I've known I would write this particular piece for about a year. That's a fairly short timeline, from commission to completion, in the so-called Classical Music Industry, which, for all I know, has filled the schedule of the World's Great Stages through 2022.
I'm writing it for a young firebrand-type named Kirill Gerstein , whose career is a refreshing break from the Russian Virtuoso mold; he spent years studying jazz before deciding to return to Rachmaninoff and Tchaikovsky, and has been commissioning a string of new pieces for himself (an alarmingly uncommon practice among today's major classical players).
All this aside, the only important thing for me in writing for a pianist besides myself is: do I like the way they play the piano? I'm hypercritical of other pianists, to a far greater degree than other instrumentalists; this is as it should be, since it's the only instrument I have a real technical understanding of how to play.
It's mostly a matter of taste, though, which is another way of saying that the things I like are totally random. The pianist Ivo Pogorelich recorded that Chopin scherzo in the 1980's, on a bizarre Chopin album that I cherish—it's unhinged, distorted, completely un-Chopinesque.
But something about it is convincing; the same cannot be said about other self-indulgent virtuosi. I'm usually more of a Richard Goode or András Schiff guy, two pianists who put out a steady stream of unimpeachable readings of unimpeachable 19th-century works, year after year.
I don't initially know where Kirill's playing falls on this oversimplified matrix, but any initial hesitation I may have had about him was dispelled by a concert at Le Poission Rouge , the underground classical music lair on Bleecker Street.
He plays Liszt, yet it doesn't sound like Liszt. It does, however, remain gripping, incredibly sure-footed, and virtuosic, yes, but not for the sake of virtuosity. There's a calmly methodical element in his performances, as if his unconventional approach is guided not by hotheaded rebelliousness but by genuine curiosity.
The standard for the performance of new music is often lower than that of the classics. I am not certain why this is, but here are a few possibilities: those who are lucky enough to make it as super-virtuosi do so because they play familiar, time-tested music that's reliable and reassuring to audiences. There's a long history of performances of these works, so there's more pressure to perform accurately (people tend to notice when you flub a big chunk of the Moonlight sonata); additionally, it's easier to make a convincing case for a piece when you've listened to all the greatest musicians of the last century play it, thanks to recordings. With brand-new music technical precision too often becomes the sole concern. The piece is always finished too late, and always contains passages that are too difficult.
Having the imperious composer breathing down your neck doesn’t make learning it any easier. The reverse of the virtuoso problem often, sadly, reveals itself here; a performer's professed devotion to the new and experimental may be another way of saying that they couldn't hack it playing the classics.
Every composer has sat through excruciating performances of their work. These train wrecks cause fingernails to burrow into palms, air passages to constrict, and the rendering of eye contact near-impossible for several hours, at least.
A large part of becoming a professional composer is figuring out how to avoid these situations, though as your music works its way farther afield, the likelihood increases that it will find its way into the wrong hands. I try to maintain an attitude of zen calm about this entire conundrum. I also try to schedule evening dentist appointments on days when I feel dangerous performances may lurk.
The way to insure that a performance goes well is to write not just for the best musicians you can find, but the best musicians you can find who are your friends. This process should ideally start early, in college. Your friends will, most importantly, feel a personal obligation to do the necessary work; they will also, usually, forgive the impossible string crossings you've written, your demands for more rehearsal, your careless cutting remark.
They will also be your music's best stewards out in the Real World. Not everyone you meet in school will go on to be a professional musician, but many will, and it's exciting to watch classmates become professional colleagues forging their various paths. Some become teachers or professors, some join orchestras (or conduct them), some form quartets or trios or take up with bands. Some find their way into the more commercial worlds of film and TV music. A very few might establish themselves as soloists. Most do an amalgamation of these things; versatility is key.
All this is to preface: I am quite certain that Kirill Gerstein will do my piece every justice it deserves, and I'm confident that he'll be able to manage any difficulty I throw his way. It's a good feeling, and I'm throwing him plenty. Also important: I know I won't have to learn it myself, at least not for a while. I'm feeling very good about delegating the responsibility.
A strange aspect of writing music for acoustic instruments—a fairly accurate if overly literal description of what I do—is that the basic tools are the same as they were in the nineteenth century, when the symphony orchestra was standardized.
Certainly there's been incremental progress in technique—percussionists play more instruments, winds and brass play higher—but it's still just applying a bow to a string, passing air over a reed, striking a string with a hammer. I wouldn't say I compose out of nostalgia, but I do like this element of old-world craft.
