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Ivory dreams: the music critic as performer

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Ivory dreams: the music critic as performer

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IVORY DREAMS:
THE MUSIC CRITIC AS PERFORMER

by

Matthew Erikson

A Thesis Presented to the
FACULTY OF THE USC GRADUATE SCHOOL
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
In Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree
MASTER OF ARTS
(SPECIALIZED JOURNALISM)

May 2010

Copyright 2010 Matthew Erikson
ii
Dedication

For all the music teachers who pushed me to be my best.

iii
Table of Contents
Dedication ii
List of Figures v
Abstract vi
Introduction 1
Introduction Endnote 6

Chapter 1: Personal journal from January 2010 7
“Manifesto” 7
“First Lesson” 10
“The Art of Practicing” 12
“Cracking the Code” 14
“Reality Checks” 17
“Eine Pause” 19
“Winter Sonata” 21
“Queering the Piano” 23
Chapter 1 Endnotes 26

Chapter 2: Personal journal from February 2010
“20 Questions” 27
“Answers” 31
“Morning Person” 33
“Great Expectations” 35
“Pen Pals” 37
“Antisocial Behavior” 39
“Nerves” 41
“Anniversary Overkill” 44
“Listening” 45
“In Memoriam” 47
Chapter 2 Endnotes 49

Chapter 3: Personal journal from March 2010 50
“Slowing Down” 50
“A.T.” 51
iv
“Duality” 55
“Suspended Animation” 57
Chapter 3 Endnotes 60

Conclusion 61
Conclusion Endnote 63

Bibliography 64

v
List of Figures
Figure 1: Screen shot of “Ivory Dreams” website, Home page 4
Figure 2: Screen shot of “Ivory Dreams” website, About page 5

vi
Abstract
By way of a daily journal first begun on the Internet, the author
explores how preparation toward a piano recital has impacted personal
perceptions of criticism, performance and his own professional goals as a
music writer.

1
Introduction
While working for over five years as a classical music critic for the
Hartford Courant and the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, I had often wondered
about the question of critical authority. There’s no licensing board for critics,
no actual critic school. (Indeed, most critics would say that they had entered
the field almost entirely by accident.) It’s generally assumed that a critic’s
credibility comes with time, in the accumulative trust that a writer gains
from a readership. Beyond subject expertise, crisp, compelling writing is
usually paramount.
That said, does a performing background give the critic –
specifically, the classical music critic – an authoritative edge? There’s little
doubt that a reacquaintance with the rehearsal process and concert pressure
could help provide a freshness and empathy to crack some of the jadedness
that comes with time. On the other hand, the level of abstraction that
criticism takes (the immediate critiques of form and process by the
“reviewer” versus the larger project of the critic dealing with themes and
connections) may have something to do with the problem of over-awareness
dampening performance confidence. We can lose power and reach when we
2
over-think. Yet we can't deny the role that thought has to play in the
performing process.
In general, most music critics don’t perform well the creative or
artistic task, although we do have an interesting line from Schumann and
Berlioz through Virgil Thomson. In fact, it was thinking about Thomson
that helped me on this path toward a piano recital and a daily journal. In a
2005 online article titled “The Problem With Composer-Critics,” San
Francisco Chronicle music critic Joshua Kosman voiced some rather strong
concerns about the identities of critics. He wrote,
The composer-critic is fighting to make a secure place in the musical
arena for the kind of music that he and his allies, loosely and
inclusively conceived, write. It’s a good fight; I support it entirely.
But as a listener (and by extension, as a listener-critic), it isn’t my
fight.

In his essay, Kosman specifically targeted the composer-critic Thomson. He
finally concluded, “we need … critics who can help interpret the experiences
of the audience, not of the artists.”
1

But how can one understand said experiences without at least
attempting to identify with the mind of the artist (performer and composer)?
This was a motivating impetus for this project that I have set out for myself.
As a composer, my skills are meager. But I do have plenty of experience as a
3
pianist, including a Bachelor’s degree in Music from Amherst College and a
Master of Music from the Hartt School.
However, my last recital was ten years ago, before I began my career as
a critic. Hence, this great adventure to understand how my years as a music
writer may have affected my perspective on performance and feelings for the
music at large.
In working toward a May piano recital, I have had the Thornton School
of Music’s Daniel Pollack as an instructor. With his approval, I chose a
mixed program that could stretch my technical and interpretative skills:
Bach’s Partita No. 2, Schubert’s Sonata in D (D. 850) and Elliott Carter’s
1945/46 Piano Sonata.
The following journal details the initial experiences of recital
preparation. With my advisor Tim Page, the decision was made to first
publish it as a blog. (The website’s address is www.ivorydreams.org.) This
Internet presence offered the journal more of a timely quality, and allowed
readers a chance to interact and offer comments.
In conclusion, are Kosman’s distinctions of “listener-critic,”
“composer-critic” or “performer-critic” helpful or valid? I hope that for the
reader of this journal, the answer will become self-evident.
Figure 1: Screen shot Screen shot of “Ivory Dreams” website, Home

4
of “Ivory Dreams” website, Home page
Figure 2: Screen shot Screen shot of “Ivory Dreams” website, About

5
About page

6
Introduction Endnote

1 Joshua Kosman, “The Problem with Composer-Critics,”
NewMusicBox, http://newmusicbox.org/page.nmbx?id=70vw01
(published February 1, 2005).
7
Chapter 1: Personal journal from January 2010
January 12, 2010
“Manifesto”
It’s almost been a decade since I performed my last piano recital, and
I still recall the event as vividly as yesterday: the sweaty palms moments
before walking onstage, the hot blinding lights and, of course, the addictive
applause. Since I graduated in 2000 with a Master’s degree in piano from
the Hartt School of Music, my life took a different direction. For the past
several years, tables turned as I transitioned from a performer to a classical
music critic for newspapers in Connecticut and Texas. (For a while, it was a
decent way to pay the bills, including those pricey grad school loans.) On
one hand, I’d like to think that my piano years from age six onward helped
make me empathize with the performers whom I was reviewing,
interviewing or reporting. But the daily grind of newspaper writing can
easily leave one jaded. Did I end up losing touch with my musician roots?
Further, can one reasonably expect to return to the point where he left off as
a performer 10 years ago?
As an Annenberg Fellow at the University of Southern California, I
now have a chance to answer those questions. USC professor and critic
8
colleague Tim Page enticed me here to Los Angeles for a promised year of
perfect weather, intellectual edification and a marvelous music scene. I
haven’t been disappointed. Last semester, I surveyed the wonders of L.A.
architecture, studied composition and spent many splendid nights at Walt
Disney Concert Hall. This term, I’m taking lessons with USC virtuoso
Daniel Pollack, as we work toward a very ambitious recital program of
Schubert, Bach and Elliott Carter. Honestly, it feels a little bit like a
tightrope act. Four months is a very short time to prepare such a concert
after a long hiatus. But away we go! More challenging feats have been
done for the love of music. And opportunities like this come so rarely – or
not at all.
This journal is intended to track my progress toward this recital goal.
This project has gotten me thinking further. So often, I run into people who
tell me, “I wish I hadn’t stopped taking piano lessons as a kid.” For many
like myself, the possibility to be on the stage again, to share an inner part of
ourselves through the performance of music, as well as to be re-immersed in
the study of Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, Mozart, etc., beckons brightly. Yet
the demands of career or family have put these dreams on hold.
9
We live in such a wired world, that I think people are very hungry
now for the real experience of making music at a piano. Not on an electric
keyboard, or an iPhone, or an ersatz guitar a la “Rock Star,” but an authentic
musical instrument. We also live in a society where music is valued more as
a commodity than creative expression. (Just watch an episode of “American
Idol.”) Yet in my humble opinion, if music is to have a glorious future, we
need to cultivate a generation of active performers rather than armchair
listeners. Only when one takes the time to seriously study music and perform
it, does he or she fully experience the visceral joy and psychological
satisfaction that music provides.
Ultimately, I hope that this journal can convey the passion, fun and
intellectual stimulation that go into a major endeavor like a solo musical
performance. And I aspire to entertain with tales of my adventures.
There’s a veritable subgenre of literature on this topic, e.g., Carol
Montparker’s “Anatomy of a New York Debut Recital,” New York Times
art critic Michael Kimmelman’s magazine piece on his Cliburn Amateur
Competition experience and chronicles of first-time piano lessons by NPR’s
Noah Adams. Without wanting to compete with these examples, I hope that
10
my story might at least inspire others to take out their Czerny or Chopin
etudes and commence practicing! I guess we’re all in this together.

