April 2009 Archives
Desirous or eager to imitate, equal or excel another; desirous of like excellence with another.
One of the most pointless rituals of conservatory life was the march to the library to listen to every available recording of a certain piece of music. This routine part of the learning process assumed an imitative relationship between the student and the recording artists.
I did this too though I felt it was folly.
My feelings about the futility of this ritual were confirmed in a breakthrough moment at the conservatory library.
While attempting to learn the Chopin G Minor Ballade I, like any typical conservatory student, went to the library to hear as many recordings I could find of this piece. I might have sat through a dozen or so recordings by pianists of varied fame before spotting a strange item in the card catalogue. I remember the card as being very old with minimal information about the record, but it appeared to be an old recording by an unknown artist of this Chopin Ballade.
The record, it turned out, was in storage, and I had to wait a day or two for it to be retrieved from there.
A day or two later I had the record, or rather records. It was a stack of 78rpm platters of Vladimir Horowitz playing Chopin and Liszt. I had to find a special turntable at the library to play these ancient discs, which spun so fast that each side only held a couple of minutes worth of music. If I remember right the Chopin Ballade was broken up across 4 or 5 sides of these records, and as each side ended I could tell where Horowitz stopped his playing to accommodate for the end of the side and the listener's manual process of flipping the records over to continue the music.
These logistics, while exciting in their way and evocative of a past era in recorded sound, took nothing from the unbelievable sounds of Horowitz attacking this Chopin Ballade like Jacob wrestling with God. I had never wept so freely at the sounds coming off a record. I sat for hours replaying the old 78rpm platters, watching them spin so fast that the needle almost jumped from the surface of the records, listening and listening again as the sounds of Horowitz roared like a conquering lion.
I would later hear and vigorously agree with the oft-repeated cliché about Horowitz, that to hear him play was to feel you had been deaf your whole life. Everything sounded different to me after that day. Not just music but everything. Those days in which I listened and re-listened to that Chopin Ballade and then the Liszt Hungarian Rhapsody #6 made me believe more strongly than ever that the imitative approach to pianism was the worst kind. Yes, I had found a recording which changed the way I thought about the music I was learning but it was in a way that I could never imitate, in a way that made imitation look preposterous, and in a way that made all my work up until then seem tiny. I never played that Chopin Ballade again.
A grotesque black doll.
For the life of me I can not remember the tune to Golliwog's Cakewalk, a piano piece by Claude Debussy which I, like any even vaguely respectable pianist, have played through a few times. Debussy's piano music, while not always virtuoso music of great technical demand, is nevertheless hard to play immediately after a lengthy Beethoven or Chopin set. Debussy's approach to the instrument is different from that of other composers and to shift directly from another composer to Debussy is jarring. The same could be said of any number of other composer combinations, though for some reason I find piano music of Stravinsky and Bartok to be an easy stylistic segue after late Beethoven sonatas.
To walk with a lofty proud gait, often in an attempt to impress others.
Men get uptight about some things. Butts, for instance. Ass. I was describing my new MBT shoes to a friend, explaining how they're supposed to improve one's posture as well as strengthen the lower back and butt. Everything was fine until I got to butt, at which point my friend started chuckling uncomfortably. "How's your butt lookin' these days?" I high-fived and said "My butt's lookin' good, girlfriend!" And there was much, much laughter -- maybe a little too much -- to extinguish or perhaps stoke these male anxieties about the butt. I was quoting the literature about MBT shoes and how they are supposed to do all those things to improve the posture but I guess I came off sounding less clinical then the literature I cited.
An early form of bicycle propelled by pressure from the rider's feet on the ground
When I sold my car I celebrated by spending the money I might have wasted on the car that month on a stack of poetry books. This was after a brief decision making process in which I imagined spending the money on other things, including a bicycle. My interest level in owning a bike never rose to a level that would justify the purchase. In addition to that mountain of poetry volumes I also spent the month's bounty on a pair of MBT Shoes. As a person who loves to walk long, long distances I thought it might be useful to wear shoes which made the walking something of a workout. MBT stands for "Masai Barefoot Technology," a brand which bills itself as the "Anti-Shoe." After a rough week of breaking them in (and mangling all hell out of my achilles) these expensive shoes have worked out well, sending the notion of biking around New York City to a vague idea of something I will do when I have an abundance of time to waste and money to burn. Biking is also, I believe, a privilige of those blessed with a certain style of physical fitness. If I had greater physical dexterity -- maybe agility is the word I want -- I might have confidence to noodle around on a minuscule bike as multi-ton trucks and high-speed vehicles blast by. When I was in Tampa in January I noticed bike lanes on Hillsborough Avenue. Tiny slivers of space reserved for toothpick sized bikes to co-exist alongside 18-wheel monstrosities.