Learning a new work…
I’m often asked how I go about learning a new piece; so I thought I’d try to set down – more groping around in the dark than ranting this time – my way of doing so. I actually hate the process of note-learning. Every day it seems as if I’m starting from scratch (and arriving at scratch!); only imperceptibly do the notes become familiar. Nevertheless, one has to keep expanding one’s horizons; so I bite the bullet, even if it doesn’t taste good at first, and do it.
Luckily, note-learning is usually some way down the road. So long as it’s not a complex modern score, which I can’t begin to fathom on the piano, my first several hours are spent sitting at the piano, trying to figure out what the piece is all about. Even though my piano skills are rudimentary (to put it politely), I can pick out enough of the main voices to start to make sense of the layout, and through that the meaning, the story, of the music. That’s why I’d strongly recommend all non-keyboard players to take piano lessons, if you’re in a position to do so; unless yours is the sort of rare brilliant mind than can take in a score without having to hear any of it, I’d say that it was essential to play the keyboard to a certain level, even if that level is basic. Of course, one can cheat and listen to a recording; but my advice is – don’t! If you do, it’ll be like seeing a TV or film adaptation of a book before you’ve read it; you’ll always have the faces and voices of the actors who played the characters in your head as you read, rather than deciding for yourself what they looked and sounded like. Why involve a third person in what should be the most intimate of relationships, that between you and the composer? (Talking of which, we must, even before we set out, make sure that the edition we’re using is a faithful one; otherwise the editor becomes that redundant third person.) The only exception, I think, is when the composer has recorded the work; but even then, I’d suggest that one should only listen once, and even then only after you have formed your own basic idea of the piece.
Supposing – for the sake of convenience here – that the piece we’re looking at is a fairly standard sonata-form movement: the first thing to do is to identify the main subjects. (I have such a bad memory that my cello parts are littered with markings such as ‘!a’, ‘2b’, ‘2b2’ etc, to remind me of the form when I get around to playing the piece.) Having done that, which is already hugely helpful – essential, in fact – one has to start looking deeper into the narrative. What sorts of emotions/characters/colours do these subjects represent? What are the connections between them – and, often more important, the differences? There are some types of information that I feel is more vital to a performer than others. For instance – to take two fairly obvious examples – one can notice that in the Brahms E minor cello sonata, the use of the minor sixth is a unifying factor between the three movements, as is the use of dotted rhythms between all three movements of Brahms’ G major violin sonata. It is somehow satisfying to know this, and in fact one should know it; but I’m not sure how much it actually affects the way one plays the music – at least in tangible terms. Whereas to think about the differences between, say, the main themes of the first and second subjects of the first movements of both sonatas is an absolutely vital step to understanding the music. They are obviously contrasting, but in what way? What do they represent? That is for each interpreter to decide – and to keep deciding, since such thoughts are fluid, and will change, if subtly, every time one plays the piece (and of course, almost needless to say, with each duo partner with whom one plays it).
Then – what happens to these characters? Through which tonalities do they move, and why? How does it transform them? And how do they interact – as assuredly they will, as will characters in a novel. Which passages are statements, which questions? Which passages stand still – as much as music ever stands still? (Actually, it never does – every note is either arriving, going towards that arrival or coming away from it; but it can certainly give the impression of stillness.) Which are transitional, bridge passages moving towards the next major statement? And when a theme is repeated, how is it changed, and why? (The word ‘why’ is perhaps the most important one a musician can learn – why is the composer doing that, why am I responding in this way to it, why am I doing that rubato, why am I changing tempo, why am I vibrating here, etc etc.) And how does the recapitulation differ from the exposition, and again – why? (O sacred word!)
Having put these thoughts in train – having begun a creative dialogue with the music, as it were – it may now be time to go to one’s instrument (presuming that it’s not the piano) and start to learn the notes. Only when one has already understood, or at least started to understand, the shapes and colours of the phrases should one begin to put in fingerings and bowings. Editors’ suggestions may be helpful, but they are only suggestions; replace them with your own if you feel so inclined. (I’ve done some editions, and tend to use them, because they’re free (!); but the moment I start to play from them, I ignore everything I’ve marked, and start again.) Having got a sense of how the piece is shaped, what it means, will make the learning process far easier and more enjoyable. (Yes, I know I said that it takes me ages to learn notes; but it would take much longer if I were just flailing around, repeatedly playing through without any idea of my goals.) And – keep going back to the score. Memorising a piece means not just memorising one’s own part (would an actor know a play from memory if he knew only his own part, and had no idea of what the other characters were saying?) but also all the other parts – and the composer’s markings. These markings are important messages. Again, one has to interpret them as much as one interprets the notes – and they will mean different things to each interpreter; but ignoring them is not an option.
And so, the piece will gradually – or less gradually – become a trusted friend, with whom one can build an ever deeper relationship; but that relationship has to be founded on deep sympathy – which has to be built on the solid foundations of true understanding, to which there are no valid short cuts. As in human relationships, really…