January 14, 2010
“First Lesson”
Where would any of us be without those teachers who pushed and
inspired us? I’m hugely grateful for all the classroom instructors and
professors who encouraged me over the years with their warmth and
wisdom. Yet the bond between music student and teacher is something a bit
more special – so inexpressibly personal, intimate and multi-dimensional.
It’s a fact not lost on Hollywood, which naturally has sentimentalized the
subject. This distracts from an almost spiritual communion that can exist
between teacher and student as they dig deeply together into some timeless
music.
Here at USC’s Thornton School of Music, I’m fortunate to have
Daniel Pollack as my teacher this semester. Less than a year ago, the New
York Times published a wonderful profile of Pollack and how in many
respects he’s better known and esteemed in Russia than in this country. Yet
among most pianists, Pollack has always been an acknowledged treasure. A
11
student of the inimitable Rosina Lhevinne at Juilliard, Pollack made his New
York Philharmonic debut at age 9, became a finalist at the 1958
Tchaikovsky Competition (his star temporarily overshadowed by the
competition’s victor Van Cliburn) and recently he has released some fine
recordings on the Naxos label.
Yesterday was my first lesson with Pollack and for it, I played for him
some of Bach’s Partita No. 2 in C minor. I’ve performed before the first of
these six dance suites. The First’s innocent, bucolic character couldn’t be
more different from the dramatic, passionate and almost mystical power of
the Second. And while playing the grand, majestic opening movement of
the Second Partita for Pollack yesterday, I couldn’t help but recall a story
that San Francisco Symphony music director Michael Tilson Thomas – and
USC alum – shared during a visit to the campus last fall. When he first
played the Second Partita for teacher Alice Ehlers, she didn’t let MTT get
past the seventh measure! Fortunately, I got through to the end of the
Sinfonia without any interruption.
Pollack complimented me on my hand position and curvature, but the
music lacked color, he said. Bach has got to swing! He couldn’t be more
right. For much of the rest of the lesson, we discussed an assortment of
12
different touches – finger, wrist and elbow – that I could employ to give the
music better shaping, articulation and phrasing. In general, I need to be
much more deliberate about every note and gesture rather than play what
seems intuitive or a simplistic terraced approach (forte vs. piano, legato vs.
detached, etc.).
As good teachers must, Pollack opened a door to limitless
possibilities.

January 17, 2010
“The Art of Practicing”
On Friday, I ran through the first movement of Schubert’s Sonata in
D, D. 850 for my boyfriend Steve. No music connoisseur but a hearty
appreciator, he could plainly see that it was a struggle. (For that occasion, I
should have chosen a slightly slower tempo than the sprightly Allegro vivace
that’s marked.) “So how many more movements are there?” he asked after
I was done. “Three,” I replied rather meekly, knowing too well that they
were in a more sorry state than the one I had just performed.
What have I gotten myself into? I’m fully committed to this recital,
with a scheduled date of early May. Yet the work and polish that are
13
required between now and then are so daunting. (For the moment, let’s not
dwell on the Elliott Carter Sonata that I have planned!) Sure, I’ve
experienced similar challenges before, including a marathon two years ago.
The marathon metaphor is actually rather apt in contemplating the self-
discipline and training or practice regimen that I have ahead. Yet adrenalin
or willpower will only get you so far in a musical performance!
So back to the practice room I go, four or five hours alone each day in
a windowless closet-like space. For the layperson, it may sound more like
monastic penance than artistic endeavor. But it’s reality for musicians and
what ultimately makes performance not so much different from any other
craft. That is, it’s a work habit. You don’t play music only when you feel
“inspired,” but out of daily necessity. I think Twyla Tharp described it best
in our book “The Creative Habit,” especially with her elaboration of the
artist’s “ur-skill” of discipline and the routine of “perfect practice.”
“Without passion, all the skill in the world won’t lift you above craft.
Without skill, all the passion in the world will leave you eager but
floundering,” she writes. “Combining the two is the essence of the creative
life.”
1

14
It’s just not about showing up to the practice room. Every so often I
feel like I’m languishing when I repeat a difficult passage out of rote rather
than conscious deliberation. The fingers are moving but my brain is
somewhere else, contemplating what to have for dinner or how Congress is
going to finally pass a health care bill. At those moments, I’m not getting
much accomplished. As Steve has reminded me, personal relationships are
about “intentionality,” namely, being present in the moment and making a
constant conscious effort to keep the bond strong. Likewise, a musician
needs to keep that same focused and deliberate intent with his or her
instrument, on or offstage, and during the tedious moments in a fluorescent-
lit practice room.

January 20, 2010
“Cracking the Code”
Playing on my car stereo during a December road trip was the audio
book “The Lost Symbol” by Dan Brown. I had paid little heed to the hoopla
surrounding Brown’s “The Da Vinci Code” a few years back, so it was kind
of fun to evaluate this most recent novel with no preconceived notions.
Freemasonry, Washington D.C. and noetic science are among the subjects
15
that the author attempts to crack in “The Lost Symbol,” all, of course, under
the guise of a suspense thriller. For me, the book wasn’t much more than a
Hardy Boys mystery, dressed up in New Age spirituality and pseudo-
science. But it sure made the 30-hour car trip seem shorter.
As Brown fans know, the story’s protagonist Robert Langdon is a
Harvard “symbologist” who can decipher the most esoteric hieroglyph or
cryptogram. In “The Lost Symbol,” Langdon and others are in hot pursuit
of a Rosetta Stone-like object that can reveal the secret location of a grand
temple of Enlightenment somewhere in the nation’s capital. A worldly
knowledge and quick acumen are required to read the ciphers. Ultimately,
this all led me to think that the most illuminating – and rewarding – code to
divine is in no symbology class or in a Dan Brown novel. It’s in music.
Musical notation is one of Western civilization’s great leaps forward,
originating in the Gregorian chant preserved by monks during the Middle
Ages. With notation, musicians translate an initially unruly series of dots
and scribbles into an exquisite, ineffable language, full of emotion and
meaning, and containing all the necessary information of rhythm, melody,
volume, harmony and more. With some notated music – especially Bach’s
works – many of these elements are left to the musician’s imagination. (It’s
16
hoped that a conscientious musician will choose tasteful tempi, articulation,
phrasing and dynamics.) But in so much of 20th century music, the
composer tries to scrupulously spell out mostly everything. They don’t want
to leave much to chance.
As I learn Elliott Carter’s Piano Sonata from 1945-6, I’m a little
overwhelmed by the quantity and precision of directions: These overtones
should ring! Quarter note = 132 beats per minute! As smooth as possible!
The note density and constantly shifting meter of Carter’s music were
already formidable challenges!
But I love this music so. Its rewards come slowly but deeply. I’ve
come to a point that as you become increasingly familiar with the intricate
rhythms and counterpoint – as you crack the code, so to speak – it actually
feels right. In the end, the score of Carter’s Piano Sonata is like an
architect’s meticulous blueprints that you hope to someday build into a
sturdy edifice.

