The Battle With the Impromptus

For the past months I've been trying to make sense of Schubert's impromptus Op. 90 No. 2 and 4, and Op. posth. 142 No. 2 and 3. The first two are not as difficult to interpret. The principal problem has been finding meaning in them so that the repetitions aren't boring, and then in wangling a clear and fluid tone despite the necessity of the pedal. I tend to accidentally hold down one note while I play the next, for instance, which of course creates an incoherent soup of sound. Ideally, too, Impromptu No. 2 would not sound precisely like Chopin, but striving toward that aim is a losing, and possibly unwinnable, battle. In March I put up a recording of No. 4 on my YouTube account, and despite the errors and the slow tempo I'm proud of it, so here it is:

As for the second pair of impromptus, these are ones that are very difficult to interpret. One thing I haven't managed yet is to bring in a Viennese lilt when it would be appropriate. I don't much like when one can't tell which composer is being rendered, which is why I believe such idiosyncracies to be necessary elements. Another thing is that I must figure out the rhythm for the right-hand eighth notes in No. 2, and not have lame pauses everywhere because I'm trying not to rush it. Thirdly, my pedalling is off. Ideally it should illumine the notes from within, as it were, but with me it's painfully obvious when I've clamped down my foot and when my foot should have lifted a long time ago. I do know that the trick is to syncopate the pedalling, i.e. press the pedal instantly after the first note is sounded, instead of at the same time, to avoid a sound-soup; in practice, unfortunately, it is difficult to remember it consistently, and my motor coordination is honestly lousy in any case. But I think that, like the B flat major sonata, the most important element in these impromptus is the sincere feeling that should animate it, and evidently when I sit down to "tickle the ivories" I am often neither in a noble, profound, nor sympathetic frame of mind. So it is not modesty but the truth to note that Papa still plays them far better than I do.

As for other music, I'm working on Rachmaninoff's g minor prelude, which is going well. I hope to give it a rather Russian air, because though Rachmaninoff rendered it in an elegant, fluent Frenchy way (or so I think), I find the composition itself distinctly Russian (except perhaps for the lyrical middle part) and prefer to play it a bit gruffly and deeply. Emil Gilels's version is most likely the benchmark, but of course I want to find my own interpretation, too, so I've avoided listening to it lately.

Then there are the Haydn trios which Papa, Pudel and I play (Hob. XV No. 21, 24, and 25). Pudel suggested that I practice them, and though the suggestion frankly annoyed me a bit because I can sightread them perfectly aptly (in theory; in practice I stumble a lot in the fear of stumbling), I've acted on the advice and profited as a result. Playing duets and trios is still a largely foreign concept to me; it's practically impossible to complement the cello or violin parts properly. While I despise ostentatious accompaniments, when I have the melody it does often sound like I am straining to be louder than the other instrument(s), instead of naturally holding the prominent position or blending in with the other instrument(s) as an equal voice. And it was only in the last trio-playing session where I tardily realized the blatantly obvious fact that I should pay attention to the phrasing that Pudel uses and apply that to my own part. So, for instance, if he slurs a pair of triplets in the melody separately, I shouldn't play them as if they were both slurred together. One other deficiency is that whereas the trios are often delightfully lighthearted, I play them like a cynical grump (I think I am wonderfully suited to Beethoven's compositions in this respect) and positively fail to convey a modicum of the untroubled, serene, and nice quality that is a beautiful characteristic in classical-period music.

As for other pieces, I've picked up Schumann's Kinderszenen again; I still don't play them well but progress has been made, since "Glückes genug" is no longer the rambunctious chaos it once was, though my recent renditions of "Der Dichter spricht" have become surpassingly lame and stilted, and "Hasche-Mann" is as rife as ever with wrong notes. "Fürchtenmachen" is especially knotty because it's so hard to tie the heterogeneous parts together into a musical unity. Then I still play a Scarlatti sonata, the first movement of Bach's Concerto in d minor, and Chopin's "Raindrop Prelude" (which is not going famously, though the other two are improving). And altogether I am listening to countless old recordings on YouTube, foraging for interpreters and interpretations that I like, and enjoying the process a great deal.

A propos of interpreters and interpretations that I like, here is Edwin Fischer playing Impromptu Op. 142 No. 3 [the video is sound-only]:

It may be absurd, but the third variation depresses me horribly at times; it's not that I consciously precipitate myself into that state of mind, but the first bars already act as a trigger. So I tend to play it in an angry way that doesn't conduce to sentiments of overwhelming pathos; being mundanely aware that I'm making a consummate hash of the pedalling helps too. But I like the amusing, subtly Tyrolean manner in which Fischer plays the fourth variation; also, of course the final variation is happy again, and it ends in a satisfying, weighty and thoughtful reiteration of the theme.

Last of all, here is a sampling of my YouTube film bookmarks:

1. Marian Anderson, "Erbarme Dich" (Bach)
2. Janet Baker, "Ogni pena più spietata" (Pergolesi)
3. Pau Casals, Kol Nidrei (Bruch)
4. Pau Casals, Nikolai Mednikoff; The Swan (Saint-Saëns)
5. Dinu Lipatti, Piano Concerto No. 21 (Mozart), Part I
6. Francis Planté, Op. 67 No. 4 from Lieder ohne Worte (Mendelssohn)
7. Josef Hofmann, "Grande Valse Brillante" in A flat major (Chopin)
8. Alfred Grünfeld, Mazurka in a minor (Chopin)