Interlude 8: Life (mostly) without guitar

A condition of my assistantship at Temple University was that I major in music history as well as guitar performance. Given the nature of the financial support offered—full tuition as well as a living stipend—I would have majored in horticulture. But I was happy to add music history, as it was a subject I really enjoyed as an undergraduate, and the assistantship gave me the opportunity to teach music appreciation. I had no way of knowing at the time how important that teaching experience would be in my eventual profession editing and publishing college music textbooks.

A couple of my graduate history courses at Temple were taught by a young man named David Brodbeck, who was finishing his musicology PhD at Penn. David was a wonderful teacher, full of enthusiasm and insights about music of the Romantic era, and through him I fell in love with the music of Schumann and Brahms. David suggested that I consider doctoral studies in musicology and, having concluded that I didn’t have the makings of a professional guitarist, I decided to pursue that course. I’d get a PhD and become a college professor. In the fall of 1984 that led me to Cornell, to marriage (eventually), and to a career in publishing. It did not lead to a PhD.

I kept up with the guitar for a while, teaching a few private students in Ithaca and giving a solo recital; a decision which was actively frowned upon since it took me away from the library. I accompanied a singer at Ithaca College in a program of lute songs (on the lute, no less). There was a walk-on role in a production of Shakespeare’s “Two Gentlemen of Verona” where I accompanied a singer in Schubert’s “Who is Sylvia” while dressed in Venetian carnival costume and wearing a mask. But once I started in publishing, first as a sales representative in Buffalo and later a marketing manager based in New Jersey, I went through longer and longer periods of not playing. When I did pick up the guitar, I played poorly…and so I would put it away again. Even so, being a guitarist remained a part of my identity; I know that because I always kept my nails at playing length.

When my first job as an editor took us to Madison, Wisconsin in 1993 I began singing with the Symphony Chorus. That led to a wonderful, and unexpected, opportunity when the the conductor, Roland Johnson, asked me if I would accompany a mezzo-soprano from Madison named Kitt Reuter-Foss in “I Wonder As I Wander” as part of the 1993 Christmas Concert.  I made an arrangement of the piece for voice, guitar, and strings and we performed it twice in front of audiences of 1800 people—by far the largest audiences I ever played for. I wish I had a better recording of the piece (and that Roland had rehearsed it a little more), but I am still very proud of the work:

I put aside the guitar again after that as my work life became more demanding and life in general became more complicated. In 2001 the publishing operation in Madison shut down and we prepared for a move to New York. On my birthday, September 4, I flew to LaGuardia, took a taxi into Manhattan, and checked in to an executive housing apartment on West 57th Street so that I could start my new job and continue house hunting.

That’s how I came to be in the city on 9/11.

In the aftermath of those horrific events, far from home, alone and lonely, what I wanted was a guitar. I rented an instrument, bought a foot stool, and started playing again. I didn’t care how I sounded; the embrace of the guitar and the feel of strings beneath my fingers were great comfort.

That September in New York was particularly lovely, with day after day of clear blue skies and pleasant temperatures. I kept the windows open in the apartment in the evenings while I played, and the pungent smell from Ground Zero drifted north and mingled with the sounds of Sor and Bach in the dry autumn air.

I’ll be Bach

At the end of the major-mode section of the Chaconne is the second passage where Bach provides only a series of chords and the direction “arpeggio” in the score:

Bach: Chaconne, mm. 201-208

We encountered this before; a lengthy section beginning in measure 89. In that case, though, Bach provided a specific way to play the arpeggio—at least, the first few measures:

But in this second passage there is only the harmony and the word; no suggestions about how to play it. So I have to be, in a limited sense, the composer.

This reliance on the performer to improvise or fill in is not unprecedented in music of the Baroque era. For example, a certain amount of ornamentation is expected in this music. Sometimes composers insert signs in the score to indicate an ornament, and while there are conventions and some treatises from the time to tell us how these ornaments are to be played it is still up to performers to decide how and where to play the ornaments. But in a sense this is like deciding where or if to put bumper stickers on your car: while they personalize the look of the car they don’t change its basic essence.

A more relevant example might be the use of figured bass in music of this time. Much Baroque music relies on the use of “basso continuo”—one or more instruments that provide harmonic support. A typical combination is cello (for the bass line) and harpsichord (for the bass line and the chords). The basso continuo part in a score is a bass line, with the actual notes written down. These bass notes are accompanied by figures that indicate how the rest of the harmony should be played. 

Bach Sonata for Violin and Continuo, BWV 1021

While this combination of a bass note and a figure tells the performer what to play, it doesn’t tell how. It is up to the musician playing the harmony to realize the figures; that is, to decide how to play the notes of the indicated chord.

