano can suggest colors by writing in a certain way or another, but it is the prerogative of the solo instrumentalist to create an interpretation according to his or her own sense of color.

In relation to this, I recently heard someone say that the advantage of the piano is that it can suggest many instruments other than itself. For example, a melody written in the range that a flute would play in, or that a cello would play in, can inspire the pianist to create sounds like those other instruments. This would account for the mention of “orchestral sonorities”.

How pianists create colors is to use touch, pedaling, overtones, and the balance of simultaneous layers of dynamics. A change in any of those categories will change the sound of the piano, and there are variables within each category. Their effects on sound are not a myth, but they are subtle and they can also depend on psychological states to some extent.

The variables of touch are: in what direction your arms, hands, and fingers move; how fast or how slowly they move; how heavy or how light they feel as you push down a piano key; whether they move from a position above, below, or level with the keys; and whether they push the key down from its surface or by landing on it from the air.

It also includes whether they are loose or firm and whether they are curved or straight, and it includes whether the finger slides on the key or stays on one point of contact.

Another variable is how far down you push the key. After you push it down enough to make sound, there is still a fraction of an inch farther that it can go. This is called the “aftertouch”.

To find the aftertouch, push down two adjacent white keys, such as A and B, with fingers of your left hand. Now leave your them there while pushing down the B with your right index finger as hard as you can. The B will go farther down than the A, into the aftertouch.

The most substantial piano sound is produced by getting the key all the way down into the aftertouch, even at soft dynamic levels.

This brings up the relation of touch to dynamics. Changing touch has to do with more than changing dynamics. But there is a side to this that is somewhat intangible. It has to do with having an imaginative concept of the sound that you want to produce.

I could ask you to play something louder. Or instead I could ask you to play it with a fuller sonority that is more projecting, perhaps emulating the sound of an opera singer. In that case, the loudness is the effect of an intention that isn’t really about playing louder. This would account for the mention of “aural imagination”.

The remaining points can be dealt with more briefly:

The primary use of the pedals is to enhance the sound color of the piano, and you can read more about this in the article “The Use of the Pedals” on this website.

You can become aware of activating overtones on the piano by putting down the pedal and repeating the same note several times slowly. Notice that there are slight differences in the sound quality with each strike of the hammer on the strings. Some strikes of the hammer reinforce lower overtones and have more of an “oo” sound; others reinforce higher overtones and have more of an “ee” sound. Experiment with reproducing these results to create different colors.

You can balance simultaneous sounds by having, for example,  the highest note of a texture be the loudest or instead have the lowest note of a texture be the loudest. Enhancing the high notes is said to give the sound a brighter color and enhancing the low notes is said to give the sound a darker color. This would account for your mention of “voicing of textures”.

Something not commonly realized about layers of different loudnesses is that in some cases, particularly with contrapuntal compositions like those of Bach, the assignment of a dynamic level to a melodic line has the effect of giving it an identity not of being loud or soft but of simply having a sound that is distinct from the other melodic lines. This allows for all of the simultaneous lines to be heard distinctly and as having equal importance. This is a different sonic concept from, for example, playing an accompaniment softly while playing a melody loudly, which produces a subordinate/dominating relationship between the parts.

Thanks for your question covering much of the subject of color in piano music.

—Jeffrey Chappell

I have learned my piano piece and I play all of it correctly, the way the composer asked for it to be played. What more is there for me to do? I feel like something is missing.

Dear Learner:

There is an aspect of playing music that I call “the intangibles”. These are the things that happen in your inner world that affect how people in the outer world perceive the music you play. These include things like freedom, attention, confidence, attitude, taking authority, feeling comfortable, and so on.

The standout among these is freedom. Freedom means that as you play music, you do whatever you want to do, whenever you want to do it. It means that you drive the music, not the other way around, and that you only play the notes when you feel like it’s the right time to play them.