17
January 22, 2010
“Reality Checks”
It’s one thing to dream lofty goals. It another to write them down and
let them stare at you in stark black-and-white. As Lee Iacocca once said,
“There’s something about putting your thoughts on paper that forces you to
get down to specifics. That way, it’s harder to deceive yourself – or
anybody else.”
2

Ergo, this journal and, of course, my lessons with Daniel Pollack to
bring me back down to earth. Today was my second lesson with Pollack as
we surveyed aspects of technique and I played for him the first movement of
Schubert’s Sonata in D. At 75 (his birthday is tomorrow), Pollack is a
wondrous link to the grand Russian piano tradition that he studied from his
teacher at Juilliard, Rosina Lhevinne. I was intrigued to integrate some of
that knowledge during my lesson today. And well, I’m still reeling from all
the information!
I thought my grounding in technique, thanks to teachers such as Paul
Rutman from the Hartt School, was pretty good. Hanon, Dohnanyi, Chopin
Etudes – been there, done that. It turns out that my education has just begun.
As Pollack explained, technique consists of five key elements: scales,
18
arpeggios, octaves, double thirds and sixths, and then miscellany such as
trills, Liszt etudes, etc. As my fingers traversed the piano, playing the C
major scale in 6ths, 3rds and 10ths, I felt pretty good. For the future, said
Pollack, I should play these scales closer into the keys, near the black notes,
with more careful attention to the arm motion (the left arm facing the
keyboard, away from the elbow going up, the same for the right arm going
down). With that, I then played the Chopin C major Etude, Op. 10, No. 1 –
a common adversary for pianists but glorious music consisting of flowing
cascades up and down the keyboard. Again, “good.” But Pollack afterward
showed me some classic Lhevinne technique: throwing the finger with a
pronounced knuckle near the top of each ascent. In particular, the pinky
finger needs as much strength and support as it can get – with no collapsing
of the finger joint.
The technique lesson took some short detours with a preparatory
exercise by Alfred Cortot (whom Pollack also knew) and some octave work
involving a bounced forearm. I might have been disappointed if the lesson
hadn’t included some repertoire, but Pollack wanted to hear the Schubert.
Here it’s easy for one to divorce technical work from the music, but he
didn’t let me off so easily. The music’s bright character and Viennese lilt
19
were co-dependent on the proper arm and wrist motion. As I played the
first movement, Pollack gave directions, musical and technical. The
experience was marvelous!
Near the end of the lesson, I asked him whether I was ready for this
entire repertoire. He gave an unambiguous “yes,” and with that, I felt very
happy knowing that my dreams could become a reality.

January 26, 2010
“Eine Pause”
Sunday afternoon was an opportunity to briefly escape from the
practice room and hear the Los Angeles Philharmonic perform Bruckner’s
Eighth Symphony. It was the first time I’d ever heard this titanic work live.
Like some, I’m rather ambivalent about the Austrian composer.
Historically speaking, Bruckner’s epic music is a logical outgrowth of
Schubert’s spacious works. But while I never lose the overall shape or
architecture hearing (or in my current case, playing) a Schubert piano sonata,
Bruckner can be baffling. An absolutely riveting musical passage sometimes
trails off into the ether to be followed by a more pedestrian theme.
20
Transitions are abrupt, and, unless the orchestra and the conductor are really
good, the performance can sound tedious or incoherent.
Yet there’s a spiritual purity in Bruckner’s symphonies that I don’t
quite experience with Mahler’s earthier scores; Bruckner’s symphonies can
be cathartic in a peculiar way. On Sunday afternoon, I felt fortunate to have
had guest conductor Lorin Maazel as tour guide through the Eighth’s vast
80-minute symphonic panorama. Maazel’s reputation as a controlling
egomaniac is well known. But for all of his perceived flaws, I’m often
amazed at the sweep, clarity and organization that this native Angelino
brings to complex scores, especially the performance of Richard Strauss’
“Salome” with the New York Philharmonic last season. On Sunday, Maazel
made the Bruckner Eighth hold together like super-glue.
I was apprehensive toward the beginning of the symphony. Even the
most fervent fan must admit that the L.A. Philharmonic can sound patchy at
times. The strings’ intonation was shaky and the ensemble wasn’t quite
together in the elusive first movement. Yet the brass in the Scherzo sounded
almost like the Chicago Symphony under Fritz Reiner! And the third
movement Adagio was simply glorious. The harmonies shifted like a slowly
turning kaleidoscope, perpetually sparkling. The strings supported a
21
powerful obbligato from the horn. With the finale, Maazel and the L.A. Phil
ended the symphony in a blaze of glory.
A marvelous performance like this is inspirational sustenance to a
musician. “Go forth and play!”

January 29, 2010
“Winter Sonata”
In Ingmar Bergman’s 1978 film “Autumn Sonata,” Liv Ulmann is
Eva, the estranged daughter of concert pianist and neglectful parent
Charlotte Andergast, played by the marvelous Ingrid Bergman.
Accompanied by the strains of Chopin’s Prelude No. 2 in A minor, Ullmann
and Bergman’s characters nag and tussle throughout Charlotte’s visit to her
daughter’s home until finally their repressed feelings spill over into a night
of intense confrontation and then psychological catharsis.
“Autumn Sonata” isn’t the best film by the Swedish director. (My
votes would be “Cries and Whispers,” “Fanny and Alexander,” “Persona”
and “Wild Strawberries.”) More significant for me, the film’s overall shape
and concept invoke what musicians refer to as sonata form. As heard in the
symphonies by Beethoven, Haydn, Mozart and Schubert, sonata form
22
involves the introduction of two usually contrasting but kindred musical
themes, keys and characters (referred to as the exposition), their elaboration
and clashing (the development) and then resolution (recapitulation and
sometimes coda). Hundreds of tomes have been written about the
philosophical, psychological and sociological significance and implications
of sonata form, which I’m tempted to discuss here. Needless to say, the
influence of sonata form continues well into the 20th and 21st centuries –
seen in “Autumn Sonata” and heard in Elliott Carter’s 1945/46 Sonata,
which I’m currently studying.
So how does Carter use sonata form, particularly in the work’s first
movement? It’s subject to some debate. Whereas David Schiff argues in his
book “The Music of Elliott Carter” that the presence of sonata form is
“vestigial,”
3
pianist Charles Rosen feels more of a historical connection,
writing that “the sonata form of the first movement has a clear exposition of
the first and second themes, a development section, and a recapitulation.”
4

Personally, I don’t think Rosen’s demarcations are all that clear-cut in the
music. What is clear is how Carter abandons the 19th century’s dominant-
tonic relationships with their accompanying regular beats and bar lines for
ambiguous tonality and a constant change of meter. The first movement’s
23
key signature is mostly in B major but then it ends in B-flat. The fluid,
quicksilver character of Carter’s music is achieved mostly by the doing away
of measured time and the inclusion of very sophisticated (and hard to play)
rhythms.
Right now, in learning Carter’s Sonata, I’m fixated on the differing
characters of the music: the meditative opening, the hypervirtuosic toccata-
like passages and the melancholic espressivo moments. I want to bring them
to life as vividly and individually as possible. Almost like characters in a
Bergman movie.

