Guitar Forum 2 (2004)

European Guitar Teachers Association uk

GUITAR F O RU M 2

Lorenzo Micheli Mauro Giuliani’s Guitar Technique & Early Nineteenth-Century Pedagogy Julian Bream How to Write for the Guitar Luis Zea On Teaching the Unteachable Sarn Dyer :A Lesson with Ida: an imaginary interview with Ida Presti Fabio Zanon :Mignone, Fernandez, Guarnieri: Brazilian guitar music after Villa-Lobos

issn 1475–4789

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g u i ta r f o ru m 2 WINTER 2003 issn 1 4 7 5 – 4 7 8 9

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Reviews

Editor Jonathan Leathwood

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Editorial board Stephen Dodgson, Angelo Gilardino, Stephen Goss, Ricardo Iznaola, Stanley Yates, Fabio Zanon Cover design by Philip Atkins Printed and bound in the uk by the Alden Press, Osney Mead, Oxford, ox2 0ef Published annually by the European Guitar Teachers Association uk (egta uk), London ∞ Website Additional articles and discussion may be found at the Guitar Forum website, www.egtaguitarforum.org, free to read and download. The website is regularly updated with information about present and forthcoming issues and how to order, together with a list of any errata discovered since going to press. Purchase The prices above include shipping and handling. Make cheques or money orders payable to egta uk and send to Guitar Forum at The Moorings, Horn Lane, New Mill, Holmfirth, Huddersfield, hd7 7dd, uk, or at 833 East 14th Avenue #6, Denver, co 80218, usa. We hope to provide online purchase at www.egtaguitarforum.org/Order.html. Contributions All contributions to Guitar Forum will be gratefully considered by the editorial board, and should be sent to Jonathan Leathwood, 833 East 14th Avenue #6, Denver, co 802i8, usa · [email protected]. Some style guidelines for the journal are available on request from the editor. Correspondence This journal is an open forum for the presentation of scholarly work relating to the guitar. The views expressed in the articles are not necessarily the views of egta uk, the editor or the editorial board. Letters and emails are

Advertising uk Anthony Dodds, 75 East Street, Bridport, Dorset, dt6 3lb, uk · [email protected] usa Jonathan Leathwood, 833 East 14th Avenue #6, Denver, co 80218, usa · [email protected] Advertisements help to support this journal. When answering advertisements, please mention Guitar Forum. Acknowledgements We are very grateful to Heidi Brende and Rebekah Billings for their meticulous proofreading; to Sarn Dyer for providing some of the illustrations; to Luis Zea and Christian Roche for checking Spanish and French translations; and to Andrew Hopwood of Alden Press for shepherding this issue to print. ∞ The text face of this journal is Minion, designed by Robert Slimbach and issued in digital form by Adobe Systems in 1989. The chancery italic used in article titles, Poetica, was also designed by Robert Slimbach (Adobe Systems, 1992). Scala Sans is used in the illustrations, and was designed by Martin Majoor (FontShop International, 1994). Guitar Forum was designed and produced by the editor on the Macintosh computer. In the articles, the layout and proportions of the page are based on a tenth-century manuscript book of short poems by the Roman poet Horace, copied in Caroline minuscule and now held in the Laurentian Library, Florence (Ms. Plut. 34.1). The fore-edge of this manuscript was left free for sidenotes. The page is analysed in Robert Bringhurst, The Elements of Typographic Style (Point Roberts & Vancouver: Hartley & Marks, 2nd edn, 1996), p 176. The drawing used on the cover is by Kevin Coates, © Kevin Coates, 1985. It is reprinted from his book, Geometry, Proportion and the Art of Lutherie (Oxford University Press, 1985), p 152, by permission of Oxford University Press. The guitar shown is by Cristopher Cocho, Venice 1602, Conservatoire de Musique, Paris.

contents

How to Write for the Guitar, page 1 Julian Bream

Mignone, Fernandez, Guarnieri: Brazilian guitar music after Villa-Lobos, page 9 Fabio Zanon

A Lesson with Ida: an imaginary interview with Ida Presti, page 33 Sarn Dyer

Mauro Giuliani’s Guitar Technique & Early Nineteenth-Century Pedagogy, page 45 Lorenzo Micheli

