After leaving Russia under the uncertainty and confusion of the Bolshevik Revolution, Rachmaninoff wrote only 6 original works, the Symphonic Dances being the last. He has been quoted “losing my country, I lost myself also.” The recent monograph by Fiona Maddocks, Goodbye Russia-Rachmaninoff in Exile, is an insightful memoir of his life, and written with void of any textbook tedium.
 
Rachmaninoff regarded the Symphonic Dances as his greatest work and confessed, “I don’t know how it happened, it must have been my last spark.” Fireworks is more appropriate. Originally, the title was Fantastic Dances, and the work was to be a ballet, but the choreographer of Firebird and Petrushka fame, Michel Fokine, died in 1942. Tempo indications replaced the pictorial images of: Noon, Twilight, and Midnight.  
 
The Symphonic Dances represent a musical flashback to his work in pre-1918 Russia and introduce liminal sounds expanded by a harmonic vocabulary that incorporates elements of Impressionism and Expressionism, and rhythms inspired by his younger colleagues, Prokofiev and Stravinsky. Melancholy for his homeland can be heard in the central section of the first movement, and a poignant flashback from his earlier compositional output—a quote from the principal theme of his first symphony, which failed in 1897—in the coda of the first Dance. His signature presence of church bells (The Bells, “the” Prelude Op. 3/2, e.g.), chant (Dies Irae), and his exceptional gift for melodic genius are evident. The haunting waltz of the 2nd Dance precedes a scherzo-like dichotomy of life and death.

​Joe Di Piazza

Remember John Guare’s stunning play, “Six Degrees of Separation”? It proposes that we’re all connected to everyone else by just six persons (mostly unknown) in a people-to-people network that flows out from you through extended relationships across time and place. 

However, in the classical music world, I think those connections are much closer and intense because it’s an in-person universe of musical activity. You must be ‘in it’ interacting in-person with others to learn, to know, and to make music. Not words. Not books. Not recordings. To be a Classical music-maker is to be in the contemporary ‘now’ and to be immersed in the richness of music’s profound legacies.  

Here’s an example: When I studied with Madame Olga Conus at the Cincinnati College-Conservatory of Music, the presence of Rachmaninov in her studio was palpable. His photo was displayed; his corrections and fingerings of his musical scores were on her shelves. And most importantly, she was living history personified. She was related to Rachmaninov through marriage; had been coached by him when she was a brilliant young student at the Moscow Conservatory of Music; and enjoyed a close friendship after they all immigrated first to Paris and then to America. She conveyed in her teaching critical insights into his musical persona and intent, and how the ‘sound’ must infuse those into the audience experience. Underscoring everything - an emphasis on his humanity with snippets of his sense of humor. 

That’s how close you can be in the classical musical world. In my case, just one degree of separation. It’s a remarkable gift.

p.s. Mde. Conus also lived in the apartment below Scriabin in Moscow. But that’s another story . . .

Patricia Gray

​What is the attraction for composers to Paganini’s 24th "Caprice" for solo violin? Contributions to the piano literature include variations by Liszt, Brahms, Rachmaninoff, Lutoslawski, Muczynski, to name a few. Paganini’s theme is quite simple, harmonically speaking: 8 bars of tonic/dominant, then 8 bars of descending circle of fifths. The attraction of this progression offers composers an invitation to variation. One of the first major variation works that I studied was Schumann’s "Symphonic Etudes", later renamed Études en forme de variations. I was pouring my heart out over the C-sharp minor theme, “the composition of an amateur”, according to Schumann, when my teacher admonished me to keep it simple and save it for later, i.e., the variations. Rachmaninoff did that masterfully in his "Rapsodie for Piano and Orchestra". After an 8-bar intro, the orchestra presents a skeleton of Paganini’s theme followed by the soloist doing the same thing. The piece proceeds and excels with 24 variations of the 24th "Caprice".

In contrast, Liszt’s 6th "Paganini Etude" is a set of 10 variations true to his virtuosic reputation and akin to Paganini’s “possessed” feats on the violin. Brahms’ 2 Books of "Variations" on the theme are uncharacteristically ostensibly virtuosic unlike his more “classical” sets. Clara Schumann called them “Witches Variations”. Muczynski’s final work for piano, "Desperate Measures", is a set of 12 variations that is accessible and fun to play, with elements of humor and jazz. The most “modern” set is by Lutoslawski who retains the harmonic shell but offers free variations with driving rhythms, biting accents, and “motoristic” techniques introduced by Honegger, Prokofiev, Stravinsky, etc.

Joe Di Piazza

​One of the joys of studying music written for the piano by a great pianist is that you learn a lot about the composer/pianist from the physicality of the work. You can actually ‘feel’ the thinking and creative understanding of the instrument through the composer’s choices. It’s that discovery of the composer’s span, the preferred finger patterns, the unique combinations of finger and hand movements, the understanding of the breadth of the dynamic range contained within the instrument and how the options are applied – that bring you into an intimacy with the pianist/composer.  That’s the fun of discovery that is critical to committing to the studying of the work.

For me, the composers who know the piano deeply from their personal relationship with it are my favorites. Typically, they started using and playing the piano at a very young age and therefore their physicality, their ‘ear’, and their craft developed through the instrument. That relationship shapes the meanings and the rewards of their compositions.

Lutoslawski falls beautifully into that glorious company. Starting at age 6, he engaged with the piano and continued to use it as his personal way of making a living and for the act of composing.  His pianistic language is acrobatic and embraces the whole keyboard but especially the highest ranges, with wide leaping jumps, tremolos between the hands, and a preference for fast internal speeds within the phrase.  The outcome is energetic with a forward motion that presses the listener’s ear onward even in the lyrical variation. Yet, as a pianist, the pianistic requirements are knowable and attainable. There is no awkward or clumsy or clunky physical challenge that would mean the performer had to make the passage ‘work’ because the composer didn’t understand the instrument.
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Instead, Lutoslawski creates a wonderfully rewarding and fun experience that works musically and pianistically. 

Patricia Gray

The title, Scaramouche, of Milhaud’s popular two-piano suite has some interesting connections to the score and its composer. Music for the first movement was originally incidental music he composed for a Molieré/Vidrac play, “The Flying Doctor”, which uses commedia dell’arte characters. Scaramouche’s character was that of an impish, trouble-making clown. In Italian, it is Scaramuccia (little skirmisher). These traits can be related to the score by the two dueling pianists playing scales against one another (contrary motion) and in opposing keys (polytonality). These skirmishes are sometimes playful or mocking, and at other times more hostile. 

Another trait of commedia dell’arte theater is one of thumbing its nose at authority. This aligns with Milhaud snubbing his nose at the Nazis during WWII in Paris where Jewish composers were censored. He used pseudonyms for his name and the suite. Milhaud became Hamid-al-Usurid, and the suite became Mous Are-chac, resulting in a performance that avoided Nazi authorities. As a teacher, he impishly responded to a group of composers who repeatedly asked one of their peers “why did you write this, or write that”, with “Why not?”!
 
As an amusing epilogue, Marguerite Long, Milhaud’s teacher, arranged for a performance in 1937 of Scaramouche at the International Dog Show in Paris. Time has proven that the Suite has not gone to the dogs!

​Joe Di Piazza