Freedom is what an audience wants to hear. True, hearing someone like Vladimir Horowitz play with breathtaking brilliance is exciting. But, in one sense, what is exciting is not the brilliance; it is hearing someone do whatever they want to do, whenever they want to do it. Someone who has captured this quality is equally compelling when playing slow, quiet music.

Freedom doesn’t mean that you don’t play the notes as they are written, or that you don’t play in strict time or with precise rhythm. It’s just that when you do, you are freely choosing to do so, as opposed to following the orders given to you by the page or by your metronome. The choice to conform is a free choice.

As long as you feel obligated by the page or by your metronome, and as long as you feel like you are trying to keep up with something that is running ahead of you as you play, you aren’t feeling right. And you aren’t free.

However, not only should things feel right but they should also be right. Feeling right is inner and subjective; it is about you. Being right is outer and objective; it is about what is on the page. Having one without the other—it feels right but it isn’t right, it is right but it doesn’t feel right—creates an unsatisfying experience.

At an early phase of study, the musician’s job is to be right: to identify what is on the page and to render it accurately. That is what you have done with your piano piece, and congratulations on that. The next step for you is to include the aspect of feeling right.

How can you take a step in the direction of feeling right? Start by listening to what you are playing. When you are counting beats and planning your next move, you are not listening.

How can you start to listen well? One method is to play a single note and listen to it until it fades away. That is the kind of listening that you should do all the time, no matter what you are playing. Sounds have a life of their own. Listen to how they evolve.

How can you practice the experience of freedom? One method is to elasticize a piece that you have learned. Play it all out of rhythm, exaggerating and lingering at your every whim. This will show you the extreme possibilities for feeling right without being right.

After you have experienced that side of freedom, re-introduce its other side, the side of being right. Play correctly. But retain your sense of freedom as you do.

Rudolf Serkin once said to me, “We are not metronomes.”

—Jeffrey Chappell

I have heard music teachers say, “Try to play this phrase with a different character.” How can a musician control the character of the phrase? What would be the variables one can use to control/paint/portray the character? Can the character change in each phrase, or change in the phrase itself? How does the interpretation change if the character changes? Do you breathe differently in each different character of phrases?

–Simeon

Dear Simeon:

Sometimes I describe music as the sound of feelings.

So we have two things: sound and feeling. Sound is the outer, objective aspect and feeling is the inner, subjective aspect.

“Character” means the quality of a feeling. For example, a feeling of happiness can have different qualities. It could be a profound, relaxed, serene quality of happiness; or an energetic, exuberant, bright quality of happiness. There are many, many shades of happiness, each having its own specific character and its own adjectives. See how many you can think of.

Character in music is expressed in sound by means of timbre (sound quality), dynamics (loudness), balance (relative simultaneous loudnesses), articulation (amount of connection between successive notes), tempo (speed), beat division (number of counts per measure), and the amount of rubato (rhythmic flexibility).

Let’s follow an example to see how character is put into action. The piece of music is the Prelude in C Major from Book One of the Well-Tempered Clavier by Bach.

Let’s give it a profound, relaxed, serene character.

Serene timbre would be one that is rounded and light.

Serene dynamics would have no sudden contrasts, no big contrasts, and no strongly accented notes, and the level would be generally quiet.

Serene balance would bring out more of the bass notes and less of the treble notes.

Serene articulation would be legato.

Serene tempo would be a slower tempo.

Serene beat division would have fewer beats per measure. In this example, there are sixteen notes in each measure, therefore you could feel sixteen, or eight, or four, or two beats, or one beat per measure. Let’s select two beats per measure because that is less agitated than the higher numbers.

Serene rhythm would feel flexible but not with a distracting amount of rubato.

Now play this Prelude with a light timbre, with generally quiet dynamics that change only gradually, with balance that favors the lower notes, with legato, with a slower tempo, feeling two beats per measure, and with an even but flexible rhythm. You are playing it with a serene character.

Now let’s give the same piece a different character, which is a quality of happiness that is energetic, exuberant, and bright.

Bright timbre would be one that is sharper and richer.

Bright dynamics could have obvious contrasts and the level would be generally loud.