BWV 1021 continuo part, “realized”

It’s a musical shorthand,  like the “lead sheet” used today in jazz and popular music, where you are given the melody line with chord symbols.

All of this is to say that it isn’t all that unusual in the music of Bach’s time not to be told exactly what to play. So I have to “be” Bach and decide the final shape of this part of the composition. For inspiration and ideas I listened to some of my favorite violin versions. Interestingly, all of them—and then others that I listened to—all take an almost identical approach to this passage, breaking each chord into 2+2 double stops:

I found the uniformity of this approach striking and wondered why it was so. A little searching led me to a fascinating dissertation by a Brazilian violinist named Cármelo de los Santos on performance practice issues of the Chaconne. He addresses things like bowing, articulation, and the playing of chords by looking back over published editions and didactic works from the 19th and 20th centuries. It’s a fascinating document for anyone interested in this work and its performance history.

He devotes considerable time to the two arpeggio sections, and for context he looks at some contemporary 18th century treatises on playing the violin. It turns out that the sort of musical shorthand that Bach employs in these passages was pretty common in writing for strings. The treatises make clear that the performer can and should improvise “in good taste” and suggested arpeggio patterns are given.

The first “modern” edition of the Chaconne was made by Ferdinand David in 1843. His edition used the double stops for the passage beginning in m. 201 and almost all subsequent editions followed suit. That’s why all of the violin recordings treat these arpeggios in the same way.

Ferdinand David’s 1843 edition of Bach’s Chaconne. Compare with the original above.

De Los Santos demonstrates that the David version is consistent with accepted practices from Bach’s time, so it’s reasonable to think Bach would have approved and that it may well be what he intended.

Segovia’s version—and again, his was not the first guitar arrangement but the first one widely known—uses the same basic idea:

Segovia’s guitar version of the Chaconne, mm. 201-2

So Segovia channels David, and his guitar arrangement accurately reflects how a violinist would play the Chaconne. But as we have said all along, a guitar is not a violin and we needn’t be tied to its limitations. The guitar can play this in several ways and the trick is deciding which one works best.

It seems to me that there are two priorities. First, obviously, we want to keep Bach’s harmony intact. Second, and perhaps even more important, we want to bring out any moving voices:

My preliminary solution is to do something similar to the David/Segovia treatment, but using single pitches in the bass line instead of double stops. This approach keeps the motion in the bass line clear and makes it easier to control the shaping and dynamics. At the same time, I don’t think it gives up the mounting intensity of the passage.

But I am going to continue to experiment with other options, and the final performance version may well be different from this.

A deep fly ball to left field…

Toward the end of my undergraduate music studies I decided to apply to some graduate schools. My own self-confidence was enough to carry me past any discouragement so I wasn’t intimidated by the idea of further guitar studies. Besides, at that point in my life what I had gotten really good at was going to school, so more school seemed like a good idea.

There were not a lot of graduate programs in guitar in 1981. I had enough self-awareness to realize that I was probably not Juilliard or Peabody Conservatory material. I applied to some local schools, like the University of Minnesota and Indiana University. My sister and her husband were living near Philadelphia at this time and that prompted me to apply at Temple University. I did a round of auditions in the spring of 1982, ending with a trip to Philadelphia to visit my sister and audition for Peter Segal, head of the guitar program at Temple.

I retain a very vivid memory of that audition, which was my first meeting with Peter. My teacher in Vermillion lived in a cramped frame house on the outskirts of town. Peter lived in a large apartment looking out over the Benjamin Franklin Parkway in center city Philadelphia. The building had a doorman, which impressed me immensely. Peter’s living room, where I played for him, was capacious and welcoming, with overstuffed furniture and dark wood and music posters and art on the walls.

Peter himself was equally welcoming. Tall, thin, with a somewhat sallow complexion punctuated by a dark mustache, his intense gaze was relieved by a twinkle in his eyes. He made me feel at ease, completely overwhelming my inward feeling of being the little country mouse in the big city for the first time. I was relaxed enough to play up to my capabilities, and his comments were a perfect mix of honesty, encouragement, and insight. By the time I met my sister downstairs I knew that Peter would be my next teacher.

Temple University accepted my application, provided a generous teaching assistantship, and my sister and her husband offered a place to live while I got myself settled in. And so, in the fall of 1982, I began the next phase of my studies in Philadelphia. There is so much that I could say about the next two years—one of the best parts of my life so far—but I’ll focus on just one aspect of my studies with Peter.

At one of our very first lessons together I was playing the Fandanguillo by Joaquin Turina. A long scale passage in the piece was giving me trouble, and Peter stopped me after I played it through the first time. 

