Way In #1: Masterclasses

I once invited some non-musician friends to a masterclass in which I played some of John Cage’s sonatas and interludes for prepared piano—pieces in which nuts and bolts and erasers are inserted between the piano strings to make the piano sound like a percussion section. They, like me, were skeptical about whether they would enjoy it, but by the end they were more engaged by this masterclass than in their previous more traditional classical musical experiences.

What makes the difference? Classical music exists as a chain of interpretation linking composer to performer to listener, each bringing their own unique context and perspective. Masterclasses work because they strengthen these connections in real time, showing us how seemingly small changes in the performer's interpretation can have outsized effect on the listener's connection to the composer's music.

Composers and Performers: Elgar and du Pré

There are a handful of classical works that are inextricably linked to their performers. Glenn Gould so “owned” Bach's Goldberg Variations that I listened to his recordings for ten years before hearing anyone else play it. Sergei Rachmaninoff declared Horowitz “the only player in the world of my Third Concerto,” and legend has it that the composer—a great pianist in his own right—even stopped playing it himself.

But I would give the prize for “Piece Most Synonymous with Performer” to Jacqueline du Pré’s version of Elgar’s Cello Concerto. Like Gould’s Goldberg Variations, du Pré brought the Elgar from obscurity to Billboard charts. Like Horowitz, she inspired generations of eager young cello students (myself included) to flock to the piece. And like both Gould and Horowitz, du Pré’s story—the sweetness of her romance and marriage to pianist/conductor Daniel Barenboim, followed by her tragic retirement at age 28 and passing at age 48 due to Multiple Sclerosis—has added to the aura around a piece now virtually inseparable from her, immortalized in film, ballet, and opera.

The performer’s chief job is to form connections both with the composer’s work and with the audience, thereby connecting the audience to the composer. This is an especially difficult task when the performer looks at the printed notes and imagines somebody else’s recording—a recording they’ve grown up with. It’s not just Elgar anymore, but Elgar + du Pré. And I think many of us can never un-hear du Pré's story in Elgar's music.

Performers and Audiences: Zander and Haas

Later, we’ll hear du Pré’s performance, but first I’d like to show you the following “interpretation class,” in which cellist/conductor Benjamin Zander coaches Daniel Haas on how to form more direct connections—both with the music and the listener.

Here’s the first two minutes of Haas’s performance, with Dina Vainshtein playing the orchestral reduction on the piano. I encourage you to watch until your mind wanders.

Some listeners, I'm sure, were fully engaged for the entire performance, perhaps because the Elgar concerto is new to them. But at some point in their lives, every classical listener—more often than we’d like to admit—has a moment when the music becomes a wallpaper for our thoughts (or as composer Erik Satie called it, “furniture music”).

Zander demonstrates this phenomenon in his TED talk:

It is so important for listeners—especially new listeners—to be able to say, “that didn't keep my attention” without it feeling like a pronouncement on the education of the listener or the value of the composer or classical music as a whole. But when as listeners we can't see anything wrong with a performance, when it just “sounds perfect,” it's easy to jump to these conclusions because we can't unpack why.

This is the crux of Zander's teaching—music is storytelling, and, critically, about communicating that story to the audience. It is not telling a story into the ether. Artist Marcel Duchamp said, “A work of Art is completed by the Viewer.” It doesn't matter how “good” the playing is—the only thing that matters is whether the people you're communicating with are moved. In other words, what matters is the connection from composer to performer to audience.

I love some of these moments—that the music is something to be with, not something to play. And for myself, I find that Haas's playing is infused with something that makes me feel the composer's intentions, not just hear them.

Zander, who conducts the Boston Philharmonic and Youth Orchestra, has an unmistakable teaching style. As much as his words hit home, it is his body language that injects passion into the playing—that is to say, he is conducting.

When people ask me if musicians at this level really need a conductor, I often compare it to a soccer coach. Would the great soccer teams still be good without their coaches? Absolutely. Like a coach, most of the conductor's work is behind the scenes, in rehearsal. There are some obvious moments when a coach or conductor makes a difference in the moment—a coach might make a substitution; a conductor might change the tempo. (In an extreme case like Boulez's Éclat, the conductor even determines the order of the musical passages.)

More often, as a coach sets the tone for a team in the locker room, you can see just how a conductor can communicate the emotional essence of a piece just by their way of being. Even from behind, an especially demonstrative conductor can be exciting for an audience to watch, but the true measure of a conductor is in the way their work (especially in rehearsal) affects the musicians on stage, and through them, the music we hear—another link in a chain of interpreters.

Now let's skip ahead to some material which requires a different treatment: the tender second theme.

Bravo. At the time of this writing, the cellist Daniel Haas is now a professional composer and cellist with the Renaissance String Quartet. Zander’s mastery—and now his student’s as well—comes from the alignment of the interpretation chain, one of the most basic facts of classical music that is too often overlooked. There are three primary parties involved: composer, performer(s), and listener(s). If there is any disconnect along the way from one link in the chain to the next, the music won’t achieve its maximum effect.

A composer can write a piece that musicians love but that fails to resonate with audiences, or one that audiences would love but no musician wants to play. A pianist can play every note that's written on the page perfectly, but miss the point if it's not communicated to the listener. Or they can play purely for the audience and get a standing ovation, but if the notes they were playing said nothing interesting to begin with, it might be forgotten the next day. And a listener can listen to one of the greatest performances of all time, but if they're not open to what the musicians are trying to say, it still might not leave an impression.

