The complete idiot's guide to classical music (19 page)

The pianos of this period usually contained only five octaves, and Beethoven had to settle for that somewhat limited compass in the first 20 of his 32 sonatas and the first two of his five concertos. No doubt he did not accept those restrictions with good grace, and when various Viennese manufacturers added more notes to the keyboard and made other improvements that allowed a greater range of dynamics, Beethoven plunged in quickly to take advantage of them. The sonatas from the
Waldstein
onward require a range of at least six octaves, and when he got to the great
Hammerklavier Sonata
(don’t get nervous: old Ludwig didn’t bang anything, he just used the German word for fortepiano), it demanded an even newer instrument that had six and a half octaves.

 
Bet You Didn’t Know
Many of the early pianos had a square shape rather than the elongated, curved model we see today. In fact, the word “grand” came into being to distinguish the larger models from the square pianos that had a lighter touch and could more easily fit into people’s homes. They also became popular in Oriental and Middle Eastern harems, usually with the legs cut down so that the player could sit on cushions placed on the floor. The pianist Leopold de Meyer was once invited to a palace in Turkey, and when he refused to sit on the floor, cushion or no cushion, the Sultan made three slaves come in and hold the piano on their backs while de Meyer played the whole concert seated on a regular chair.

Additional improvements, further extending the range and enlarging the sound were made in the 19th century, bringing with them a veritable parade of piano virtuosos. There was Jan Ladislav Dussek, who was the first person to place the piano sideways on stage so the ladies could swoon over his beautiful profile. There was Chopin, who explored all sorts of keyboard sonorities and shadings that no one before (or since) could achieve; and Liszt, whose keyboard prowess caused women to faint and moved strong men to tears. Russia gave the world Anton Rubinstein, who was dubbed “Ruby” when he came to America for a tour in 1872, his contract specifying that “he would not be obliged to play in beer gardens or tobacco establishments.” And we had our very own Louis Moreau Gottschalk, who converted the cakewalk and other folk rhythms into some of the first truly American piano music.

What makes one pianist different from another (note, we didn’t say better) is the highly personal approach he or she takes both to the instrument itself and to the compositions at hand. Within the memory of many of us are incredible artists like Arthur Rubinstein, who aimed for a warm sound that would envelop an audience, and Vladimir Horowitz, who produced a glassier tone but whose finger dexterity allowed him to achieve virtuosic effects that seem beyond the reach of mere mortals. Each pianist projects different shadings of technical mastery, varying sensitivity to the dynamic and tempo markings in the score, and distinctive repertoire leanings.

 
Important Things to Know
What makes one pianist’s style better or different from another? Assuming the notes are played with reasonable accuracy, there is no right or wrong to these infinite stylistic and sonic fluctuations; each artist projects the music in a manner that is his or hers alone. You should listen to as many of these musicians as possible and come to our own pianistic preferences. Radio and recordings can help here, especially since the unique conceptions of immortal pianists from the early part of the century—Paderewski, Hofmann, de Pachmann, Godowsky, and dozens of others—have been reissued on CD.

 
Bet You Didn’t Know
With greatness sometimes goes eccentricity. Vladimir de Pachmann milked cows because he said it kept his fingers well exercised; Paderewski insured his hands for $100,000, and in between tours served a term (in 1919) as Premier of Poland; and Glenn Gould (1932–1982) once made the studio technicians turn off the air conditioning at a recording session because he couldn’t hear himself hum.

The piano and the harpsichord (plus the organ, which we discussed back in Chapter 6) have pretty well cornered the market, but other keyboard instruments occasionally do pop up. There’s the tinkly celesta, invented in 1866, which resembles a miniature piano with black-and-white keys causing tiny hammers to strike metal plates. Tchaikovsky was the first important composer to use a celesta: He heard it in Paris, and promptly had one shipped back to Russia in the greatest secrecy, lest Glazunov or Rimsky-Korsakov use it before he did. Tchaikovsky won the race, we’re happy to say, and from that day to this, the sugarplum fairy dances with celestial sweetness in his
Nutcracker
ballet. In 1936, Bartok’s
Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta
gave the instrument one of its very rare chances to hold the spotlight through a whole piece.

 
Bet You Didn’t Know
George Kleinsinger and Paul Tripp, who enchanted several generations of kids with the adventures of Tubby the Tuba, also tell “The Story of Celeste” in another delightful piece about an orphan tune who finds her own place in the musical sun. You can, by the way, get a recording of “Tubby,” “Celeste,” and three other children’s tales, narrated by Paul Tripp himself (on an Angel CD, #54330).

Dvorak scored several works for the harmonium, a small, organ-like instrument that was very popular in the 19th century; it had pedals generating an airstream that passed through a set of flexible metal strips. And keyboards entered the electronic age in the late 1920s, when Maurice Martenot developed what he first called “Ondes Musicales” (Musical Waves), but an instrument that later became known as the Ondes Martenot (Martenot’s Waves). A number of important composers have written for the martenot, including Andre Jolivet, who made it the focus of a full-fledged concerto in 1947.

The first electronic instrument was the theremin, named for Leon Theremin, the Russian engineer who invented it around 1920. No less a Soviet luminary than Lenin himself tried it out (playing it very well, if he said so himself, as did everybody else who knew what was good for him). The instrument is unique in that the performer doesn’t touch it except to turn the power on and off; it’s constructed on the principal of the electric eye, the player’s hands moving toward and away from two antennas (one controlling volume, the other pitch), each move breaking the magnetic field to create a haunting tone that can be mistaken for a cello or a wordless female song depending upon the range of pitches.

 
Bet You Didn’t Know
Leon Theremin also invented a Dance Platform, where the player (Clara Rockmore at the first demonstration in Carnegie Hall) creates the music by movements of her entire body. Theremin also developed (with the American composer Henry Cowell) a contraption called the Rhythmicon, which could create the most complicated rhythmic patterns, displaying them separately or simultaneously.

Hollywood composers used the theremin to create suspense in such classic films as
Spellbound
and
The Red House
; The Beach Boys added it to the musical mix in their big hit “Good Vibrations”; and artists like Clara Rockmore, whom Theremin himself dubbed the greatest thereminist of them all, have appeared in classical works with the Philadelphia Orchestra and other major orchestras playing the theremin. The story of the inventor and the far-ranging effects of his musical creation were superbly retold in the prize-winning documentary film (which is now available as a video),
Theremin: An Electronic Odyssey.

The synthesizer creates sounds according to precise instructions fed into it by the operator. By analyzing the distinctive sound-pattern of any instrument, the machine can reproduce its tone quality more or less accurately, and through a range of octaves far beyond the capabilities of the instrument being copied. The race of technology has enormously expanded the capabilities of synthesizers and given rise to all sorts of specialized instruments that fuse electronic elements with more conventional performing methods. The future? It’s anybody’s guess, although ours is that nothing can ever replace the magic of music written and produced in its natural form, and heard “live” in its natural environment.

 
Bet You Didn’t Know
New instruments are being devised all the time. At a concert in January 1997, Hal Rammel unveiled several of his latest inventions, including the snath and the triolin. He played his “electro-acoustic sound palette” creating, in the composer’s own words, “an assortment of staccato squeaks, gong-like tones, animalistic vocal gurgles and deep bass groans.”