“Try it again,” he said.

I played it again, more or less the same way as I had before.

He thought for a moment, and then said something unexpected.

“Chris, try to play that like Gary Matthews running for a deep fly ball.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. I did not know who Gary Matthews was. Over the next few minutes I learned that he played left field for the Philadelphia Phillies, and that in order for me to get the most out of my lessons with Peter, I was going to have to learn a lot more about baseball in general and the Phillies in particular. Peter was an ardent fan.

Like many men of my generation, I played some sandlot baseball as a kid. And on weekends with my father after my parents divorced, he would often fall asleep to the afternoon game on TV after he had mowed the lawn, leaving me to watch by myself in the cool quiet of the shaded living room. That was the entire extent of my baseball experience.

I started watching Phillies games on TV and then started going to games when the team was in town. And, odd though it may seem, the first time I actually got to see Gary Matthews run for a deep fly ball in person I understood exactly what Peter had been trying to tell me. Matthews had this way of moving in the field that never felt rushed, no matter how much ground he had to cover. A ball would be hit in his direction, and he would just arrive at the right spot to snag the ball. Watching him, it looked easy. Peter wanted my playing to sound easy, so that the listener would get the effect of the speed without being aware of the effort.

Over the next two years baseball remained a (dare I say it?) running theme in our lessons. Peter’s passion for the game was infectious, and he guided me to some amazing writers like Roger Angell who helped me to understand its intricacies. It was a good time to be a Phillies fan, and I was at Veteran’s Stadium screaming like a maniac along with 60,000 other people when they —when we—won the National League Championship in October of 1983. About the ensuing World Series against the Orioles I will say nothing.

Peter Segal was everything a good teacher should be; earnest critic, unstinting supporter, mentor, and, ultimately, friend. He helped me to be a better musician. Along the way, he turned me into a lifelong baseball fan.

I never did manage to playing that passage like Gary Matthews. Oh, I could sound like Gary Matthews if he was recovering from an injury. Or had a stone in his shoe. But capturing the ease of the man in his prime, loping deep into the outfield to snag a well-hit baseball? No. And perhaps that is why my formal guitar studies ended with my graduation from Temple. I had realized that the major leagues were beyond my reach.

A Major advance…

As you might guess from the relative lack of journal activity in July, I took a bit of a break from the Chaconne. I wasn’t away from the guitar, though. I put together a program of pieces to play for an outdoor wine and cheese party at a friend’s condo in Harlem, and also played at my friend Jeff’s annual gathering of guitar players and fans: GuitarBQ. Both events were fun despite the summer swelter. But now it is back to Bach.

At the beginning of August I began to work on the section in D major that begins in measure 133. After 132 measures of D minor the change in color is striking. Even more striking, to me, is the way that Bach manages the transition. After the flurry of activity that ends the first the minor section —rapid scales and big chords— he introduces the new key very gently, with only two voices and a slowing of the rhythmic activity from 32nd and 16th notes to eighths and quarters. The effect is not like a great parting of storm clouds to reveal brilliant sunshine, but more like the first glimmers of daylight after a long, restless night.

Actually, it’s not quite correct to think about this section as being in a new key. We are still in the world of D—in musical terms that remains the tonic or key note—but the mode has shifted from minor to major. This highlights one of the more remarkable thing about this piece: that it contains no modulations. This is Bach playing the compositional game with one hand tied behind his back. Modulating, or changing key, is one of the best tricks in the composer’s repertoire. Changing key creates a sense of departure, and it can heighten tension or give a feeling of instability. The eventual return to the starting key feels like a kind of homecoming and gives us a kind of emotional satisfaction. By relying on the same basic harmonic progression for every 4 measure unit in the Chaconne, Bach sets himself a real challenge to keep things interesting in other ways. Fortunately, he is more than up to the task.

This major-mode section of the Chaconne is half the length of the section that precedes it. Unlike the first half of the piece, which is for the most part structured in couplets—pairs of four measure units with related material—this section is structured in larger groups.

The first group of 16 measures establishes the new mode with straightforward harmonies and stately eighth-note rhythm.

At the start of the second group in m. 149, we go dancing off in 16th notes into a dialogue between upper and lower voices.

This transition leads us to the next new idea. Arpeggios spell out the chords, ascending to a high point in m.158.

 Bach introduces a threefold repetition of the note A that permeates the arpeggios for the next 8 measures.

In the third group, starting in m. 169, three repeated notes become four and the texture thickens. The insistent rhythmic figure (like Beethoven’s “Fate” motif from the Fifth Symphone—short, short, short, long) creates a sense of tension or expectation.