Orchestra is one of those specific media, like oil paints or marble or 35mm film, which provide a good balance of constraints and possibilities. I never feel boxed in writing for these instruments. Quite the opposite; creating something using 300 years of accumulated tools can be inspiring.
I tend to look backwards a good deal when I'm writing a piece, perhaps more so than other less classically-grounded composers my age. The way I'm using material and making a reference to Chopin is not unique to this particular piece.
All music is made from the music which preceded it, and I'm interested in this process of influence and filtering, whether conscious or unconscious. When I hear a new piece of music, I really like being able to parse influences; it generally signifies that the composer wasn't to concerned with some concept of "originality", which is a chimera anyway.
Every composer can't possibly rebuild music from scratch, and why shouldn't listeners be able to guess what music you love and admire most?
Quotations, references, and "borrowing" feel like natural musical phenomena to me. Perhaps because I grew up with the music of Charles Ives—the American composer notorious for co-opting everything from Beethoven and Bach to the latest ragtime marching band tunes—I've always liked the way a reference can express something different from its original context.
And it doesn't even have to be something that's necessarily heard on the surface. When I first started trying to write larger-scale pieces, early in high school, I'd look to other works to use as structural models. I especially admired the way Aaron Copland built his forms, so I'd figure out how he'd put together a sonata or a symphony, and simply fit my own music into the moulds.
This hindsight is also great for a kind of historical decontextualization. It can be a diverting mind-game: what if Brahms had heard Ligeti's music? What if Mahler had conducted Ives? (this almost happened, actually—one of the great "what ifs" in music history). Brahms looked backwards, too—he knew his Palestrina—and merged what he learned with his 19th-century Viennese mileu. And now I have the distinct advantage of being able to learn from both Brahms and Palestrina. Quotation, even if only I know it's there, is a way of giving a little tip of the hat to a musician I feel I've learned from, or who's helped me in some way, even if they happen to have been dead for 150 years.
(To hear more of Timo's music and to find out what else he's working on, visit his website here.)
I'm writing it for a young firebrand-type named Kirill Gerstein , whose career is a refreshing break from the Russian Virtuoso mold; he spent years studying jazz before deciding to return to Rachmaninoff and Tchaikovsky, and has been commissioning a string of new pieces for himself (an alarmingly uncommon practice among today's major classical players).
All this aside, the only important thing for me in writing for a pianist besides myself is: do I like the way they play the piano? I'm hypercritical of other pianists, to a far greater degree than other instrumentalists; this is as it should be, since it's the only instrument I have a real technical understanding of how to play.
It's mostly a matter of taste, though, which is another way of saying that the things I like are totally random. The pianist Ivo Pogorelich recorded that Chopin scherzo in the 1980's, on a bizarre Chopin album that I cherish—it's unhinged, distorted, completely un-Chopinesque.
But something about it is convincing; the same cannot be said about other self-indulgent virtuosi. I'm usually more of a Richard Goode or András Schiff guy, two pianists who put out a steady stream of unimpeachable readings of unimpeachable 19th-century works, year after year.
I don't initially know where Kirill's playing falls on this oversimplified matrix, but any initial hesitation I may have had about him was dispelled by a concert at Le Poission Rouge , the underground classical music lair on Bleecker Street.
He plays Liszt, yet it doesn't sound like Liszt. It does, however, remain gripping, incredibly sure-footed, and virtuosic, yes, but not for the sake of virtuosity. There's a calmly methodical element in his performances, as if his unconventional approach is guided not by hotheaded rebelliousness but by genuine curiosity.
The standard for the performance of new music is often lower than that of the classics. I am not certain why this is, but here are a few possibilities: those who are lucky enough to make it as super-virtuosi do so because they play familiar, time-tested music that's reliable and reassuring to audiences. There's a long history of performances of these works, so there's more pressure to perform accurately (people tend to notice when you flub a big chunk of the Moonlight sonata); additionally, it's easier to make a convincing case for a piece when you've listened to all the greatest musicians of the last century play it, thanks to recordings. With brand-new music technical precision too often becomes the sole concern. The piece is always finished too late, and always contains passages that are too difficult.
Having the imperious composer breathing down your neck doesn’t make learning it any easier. The reverse of the virtuoso problem often, sadly, reveals itself here; a performer's professed devotion to the new and experimental may be another way of saying that they couldn't hack it playing the classics.