On Teaching the Unteachable, page 71 Luis Zea

Contributors, page 99

How to Write for the Guitar (1957) julian bream

This article first appeared in The Score & i.m.a. Magazine, ed. William Glock, nº 19 (March 1957), pp 19–26. It is reprinted here as a tribute to Julian Bream on his seventieth birthday. The Score last appeared in 1961, and we have been unable to trace its current copyright holders. We are very grateful to Mr Bream for granting us his permission to reprint the present article, and especially for providing the introduction.

int ro duc t ion ne of the more attractive places to wine and dine in London during the late 1950s was a little club in Mayfair called the International Music Association. For its premises it had use of a beautiful Georgian house in South Audley Street, and it soon established itself as a fashionable meeting place and watering hole for musicians from far and wide. Apart from the excellent bar and restaurant, there was, in the heart of the building, a charming Recital Room (complete with a little stage and grand piano), which could be hired for informal concerts, lectures or rehearsals. It could boast a library, and even had its own in-house magazine called The Score. The magazine was edited by the late William Glock, himself a fine concert pianist whose career mysteriously never really materialised, but whose love, knowledge and enthusiasm for music never diminished. Instead of pursuing a performing career he eventually became a musical coach, an encourager, an enabler, and impressively, an indefatigable champion of contemporary music. I used to bump into him at the club from time to time, and on one occasion he asked me why my programmes on the guitar were so conservative, containing so little contemporary music, and none of it British. My reply to him was quite straightforward: it was that most British composers hadn’t a clue how to write for the instrument. It was then that he suggested I should write an article on how to write for the guitar. I got down to it at once, and it was duly included in the next issue of The Score. Looking back on the article some forty-six years later, it does appear rather conservative, and very much of its period. Nevertheless, many of the principles expressed are, in my opinion, still pertinent, in spite of the fact that the style and language of much contemporary concert music has changed considerably.

O

Julian Bream, August 2003

Copyright © 1957 by The Score & i.m.a Magazine Introduction copyright © 2003 by Julian Bream

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h o w t o w r i t e f o r t h e g u i ta r the most important thing to bear in mind when writing for an instrument is the texture and character of its sound. The guitar is more suggestive and intimate than almost any other instrument, and therefore demands from the composer great imagination and feeling for colour – especially since it is nearly always solo, and succeeds or falls purely on its own merits of musical expression. My advice to composers trying to write suitable music for the guitar is: ‘refer to Bach’. A detailed study of the unaccompanied violin sonatas would serve admirably as a guide to the application of harmony and counterpoint to the guitar, as well as to the suggestiveness that I mentioned just now; better still, compare Bach’s own lute arrangements of the G minor Fugue from the First Violin Sonata or of the whole C minor Cello Suite, and one will notice that with the added advantage of more strings (and a closer tuning in fourths and thirds as on the guitar), he has slightly elaborated the harmony and in some cases developed the counterpoint. It is an interesting fact that whilst all the unaccompanied violin and cello music (not forgetting the lute suites) can be played on the guitar, the same can hardly be said of a single keyboard work. the tuning of the guitar is a curiosity in itself. y

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Example 1 The tuning remains constant, with the possible exception of the sixth string, which is occasionally lowered a tone in pieces where the prevailing tonality is D. Occasionally the fifth string is also retuned a tone lower for special effects in the key of G, but this should only be done on the advice of a guitarist. Although guitar music is written in the treble clef, it actually sounds an octave lower than written; thus the range of the guitar is similar to that of the cello, though quite often the ear is deceived into thinking that it is considerably higher. This can probably be attributed to the fact that the sound-chamber is somewhat smaller than that of the cello, and therefore the overtones and natural resonances are of a higher pitch. The guitar fingerboard, unlike that of the violin, is divisioned off by thin strips of metal (frets) placed a semitone apart. Since the notes are predetermined, the instrument is obviously tempered, though enharmonic differences can be achieved by the finger pushing into or pulling away from the fret. The Spanish Guitar (as opposed to the Plectrum Guitar) is always plucked with the fingers of the right hand and never with a plectrum or quill. Danceband players have developed the plectrum technique over the last thirty years or so in order to obtain more power and drive in their rhythmic chord-playing, but this method is artistically very limited since it cannot manage counterpoint, and every chord is, and must be, slightly arpeggiated. With the thumb and three fingers, the classical (Spanish) guitarist has in fact four plectra and can therefore play four notes simultaneously.