Bright balance would bring out more of the treble notes and less of the bass notes.

Bright articulation would be less legato.

Bright tempo would be a faster tempo.

Bright beat division would have more beats per measure. Let’s select eight beats per measure because that is more active.

Bright rhythm would be very even and tight.

Now play this Prelude with a rich timbre, with generally loud dynamics but including some obvious contrasts, with balance that favors the higher notes, with an articulation that is less legato, with a faster tempo, feeling eight beats per measure, and with tight rhythm. You are playing it with a bright character.

Musicians talk about character, but actors also talk about character. To explore a more advanced level of focusing and defining the quality of feeling in a piece of music, think of it the way an actor would.

Here are some examples of questions an actor might ask about character: Who is feeling the happiness? How old is that person–is it a child, elderly person, or someone in between? What country and time period in history does this person live in? What kind of circumstance is causing the happiness–winning the lottery, getting a good grade in school, eating chocolate, something else? Is the happiness happening right now, or is a sad person remembering a happiness from the past? Is the happy person telling the world about this happiness, or telling an intimate friend, or experiencing it alone? See if you can imagine the quality of happiness that matches each different situation. Invent your own additional situations.

To address the other parts of your question, let me say that character changes when the variables change. Therefore, character can be sustained for any length of a musical statement: for part of a phrase, for an entire phrase, or even for an entire piece.

Also, the character that a musician chooses to assign to a piece of music is their interpretation of that piece. Therefore, changing the character is the same as changing the interpretation.

Finally, your breathing can change according to the character of a piece of music. And that could be just one physical manifestation of character. You might also change the way you position your body or change the expression on your face. From the point of view of piano technique, you will change the movements of your arms and hands, approaching the keys with differing amounts of speed, of heaviness in the arms, of height of the wrists, of flexibility in the wrists, and of curve in the fingers. Each way of doing things results in a different kind of sound. Each different kind of sound expresses a different kind of character.

To play a phrase with a different character means first to have a different quality of feeling and, as a result, to make a different kind of sound.

–Jeffrey Chappell

People who missed it: “How was your concert?”

Well, if this had been any other concert, I could briefly answer, “It went great,” and then we could move on to the next part of our conversation.

Not this time.

How was it? It was like putting a piece of pottery into a kiln. The pottery bakes in the hot fires and becomes finished. That’s how the concert was for me.

It made me feel that 44 years of being onstage had been spent doing things a certain way, with a certain goal in mind, a perfectly fine goal, one that had carried me up to this point, and that I could have spent the rest of my life serving: excellence. Except that it had now been replaced by a new goal and a new functioning.

The new goal was to deliver the spirit of the music above all else.

The new functioning was total freedom, supported by the force of awareness. It was born from the white-hot concentration that resulted from my resolve to do everything the way I wanted to, in resistance to anything else that was happening, and while doing the most difficult thing possible.

Here’s an e-mail quote from an audience member who had also heard me play this piece before: “I saw something break through your inner being: a controlled ferocity waiting to be unleashed. You seemed liberated in a sense. I don’t say this lightly, but I’ve never seen more connectedness between a musician and his instrument. Thank you with all of my heart for your years of hard work and dedication.”

That night, I was sure of one thing: I had maintained my calm during the slow, melodic sections of the piece, as if I were sitting home alone. Whenever I wanted to linger and shape a phrase, I had done so, and with no sense of hurry or hesitation whatsoever. As I keep telling my students to do it, I only played when it felt like the right time to play.

Was I happy with the performance? I had the usual nagging thoughts that perfectionism brings with it. I wished that I had played every note exactly as written, which I hadn’t. I was thinking that I’d like to do it again and do it better next time.

But the following morning, I listened to a recording of the concert and my perfectionism was smashed into the ground by the sweeping power of the musical message that Rachmaninoff had crafted, and which I had managed to deliver in spite of any doubts, and which superseded all other concerns. I was actually stunned. I hadn’t realized the success of the concert in this aspect.

