True, in order to finalize his project an architect and sometimes a sculptor turns to the help of experienced workers who realize his models and sketches in stone and wood. But their work is purely that of the craftsman and does not involve any new, additional creative impulses. The situation in music is entirely different. The composer needs an intermediary-performer, a creative interpreter of his composition.
The word "performer" does in fact express the essence of the artistically significant and intensely creative process of musical interpretation. The more perfect, complete and brilliant the performance of an artist, the more exposed is his artistic persona.
He is not an "executor" of another's will; rather the mind of the composer should become the performer's own, and blend with the individual traits of his talent, with his own artistic aspirations. The performer gains strength and courage in this unity, which is necessary for the concrete realization in sound of the ideas and images contained in the work. Naturally, a composer can be a performer of his own compositions. Probably this combination of composer and performer in one person is the most fruitful and yields the highest artistic achievements.
The author then is an actor playing the main character in the drama written by him. However, the composer is not always a perfect instrumentalist.
Creation of a composition and its concert performance are two different aspects of the musical art. Even composers who have the necessary instrumental proficiency and technique are still not always the best performers of their work. In such cases, the composer has somehow exhausted his main source of creative force in the composition process. This problem has a special interest from the historical perspective. The many reasons for this division of creative tasks require a study of their own.
It happens sometimes that a composer is unable to take into account all the technical, colorific and expressive possibilities of a master instrumentalist. Depending on the precision with which the composer estimates the instrument's potential one may talk of a sensitive or insensitive presentation of compositional details, and a good or bad instrumentation. The interpreter must present the composition to the listener as an undistorted whole, and he should see this as his first and foremost artistic goal.
Does the composer need the artist-interpreter as an independent creative personality? Do the brilliance and emotions of the performer not impede our view of the ideas and images of the work interpreted?
And, finally, doesn't the composition potentially contain everything that an interpreter may present? Is the live sound related to the written notes as cause and effect or is it simply an occasion for display of the individual features and virtues of a great master-performer?
All these questions were answered differently by different schools in various times. There are artists who not only treat the author's text arbitrarily, ignore the performance directions, tempo and dynamic markings, but also change the text according to their own notions, add their own cadenzas, other harmonies, new passages etc.
This was an accepted practice by many performers of the old school, and attempts to revise the text of a composition still appear in our day. Sometimes a composer trusts the performer to introduce some changes into the text: not only editorial modifications — in the most general sense — but also radical compositional changes that are most definitely the author's prerogative.
This may be explained by the composer's desire to employ the knowledge and mastery of the performer-instrumentalist, who knows playing technique and the possibilities of the instrument perfectly.
Such a friendly collaboration may help the author find a path to the most grateful exposition. Technical perfection is a gift that the performer presents to the composer. The last and decisive component in the musical creation — concrete realization — depends completely on the skills of the performer, his technical perfection, and the individuality of his interpretation.
Quite often a composer has sufficient skills as a pianist. However, he would naturally seek advice from an expert when creating a part for a less familiar instrument. The tradition of relegating the composition of virtuosic cadenzas to the performer is quite understandable, because of the historical development of the relationship between composer and performer. This musical practice takes full advantage of the knowledge and mastery of both, without a strict division between the creative domains of the composer and his interpreter.
Still, these two areas of musical art are separated even when the composer himself is a noteworthy interpreter. On the other hand, a prominent instrumentalist often develops an urge to create his own compositions for his recitals. It is hard to determine the creative stimulus for these: whether it is the performer's vigor and the perfection of his artistry, or whether the very saturation and force of the creative ideas causes them to come to life, in realized sound, through powerful and perfect technique.
Still, musical practice shows that though the combination of the composer and performer in one person is both natural and harmonious, and despite the large impression left by gigantic creative personalities of the past who possessed deeply and totally both a purely creative gift and perfect methods of realization — usually we encounter the familiar separation, and the instrument in a concert hall usually resounds under the fingers of a performer and not the author himself.
Performance markings, sometimes very detailed, which complement the written notes, point to a vital interest on the part of the composer in perfect, and closely directed, future interpretation. On the other hand, a noteworthy performer who has devoted his life to working on perfect realizations of the ideas of various composers, has spent many hours on practice and technique, and has penetrated special mysteries that have been opened only to him — may hardly remain indifferent to the misses and shortcomings of presentation committed by even the greatest of composers.
The numerous transcriptions of Bach organ works by the great masters of pianism — Busoni, Tausig and others — also belong here. We should point to Bach transcriptions by A. Goedike, and more specifically to his symphonic transcription of the Passacaglia, as far as our own country is concerned. We should, however, quickly mention that the purpose of any transcription is not precisely editorial correction of the presentation.
Such changes are caused quite logically by the features of another instrument or instrumentation system. Thus, some changes in the text are unavoidable in a transcription. However, it is difficult to find an example of a successful intervention by a performer into the notes of a composer.