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julian bream

The guitar has a range of three octaves and a fifth. inferior quality

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& œ Example 2 As with most stringed instruments, the very high notes of the guitar tend to have less quality, and complicated passagework in the highest register sometimes sounds thin and unconvincing; nevertheless, I am all in favour of mountaineering, if a composition really demands it. The chief thing to remember is that while the top two strings generally sound well in extreme high positions – if the instrument is a good one – the bottom four, on the whole, tend to sound rather ‘boxy’ and dead above the twelfth fret, i.e. above the octave, and I would generally advise composers against writing six-note chords right up in the ‘dust’ if they really desire a musical sound! By no means the least important point to bear in mind when writing for the guitar is the span which the left hand is capable of stretching. For instance, it is obviously impossible to play a chord in a high position, and also expect to play a low F (first fret) on the sixth string; the composer must either bring the chord down to the low F or else the low F up to the chord – whichever is more vital to the musical logic. Example 3 should give some idea of the limits which the average left hand can stretch. Although five or six frets is the average stretch between the first and

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Example 3 fourth finger, this does not rule out the possibility of playing chords in the high positions of the treble strings, and plucking open bass strings at the same time. Many a good pedal is built up in this way, especially if the bass note is given a little rhythmical interest.

j j j j œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ ‰ n œ œ n œ œ ‰ œœœ œœœ œœœ œœœ ‰ œœœ œœœ n œœœ œœœ ### œ œ & ‰ ‰ œ œ. ‰ ‰ œ œ. ‰ ‰ œ œ. ‰ ‰ œ J J J J Example 4 most instruments have their natural keys and resonances, the guitar being no exception. It is, indeed, essentially a keybound instrument. This being so, atonal works may present certain problems, though they can be entirely successful if the composer has acquainted himself thoroughly with the fingerboard, and realised the importance of keeping the texture compact. When using the conventional tonal system, the composer must select his key or overall key feeling according to the natural resonances of the instrument.

how to write for the guitar

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Since most of the natural harmonics and resonances are built up, as it were, from the open strings, it is important to use the unstopped strings as much as possible, particularly the lower three, which add a considerable lustre to the timbre when harmonically employed in conjunction with a phrase or figuration in high positions on the treble strings. Often an open string may be harmonically incorrect (academically speaking), but in a great many cases the unstopped bass strings are so rich in natural harmonics that they often sound more convincing in the harmony they suggest than a more harmonically conventional stopped note that might hinder the fluency of a phrase simultaneously played above it. Nevertheless, the first necessity is to choose a key that will give aesthetic satisfaction to the composer and that will also take into account the instrument’s technical attributes and limitations. The natural keys of the guitar are A, E, D, G, C, F and the tonic minors. As can be observed, the three best keys have an open bass note, particularly if in the key of D the sixth string is tuned a tone lower, thereby giving the composer two open D strings, a dominant A and a subdominant G – all to ease the performer’s burden! the guitar has always been admired for its harmonic resources and it is in this respect that the contemporary composer can use his imagination to the full, unfettered by the technical limitations of the instrument where counterpoint or melody and accompaniment are concerned. Although the guitar has six strings and can therefore play chords of up to six notes, the technique of the right hand, as already observed, limits the number of notes simultaneously playable to four (i.e. thumb and three fingers). Hence fiveand six-note chords are always slightly arpeggiated. If the composer requires fast repeated chords, say at a moderate semiquaver speed, it would be advisable to condense all the harmonic interest into four-note chords, or better still, if fluent fingerboard facility is also needed, into chords of three notes. However, a composition may sometimes demand fast reiterated six-string thrumming, perhaps to give a sustained tremolando effect; here it is imperative that all six strings be employed, as it is impossible, say, to miss out the third – or any other inside string for that matter – when the performer is thrumming backwards and forwards across the six strings with the forefinger of the right hand. The layout of harmony on the guitar is a comparatively simple thing, if a few rules are observed. For instance, in common chords of four notes, the conventional rule of keeping the bottom note of the chord relatively far away from the triad above it works particularly well, since the major third between the second and third strings facilitates the close grouping of a triad, whilst a largish interval between the tenor and bass parts gives a certain size and richness to a chord, because of the sympathetic harmonics arising from the bass – as would happen in example 5. j j œ. œ œ .. œœ . n œœ œ œœ # # # 6 œœ .. # œœœ œ #œ & 8 œ. œ . #œ. œ œ. Example 5 It is of prime importance to remember this rule, when employing the guitar for accompaniments or in chamber ensembles. Triads in the extreme low positions