January 31, 2010
“Queering the Piano”
In a recent blog post, British pianist Stephen Hough holds out the
provocative possibility that gay pianists play differently from their straight
counterparts. He writes, “Perhaps there is an intensity, a verging towards the
edge, a barely-checked hysteria (Horowitz’s on his sleeve, Richter’s under
iron-clad armour) which is sometimes a clue. … Straights always [go] by the
rulebook.”
5

24
Hough is a brilliant player. (His Rachmaninoff concerti recordings
with the Dallas Symphony are so good!) But as a pianist who also identifies
himself as gay, I don’t quite buy his argument. On one hand, I don’t think
he intended his remarks to be taken so seriously. But there’s a danger of
them being misinterpreted. Further, when is stereotyping ever enlightening?
Years ago, the late New York Times music critic Harold Schonberg
wondered aloud in a column if it were possible to distinguish between male
and female pianists and so conducted blind experiments using different
recordings of the same piece of music. Today, this quaint exercise seems
like such a wasteful expenditure of energy. The powerful physicality of
Argentine pianist Martha Argerich immediately shatters any stereotypes
about female players. Moreover, who really cares? If it sounds compelling
and beautiful, that’s all that matters, right?
What’s interesting is how Hough uses not just Horowitz and Richter
but Shura Cherkassky and himself as examples. (That Sviatoslav Richter
was gay came as a revelation. Who knew? While Horowitz must have
faced difficult challenges in this country, I just can’t imagine what an ordeal
it was for Richter back in the USSR.) In these latter cases, Hough gets a
little vague. In Cherkassky’s playing, Hough identifies an element of
25
“camp,” which I have a hard time hearing or conceiving in my mind. Film
or theater can be camp. But musical interpretations? He also cites how a
psychologist identified his own music as “homosexual,” without providing
details of what that all means.
It would have been helpful if Hough was more forthcoming and
explained how his interpretations or musical approach are dependent on how
he identifies himself as a gay man. Our life experiences undoubtedly shape
us. And in my case, the piano was a source of solace growing up as a gay
kid. It was a way to share and express myself in ways that I couldn’t
otherwise. Does that translate into the kind of edgy intensity that Hough
describes? He is speaking mostly of a particular generation of closeted gay
(and married) pianists. Still, to think that heterosexuals have a monopoly on
sticking to the rules or that sexual persuasion – or for that matter, gender,
class, ethnicity or political orientation – corresponds with musical style
sounds far-fetched.
26
Chapter 1 Endnotes
1 Twyla Tharp, The Creative Habit: Learn It and Use it for Life: A
Practical Guide (New York: Simon & Schuster, Inc., 2003), 173.

2 Richard Neustadt, Thinking in Time: The Uses of History for Decision
Makers (New York: Simon & Schuster, Inc., 1986), 39.

3 David Schiff, The Music of Elliott Carter (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell
University Press, 1998), 205.

4 Charles Rosen, The Musical Language of Elliott Carter (Washington
D.C.: Library of Congress, 1984), 10.

5 Stephen Hough, “Gay Pianists … Can You Tell?” Stephen Hough
blog,http://blogs.telegraph.co.uk/culture/stephenhough/100006381/gay-
pianists-can-you-tell/ (published January 25, 2010).

27
Chapter 2: Personal journal from February 2010
February 7, 2010
“20 Questions”
Choreographer Twyla Tharp has a little trick that she shares in her
book “The Creative Habit.” Before approaching a project, she writes down
20 questions that she wants to explore during the creative process.
“Thoroughness, like discipline, is one of the strongest skills,” she writes.
“The patience to accumulate detail keeps you grounded and sharp.”
1

As I immerse myself in Schubert’s Sonata in D, D. 850, I continue to
be fascinated by the atmosphere, mystery and brooding feeling in which the
composer inevitably propels the performer. Which sensible person hasn’t
been devastated by music like the Cello Quintet, “Der Erlkönig” or the Piano
Sonata in B-flat? While on a surface level this D major Piano Sonata
follows more of a standard formula than these works, I’m pulled in by its
myriad charms: an infectious rhythmic momentum, harmonic ingenuity and
dramatic sweep.
These questions, large and small, preoccupy me. I hope to have most
of them answered before or during my lesson with Daniel Pollack on
Wednesday.
28
1. What is “LIGATO” and how is it different – if at all – from the “legato”
that musicians associate with smoothness and connection? This marking is
contained in the first three of the sonata’s four movements. Could it just be
a typo?
2. In this sonata, what is this attraction that Schubert has for the key of B-
flat? Beethoven is similarly inspired by this tonality in the Op. 10, No. 3 D
major piano sonata, i.e., beginning the first movement’s development in B-
flat, the use of B-flat in the Rondo finale, etc. Do you read it simply as the
Neapolitan of the dominant, A major?
3. This is one of only a few piano sonatas Schubert had published during his
short lifetime. Why?
4. The work’s many sprightly rhythms invoke dances. You could fairly
describe the Rondo finale as a march. Could the third movement Scherzo be
characterized as a polonaise with a ländler-like middle section?
5. What is the meaning of the “catezza” marking contained in the Rondo?
6. Schubert uses Allegro as a marking in three of the sonata’s four
movements. In general, this is one of the brightest and most cheerful of
Schubert’s works. And “allegro” does mean “cheerful” in Italian. Are these
markings more descriptive or strictly related to tempo? So does the Scherzo
29
movement get the quickest tempo because it is Allegro vivace rather than
Allegro or Allegro moderato?
7. For the trills that conclude the slow movement, do you trill from above or
on the note?
8. Counterpoint was not one of Schubert’s strong suits, generally speaking.
But are there any quasi-contrapuntal textures worth emphasizing?
9. Is it fair to call the first movement exposition tertiary from a thematic
standpoint? Are the curious triplets beginning in ms. 48 (given added
emphasis with the “un poco piu lento” marking) new or are they related to
preceding material?
10. For this section described above, how long should the composer’s
“pedale” marking last?
11. What were Schubert’s general associations with the key of D major?
What else did he write in this key? Are they as bright and cheery as this
sonata?
12. Harmonic motion by 3rds (rather than traditional 5ths) takes place in
important places in this score (e.g., mm. 79-85 in the opening movement).
What is the historical precedent for this?
30
13. Is A-flat the most remote key that this sonata visits (mm. 118+ of the
first movement)?
14. Is the slow movement in a rondo form, or a stranger hybrid?
15. How unusual is it for the slow movement to be in the dominant key of
A? Wouldn’t G be more normal?
16. Actually, how slow should this “slow movement” be? It’s marked con
moto.
17. Should the pp or ppp markings always be accompanied by una corda.
Or should there be exceptions? Light or full una corda?
18. Can I find an easier fingering than that marked in ms. 95 of the slow
movement (Henle edition)?
19. Did Schubert seriously think that the pianissimo of ms. 167 in the first
movement should be “sempre” for such a long duration?
20. Can there be any more tasteful or refined interpretation of this sonata
this Leif Ove Andsnes’ recording?

31
February 11, 2010
“Answers”
My Schubert lesson with Daniel Pollack has been postponed until next
Wednesday. But it’s okay. At the risk of name-dropping, I’m reminded of
something that Pavarotti told me in an interview back in 2002. He said that
young musicians should learn to become their own best teacher; they can’t
expect insight to be handed constantly on a silver platter. (Actually, my
interview with the kingly tenor wasn’t too much fun. I think a sea urchin
would have been more amenable to answering a reporter’s questions. But
hey, how many people can say that they have had 30 minutes of face time
with Pavarotti?)
Ultimately, direction can come from no one but yourself, and you
need to dig down deep within yourself to find in. Still, I’ve been amazed by
my four short weeks with Pollack. The progress has been immense, and I
can’t imagine where I’d be without his feedback, fine ears and advice. I’ve
been feeling much more at ease about practicing and the challenges ahead!
Still, Pavarotti would’ve told you that he didn’t learn everything about
breath control from a teacher in Modena. It was through trial and error and
by example. (Anecdotes of his regularly placing his hands around soprano
32
Joan Sutherland’s diaphragm when he started out on tour with Sutherland
and conductor Richard Bonygne are instructive and hilarious.) Of course,
luck, self-discipline and a network of good listeners and colleagues never
hurt you either.
While in a practice room, I spend part of my time anticipating what
Pollack or another astute musician would say as comment. Schumann’s
dictum from his marvelous “Advice to Young Musicians” summarizes it
beautifully: “Play always as if in the presence of a master.”
2
The temptation
is to play merely for yourself, indulging in a miniature recital without giving
conscious thought of how you need to improve.
As for my questions from the other day, I’m learning that comparing
scores of the Schubert Sonata in D is instructive. Growing up, I was left
with the impression that Henle editions were sacred text. But they are
fallible, too. (In fact, Pollack told me the other day that the Henle edition of
the Chopin Etudes is no authority. A Schirmer edition can be just as
satisfactory.) It turns out that the Henle edition that I have of the Schubert
sonatas is scrupulous to a fault. The indications “ligato” and “catezza” are
verbatim from the autograph but confuse the player who should know right
away that they mean “legato” and “con delicatezza,” respectively.
33

My research has also introduced me to “a comprehensive guide” of
Schubert’s solo piano literature edited by a Ms. Carolyn Maxwell. (Never
heard of her? Her big claim to fame is past President of the Colorado State
Music Teachers Association.) About the D major sonata, the guide says,
“the rather trite material, compounded by the lengthy statements and
restatements, could make the study and performance of this sonata a
frustrating exercise.”
3

I’ve made it my goal in the next few months to prove it wrong.

