NEWS

Lucas Debargue

3 weeks ago

Before Whitsun, here’s a tribute to all musicians and music lovers whose duty is to get it right, preserve proper playing, and never miss a chance to bring the stray sheep back into the fold.


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ON RIGHT STYLE, RIGHT TEMPO AND MUSICAL NATIONALISM

:::: The Right Style ::::

No spoiler: you won’t find here the map to the holy grail every serious pianist is searching for on this earth—how to play Bach, Beethoven, Chopin in the style. But you might, I hope, find some food for thought if you like.

If you’re a pianist yourself, or a piano music lover, you’ve probably heard this melodious sentence at least once in your life after playing: “This is not Beethoven.” Was it from a teacher? A critic? A colleague? Your mother? If you were still reluctant to believe there’s a way to play that is Beethoven—and another that isn’t—this likely settled it.
It even became your absolute priority: to play what is Beethoven, and to avoid any influence that might lead you off track. Your passion for music and your pursuit of interpretation became focused on one goal: to play in the right style. Anything considered not in style began to seem like a contaminant—something to be kept away from the healthy, pure body of the music. To achieve this, you listen to the undisputed “reference” recordings of the pieces you play—as a starting point. You attend masterclasses, as much as your finances allow, given by those said to know what is and what isn’t. You dream of becoming the performer after whose concert an audience member might exclaim, “This is Beethoven!”

Some friends of yours, not particularly fond of classical music, ask you why you don’t improvise or play your own compositions. Shrugging your shoulders with a knowing smile, you avoid offending them by explaining how far they are from understanding the greatness of your mission: to play what is Beethoven for the most purely minded audience, the ones searching for it.
Sometimes, you say publicly that “classical music is for everyone,” trying to leave as many doors open as possible and to appear as liberal as one can be. But deep down, you think classical music is reserved for a chosen few—those who truly understand what is and what isn’t. You secretly believe that converting the masses to your art would be hopeless—and you often think that what you’re doing is the most difficult job in the world.

When working on a piece, you take little interest in the details of musical structure or harmony. You learn the notes after a rough analysis (even this is optional, considering you have recordings to help grasp the piece as a whole) and go straight to the essential matters: fingerings, of course, and then… the style.

For Bach, you choose your school: either sentimental (cosmopolitan cocktail) or dry (a shot of gin);

for Mozart, you become obsessed with the evenness of sixteenth notes and the importance of jumping gracefully between phrases (the childish side of divine Mozart mustn’t be missed), with added seriousness, of course, when the piece is in a minor key ; last but not least, watch your ornamentation — the experts in this field are like snipers, ready to take you down for a single tasteless trill;

for Beethoven, you always search for the engine beneath the notes — the metronome helps you finding it — and when it comes to volume, think of it like adjusting your speakers: Beethoven should sound louder than Mozart, but not as overwhelming as Liszt, according to common practice.;

for Chopin, two schools: either the dissolving rubato, making a phrase that began solidly end in a liquid state, to the delight of romantic hearts; or pragmatism, with hands strictly together and no more timing freedom than the strict minimum;

for Liszt: just practice octaves, keep your foot on the right pedal, and wait a bit longer on any strange harmony;

for Russian music: banging allowed;

for French music: absolute interdiction to play louder than forte—and you’ll need to learn from a French master the “impressionistic” forte, the kind that would never disturb your neighbours while practicing. Etc., etc.

Your profession consists in adjusting to the right parameters depending on the composer, and being recognised for it. Of course, some composers “fit” you better than others. It’s not rare to hear in the corridors of a music school: “You should play this—it suits you very well.” You didn’t know, before hearing this, that music could be compared to boots and clothes—but now that you do, you never miss a chance to share this knowledge with colleagues, encouraging them to play what fits them best.

You had doubts, at times, during your years of study: “Is interpretation only a matter of playing in the right style? Isn’t there something more?” You felt something unusual, something different, when listening to interpreters like Horowitz, Koczalski, Friedman, Cortot, or Samson François — but you couldn’t quite put it into words. “Interpretation” had already been defined for you as “playing in the correct style,” and the most respected living masters never missed an opportunity to remind you that “the greatest did nothing more than play the notes,” or that “by doing the least, you get closer to the truth.”
So you left behind the names of those strange, fascinating pianists and began favoring less idiosyncratic profiles. For you, having “too much” personality seemed to betray the respect a performer owes the composer. You began to question romanticism in interpretation and to cringe when hearing those old recordings, full of elements not written in the score. Gradually, the most radical strands of contemporary atonal music started to seem like the most legitimate way to remain involved in classical music. “Beauty” became, for you, an abstract and flexible concept, no longer connected to skin-deep emotion — even if, to defend your new ideological stance, you’d still claim to be moved to tears and shivers by the most erratic combinations of sounds.
You grew to admire composers whose scores are meticulously detailed, leaving no room for performers to overlook their markings. Little by little, you were becoming a gatekeeper — one who protects the musical text from the intrusion of overly free-minded interpreters.

The years passed. You became a respected master yourself, chasing bad taste wherever it appears in someone’s playing, still searching for the perfect style for yourself and your students—playing and recording the same pieces again and again, to get closer to the truth, because in the last version, you still did too much for your taste (which has improved with age).
You now consider yourself humbly satisfied, remembering with wet eyes your teenage years, when you were recklessly learning music so fast, dreaming of a bigger, better world. It’s such a relief for yourself that you chose to make it narrower.