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sound extremely sonorous, but somehow lack brilliance and definition and get lost in the general ensemble. As I have explained earlier, I cannot sufficiently stress the importance of using the open strings. This applies particularly to the writing of the more progressive kind of harmony on the guitar. Villa-Lobos, for example, has achieved a brilliant harmonic system, using stopped notes high up on the inside strings, in conjunction with open (unstopped) notes. Here is a typical example: a)

œ œ 0 œ & 00 bœœœœ n œœ # œœ # # œœ œœ

b) bœ # œ nœ bœ 0 # œœ n œœœ # œ œœ # œœœ 0 œ œ œ œ 0 œ

Example 6 One might argue that artistically this is rather a naïve system of chordal construction, but I can assure the reader that while three notes of every chord (a) remain constant, each chord has its own harmonic character and bears little or no resemblance to the preceding one. The technical device known as the grand barré has great importance in the construction of ‘fingerboard harmony’. This is achieved by placing the forefinger of the left hand over all six strings, and so producing, as it were, an adjustable nut. Most common six-note chords are stopped in this manner, and when a phrase or chord moves up, say, a major third, all the player has to do is to shift the grand barré four frets higher, which can be done with the minimum of thought and effort. Incidentally, whilst the forefinger might be engaged in performing the grand barré it is worth while to remember that the other three fingers can articulate and stop notes at the same time, providing that they are not required to stretch more than four frets higher than the point at which the barré is fixed; and never, never expect a guitarist to perform the barré above the tenth fret – he probably would never physically recover if he tried! although the lute (forerunner of the modern guitar with exactly the same technique and similar tuning) reached the height of its development during a great period of contrapuntal writing, it is interesting to note that the lute and the guitar have considerable limitations in playing this kind of music. Neither Dowland nor Bach, in their three- and four-part fugal expositions, ever required the lute to perform counterpoint at more than moderate quaver speed, and they were both very careful to choose diatonic outlines, so as to eliminate unnecessary movement on the fingerboard. By the very nature of the instrument, two-part counterpoint at moderate semiquaver speed, with the parts in contrary motion, is never wholly successful, nor in parallel motion, which is just as difficult to perform unless at a moderate quaver tempo. Once again, as in so many cases when writing for the guitar, the composer must simplify the counterpoint, which the instrument finds difficult to project. For instance, if the top part is the more important of the two, the secondary, or lower, part must undergo slight adjustment; losing some of its contrapuntal significance it takes on a somewhat harmonic character, at the same time giving the performer more facility to shape and phrase the figuration above it. This system, which one might term harmonic counterpoint, also applies in reverse, i.e. with the top part in a simplified form supporting the figuration of the lower part.

how to write for the guitar

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Some composers may argue that since there are so many limitations in twopart writing, how on earth are they to compose in three or four parts if the musical conception of a composition requires it? To this I would answer that two parts played on the guitar have an effect of peculiar fullness and completion. However, a discreet and fragmentary use of a third and fourth part, in the form of harmonic punctuation, is often playable, as well as being suitable to the instrument. This technique is exploited to perfection in the fugues and other compositions of J.S. Bach. trills and ornamentation are all embodied in a technique peculiar to the guitar, known as the ‘slur’ or legato. For instance, in example 7 the right hand