February 13, 2010
“Morning Person”
My favorite person of all time to quote is Henry David Thoreau. And
it was dear Thoreau who wrote in his second chapter of “Walden” that ”all
memorable events transpire in morning time and in a morning atmosphere.
… Poetry and art, and the fairest and most memorable of the actions of men,
date from such an hour.”
4

As far as I know, Thoreau was no musician. (He though probably
possessed a greater musical ear than the admittedly tone-deaf Emerson.)
34
Still, I think Thoreau was on the mark about daybreak creativity.
Composers such as Elliott Carter have said that they do most of their work
before lunch. And count me among those pianists who also feel the most
productive in the morning. Not only is the body more limber but the brain
sharper (especially with morning coffee), free of many of the distractions
that naturally accumulate during the day.
Growing up, I never really thought of myself as a morning person per
se, especially when as a student I got in most of my practice during the late
hours. And as a newspaper writer, you learned to save many of your best
thoughts and bon mots for overnight reviews. While working for Dallas’
WRR-FM as a classical music radio announcer, however, I began to enjoy
the occasional morning shift that had you up before 4 a.m. Your focus
stayed with the task at hand, and consequently, time flew. After 12 p.m.,
you had the rest of the day to yourself.
For the last few weeks, I’ve made it a point to get to the practice room
by 10 a.m. Yesterday morning, though, I had an appointment to service my
car, so I didn’t get to work on my repertoire until the early afternoon. And
things just didn’t seem quite right. I felt less alert and committed to all that I
35
had to get done, including learning more of the Carter sonata second
movement and polishing some Bach.
Lesson learned. This morning, I’ll be in the practice room by 9:30.
And in the future, I’ll move all car appointments to the afternoon (my luck
that I own a 2010 Toyota Corolla).
To conclude, more immortal words by Thoreau:
Little is to be expected of that day, if it can be called a day, to which
we are not awakened by our Genius, but by the mechanical nudgings
of some servitor, are not awakened by our own newly acquired force
and aspirations from within, accompanied by the undulations of
celestial music, instead of factory bells, and a fragrance filling the air–
to a higher life than we fell asleep from.
5

February 16, 2010
“Great Expectations”
Some days I feel like I’m tilting at windmills. Will this piano recital
actually get off the ground? Can I do it in May? With my selected
repertoire, have I bit off more than I can chew?
Overhearing USC students playing in their practice rooms, I’m
overwhelmed. The music-making can be at such a high level that I feel like
I don’t belong. Furthermore, I’m aware that there are 12-year-olds who can
36
play circles around me. I hear them every Sunday on Christopher’s
O’Riley’s radio program, “From the Top.”
What’s particularly precipitated my latest “crisis” is reading Carol
Montparker’s “Anatomy of a New York Debut Recital.” The book is a
wonderfully engaging account of Montparker’s preparation toward a
Carnegie Recital Hall concert — not as a young conservatory grad but as a
mom and teacher later on in life. Yes, marvelous reading, but here’s the rub:
the timetable that Montparker had set in preparing her program is much
broader than the four months I’ve allotted for myself. And reading about her
struggles with memorization and repertoire two months before her Carnegie
Hall date, I realize I’m relatively early on in the learning process. I’m just
beginning to memorize the Schubert. What time will I have left to polish
it?!
So do I just abandon my plans for a recital? I don’t give up that
easily. Or should I scale down expectations? Well, that may be inevitable.
Needless to say, I’m no Horowitz. But I do think that I’ve something
valuable to say musically. And in terms of my career as a journalist and
critic, I can think of no better exercise than to put myself again in the
37
position of performer. Amid all the struggle and anxiety, I know that there’s
a silver lining of joy somewhere ahead.
Just as many times before, Bach was my solace today. My fears lifted
like morning fog while playing selected movements of his Second Partita.
What vitality and edifying power lies in this great master’s music! After
feeling thus fortified, I then went off to practice some Schubert and Carter,
with my doubts seeming like a distant memory.
Oh, to dream “the Impossible Dream”!

February 20, 2010
“Pen Pals”
The last few days, I’ve enjoyed a lovely correspondence with Carol
Montparker, the pianist and author of “The Anatomy of a New York Debut
Recital” whom I mentioned in my last entry. (She had spotted my journal
online and cared to offer some warm words of support.) Montparker is
perhaps best known for her books “A Pianist’s Landscape” and “The Blue
Piano,” both of which I read voraciously a few years back. I adore how she
intertwines her musical, painterly, writing and nature interests in a way that
captivates, while also allowing the reader valuable moments for self-
38
reflection. In short, she has a poetic soul. And through my own pursuit of a
piano recital in my mid-30s, I’m honored to retrace some of the footprints
that she has generously left us pianists.
In fact, there are a couple of passages in her “Anatomy of a New York
Debut Recital” that I think bear repeating here. First, “whether or not
anyone will ever read these pages, their value to me as a catharsis, as a focal
point for surplus nervous and creative energies, and as a sort of self-analysis,
is still considerable. And so, not so much to be read, but as an expose of
myself to myself.” Herein is the raison d’être for this journal, condensed in
these most eloquent and concise terms. The articulation of feelings and
thoughts about the music and creative process are intended, I hope, to
refocus those energies in a worthwhile direction.
Finally, to quote Montparker again, here’s where I hope my musical
journey will ultimately lead:
More than ever before in my life, I am experiencing the exhilaration
that comes from utilizing one’s entire potential. It is a great feeling.
Along with this, there is an increasing certainty that my convictions
were true: that one can have super-control over one’s life, can increase
its quality immeasurably, and should follow all impulses and carry
them through because there is nothing that is totally impossible.
6

“Control” is perhaps a too much maligned and misunderstood word. I
think what Montparker is referring to here is the creative spontaneity that
39
can spring from conscious effort and hard work. Dreaming, reflecting or
talking about goals is one thing. Action is another. And it’s the working
toward goals in this stage of life that prevents the resentment and cynicism
of later years.

February 22, 2010
“Antisocial Behavior”
Of late, all the hours of practicing have made me a recluse. I’ve not
had as much time for the people important in my life and I fear that window
will only get smaller between now and May. For sure, the piano can be a
tremendous source of joy and connection. But there’s only so much
consolation that an instrument made up of wood, felt and ivory (or its
synthetic equivalent) can offer.
I recall now an interview that I had a few years ago with Boston-based
clarinetist Richard Stoltzman. A funny guy, Stoltzman quoted his mother
who had said that musicians can be very selfish. Especially to an outsider,
the commitment that it requires for a musician to get to the top may be so
excluding that it comes across as self-centered or inconsiderate. I imagine
artists of other stripes have faced a similar backlash. To get by, musicians –
40
and I assume, other artists – have learned to create a special esprit de corps.
”Not selfish, but driven,” is more the talk, which may explain why
classically trained musicians more often than not develop serious romantic
relationships with other musicians.
From my conservatory experience and journalism background
covering classical music, it seems that among musicians there’s a broad
range of sociability, from gregarious opera singers and chummy brass
players to more solitary pianists. Although pianists accompany other
musicians and belong in chamber ensembles, much of a pianist’s work is by
him or herself — mastering the technical demands of a Liszt concerto, say,
or polishing a Debussy prelude. In fact, it’s one of the things that I like most
about the piano. It’s one of the most self-sufficient instruments, and can
replicate the sounds of an orchestra through just the power of one.
But it’s also a lonely pursuit – particularly a solo piano recital – yet
one that I consciously chose. Currently I’m reminded of something that
figure skater Evan Lysacek said after winning his gold medal last Thursday.
(Are the worlds of classical music performance and figure skating really all
that dissimilar?) In a Washington Post article he shared, “This last year, I’ve
been really selfish preparing for this Olympics. I’d like to work with
41
[charities] a lot more, to spend some time, some real time. I guess that’s one
goal.”
8

While I won’t captivate millions of people with a recital, I hope to
please at least some listeners. And there’s always the “real world” after all
this is done. Right now though, I’m learning to enjoy the few ascetic
pleasures of this musical bubble. Selfish or not.