The rhythm slows dramatically in the fourth group, starting in m, 177, and we have a sense of resolution from the preceding tension. 

A few measures later we come back to the original rhythmic figure that opened the piece. Here Bach adds another wrinkle as he scatters in the pitch C natural—not part of the D major mode—which creates a little instability in what until this point has been rock-solid tonality. Are we at long last modulating to a new key?

No. But something is happening. Even though the rhythmic pace remains slow, the tension increases as the pitches start to rise. Then, in a final twist, the last 8 measures are marked arpeggio (but the exact nature of the arpeggio is left to the performers imagination).

What happens next is my favorite moment in the piece. Indeed, it is one of my favorite moments in all music. But you’ll have to wait to read about that.

“This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last!” — Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

All of the recorded examples in this post come from Hilary Hahn’s excellent recording.

How Spanish is the Chaconne?

In the course of this project I have read more about the Chaconne than about any piece of music I have ever studied. Because this work looms so large in Bach’s output it has been the subject of countless essays and analyses. Everything that I have encountered has been interesting, and it has all helped to shape my understanding of the piece and my approach to its performance. But perhaps nothing I have read up to this point is as provocative as Alexander Silbeger’s “Bach and the Chaconne,” published in the Journal of Musicology in summer 1999.

The article begins with a brief survey of works by Bach that evoke, either through title or construction, the chaconne or its close cousin the passacaglia. As noted in a previous post, Bach wrote two works titled ciaconna—the work we’ve been studying and the closing movement of Cantata 150. He also wrote a passacaglia for organ (BWV 582). In addition to these titled works, Silbiger identifies five other works that, because of their construction, can be linked to one of the two forms.

Silbiger goes on to describe two different styles of ciaconna or chaconne; the former more Italianate and represented by composers like Frescobaldi and the latter more French and represented by composers like Lully. He points to examples by other composers of works in both forms that were in a set of manuscripts collected by Bach during his lifetime, thus demonstrating Bach’s familiarity with the different styles. Silbiger then proceeds to discuss the differences in the two styles, the ways in which they were adapted by other Germanic composers, and finally how they are reflected in Bach’s work.

All of this is fascinating, clearly explained, and well-documented with sources and examples. Of course, I am an easy audience for such things at this stage. To paraphrase Jerry Maguire, he had me at chaconne.

But the article takes an unexpected turn—and this is the provocative part. Of Bach’s great D minor work for violin, he says

“In fact, one can detect traces in this chaconne of much more ancient traditions, perhaps even of the early Spanish guitar improvisations. I am not proposing that Bach was aware of the Spanish guitar roots of the chaconne—although that possibility certainly cannot be ruled out—but that there were certain devices that had formed part of the chaconne bag-of-tricks from its beginning and had been passed on, even if awareness of their origins became lost along the way.”

Silbiger, Alexander: Bach and the Chaconne. Journal of Musicology, Vol. 17, No. 3 (Summer, 1999), p. 374

There’s no controversy in suggesting that the chaconne has Spanish roots; the chacona first appears in the Spanish colonies in the New World as mentioned in an early post. But such a specific association with Spanish guitar music is not something I have encountered in any other writing about the piece. When Segovia first made a public splash with his performance of the Chaconne in Paris in the 1930s there were critics who suggested it was heretical for him to even attempt the piece on the guitar. And yet here we have a musicologist suggesting that nothing could be more appropriate. Provocative indeed!

As an example, Silbiger cites a device he refers to as “the stalling on a pitch” which usually appears toward the conclusion for a “last minute heightening of the tension,” which he calls “an almost mandatory trope in the early Italian ciaconnas and passacaglias.” In Bach’s Chaconne this device appears near the very end beginning in measure 229:

It’s easy to find a Spanish parallel for this device; one need look no farther than “Asturias” from the Suite Espagnole No. 1—a work by Isaac Albéniz originally written for the piano but performed far more frequently in a guitar arrangement. The intentional evocation of flamenco is evident.

He goes on to say “[T]hose searching for other Spanish guitar evocations will have no trouble finding them..”:

“Batteries of repeated strumming..”

“Rustling arpeggiations…”

“Sudden foot stamping…”

This last might seem particularly farfetched, but is it really? Consider this demonstration of flamenco dance in the zapateado (also in a triple measure)

Or Rob MacKillop’s evocative performance of one of the earliest notated works for plucked strings—“Guardame las vacas” by Luis Narvaez; a work that precedes Bach’s Chaconne by 200 years. Note particularly the passage that starts around 1:37:

As a side note, MacKillop is a guitarist who advocates strongly for playing without the use of fingernails.