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Example 7 plucks no fewer than three times, the other unplucked notes being either hammered (ascending) or plucked (descending) by the left hand alone. This technique obviously gives shape to a phrase as well as giving considerable ease to articulation, as the notes sounded by the right hand have slightly more rhythmical impetus and sonority than those plucked or hammered on the fingerboard. All the same, a guitarist cannot go on plucking with his left hand for ever, unless the string is given a new lease of vibration from the right hand; hence elongated trills are to be avoided at all costs in favour of shorter figuration. The mordent, double-mordent, and the elaborated turn can serve adequately the composer who indulges in baroque niceties. of all the musical techniques most suited to the instrument, the arpeggio is probably the most beautiful and evocative. There are many varieties of arpeggi; in fact, as many permutations between six strings and four plucking fingers as you would like to use. Here, as examples, are a few basic ones on the open strings. a)

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Example 8 Arpeggi as a general rule must sound fluent and facile. The guitarist would be more than delighted if the ‘core’ of the arpeggio fell on adjacent strings, thus enabling him to ‘throw it off ’ and concentrate on other things, particularly if melodic interest is also involved, as in example 9. a)

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Example 9 6

julian bream

b)

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In determining the form of an arpeggio, it is worth while to note that the righthand thumb generally controls the fourth, fifth and sixth strings, and the remaining three fingers the third, second and first strings respectively. This explains why there is often a gap of one or two strings between the tenor and bass notes of a guitar arpeggio, because the thumb has greater manœuvrability than the fingers and is physically more independent. Occasionally, however, it is necessary for the fingers to work in conjunction with the thumb on the bass strings, as, for example, in these arpeggio figures which require such rapidity over all six strings that the thumb would fail to cope over its bass territory. a)

b) œ œ œ & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

Example 10 Another delightful technique on the guitar is the tremolo. This effect should be used very sparingly, and I would advise composers to limit their use of it to extended compositions such as a sonata, suite, or concerto, where it can effectively be used to give textural variety, when all the other ‘stops’ have been pulled! Here are two examples: a)

b)

# # ® œ œ œ ® œ œ œ ®œ œ œ œ ® œ œ œn ®œ œ œ œ ® œ œ œ ® œ œ œ ® œ œ œ ® œ œ œ ® œ œ œ ® œ œ œ & # nœ œ œ œ œ #œ nœ œ œ J Example 11 In the first example, the melodic interest is in the tremolo itself while the thumb plucks a simple accompaniment underneath it. When played at a reasonably fast speed, it can achieve a highly sustained musical line. The second example, with the tune in the bass register, is rather unusual in guitar composition, but can nevertheless be most effective. harmonics on the guitar never cease to intrigue both composer and performer. They can be either ‘natural’ or ‘artificial’. The most successful sounds are the open ‘natural’ harmonics playable on every string at the octave (12th fret), the fifth above (7th fret), the octave above (5th fret), and the tenth above (4th fret). (This last harmonic can also be found on the 9th fret.) Other harmonics of higher partials do exist, but fail to resonate sufficiently to cover the actual percussive noise made when plucking the string. A very exciting sound is obtained by the chordal treatment of harmonics. This, of course, can be successful only if the left hand can stretch to the harmonics desired. Care and taste should be exercised when constructing chords in this manner, as fussiness can often occur, easily disrupting the flow of a composition. Artificial harmonics can be sounded on any required note and a whole phrase can sometimes be played with this type of harmonic. Personally, I find the sound rather thin in comparison with the natural kind, but of course this can vary with the characteristics of different guitars. When indicating harmonics, it is advisable to write the open string with the fret position above it, thus: how to write for the guitar

7

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[Works subsequently commissioned and edited by Julian Bream have tended to show not the open string, but the note desired with a diamond-shaped notehead, the notation being the same for natural and artificial harmonics. See for example Benjamin Britten, Nocturnal after John Dowland, op. 70 (London: Faber, 1965), or Hans Werner Henze, Royal Winter Music: first sonata on Shakespearean characters (Mainz: Schott, 1976). – Editor]

[‘Of all the fretted and bowed string’ instruments, the guitar is the richest and’ most complete in its harmonic and’ contrapuntal possibilities.’]