February 24, 2010
“Nerves”
Yesterday morning, I performed movements of Bach’s Second Partita
for a Baroque interpretation course here at USC. (Piano, not harpsichord.)
The seminar is taught by pianist/conductor Lucinda Carver and deals
primarily with issues of ornamentation, phrasing and articulation in Bach’s
suites for keyboard and strings. Unfortunately, while performing the partita,
anxiety seized me. There were too many errant notes and worse, a general
stiffness that prevented a necessary flowing and musical contrast in the
Allemande and Courante.
As I’ve often been told, performance is the true test of how well music
is prepared. And it’s true, that my level of performance anxiety in the past
42
has been generally disproportionate to the amount of rehearsal time and
practice. Add a few years of hiatus away from the keyboard in combination
with playing in front of conservatory students, and you got a mighty formula
for nerves. Looking back, I think the kind of work I’ve put in to this partita
wasn’t as meticulous as it could have been. More slow practice in the
Courante with greater parsing of the voices between the hands would have
been valuable. More attention to the harmonic movement in the Allemande
would have led to better phrasing.
I do feel fortunate for the experience yesterday. Carver’s comments
and suggestions were right on, and I’m now more vigilant of the increased
concentration and dedication I need with this demanding repertoire. Still, I
have a little trepidation about the future. If I’m nervous about playing
selections of music, how about executing a whole concert program? And
memorized? I know the road ahead will not be easy, and could be a huge
emotional rollercoaster of sleepless nights, an upset stomach, sweaty palms
and high blood pressure.
In these instances, human nature tells us to use our pasts as a guide.
As an undergrad at Amherst, my senior recital came as a result of constantly
playing for people, and not letting minor setbacks and nerves deter you. The
43
same for when I was at Hartt. Somehow that anxiety and accompanying
adrenaline rush was properly harnessed to keep my focus and concentration
solid. Sure, beta-blockers are still an option for my future. But I think more
useful, I’m starting to see USC’s counseling center to address some of my
self-confidence issues head on. No matter the preparation, I think that I can
often be my own worst enemy by indulging the worst-case scenarios and
self-defeating talk.
I’m comforted by the knowledge that so many artists deal with stage
fright. (John Lahr’s story “Petrified” in the Aug. 28, 2006 copy of the New
Yorker is helpful.) And again, pianist Carol Montparker is a resource and
guide in how she dealt with anxiety. One of my favorite moments in her
“Anatomy of a New York Debut Recital” is when she’s able to conquer her
demons right before going onstage: “I imposed the images of Bernstein and
Rubinstein in their joyful music-making into my mind, and the notion of
‘Certainly this is what it’s all about’ took over… For the first time, I was in
complete control from the very outset when I started to play.”
8

February 25, 2010
“Anniversary Overkill”
44
Even though this is an anniversary year for Chopin, Schumann and
Samuel Barber, I haven’t included music by these men on my recital
program. Why? Well, these three are by no means neglected composers.
And frankly, I think the classical music world is way too enamored of
anniversaries, especially when it stifles creative or original programming. So
instead of playing the more popular Barber Piano Sonata, I’m doing the
Elliott Carter Sonata with a seldom-heard Schubert sonata as a sort of foil.
Bach’s Partita No. 2 completes the recital that will span three centuries of
music. (Perhaps Chopin will make an appearance as an encore.)
Yes, there’s a knee-jerk reaction to program music by composers in
their anniversary year. But if music presenters are going to take that route,
then why not embrace it fully? After all, this is the tricentennial of
Domenico Alberti. Never heard of Alberti? We know him best for the
Alberti bass that figures prominently in so many classical piano sonatas.
(Think the left-hand accompaniment to Mozart’s “Facile” C major Piano
Sonata.)
So to commemorate Signore Alberti’s birthday, why not program a
concert exclusively of works with Alberti bass? Or design a festival of
Alberti operas around a scholarly conference? Or inaugurate an “Alberti the
45
Progressive” concert series with music by composers who were especially
inspired by the Venetian master? Might some recording company issue a
complete box set of Alberti’s music?
Just a modest proposal.

February 27, 2010
“Listening”
In my role as music critic, I’ve often wondered about a critic’s
authority. As my colleague and USC advisor Tim Page has said, anyone can
put a “critic” sign outside his or her door. There’s no licensing board, no
critic school. In fact, most critics, like myself, will say that they entered the
field accidentally. ”I never met anybody who said when they were a kid, I
wanna grow up and be a critic,” said the late Richard Pryor.
9
Although I
enjoyed watching “Siskel & Ebert” as a youngster, I believe Pryor was right.
When I think of the critics I most enjoy reading, Virgil Thomson,
Anthony Lane and Herbert Muschamp come immediately to mind. I’m often
dazzled by the power of these men’s prose. Thomson, we know, was wrong
in many of his pronouncements, particularly in regards to Sibelius and
Shostakovich. The judgments of his contemporary, the New York Times’
46
Olin Downes have stood more the test of time. But whose wit sends more of
a delighted shiver down our spines? Give me Thomson’s reviews any day.
Still, for a critic, should it be all about crisp, compelling writing that
leaps from the page? For a classical music critic, no amount of virtuoso
prose can mask poor ears. Sometimes I’m baffled by how some music
writers (even a few respected ones) hear things in a way not faithful to a
concert experience. There’s a reason why many musicians don’t get along
well with critics – and it often happens when they don’t listen wholly, with
open, attentive and sufficiently trained ears.
Taste is subjective, but good intonation, rhythm, balance and
ensemble aren’t. In my current preparation toward a piano recital, I’m
heartened by how it has made me a shrewder listener. Every nuance of
harmony in a work needs to be heeded. A warm, healthy tone should
emanate every moment from the keyboard, even during scales or repetitive
passagework.
So has my experience as critic made me too much of a self-conscious
performer? There’s a question for another day. What I can relate is what my
teacher Daniel Pollack shared on the subject of critical feedback, as told to
47
him by his own teacher, the august Rosina Lhevinne: Everyone has an
opinion; take it from the source.

February 28, 2010
“In Memoriam”
I first met cellist David Soyer while working at the Marlboro Music
Festival. A callow undergraduate among musical giants, I distinctly
remember feeling intimidated by Soyer’s tall frame and sizable reputation.
But that all vanished one early morning with Soyer’s sweet smile. He was
actually a big teddy bear instead of some fearsome grizzly.
It was with great sadness that I recently read Soyer’s obituary. He
died on Thursday at age 87. For chamber music aficionados, this great
musician will undoubtedly be remembered as the anchor of the Guarneri
String Quartet. But I’ll think of him too as a wonderful teacher and chamber
music coach who forever shared himself with audiences, students – and a
mere staffer.
A few years after Marlboro, I had the lucky opportunity to interview
Soyer as a staff writer for the Hartford Courant. After having retired from
the Guarneri, he was going to reunite with his old group in Hartford to play
48
Schubert’s Cello Quintet. So ahead of that event, I went to his Upper West
Side apartment to talk about his career and music, as well as to chat with his
lovely wife Janet. I honestly think that profile is one of the best pieces that I
wrote at the Courant. On the other hand, Soyer was a dream subject,
comfortable enough in his own skin to answer any question with warmth and
wit.
I still have the thank you note that Soyer wrote for my story. In it, he
insisted that I don’t give up the piano. And so I haven’t.
49
Chapter 2 Endnotes
1 Twyla Tharp, The Creative Habit: Learn It and Use it for Life: A
Practical Guide (New York: Simon & Schuster, Inc., 2003), 176.