Having led us down this unexpected path, Silbiger hedges a bit, acknowledging that “not everyone may be willing to accept that Bach was aiming for exotic folkloric effects in these passages” and, personally, I do find that notion hard to swallow. But he goes on to point out that “the important point is that many of the traditions accompanying the chaconne had nothing to do with structural schemata.” This seems to be a reasonable statement, particularly since we cannot pinpoint the specific roots of the original chacona and its initial transmission from the New World to the old.

In the end, whether or not I agree with Silbiger’s theory about these folkloric elements, it is impossible for me to think about these passages without at least considering the question, and it has provided yet another interpretive option to consider. That is what good scholarship can and should do.

The full article is available online at JSTOR; a free account is required to read any materials there.

Putting the man in manicure

In college, foosball was my game. Throughout my younger years in real team sports played on actual fields I was —almost—the proverbial “last kid picked.” But on the vast artificial sward that is the tabletop soccer pitch I had mad skills that were equal to—no, the envy of—my peers. In a typical team game with two players per side I took the front two rows, wielding the gleaming steel rods piercing the stiff tiki-like figures with a combination of ferocity and supple grace. There was a table in the game room of my freshman dorm at USD and I spent many happy hours there, delighting in the my prowess and the awe it inspired in my athletic betters. My specialty move was the “stuff”: as the opposing goalie and fullbacks tried to clear the ball from their goal area I would anticipate its path and, with a deft flick of the wrist, send it back through the ranks to crash into the open maw of the goal with a satisfying whonk.

My field of dreams

Late one night in a heated game I executed one of these moves, simultaneously pushing the handle of the rod in toward the side of the table with my right hand while twisting my wrist to capture the moving ball and send it back into the goal. As the shot went noisily home I felt something snap. Looking down at my right hand, I saw that the tip of my thumb had run into the side of the table. 


“Damn!” I said. “I broke a nail.”

In the moment that passed between uttering these words and raising my head to look at the other players, I realized that these were not the words of triumph expected of me in the moment. And indeed, the gazes that met mine were decidedly veiled and suspicious. “Who is this guy we’re playing with? What’s the deal with his nails? Is he…you know…?”

They were correct, of course. I was, and am, a classical guitarist.

Divas fixate on their vocal chords and they drape themselves in gauzy scarves and drink hot tea. Oboists obsess over their reeds and spend as many hours carving cane as playing scales. And classical guitarists have our fingernails. On the left hand they are kept very short so as not to interfere with pressing the strings against the frets. But on the right hand they are grown out. They are cherished. They are filed, sanded, and buffed with the same care that a jeweler might lavish on a precious diamond. For it is at these points, the very tips of the guitarist’s fingers, that intention meets string and creates music.

If you ever go to a classical guitar recital (and I hope that you do), observe the guitarists in the audience. We are easy to spot if you concentrate on the hands. It’s not just the nails. It’s also the affected way in which we carry our hands as if dreading any unanticipated contact. The way we constantly run the flesh of the thumb over the tips of the nails, searching out any imperfection in the surface. The way we curl our fingertips inward when reaching for a door.

To be a man and to be a classical guitarist is to sign up for a series of uncomfortable incidents. I have lurked furtively in the beauty section, looking for just the right nail buffer or top coat. I have accidentally glued two fingers together. I have been the only man in a nail salon, trying to explain to the nice Korean lady exactly how my thumbnail needed to be shaped. Whispers behind hands and sidelong glances. 

Most recently I have resorted to purchasing my nail supplies online. They arrive in anonymous packages, like drugs for some embarrassing disease whose name can’t be spoken. My current nail regime—undertaken to combat the ravages of age and an index finger nail that consistency hooks in a manner not conducive to sweet guitar tone—is to use artificial nails glued to the top of my own. It took me a while to get used to the idea that it was not “me” touching the strings, but I can’t argue with the fact that my performance-enhancing nails give me a better sound.

My artificial nails.

Even better, a broken nail is no longer a crisis. The other day I broke a nail during a morning bike ride. Don’t ask. I had a performance scheduled for the afternoon at a wine & cheese party. No panic, no anxiety; after I got home, I had a new nail in 15 minutes and the performance went forward as planned.

It’s wonderful to be free of nail anxiety, knowing that with a little piece of acrylic, some glue, and some trimming and filing I can have a nice new nail anytime I want.

Perhaps it is not too late to bring my foosball skills back to life.

