Steven Isserlis

‘Form in music’: it may sound a bit forbidding; but it really isn’t. To talk about the plot in a novel is quite natural, after all; it’s the story of the book. And similarly, the form of a piece of music contains the framework, at least, of the story of that piece; or perhaps it IS the story. (Debussy went so far as to say that the form of music is the emotion – I’m still pondering that one…). At any rate, it’s true to say that when listening to a performance of any piece, we need the form to be made clear – just as when we hear someone reading a novel, we need to be able to understand what’s going on within the narrative. And in order for the listener to understand the plot, the reader has to understand it first; the same goes for musical performers. I recommend, even before starting to learn a work on your instrument, looking at the score and working out the basic shape of the music. It saves so much time; in that way, by the time you actually start playing it on your instrument, you’ll have a fair idea of what you feel about the piece. It’s a short cut that allows you to omit a lot of flailing around – never a very productive use of your life.

There are many meanings for the word ‘form’, however – and I’m not talking about obsessive analysis here, just a basic grasp of the structure. When I say I want to understand the form as I listen, I mean that I want to sense the characters of the various themes or musical ideas, and experience their journey as the story develops; I want to understand the relationship between them all, their contrasts and similarities, and how those change and interact in time; I want to hear the contrasting colours of different tonalities; and above all I want to have the feeling at the end of a performance that I have listened to a convincing, compelling narrative (presuming that the composer has provided such a thing in the first place). Easier said than executed, of course; but how does an interpreter convey this form/narrative/story in his/her performance?

Well, there are any number of elements which contribute to a formally (and emotionally) satisfying interpretation; but I am going to concern myself here with two particular features, both of which which make a very obvious, and crucial difference:

1) Tempo: There will always be arguments about how rigidly an interpreter should stick to one tempo in a classically-constructed movement, In which no changes of tempo are indicated. Of course, an unnatural inflexibility is never going to be believable – it would (and does) sound unnatural; but on the other hand, tempo relationships within a movement (and often within an entire work) can be central to maintaining the unity, the cohesion (and therefore the sense) of the music. Almost every time I’ve been bored by a performance of a piece I love, one element, at least, of the disappointment has been caused by the tempo framework/structure being allowed to sag. Freedom is essential – but only up to a point; as Casals put it, ‘freedom with order’. Talking of Casals, the Dvorak cello concerto is a perfect case in point: there are tempo changes, but they’re all closely, and vitally, related to one another. (Significantly, through all his revisions of the score, with multitude changes of notes/dynamics/articulation etc, Dvorak never altered the tempo indications.) If the players indulge themselves, slowing down to smell the flowers, as it were, the foundations of the work crumble, and one is left with a soggy mass. Another is Beethoven’s Emperor concerto; I remember wondering in one concert whether that fresh, masterful, exhilarating work would ever end, as the performers floundered around making minor points and neglecting the larger picture. It was a pretty miserable experience.

‘But,’ you may ask (if you can be bothered) ‘does that mean that you should be able to put on a metronome at, say, the beginning of a Mozart symphony movement, and at the end of the movement still be in time with it?’ No, it really doesn’t, is the answer (if you can be bothered to listen). It’s only natural to vary the tempo a bit in any piece – and also to take the time to breathe within and between phrases. But the changes shouldn’t make different sections sound as if they don’t belong together. I loved the way I once heard Rostropovich describe it to Boris Pergammenschikov (I THINK I understood it right – it was in Russian); words to the effect of: ‘The tempo here should move forward – not change, but point ahead, like the nose on a dog.’ So good! A dog that sometimes relaxes, sometimes looks forward – but is nevertheless the same dog. One really doesn’t want the poor creature suddenly finding itself turning into a tortoise, sometimes into a cheetah. It would cause untold trauma. So: one story, one animal, one building – however you want to put it. Maybe Mendelssohn summed it up best: ‘The essence of the beautiful is unity in variety’.

Having written that, I’m now rather uneasily thinking of all the performances I love in which there certainly are unprescribed changes of tempo – but which somehow manage to maintain the unity that Mendelssohn describes. Sandor Vegh conducting Schubert’s Unfinished symphony is the one that leaps to mind instantly; I adore that recording – but would never dare to attempt those changes of tempi in a performance of my own. (Although it’s worth adding that the tempo fluctuates between different sections, not within those sections, which are full of logical – and beautiful – rubati in tempo.) So how does a musician such as Vegh get away with it?
2) Articulation: Perhaps the answer is that in such cases, the characterisation of each theme/section is so strong, so sharply delineated, that the form holds together. But what then produces such vivid, rule-defying musical story-telling? I believe that one very important component – often undervalued – is articulation, which conveys so much in musical/emotional terms. Just as when in daily life we’re feeling happy, we speak more clearly, pronouncing our consonants more crisply – and when sad draw them out more lingeringly – so articulations, as much as dynamics, reflect the mood through their level of emphasis. Many is the time when I feel obliged to call a student’s attention to the fact that their soggy bowing is wiping the smiles off the faces of their audience in the sunniest of C major passages. Lazy beginnings to notes are absolutely appropriate to suggest certain expressive states; but not if you want to fill hearts with simple joy. As interpreters, our task is to make the music as clear as possible; careless articulation, like careless dynamics or ritardandos/accelerandos, can send mixed messages, muddying the emotional waters. One should as a musician create characters that are completely believable, as actors do – or at least seek to do. Articulation can be a crucial part of the voice of that character; and to let it slip in musical terms can be as discombobulating as if the voice of Ophelia were suddenly to escape, mid-sentence, from the actor playing Hamlet. And it’s not fair to discombobulate an audience.

Again, I think of a concerto which illustrates the point all too clearly: Schumann’s violin concerto – such a misunderstood work (I think). For a long time, I would often find myself (as a listener) somehow disoriented from shortly after the solo violin’s masterful entry; by the time the intimate second subject emerged, I’d have lost interest in what seemed to be a rambling semi-monologue. It was only later when, looking at the score, I saw that Schumann had marked the whole first subject forte – with the implication that the articulation, as well as the dynamics, should remain strong – that it made sense. It was then that I fully understood that the first subject, recitative-like, should be powerful, declamatory, even extrovert; and then suddenly the music melts, the shyly intimate second subject inviting us into its confidence, -an utterly new voice. It is so touching! But only if it’s presented clearly – if the violinist tells us a comprehensible story.

Right – I think that’s enough of a lecture for which nobody even asked. But as I say – I’d rather write about that than say yet another farewell on this page. So – understand, and present, the form; and eat your vegetables!