Even the greatest performers were sometimes guilty of taking such unnecessary liberties, such as, for instance, Busoni: two additional bars with arpeggiated dominant and tonic chords at the end of Chopin's Etude 1 were especially unsuccessful. Some of the Siloti editions of the Tchaikovsky works belong here as well; for instance, Variations in F major. Unsolicited intervention by the editor is especially unpleasantly surprising in those cases where there is no reason to doubt the caliber of the composing — which is the work of a composer with a perfect style.
The editor treats the author condescendingly, as an inspired lunatic or a spoiled child who has no time to finalize his intentions precisely or to descend from the heights of his creative metier to the prosaic task of careful writing. Some corrections are introduced by editors out of considerations related to the gradual development and perfection of instruments and playing technique. Indeed, Beethoven had to vary the repeat in many sonatas, as well as in the first movement of the Fourth Concerto.
A note that crosses the scale of the composer sounds foreign to the composing style, like a random instrument in a well thought-out score. For instance, in the Tchaikovsky Sixth Symphony, the commonly practiced first-movement introduction of the bass clarinet for four notes in the transition to the secondary theme, should be considered not totally justified. Liszt, a genius interpreter of the Beethoven scores, regretted at the end of his life that he allowed himself deviations from the true text in his concert interpretations.
But even in this domain one should avoid unnecessary deviations, the extraneous rhetoric of invented passages, and ornaments that violate the style of the composer. This is impossible to accomplish mechanically. New avenues of presentation and expression are needed solely in order to preserve, not break apart the concept of the work.
The metrically transcribed melody contour in the Liszt transcription of "Gretchen am Spinnrade" attains almost vocal expressivity due to this shift. By contrast, the precisely maintained movement of the accompaniment in the "Erlkoenig," performed by the left hand in the transcription, produces the impression of stressful virtuoso jumps in place of the airiness of the Schubert original. Of course, some difficulties can be smoothed out by the virtuosity of a performer, but that has no bearing on the transcription itself.
The transfer of thematic elements leads to corrections in the notation, not only in piano arrangements with a significantly different specific presentation but also in the handing off from one instrument to another in symphonic compositions. Beethoven often replaced two quarters by one half-note in the presentation of the Freude theme by cellos and basses in the finale of the Ninth Symphony.
Comparison to a literary translation suggests itself — as when a translator-poet changes the meter and the number of syllables of the original in order to express more precisely its very spirit. No matter how we treat transcriptions and arrangements for other instruments, it is impossible to deny that many examples of this genre have the right to exist and are themselves a special kind of creative expression.
Individuality of a performer. This false distinction often leads to the conclusion that there are special, artistic types of performers who create their own worlds of images and ideas, which differ from that of the composition. One may, of course, artificially separate the issue of how the composition is performed from that of what is being performed. Reality shows that indeed an artist-performer type does exist whose impetuous virtuosity and pretentious phrasing hide the true intentions of the composer.
Can, however, such playing be justified artistically? Such playing is an unnecessary spinning of the wheels of the performing machine, one that does not touch the essential aspects of the composition. On the other hand, is it possible to speak of good playing by an artist if he does not invest any individual qualities into his performance, does not transmit his personal interest in the ideas and emotional intentions of the composer, and does not possess his own, special and refined mastery?
Listening to a superlative artist we become convinced that every phrase, every chord and passage invariably transmits a special charm, characteristic of the true creative process. A composer should, of course, take into account the possibilities of great performing art.
Still, an outstanding interpretation invariably introduces special qualities that shed new light both on the composition and on the author himself. Individuality and brilliance of performance are seen not only in free tempo variation, weight of stress on certain parts of the sound thread, or magnitude of crescendo and decrescendo, but also in the smallest details and shadings of playing.
Everything that is overly obvious and explicit in the playing of an artist may be imitated and may become characteristic of a whole group of pianists, or even of a school. Listening to such an artist we experience the widening of the usual boundaries of our imagination, the ideas are purged of the everyday common sounds that create layer upon layer in our consciousness, and the composition recovers its original force, vitality and relevance.
Spirited playing by an artist completes the continuity of process that leads from the vague, dimmed images of the original concept to their complete realization in sound. The complexity of a composition may be regarded as the quantifiable complexity of its components, at least in some respects.
One may point to the number of voices in a fugue, the multi-layered content of harmonic combinations, the conjoining of varying meters, the complexity of thematic and variation development, or finally to broad formal development that requires special attention. One might say that polyphonic compositions are more complex than homophonic and that polytonal and polyrhythmic compositions require greater attention by the listener and performer.
However, no matter how complex a given work may be, all of its components can be accounted for, described and analyzed. Sometimes the sources of art are infinitely far away. Their appearance may not succumb to analysis. However, every musical element is subjected to special temperament in the final form of the score, in order to be expressed in the metrical system. Is the matter similar in the performing art? May we speak of the finiteness of its basic elements? Are its qualities and accomplishments accessible to thorough analysis?
Or count the number of vibrations of a singer? Or point to the exact means and principles of construction of a flexible and free rhythm? This is no place to list all the components of the live performing process. It is clear that none of these elements have a precise, closed form.