This performance changed things. The next time I touched a piano, I felt a new power in the playing. And music was more beautiful to me. I knew that I could expect to carry that into all of my future concerts.

–Jeffrey Chappell

I don’t get nervous for a performance in the sense of being frantic or having the shakes or anything like that. But I do notice that I sometimes start behaving a little differently right before a concert. I’ll find something to do until the concert begins, like fiddling with my cuff links forever or adjusting my collar too many times. Then I’ll notice I’m doing it, and I’ll think, “This is my way of being nervous.”

On May 7, I was backstage pondering the huge weight of responsibility ahead of me and the fact that a moment was approaching when I would have to walk onstage and leave behind any further opportunity to get ready for the performance. Since there was about half an hour remaining, I left my dressing room and went for a stroll. And here is what happened:

After I had stopped studying Rachmaninoff’s recording of his Third Concerto, I was still curious to hear more of his playing. In the weeks before this concert, I started listening to a CD of him playing his own compositions.

This is a recording that I had owned for years and had listened to previously. One of the tracks is a short work entitled “Daisies”. I had never paid much attention to it before. It just seemed like a short, ephemeral work of lesser substance.

But now I fell in love with it and listened to it over and over again, like a found treasure. I finally got it: the slow, unusual key changes supporting the sinuous blending of melody and countermelody. And there are those four measures right in the middle of the piece that just luxuriate in a bath of D flat harmony. Miraculous.

Backstage on May 7, I returned to my dressing room after my stroll and found a bouquet of daisies on the table. The conductor had left them for me. No, I had not mentioned “Daisies” to her.

I just touched them with my two hands and thanked Rachmaninoff. I felt like this was the sign that the performance would go well.

–Jeffrey Chappell

(Here is a nice performance of “Daisies”: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SHO448q9Uns )

There is an unusual line down which interpreting musicians walk. On one side is feeling, on the other side is control. A performer has to hold a teetering balance between these two.

The composer’s score is like a playwright’s script, and the interpreting musician is like an actor. In “An Actor Prepares”, author Stanislawski tells his students to perform simple actions onstage rather than to emote. Instead, it is the actor’s job to create the conditions for the audience to feel emotion.

An elderly friend of mine in Frederick told me that he heard Rachmaninoff play in concert. He remarked that he had never seen anyone with such an aristocratic bearing as Rachmaninoff. “But he made such Romantic music!” he said. Maybe Rachmaninoff was using the Stanislawski method.

(You can read a lecture I gave at the Stella Adler Studio of Acting tracing connections between acting and performing music at http://jeffreychappell.com/march_7_lecture.php )

Being onstage, in itself, engenders heightened emotions and energy. If the music is exciting in the practice room, it will be twice as exciting in front of an audience. But a performer can forget this, be overwhelmed by feelings, lose control of the performance, and cheat the audience out of the full message of the piece. The trick onstage is to reduce one’s own excess emotional energy. (Unless, of course, you are improvising jazz or playing rock music. But that is different from portraying character in classical music.)

Cutting totally loose is perfectly fine when you are alone practicing the music; in fact, you should do that. You want to be carried away by inspiration, which then causes you to perform certain actions. Then you repeat those actions to portray the inspiration.

And yes, inspiration can visit you onstage at times, and things can take on a new meaning spontaneously. It is not something to resist. It is actually something to celebrate. Being prepared with a complete interpretation in advance is what allows that to happen.

I made every effort to stay on the side of being in control of simple actions during this performance, even at the explosive climax of the first movement cadenza. Apparently that worked. People commented afterwards on the sincerity of my playing and said that it was full of emotion. Which it was. It was full of emotion and of control as I walked the line between them.

–Jeffrey Chappell

Ideally, it is the soloist. The concerto was written to feature the soloist, and the conductor’s job is to shape the accompaniment to the soloist’s playing.

That is the ideal, but it doesn’t always happen that way. Some conductors see themselves as the leader at all times, even when they should be accompanying. Some orchestras don’t stay with the conductor, who may be faithfully following the soloist, and there results a breakdown of synchrony between orchestra and soloist.