2 Robert Schumann, Advice to Young Musicians (New York: J. Schuberth
& Co., 1860), 10.

3 Carolyn Maxwell, ed., Schubert Solo Piano Literature: A
Comprehensive Guide (Boulder, Colo.: Maxwell Music Evaluation,
1986), 296.

4 Henry David Thoreau, Walden and Civil Disobedience (New York:
Penguin Books, 1986), 133-134.

5 Thoreau, 133.

6 Carol Montparker, The Anatomy of a New York Debut Recital
(Evanston, Ill.: Instrumentalist Company, 1981), 63.

7 Amy Shipley, “American Evan Lysacek Defends His Victory Over
Russian Evgeni Plushenko,” Washington Post, Feb. 20, 2010, Sports
section, National edition.

8 Montparker, 71.

9 Yahdon Israel, Show Me a Nigger and I'll Show You a Racist: The Mind
of a Psychopathic Genius, (Bloomington, Ind.: AuthorHouse, 1999),
173.

50
Chapter 3: Personal journal from March 2010
March 4, 2010
“Slowing Down”
Yesterday morning, I began to fully appreciate the value of slow
practice. Many times before, my former piano teachers had admonished me
for playing too fast or not putting in the required hours of slow playing that
are needed to master a tough technical passage or to reinforce memorization.
Whereas in the past, slow practice was an odious chore to be endured like
bitter medicine, yesterday almost qualified as an epiphany.
The occasion came in memorizing the first movement of the Schubert
Sonata in D. Tricky passagework abounds in this sonata, especially in the
development section with its running thirds clashing against chordal eighth
notes. Typical of the composer, Schubert’s music moves wildly into some
striking harmonic terrain. With the movement’s swift Allegro tempo, it
becomes practically dizzying! Yet with slow, concentrated practice at less
than half-tempo, there came a virtual exhilaration yesterday in savoring
every last note, harmony and rhythm that Schubert wrote. I was having fun
and there was no impatience at the music’s glacial pace. I could at last
listen! It’s remarkable how many details are lost with the pursuit of
51
showing-off (even for oneself). This time, I enjoyed the music with perfect
physical ease. Not with my mind preoccupied with other things,
mechanically going through the arm and finger motions, but with deep
listening and admiration.
Unlike many of the students in Daniel Pollack’s studio, I’m no
monster pianist or fire-breathing virtuoso. In fact, my lessons with Pollack
are constant exercises in humility. Here’s the larger point: not only am I
slowing down in the practice room but I’m tempering my expectations as
well. Not in a self-defeating way, but in a manner that will bring greater
personal satisfaction. For my May jury, I’ll have the Bach Partita and
Schubert sonata memorized and polished. But I’m now doubtful about the
memorization of the Carter Sonata. The first movement should be sufficient
on a program, no? Moreover, I’m becoming more and more happy with the
simple self-discovery that this recital project is inspiring. If I don’t play a
perfect or near-perfect performance, I won’t be troubled one bit.
In some ways, I feel more liberated now. In fact, I want to practice
more and more, beyond the four or five hours a day that I’ve kept up so far.
Call me a foolhardy amateur. But I’m not concerned with such labels. I’m
off to the practice room. The music awaits.
52

March 15, 2010
“A.T.”
Whatever communicative powers I have are ultimately stymied when
describing the Alexander Technique to friends, family and associates. “Is it
like yoga?” Not exactly. “Chiropractic work?” Mmmm, no. I smile, take a
deep breath because I know once you start explaining the Alexander
Technique, you exhaust many minutes of what almost invariably seems a
fruitless effort. It’s never easy to explain!
For me, the Alexander Technique has been a way to improve
coordination, bodily efficiency and calmness under pressure through greater
self-awareness. Many actors, dancers, musicians and artists have found it
tremendously beneficial ever since F. Matthias Alexander first started his
teaching practice in the early 20th century. I first heard about it as an
undergraduate from my piano teacher, and dabbled with it during a time in
Dallas. Currently, I’m taking lessons with the incomparable Liz over in
Santa Monica. My piano playing and general well-being have improved in
just the short time I’ve been with her.
53
“Let the neck be free, so the head can go forward and up, so that the
back can lengthen and widen.” These are the directions that an Alexander
student reminds himself constantly during a lesson and through everyday
activity. Unlike a massage, there’s nothing passive about an Alexander
lesson. You consciously learn with the teacher how you’re allowing
yourself to interfere with maximum coordination or “use.” Table work,
sitting and standing from a chair, and exercises such as the deep-breathing
“whispered ahs” and the squatting “monkey” are all meant to facilitate
greater ease and the stripping away of debilitating habits.
“You have good use!” Liz remarked during my first lesson. Well,
I’ve had some experience with the technique, but there’s so much room for
improvement. The tension that accumulates during the several hours of
work in a practice room takes a toll. And stage fright remains a mighty
obstacle. “Freedom from fear,” including the fear of failure, is how one
Alexander Technique author described the benefits of A.T. “End-gaining” is
the term that Alexander used for our preoccupation with results without
sufficient care or attention to the “means whereby” or the process involved
in reaching the goal. Have I perhaps become so driven by a certain
54
timetable for this recital that I’ve created too much of an undue stress on my
body?
Yet some more Alexander nomenclature: there’s no such thing as a
“mind/body divide”; we are all “psychophysical” beings. That is, how we
use our body is a reflection of our thoughts and likewise, our thoughts and
cares can be soothed through greater coordination in the body.
Unfortunately, contemporary life and our many hours hunched over
computers have only contributed more to body aches and nervous
dispositions.
“Be gentle with yourself this week. Trauma, such as the death of a
loved one can cause tension, holding in the body in unexpected places,” Liz
told me after Saturday’s lesson. “Be mindful of noticing yourself this
week.”
1
At the outset of any tension, I’m to remind myself of the directions
as much as possible, without intellectualizing. Lying on my back and doing
a body scan are part of my “homework.”
Just like my piano lessons, Alexander lessons are eventual steps
toward greater self-sufficiency. In the meantime, it’s reassuring to know
that I have such pleasant guides.

55
March 20, 2010
“Duality”
Of course, there are exceptions (pianist Jeremy Denk and his brilliant
blog, for instance). But many of the musicians I personally know, especially
the younger ones, make mediocre writers. They’d be the first to admit it.
Most of them simply haven’t made writing a priority in their lives —
perhaps feeling that their music-making and, in some cases, public-speaking
skills are a sufficient means of expression. The thinking goes, “the number
of hours in the day is short, so most of my time should be spent mastering
my instrument.” Maybe they regret it later in life, especially when a DMA or
a doctorate in music performance is on the line. But hey, c’est la vie.
Conversely, many of the most wonderful music critics and writers are
frustrated musicians. Perhaps I should include myself in this latter category.
This week was an important lesson in how writing and creative performance
require very different areas of the brain and that successfully pulling off both
should perhaps be reserved for a special breed of genius such as Schumann,
Berlioz, Ned Rorem and Denk.
After a period away from newspaper writing, the Los Angeles Times
hired to me to write a profile of the young up-and-coming conductor Robin
56
Ticciati. For me tackling this kind of assignment, the greatest pleasure
usually comes in interviewing and understanding a professional musician’s
perspective of his or her art. Capturing that essence in an article (especially
a short one) can become a difficult exercise in compromise. What do you
leave in, what do you leave out? How can you maintain a lucid, steady flow
without resorting to snappy sound-bites? Moreover, physically during the
process of writing, I can feel trapped in my brain, my body feeling
sometimes like a hardened shell. When possible, I go for a three or four
mile run immediately before I write so I can clear my head and make my
body a little looser. When you’re writing well, you feel a kind of groove that
simulates the best performing experience. But otherwise, you’re also editing
and second-guessing yourself. If not this adjective, which other? Will this
lede or organization work with my editor, the copy desk?
For sure, playing piano in a practice room can also vacillate from
frustration to exhilaration. But for me, it’s a more integral connection of
body, mind and soul. In my current capacity as critic returning to
performance, I’m seriously wondering whether the level of abstraction that
writing and criticism takes may have something to do with my problem of
over-awareness hampering performance confidence. I’m wondering
57
whether in the next few months I can find this delicate balance between
calculation and spontaneity, thought and flow. To be continued.
Finally, isn’t it funny how this same duality is expressed in colleges
and universities? Musicology – or the scholarly research into music, the
study of theory, history, etc. – is often in a separate building and school from
the conservatory with its performing and composition facilities, student body
and faculty. Seldom the twain shall meet. But should that be the case? Was
it true a century or two ago, or have we fallen too much for the zeitgeist’s
obsession with overspecialization?
All that I can currently say is that the level of concentration and
commitment required to maintain both a high performing and writing level
are very, very high. Can I pull off both?