Alone in the recital hall

The stage of Mixon Recital Hall at the Cleveland Institute of Music is a beautiful place to be on a sunny Sunday morning in early June. An impossibly high glass wall rises behind you and wraps around to your left before giving way to beautiful square panels consisting of small thin strips of wood that are no doubt a function of acoustic design but exaggerate the height of the hall. You are surrounded by light and sky and trees. In front of you, fourteen rows of seats rise steeply to the back of the auditorium. In a few hours those seats will be occupied by the twenty or so listeners there to observe Jason Vieaux’s master class in which I and others will perform. And not long after that, a much larger audience will fill those seats for what will turn out to be the brilliant closing concert of this year’s Cleveland International Classical Guitar Festival, given by Petra Poláčková.

But the seats are all empty now.

On the stage is a single black piano bench. It’s not the flat hard wooden kind, but the smaller cushioned version with a knob on the side that adjusts the height.

I give the knob a turn, getting the height just so. One last tweak to the tuning of my lowest string, and I begin to play.

The first note of the prelude to Bach’s first suite for solo cello—in the guitar version I play—is a low D. Its rich sonority comes back to me from the hall and I linger longer than I should before proceeding with the arpeggio figure that carries the music forward. I haven’t played the piece in some time, but Jason played it on this very spot last evening and somehow it is the first music that comes out of me. It flows, my fingers sure and my sound rich. Mixon Hall is as gratifying to the performer as it is to the audience; not every hall provides the player with such sonic feedback. I can hear my playing, and I can hear that it is good. Hearing such good playing, I’m inspired to try and make it even a little better. And I do. I push harder into the strings, coaxing the most sound I can from them without letting the tone become too brittle or rough.

The last high treble notes ring for a moment before fading to silence, and then I launch into a set of pieces from the Italian Renaissance. My time in the hall will be short, so I don’t play each piece all the way through but skip between favorite bits that I want to hear in this space. Still with my lowest string tuned to D, I play a Catalonian song that has been in my repertoire since I was in college. Today I am doing a particularly nice job of singing the melody on the high E string, and when the harmonics come in at the conclusion they ring out like the tiny little bells they are meant to suggest.

Now I tune my low string up to the standard E, adjust my position on the bench, and begin the piece I had planned to play on today’s master class: Nocturno by Federico Moreno-Torroba. It starts well, and I don’t fumble in the usual spots. Perhaps I should play it after all instead of making the change I’ve been contemplating? It has some nice fiery passages, and the ending is really fun to play. I enjoy imagining the effect it must have on someone hearing it for the very first time. I consider the idea as I listen to the final notes fade.

No, I am going to stick to my plan. Who knows if or when I will ever have another chance to play on this stage for an audience? Nocturno is a wonderful piece and I am pretty well prepared to play it, but I know that nerves will take hold, my sound will become thin, and I will begin to concentrate on playing it correctly rather than playing it musically. Today I want to make music and share it with people.

So I begin to play what I have decided only this morning to play, a little piece called “If You Were Here” by a Norwegian guitarist-composer named Per-Olov Kindgren. It’s a wisp of a thing in the character of a pop song, but lovely over the whole two-and-a-half minutes it takes to play. I get to the last repetition of the recurring phrase—in my head, I can almost hear a singer lingering over “if you were here”—play the last slow ascending arpeggio and just touch the flesh of my thumb to the sixth string to sound the final low E.

Suddenly, a small sob rises up from my gut. Then another. My eyes fill. For a moment I can only sit there. I just recover my composure before Colin Davin walks out on the stage from the side door, guitar case over his shoulder and a quizzical look on his face. I am sure he is wondering how I come to be there.

How do I come to be there? And why those tears?

Over the weeks since that sunny June morning I have been asking myself those questions. The answer to the first can probably be teased out of what I have already written over the course of the last few months, or what is still to be written. But the answer to the second continues to elude me. Somehow, I think it might be what this Chaconne project is ultimately all about.

Smoothing out some rough edges

The topics of my two previous posts about my master class with Petra Poláčková—the interpretation of dotted notes and the use of arpeggio—are both about performance choices and interpretation. She made two other observations that were more about choices I made in my edition of the piece, but ultimately they are about performance as well. Both relate to fingerings, a topic I discussed back in February (See The Fickle Fate of Flying Fingers, Part 1 and Part 2), and both concern potential obstacles to smooth legato playing.

Her first observation was that I am not taking enough advantage of open strings in my fingerings. As an example, here are my fingerings for measures 4-5:

Petra suggested using the open 3rd string instead:

And, indeed, after playing it a couple of times it is clear that using her suggestion makes it easier to play smoothly. That single open string gives my hand a little extra time to move, and the g rings into the next pitch.

Sometimes open strings and stopped strings can be combined in clever ways to allow several pitches in a scale passage to ring out, as they would on a piano if one held down the sostenuto pedal while playing several keys in succession. The guitarist Douglas Niedt gives an excellent explanation of it (with examples) on his website.