A critic has to leave the realm of scrupulous analysis and measurement when describing an outstanding performance. He can find only approximate and unreliable reference points for measuring the actual impression left by the playing of a remarkable artist. The man-made bird of the Andersen tale is a precise mechanism; all its wheels may be counted. It is "simpler" than the live nightingale whose singing — in its inexpressible delight — cannot be subjected to precise analysis.
In that sense the most refined and complex movements may create an impression of simplicity, whereas imperfect, approximate or apprentice methods can create the feeling of a complicated and confused mess. If we imagine the entire path of a composition, from its origins to its completion in a real interpretation, we see a line passing from infinity, through the finite elements of the written score, and back to infinity.
The original stimuli of art are infinitely complex, the sound elements that need to be written as notes are finite, and the number of interpretations that appear out of them is endless. Performance depends on an uncountable number of reasons and conditions. Performing style changes with the tastes and moods of the times. It responds to the demands of new audiences. Each new performer introduces special, individual qualities into his playing.
Therefore it is extremely difficult to fix the character of any performance in strict and precise terms. The author himself envisions the inevitable variability of future performances of his composition. He equips his work with detailed directions to the performer, striving to avoid the total dissipation of his intentions in the numerous individual interpretations to come. However, two difficulties arise. Another difficulty, maybe the most important one, lies in the dichotomy between pre-imagined ideas of sound, and the realized work.
This dichotomy treacherously awaits both the composer and the performer throughout the entire creative process. Introducing tempo markings and shadings, the composer either recalls his own playing or imagines the ideal effort of a performer-interpreter.
In both cases his imagination can mislead him, presenting only a partial rendering of the actual performing process — which depends on various factors: the creation of sound, overcoming technical difficulties, and most importantly — the possibilities and restrictions of a concrete instrumental style.
It sometimes happens that an author makes requirements that cannot be realized on a given instrument. These errors may be explained as carelessness but one may also conjecture that the author was attracted by some imagined instrumental sound. Quite often accents, rinfordanzo, and other shadings that for one reason or other are not appropriate for the piano, can be successfully applied on other instruments.
A composer can easily exaggerate the possibilities of the piano in his imagination, attributing to it the additional wealth and color of foreign sounds. One is led to the conclusion that the flow of an imagined sound thread follows its own rules and principles, and is not necessarily identical to real sound. Imagined sounds are somehow lighter. They are independent of the technical, material aspects of playing. Notes stressed in the author's mind may not need to be played any more loudly: it suffices for the composer to stress them in his own mind.
An accent stressed in the realm of the imagination may not always be transferred adequately to performance. Illusion and reality always complement and affect each other in music.
The mutual penetration of these two elements permeates the sound fabric. Both the composition concept and the style of interpretation are built upon the synthesis of imagined and real sounds. The very perception of music is related to these differing varieties of sound. Many Schumann shadings—stress, softening and accents—belong to the category of mentally stressed sounds, more speculative than empirical.
Sound elements that occur in reality and imagined ones, intended for the mental ear only, can complement each other but can also be contradictory.
Their struggle sometimes increases the tension of the perceived musical fabric. A careful analysis of performance directions especially as far as the Romantics are concerned shows that many performers not only fail to follow them with pedantic precision, but tend to do the opposite. The observations of B. Yavorsky, who noted the contradictions between Scriabin's performance markings and his own interpretations in concert recitals, are especially interesting.
It is highly interesting and instructive to compare recordings of the playing of noteworthy composers with the markings in their scores. Goldenweiser points to significant differences between the author's interpretation and the tempo and dynamic markings in the score. We find the most precise performance markings in Beethoven. Notation is less scrupulous in the Romantic works. In Schumann, one may find them to be contradictory.
Bach wrote almost no tempo or other markings, obviously following the custom of his time. It is difficult to judge the playing style of a period in the distant past.
Probably tempo variations were not so significant or were understood without explicit differentiation. One may name composers of modern times who have supplied their compositions with few and imprecise markings, but at the same time used very extensive means of expression in their performances. It is necessary to point out significant differences between three varying systems of composer directions.
In the first case, as we have seen in Bach, the author restricts himself to an insignificant number of tempo and dynamic directions. He provides the performer with a maximum of freedom in interpreting the score. Take chances. See how it goes. Push your personal performance envelope and measure the results. Love the stage and take command of it. Talk to the audience. Smile with your words. Involve the audience. You may not get this chance with a particular number, but many cry out for the audience to sway, sing, chant, clap or whatever with you.
Play on that. If you must sing a song in a foreign tongue from your audience, tell them what the song is about. Give them two or three words to listen to that make a point.
Plant yourself and then move on. Happy feet are maddening. Love it. Songtrust does not collect on behalf of the performer unless they are also the songwriter. You can not register cover songs with Songtrust. Did you know that, while the song "Free Fallin'" was written by Tom Petty an Jeffrey Lynne, one of the most famous versions of this song was performed by the artist John Mayer.
While John Mayer is entitled to royalties for the master recording, Tom Petty and Jeffrey Lynne earn royalties on his performances for the composition. Not only that, but John Mayer must pay Tom Petty and Jeff Lynne a compulsory mechanical license for each copy sold of his version of their song.
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