Every composer has sat through excruciating performances of their work. These train wrecks cause fingernails to burrow into palms, air passages to constrict, and the rendering of eye contact near-impossible for several hours, at least.
A large part of becoming a professional composer is figuring out how to avoid these situations, though as your music works its way farther afield, the likelihood increases that it will find its way into the wrong hands. I try to maintain an attitude of zen calm about this entire conundrum. I also try to schedule evening dentist appointments on days when I feel dangerous performances may lurk.
The way to insure that a performance goes well is to write not just for the best musicians you can find, but the best musicians you can find who are your friends. This process should ideally start early, in college. Your friends will, most importantly, feel a personal obligation to do the necessary work; they will also, usually, forgive the impossible string crossings you've written, your demands for more rehearsal, your careless cutting remark.
They will also be your music's best stewards out in the Real World. Not everyone you meet in school will go on to be a professional musician, but many will, and it's exciting to watch classmates become professional colleagues forging their various paths. Some become teachers or professors, some join orchestras (or conduct them), some form quartets or trios or take up with bands. Some find their way into the more commercial worlds of film and TV music. A very few might establish themselves as soloists. Most do an amalgamation of these things; versatility is key.
All this is to preface: I am quite certain that Kirill Gerstein will do my piece every justice it deserves, and I'm confident that he'll be able to manage any difficulty I throw his way. It's a good feeling, and I'm throwing him plenty. Also important: I know I won't have to learn it myself, at least not for a while. I'm feeling very good about delegating the responsibility.
A strange aspect of writing music for acoustic instruments—a fairly accurate if overly literal description of what I do—is that the basic tools are the same as they were in the nineteenth century, when the symphony orchestra was standardized.
Certainly there's been incremental progress in technique—percussionists play more instruments, winds and brass play higher—but it's still just applying a bow to a string, passing air over a reed, striking a string with a hammer. I wouldn't say I compose out of nostalgia, but I do like this element of old-world craft.
Orchestra is one of those specific media, like oil paints or marble or 35mm film, which provide a good balance of constraints and possibilities. I never feel boxed in writing for these instruments. Quite the opposite; creating something using 300 years of accumulated tools can be inspiring.
I tend to look backwards a good deal when I'm writing a piece, perhaps more so than other less classically-grounded composers my age. The way I'm using material and making a reference to Chopin is not unique to this particular piece.
All music is made from the music which preceded it, and I'm interested in this process of influence and filtering, whether conscious or unconscious. When I hear a new piece of music, I really like being able to parse influences; it generally signifies that the composer wasn't to concerned with some concept of "originality", which is a chimera anyway.
Every composer can't possibly rebuild music from scratch, and why shouldn't listeners be able to guess what music you love and admire most?
Quotations, references, and "borrowing" feel like natural musical phenomena to me. Perhaps because I grew up with the music of Charles Ives—the American composer notorious for co-opting everything from Beethoven and Bach to the latest ragtime marching band tunes—I've always liked the way a reference can express something different from its original context.
And it doesn't even have to be something that's necessarily heard on the surface. When I first started trying to write larger-scale pieces, early in high school, I'd look to other works to use as structural models. I especially admired the way Aaron Copland built his forms, so I'd figure out how he'd put together a sonata or a symphony, and simply fit my own music into the moulds.
This hindsight is also great for a kind of historical decontextualization. It can be a diverting mind-game: what if Brahms had heard Ligeti's music? What if Mahler had conducted Ives? (this almost happened, actually—one of the great "what ifs" in music history). Brahms looked backwards, too—he knew his Palestrina—and merged what he learned with his 19th-century Viennese mileu. And now I have the distinct advantage of being able to learn from both Brahms and Palestrina. Quotation, even if only I know it's there, is a way of giving a little tip of the hat to a musician I feel I've learned from, or who's helped me in some way, even if they happen to have been dead for 150 years.
***
Timo Andres grew up in Connecticut and currently lives in Brooklyn, NY. He performs widely, focusing on the music of his contemporaries. He earned a bachelors and a masters degree from Yale University. His debut album, Shy and Mighty, is ten interrelated pieces for piano, performed in tandem with David Kaplan on second Piano. His recent compositional works include commissions by the Carnegie Hall Ensemble, Gabriel Kahane, the Metropolis Ensemble, and the New World Symphony.(To hear more of Timo's music and to find out what else he's working on, visit his website here.)