Petra pointed out some small examples in the part of the piece that I played for her, but the idea provides  the fingering solution to a passage that has been vexing me for some time. It happens in measure 88, just before the start of the long arpeggio section. My original version was clunky, with the shifting first finger a particular problem. Try as I might, this passage always stuttered and ruined the transition to the next measure.

But using the campanella idea makes it much easier to play. Note in the revised version that no two consecutive pitches are played on the same string (shown with the red underline), and I use three open strings (marked by arrows). Playing this little scale like an arpeggio helps me get to the actual arpeggio much more fluidly!

Petra’s final observation was that I am not using enough slurs; that is, using a right hand finger to play the first note of a pair (or trio) and sounding the subsequent pitch(es) with the left hand alone, either by pulling a finger off the string to pluck a lower pitch or hammering a fingertip down to sound a higher pitch. I have been very sparing with the use of slurs in my edition of the piece in a desire for consistency in articulation, but Petra helped me to hear that this consistency can easily become monotony. There is not one particular place I can point to as an example, but I’ll be looking for opportunities to employ slurs more liberally.

I’ll conclude this series of posts on my master class with Petra by saying that a week ago she emailed me a scan of her playing edition of the Chaconne with all of her fingerings and performance notes. It was a very generous gesture that says a great deal about her, and about the wider community of guitarists. I feel fortunate to be in such company and to have such support for my project.

Rolling your own

Another topic that came up in my master class with Petra Poláčková at the Cleveland festival was the question of how to play chords. The Chaconne, like any piece of music, demands that the performer make a lot of interpretive decisions; indeed, it is the making and executing of those decisions that is the core of performing. Some of these decisions are broad and affect large stretches of the piece. What will the tempo be? What about the basic dynamic level? Other decisions are smaller in scale, like the shaping of a phrase.  And some decisions have to be made about how to play individual notes or chords.

With chords, a basic decision has to be made about each and every one: do I play all the notes at the same time or do I “roll” the chord, playing each note in rapid succession? The latter technique is called arpeggio—literally, in the manner of the harp. Classical guitarists in general (and this one in particular) tend to overuse arpeggio and employ it in a seemingly haphazard way. Segovia, famously, never seemed to find a chord he couldn’t roll and it became one of the signatures of his style. But to change it from a stylistic tic into an expressive device requires conscious decision.

To begin with, let’s look at what exactly is involved in rolling a chord. Here is the very first thing in the Chaconne:

The opening chord of the Chaconne

It’s the most basic chord, a three-note triad in root position. Play it exactly as written, with all three notes sounded at the same time on the second beat, and you get this:


Easy enough to do on the guitar. The violin, though, is another story. A modern violin with a modern bow cannot play these three notes at the exact same time. So the violinist has to decide not whether to roll the chord, but how. Some performers, like Hilary Hahn, play the d and then hold the f and a together:

Hilary Hahn’s opening chord


while others, like Rachel Podger, play the three pitches in succession, holding only the top pitch:

Rachel Podger’s opening chord. (Notice the lower tuning favored by some early music specialists.)


If you were to notate these two different versions they might look like this:

Note that both performers aim to arrive at the top note or notes right on the second beat; in effect, they start early. It’s possible, of course, to start the arpeggio on the beat—and there are cases in music where that might be the right approach—but in general, an arpeggio tends to anticipate the beat so that the metrical integrity of the melody (assuming it is uppermost note) is preserved. Where to begin and end the arpeggio is something the performer must decide.

Another decision that has to be made is how quickly to roll the chord. In the examples above, Hahn makes it a fairly assertive gesture, moving through the d quickly and emphasizing the second pair of notes. Podger takes a more languid approach.

So, in playing the very first sonority in the Chaconne I have a number of options. I can play it like this:

Or like this:

Or even like this:

Okay, I cheated on the last one and added an additional pitch–the lower D.

Of course, I could play this first chord without thinking it through, and simply do what feels right in the moment. But then, what to do when the same chord comes up four measures later? Shouldn’t the two chords relate to each other in some way? How can I convey that if I haven’t thought about it beforehand and decided? In addition, the arpeggio can be a very important expressive device when used thoughtfully. It adds emphasis, subtly changes the rhythmic flow, and can isolate and emphasize a particular voice in the chord to help make a melody emerge more clearly.

Over the last few years, thanks to my studies with Jason Vieaux, classes and encounters at the Cleveland festival, and an expanding circle of guitar friends in the New York area, I have had the chance to talk with and learn from a number of professional guitarists of the highest artistic calibre. One thing has become clear: they all think about, and decide, everything in their interpretation of a piece. Certainly emotions and feelings play a role, particularly in the moment of performance, but the preparation for that moment is extremely detailed and deliberate. That is how guitarists at that level are able to sound the way that they do.