If you don't enjoy a performance, there can be lots of reasons. Maybe you just don't like the notes that were written. Maybe you would've liked the notes played by someone else. It can be difficult when you don’t know the piece to know whether the disconnect is with the performer or composer. (This is also why the internet trolls and music critics who claim that a performance or piece is “objectively bad” can be so infuriating.) Or perhaps it’s neither the fault of the composer or performer: maybe the you that was listening at that point in time was thinking about an argument or stomach ache, not yet open and receptive. This is to say: everything has to go right. But when it does—when a great piece of music meets an interpreter who takes its message and speaks it directly to a receptive audience–music can be magical.

The Long Play: Putting it all together

From time to time, I'll recommend a longer stretch of music to listen to in one sitting, simulating a miniature concert experience. It may not always make sense to listen to these longer works in the flow of reading, so feel free to come back later.

This time it's du Pré's Elgar, or at least the first movement. A movement is just the name for a large section of a work, often with a pause after it.

Du Pre's choices are not identical to those we've just heard, but certainly she inhabits the music fully. As Daniel Barenboim, her husband and conductor in this recording, once said, "[du Pré] was so free, emotional and carefree – not careless – that perhaps she represented what many people in England wished they could be but didn't quite manage to be."

And to the New York Times, “The greatest musical joy was to play together with her. I think we complemented each other. She had an abandon that was very contagious, and I loved it.”

“Difficult” Music

Masterclasses which help take the lens of the performer can be especially helpful for music that isn't particularly easy to grasp on first listen.

When I first got to college, my teacher was assembling a program where his students would each be playing movements of Olivier Messiaen's religious meditation Vingt Regards sur l'Enfant-Jésus, written towards the end of World War II during Paris's liberation, four years after Messiaen's 9-month long imprisonment by the Nazis. This was the first time that I’d played music of this complexity—inscrutable rhythms and groups of notes that often seemed unrelated to any traditional key. Certainly, it was a far cry from the romantic Elgar I’d learned just a few months prior.

But as I learned the Regard du Silence, the seemingly random notes started to coalesce into something contemplative—notes that I once found random started to make sense. And I realized that the rewards of “difficult” music are often related to its cost—it requires a willingness from both interpreter and listener to engage and probe and not give up. And when randomness coalesces into meaning the result can be deeply satisfying.

The Messiaen, though, gets much thornier than my Regard du Silence. In this excerpt, Joanna MacGregor coaches pianist Ji Liu on the Regard de l'Esprit de joie, about the spirit of joy.

Here she makes sense of the pile of notes to reveal the melody, the shapes, and the syncopation, which amount, ultimately, to a higher-level impression: joy. To the modern ear, the final version can even find parallels to the ways that joy is expressed in jazz.

As with the Elgar, let's hear a more tender moment of Messiaen, in which the Virgin gazes upon her child.

To my ears, after playing this passage “like singing to a baby,” the repetition goes from monotonous to meaningful, and the undulation of the melody begins to feel intentional. What before felt “just boring” to me, might still put me to sleep, but this time it feels enchanting as a lullaby, rather than dull as a lecture.

In these examples, we can see that there's a deeper, more specific brand of mellowness or of happiness that goes beyond the excellence of musical, well-prepared students.

Living Composers and “Classical” Music

Masterclasses with living composers, though few and far between (the masterclasses, not the composers), can demonstrate the full range between what's written on the page and the possibilities for performance. In Caroline Shaw's case this comes down even to the choice of instrument—where she hopes for a “casual, pedestrian clay flower pot” that doesn't say “here's my classical instrument” but instead “here's what I have in my garage”.

In the recorded era, we have copious examples of composers like Debussy and Rachmaninoff, whose own recordings show them taking liberties with their scores. Eduard Steuermann, a graduate school teacher of my own teacher Natalie Ryshna, once brought the Austrian composer Alban Berg's meticulously notated piano sonata for a lesson with the composer. Berg began the lesson, “I hope you ignored all my markings.”

A classical composition is an artifact, usually ink on page, permanent but silent—utterly dependent on a performance to realize its potential. When such an artifact is brought to life repeatedly, it enters the classical repertoire. This opens the door for present-day compositions of all styles—from symphonic film scores to electronic avant-garde works with graphical scores—to join the classical tradition. ^💬

Not all composers have embraced this implied trust between composer and performer. If the recordings of Debussy and Rachmaninoff show them taking considerable liberties with their scores, their contemporaries and compatriots Ravel and Stravinsky dissented. “Don't interpret my music—just play it!” instructed Ravel. Stravinsky went further, declaring interpretation “the root of all errors, all sins, all misunderstandings that interpose themselves between the musical work and the listener.” And many performers follow suit—the pianist Sviatoslav Richter once said “The interpreter is really an executant, carrying out the composer's intentions to the letter.” ^💬

Perhaps if Stravinsky and Ravel had lived later in the digital era, they would have split from the classical tradition, released records instead of scores, and left future cover bands to figure out the notes for themselves. ^💬 Musicians and audiences are glad they didn't. Yet even Stravinsky eventually softened his stance. New York Times Critic Anthony Tommasini tells the story of Sir Colin Davis performing Stravinsky's “Oedipus Rex.”

After the concert, Stravinsky asked Sir Colin, ''Young man, why did you take Jocasta's aria so slow?'' Sir Colin answered that he was following the metronome mark. The composer replied, ''My boy, the metronome mark is just a beginning.''

The Rabbit Hole

Videos of masterclasses and orchestral rehearsals abound online from the great interpreters of every instrument. For more Zander, you could try this class on the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto (which has a similar problem to the Elgar), in which Zander takes an already “finished” performance from Yoojin Jang and Dina Vainshtein and offers an alternative interpretation.

For something different, like a technically focused masterclass on 21st century vocal repertoire, try Mezzo-Soprano Sasha Cooke teaching “I am Harriet Tubman, Free Woman” by the contemporary composer Nkeiru Okoye (with student Rayna Campbell).