Playing the Rachmaninoff Third Concerto with the Frederick Symphony Orchestra initially posed some ensemble challenges. The piece was new to their repertoire, and although the conductor, Elisa Koehler, was always right with me, the orchestra was still getting accustomed to playing it.

Elisa told me that I should totally just do my own thing during the performance. I was to make no adjustments to the orchestra whatsoever if there was ever a moment when we weren’t together. She said that she would always follow me exactly and that she wanted me to feel completely free to fulfill my vision of the interpretation.

This was a new premise for me. Instead of collaborating, I was supposed to sit at the piano as if it were a solo performance, as if there were no conductor and no orchestra, and to do things exactly as I wanted. But there was an orchestra, and I could hear them, and my best instincts were to alter my playing to match theirs.

Instead, I had to ignore my best instincts and to forge ahead without taking them into account, like a test of my will power. It required MORE concentration and determination than usual. It also allowed me total freedom. Thanks for the assignment, Elisa, because the combination helped to create an unanticipated effect on my playing.

–Jeffrey Chappell

Well, for most people, it is not an everyday experience. It feels out of the ordinary.

There you are in this huge room, sitting at the one end of a concert grand piano, staring down the shiny golden 9-foot length of its interior workings and often with a direct line of sight to the principal cellist sitting at the other end, a symphony orchestra on your left and an audience on your right. (If you do this often enough, you stop talking about the right and left sides of your body and instead refer to them as the “orchestra” side or the “audience” side.)

And actually, in this case, it was a 10-foot-long piano, a Bösendorfer Imperial Grand. Not only was it extra long, it was extra wide, with nine extra keys in the lower range, making the lowest note a C below the usual A. Considering the oversized concerto that I was playing, it was only natural that I should play it on an oversized piano.

Yes, there you sit, and time has run out. There is no more practicing, no more rehearsing, no more waiting in the dressing room for the minute hand to get to the starting time of the concert. People have paid money, everyone has gathered, and all other activities of daily living are on hold as a single responsibility comes sharply into focus.

In one way, that is a relief. There are no distractions from making music, and there is part of you that wants only that, and it is all that is expected of you by anyone else. In another way, it is a burden. You have to fend off all intruding thoughts of things that are everyday, or lightweight, or leisurely. There is a job to do.

–Jeffrey Chappell

The first time I performed the Rachmaninoff Third Concerto in 2007, I listened to a recording by Vladimir Horowitz as a model for the shape and the message of the piece as well as to study the interweaving of the piano and orchestral parts.

This time, I listened to Rachmaninoff’s recording instead. After all, he wrote the piece. I wanted to know: what did his own musicality bring to the playing of it?

Over the years, I used to find this recording to be unsatisfactorily stern and dry. It seemed that Rachmaninoff rushed through the piece, ignoring all of the luxurious harmonies and melodies and the abundant opportunities for highlighting them with rubato and lingering.  It reminded me of Gershwin’s fast, macho playing of the “Rhapsody in Blue” that similarly neglected to savor the beautiful moments.

But this time, close attention revealed that Rachmaninoff’s playing was anything but dry. He took plenty of liberties with timing and with dynamics to bring the piece to life. It’s just that what he did was done so naturally and done without making a point of it that I hadn’t noticed it before.

Now I was picking up some really astonishing details about his style of using pedaling, tempo, accentuation, phrasing, and dynamics to craft his performance of the piece. I noticed things he did that were different from the notation. I even heard him play a really wonderful wrong note in the last movement. Apart from that last item, I tested out these discoveries in my own playing of the concerto.

But as May 7 approached, I realized I had to finalize my own truthful reactions to the music and to instill them into my playing. No, it wouldn’t sound like Horowitz and it wouldn’t sound like Rachmaninoff, and it wasn’t supposed to. Insights, clues, and permissions—those could be gained from others. But stewardship of the interpretation could only be granted to myself by myself.

–Jeffrey Chappell