:::: The Right Tempo ::::

“Too fast!” “Too slow!” shouts the football commentator at every attempt by the team to score a goal; or your partner during your attempt to make an intimate encounter exceptionally entertaining; or your examiner when you’re taking your driving test...
The same goes for the teacher, the critic, the jury, and the random stranger on social media commenting on your playing after hearing just a few minutes: it seems no one needs to listen more than a few bars to make up their mind about the tempo. You see how things are much easier than they seem in classical music: it’s either right or wrong!

The right tempo is the one that reminds you—consciously or unconsciously—of your favorite version of the piece; the one that doesn’t distract you with worries about unpaid bills or your next meal; the one that leaves all your organs peacefully in place under your chest.
The wrong tempo is anything other than the right one: when you start scratching yourself, hear things you’ve never noticed before, breathe more heavily during a crescendo, feel the music move and speak rather than simply flow—which keeps you from having thoughts, instead of letting them be accompanied by a pleasant sound; when you perceive any kind of meaning in what you hear (which can be so uncomfortable), these are clear signs of a wrong—or even super-wrong—tempo.

There’s a flood of arguments helping commentators prove it’s too slow or too fast: “At Bach’s time, instruments technically couldn’t be played at that speed,” suggesting that we should faithfully observe certain restrictions today, even on modern instruments; or “It can’t be so slow because that great pianist, in his legendary recording, played it faster,” implying that this legendary pianist should rank right after the score in your order of priorities. What can we do? He or she was right, and you’d be wrong to do things differently. Like that famous actor who went into the shop now famous for its long queues: it must be really good if that god or goddess passed its doors. Classical music shouldn’t be hard, once again: just practice your fingerings and follow the signs.

How to find the right tempo, then? “I want to find the right tempo!” shouts the classical musician who’s already gone through a long quest to find the right style. Well, it seems to depend on a crucial choice: either you believe tempo exists independently, apart from the piece; or you believe tempo belongs to the piece—and maybe, like all other musical parameters, is altered by many environmental factors: the hall, the mood, the piano, and so on. The second choice may bring you quite a few upset comments, but you’ll always have a question ready in your pocket: when someone says “too slow,” answer, “Compared to which tempo?” If your commentator says “the right one,” congratulations—you’ve met a true believer.

:::: An open temporary conclusion, passing by musical nationalism ::::

So, classical music may not be so complex in the end, if it’s just about practicing to get things right: what a relief! I had caught myself thinking that musical interpretation might involve challenges beyond mechanical skills, correct tempo, and style, but I am now happy to finally join the peaceful herd of humble music servants who don’t question what is clearly just a truth to follow and obey.

There’s still much left to do on the way to getting things right, though… Take this crucial topic for classical music lovers and performers (some journalists love bringing it up): can anyone without Polish blood truly play a Chopin mazurka with the right spirit? What about French music — are French musicians better at playing it than others? And Russian musicians with Russian music? This issue of nationality, borders, and blood suddenly gives music a very tribal flavour… Now, when practicing a piece, I might see flags and uniforms and hear the noise of boots — will that help me play in the right style and tempo?

Maybe music is not such a universal language after all — despite the dream I had some time ago; maybe what matters most is the national aspect of cultures? What if universalism were a naive (some would even say stupid) idea, and the supposed superiority of certain cultures over others — all supposedly engaged in a civilisational competition — an obvious fact only questioned by fools? Damn, how much I don’t want to be a fool… I want to be right: then the fastest way might be to join those most convinced that “the others are wrong”! And to believe with them — not too loudly, please, to avoid unnecessary debates — that classical music is the most superior form of musical art. And I don’t need to know the other forms, of course, to make such a statement. That belief brings me great comfort — after all, I’m obviously on the right side of it.

Becoming a believer in musical nationalism, I certainly wouldn’t waste time studying harmony if an altered dominant chord in Bach has nothing in common with the same chord in Fauré, simply because the former is German and the latter French…

I should get to know my most French side better too, and maybe take advantage of it, after hearing so many people say: “Of course you play Debussy well — you’re French.” Yes, obviously it’s a matter of culture: someone who didn’t grow up in France — with its typical houses, fields, hills, baguette, wine, and cheese (so clearly connected to Ravel’s sense of melody — who would dare deny it? That Daphnis has more in common with Roquefort than Gorgonzola?) — like me, couldn’t possibly play something that’s supposed to sound like France, as musical nationalists claim. It hardly occurs to me that this extrapolation might be just as naive as universalism — and it’s so nice not to feel alone with this view, in classical music circles where musical nationalism is preached as if it were an unquestionable truth.

Why bother with the fact that Bach deliberately studied and absorbed French and Italian styles? That would only complicate neat national categories. He was German, and German music should be seen as a whole, like a national cooking recipe. But aren’t Sauerkraut and Choucroute the same thing? Then… is it French or German? If this is the most important thing in the world — to draw the border exactly where it should be to separate identities — it turns out to be much more complicated than I was told…

So yes, I’ll go back to “getting things right” — no need to understand too much. And instead of overstepping myself with the sin of thinking out loud, I’ll shut up, bow my head, and do my penance. Just like a good, humble classical musician should.

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