I’m not at that level and never have been; my playing—for better or worse—was always guided almost entirely by the combination of what my ears could hear, what my fingers could do, and how the music made me feel. But my respect for the Chaconne, and for the project, demands a more thoughtful approach.

Petra’s advice was to use arpeggios if it serves an expressive purpose or helps to highlight one pitch in the chord. At the same time, she cautioned me to be careful in two voice textures to keep both notes together. Otherwise the metrical feeling can get completely lost.

Chaconne à son goût

The first question Petra Poláčková asked after I played through the first part of the Chaconne in her master class at the Cleveland International Classical Guitar Festival was “Do you think it should be a little more French?” It might seem an odd question, Bach being German and all. And the real title of the piece is the Italian ciaconna, not the French chaconne. But I knew exactly what she was asking, and why.

The history of written music is a topic that has occupied many musicologists. Thomas Forrest Kelly lays out the fascinating early roots in Capturing Music, tracing the origins of our system of notes, rests, and staves through the earliest manuscript sources. The development of movable type and the printing press fueled the same explosion of music publishing as it did for the written word. Thanks to music notation we can hear music from hundreds of years ago.

However, the performance of older music is not without its problems. Technical difficulties aside, we don’t know—and probably can’t know—exactly how older music was played at the time. Starting in the 19th century composers began including very specific performance directions in their scores: indications for dynamics, tempo, and even emotional character. We also have some recorded legacy for understanding how such music is to be played, since musicians recorded in the very early days of the new technology learned from teachers who were passing on performing traditions and styles they had witnessed and absorbed. But printed and handwritten music of earlier times is almost entirely free of such performance cues, and the living memory of those who taught that first generation of recorded musicians doesn’t extend back so far as Mozart, to say nothing of Bach and those who came before him.

This uncertainty about how earlier music should sound has nagged at musicians for a long time, and it gave rise to the historically-informed performance movement. The idea was (is) that by studying the available evidence outside of the scores themselves, like treatises, method books, descriptive accounts, and even historical instruments from the time, we can arrive at an understanding of how early music was performed at the time it was written. Some 50 years on, the idea remains surprisingly controversial, along the lines of a great religious schism. Adherents claim that “authentic performance practice” is the only way to really understand early music, while detractors claim that authenticity is a meaningless and unattainable standard.

Petra’s question about the “Frenchness” of my reading of the Chaconne arises out of the HIP movement, and it has to do with the interpretation of dotted rhythms. In much French music of time leading up to Bach the use of “double dotting” is common. In notation, placing a dot after a note indicates that the duration of the dotted note is half again as long as the original note—a dotted quarter note has the duration of 3 eighth notes rather than 2.

If you place a second dot after a dotted note, the duration is extended by half the value of the first dot. So a double-dotted quarter note has the duration of 2 eighth notes (for the quarter note) + 1 eighth note (for the first dot) + 1 sixteenth note (for the second dot).

To apply this idea to the Chaconne, the score as written looks like this:

And, as written, sounds like this:

But in the “French-ified interpretation” it is played as if it looks like this:

And it sounds like this:

There is evidence to suggest that the practice of double-dotting was used in performance even when the music was not so notated; that such a stylistic practice was taken for granted by the composers and performers. The analogy might be to the notation of jazz, where a melody would be written in regular eighth notes but played with swing style.

We have for, example, this advice from composer Johann Joachim Quantz (1697-1773):

“The quavers [eighth notes] that follow the dotted crochets [quarter notes] in the loure, sarabande, courante, and chaconne must not be played with their literal value, but must be executed in a very short and sharp manner.”  He also wrote that stringed instruments must “detach the bow during the dot” of a dotted quarter note. This would leave a little space and, coupled with the shortening of the eighth, greatly intensify the rhythmic pattern. 

Quoted in Dance in the Music of J. S. Bach by Meredith Little and Natalie Jenne (Indiana University Press)

There are contrary arguments, including the fact that Bach in some cases wrote double dots; it’s not as if he didn’t understand notation. 

In the end it is not a question that can be resolved on evidence alone; we simply cannot know how Bach would have played it, or wanted us to play it. It may just come down to a matter of personal taste.

As I said to Petra during the class, the decision to play the dotted values as written was a deliberate but not necessarily final one on my part. I felt it best to follow the literal score in the beginning, leaving open the possibility of changing my mind and my playing as I get farther along with the piece. I do like the way the double-dotted approach lends a dance-like feel to the piece even at a slower tempo, and I will experiment with this “French” idea going forward.

Chaconne à son goût!