March 24, 2010
“Suspended Animation”
“Music is hard.” That’s what 26-year-old conductor Robin Ticciati
said in my interview with him last week, and this sentence has resonated a
good deal with me. Its necessary corollary is these famous words by
Eleanor Roosevelt: “You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every
58
experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. … You must do
the thing which you think you cannot do.”
2

During the last couple of months, I’ve been constantly reminded how
difficult and fearsome an enterprise a piano recital is, particularly after years
away from the keyboard. The doubts continue to gnaw at me: Isn’t this just
a vanity project? Why did I choose such demanding repertoire? Wouldn’t
all this time be better spent in a job search?
Yes, perhaps this recital might become as elusive as Ahab’s Great
White Whale. But the self-discovery that this process has initiated has been
fruitful. For starters, it’s cemented in my mind the value and priority that
music must have in my life. I’ve learned how work habits are best honed.
Anxiety, I know now, cannot occur without your consent. And, apropos my
experience with Alexander Technique, the process is much more meaningful
than any desired outcome.
Would I love it if I played a flawless piano recital in May? Of course.
Still, if I don’t, I won’t be disappointed either. On the contrary, I’ve been
proud with how I’ve taken advantage of this rare confluence of time and
opportunity in order to pursue my dreams. Wherever my recital repertoire
will be in May, I can at least feel confident in how I’ve grown musically and
59
personally. For this, I’m most grateful for the people responsible for the
Annenberg Fellowship at the University of Southern California and, of
course, my faculty advisor Tim Page and piano instructor Daniel Pollack.
They’re both not only model teachers, but inspiring human beings.
60
Chapter 3 Endnotes
1 Elizabeth Cupples, e-mail message to the author, March 14, 2010.
2 Eleanor Roosevelt, You Learn By Living (New York: Harper & Row,
1960), 29-30.
61
Conclusion
As of this writing date, my goal of a piano recital remains a work in
progress. For sure, uncertainty about the future causes some anxiety. Yet
ambiguity and insecurity are part of life and, as it would turn out, the present
fate of any working journalist. I will keep the faith.
Although it sounds clichéd, my life has come full circle. I have
returned to the musical instrument that first captivated me as a six-year-old.
But while I feel wiser, through my years as a music writer, I am also a little
self-conscious. I still aspire to that state of grace minus expectation so
famously described by T.S. Eliot: “the end of all our exploring will be to
arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”
1

Through this project, one definite idea has crystallized in my mind,
namely a refutation of Joshua Kosman’s notion of classical music reviewers
being balkanized as “listener-critics,” “composer-critics,” or “performer-
critics.” To say that a compositional or performance background makes one
better or worse as a critic seems irrelevant to me now. A critic is simply
someone who can connect a great soulful passion for the music with a
discerning ear and sharp mind. Through the process of pursuing a piano
recital in mid-career, I have gratefully been able to hone all three.
62
In short, critics shouldn’t side with a single constituency (even a
benign one like Kosman’s “listener”), nor should they have personal agendas
beyond a simple fidelity to the music. Criticism ought to be an active force
for good – not spent dwelling on the negatives or nagging deficiencies of a
particular player or artist. In the same way that musical performance is a
positive act of creation, so criticism should ideally aim.
I’m happy to report that this return to the piano has restored my sense
of mission and purpose.

63
Conclusion Endnote
1 Elizabeth Knowles, ed., The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1999), 294.

64
Bibliography

Hough, Stephen, “Gay Pianists … Can You Tell?” Stephen Hough blog,
http://blogs.telegraph.co.uk/culture/stephenhough/100006381/gay-pianists-
can-you-tell/.

Israel, Yahdon. Show Me a Nigger and I'll Show You a Racist: The Mind of
a Psychopathic Genius. Bloomington, Ind.: AuthorHouse, 1999.

Knowles, Elizabeth, ed. The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations. Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1999.

Kosman, Joshua, “The Problem with Composer-Critics,” NewMusicBox,
http://newmusicbox.org/page.nmbx?id=70vw01.

Maxwell, Carolyn, ed. Schubert Solo Piano Literature: A Comprehensive
Guide. Boulder, Colo.: Maxwell Music Evaluation, 1986.

Montparker, Carol. The Anatomy of a New York Debut Recital. Evanston,
Ill.: Instrumentalist Company, 1981.

Neustadt, Richard E. and May, Ernest R. Thinking in Time: The Uses of
History for Decision Makers. New York: Simon & Schuster, Inc., 1986.

Roosevelt, Eleanor. You Learn By Living. New York: Harper & Row, 1960.

Rosen, Charles. The Musical Language of Elliott Carter. Washington D.C.:
Library of Congress, 1984.

Schiff, David. The Music of Elliott Carter. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University
Press, 1998.

Schumann, Robert. Advice to Young Musicians. New York: J. Schuberth &
Co., 1860.

Shipley, Amy. “American Evan Lysacek Defends His Victory Over Russian
Evgeni Plushenko.” Washington Post, Feb. 20, 2010, Sports section,
National edition.
65

Tharp, Twyla, with Mark Reiter. The Creative Habit: Learn It and Use it for
Life: A Practical Guide. New York: Simon & Schuster, Inc., 2003.

Thoreau, Henry David. Walden and Civil Disobedience. New York:
Penguin Books, 1986.

Abstract (if available)

Abstract By way of a daily journal first begun on the Internet, the author explores how preparation toward a piano recital has impacted personal perceptions of criticism, performance and his own professional goals as a music writer.

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University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses

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Asset Metadata

Creator Erikson, Matthew (author)

Core Title Ivory dreams: the music critic as performer

School Annenberg School for Communication

Degree Master of Arts

Degree Program Specialized Journalism (The Arts)

Publication Date 05/04/2010

Defense Date 03/31/2010

Publisher University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag music criticism,OAI-PMH Harvest,Piano,piano performance

Place Name USA (countries)

Language English

Contributor Electronically uploaded by the author (provenance)

Advisor Page, Ellis Tim (committee chair), Anawalt, Sasha M. (committee member), Kun, Joshua (committee member)

Creator Email matthew.erikson@gmail.com,merikson@usc.edu

Permanent Link (DOI) https://doi.org/10.25549/usctheses-m3000

Unique identifier UC1120452

Identifier etd-Erikson-3689 (filename),usctheses-m40 (legacy collection record id),usctheses-c127-330376 (legacy record id),usctheses-m3000 (legacy record id)

Legacy Identifier etd-Erikson-3689.pdf

Dmrecord 330376

Document Type Thesis

Rights Erikson, Matthew

Type texts

Source University of Southern California (contributing entity), University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses (collection)

Repository Name Libraries, University of Southern California

Repository Location Los Angeles, California

Repository Email cisadmin@lib.usc.edu