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Example 12 Another interesting tone colour is the pizzicato note, plucked by the thumb whilst the palm of the right hand is clamped down on the strings so as to produce a muffled effect not unlike the sound made by the ‘harp stop’ on the harpsichord. This is particularly effective in phrases of single notes in the bass register, or in two- and three-note chords in the upper register of the instrument. The sound is curiously pathetic and humorous! – but nevertheless quite wholesome. In concluding, I would like to mention one other characteristic of guitar playing, known as the ‘slide’ or portamento. Although this technique is often abused by instrumentalists, it can, when performed for sincere artistic ends, create a feeling of pathos and emotional intensity. I sincerely hope that this short essay on writing for the guitar has not given the impression that the difficulties are insuperable. Falla wrote:‘Parmi les instruments à corde avec manche, la guitare est le plus complet et le plus riche d’après ses possibilités harmoniques et polyphoniques.’ May this encourage composers to create a literature for an instrument that has been unduly neglected.


note The following are well worth studying: Bach: Lute works (Zimmerman) Villa-Lobos: Douze études pour guitare (Max Eschig), Cinq préludes pour guitare (Max Eschig) Falla: Homenaje ‘le tombeau de Claude Debussy’ (Chester) Castelnuovo-Tedesco: Sonata (Schott) Fernando Sor: 25 Studies (Chester)

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Mignone,Fernandez,Guarnieri: Brazilian guitar music a
er Via-Lobos fa b i o z a n o n

int ro duc t ion he guitar works of Heitor Villa-Lobos (1887–1959) certainly count among the most performed of the twentieth-century repertoire. Of all composers who were initially persuaded to write for the instrument by Andrés Segovia – and whose music found a way into his repertoire – the Brazilian is probably the only one who tried to create an individual language for the instrument, one which is (at least in some of the Twelve Studies and the Guitar Concerto) informed by an enlarged palette of harmonic possibilities and a commitment to innovation in the musical discourse, inspired by an insider’s knowledge of the fingerboard. Some writers would go so far as to say that the Twelve Studies of 1928–9 are a genuine watershed in the history of guitar writing, a referential work in which an established composer of symphonic music managed to elaborate a specifically guitar-oriented language, taking as a point of departure the factual possibilities of the instrument in order to devise a unique and untranslatable harmonic, melodic, figurational and developmental style. Even though Segovia shied away from placing Villa-Lobos’s works at the centre of his repertoire – he performed only Studies 1, 7 and 8 and Preludes 1 and 3 with any regularity, and the Guitar Concerto only at its premiere – subsequent generations of players have embraced all of his works. The relative accessibility of the Preludes and the Suite populaire, and the maximised effect of guitaristic commonplaces in the Studies, have made them extraordinarily popular with students and amateur players. They have also become – with various degrees of artistic success – compositional models for the more recent and widespread phenomenon of the semiamateur guitarist-composer. Over the last twenty years or so, some items of twentieth-century Brazilian popular music have entered the repertoire of classical guitarists as well. This is not surprising if we consider that the guitar is the instrumental basis of most Brazilian folkloric and popular urban musical manifestations, and that many of the players and composers who work in that sphere also have a classical training. Many of these musicians will readily invoke the name of Villa-Lobos as an inspiration, on the grounds that the great composer used the guitar as a private instrument, one which he would take up in order to share experiences with musicians from the popular realms – most notably the choros players who indeed played a significant part in his musical upbringing.

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Copyright © 2003 by Fabio Zanon

The solo guitar works of Villa-Lobos are all published by Max Eschig (Paris): Suite populaire brésilienne (1908–1923) Chôros nº 1 (1920) 12 études (1928–9) 5 préludes (1940) Concerto pour guitare et petit orchestre (1951)

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The overwhelming presence of a composer of Villa-Lobos’s standard in Brazilian musical life might lead one to assume that younger generations of classical composers, inspired by the international acceptance of his guitar works, would also embrace, during the last fifty years or so, the cause of the guitar repertoire and provide the instrument with a large and meritorious body of works for the instrument. The assumption is right to a certain extent. The generation of nationalist composers which succeeded Villa-Lobos has endowed the instrument with works of lasting importance and is the subject of this article. Younger composers have also frequently visited the guitar, and a list of compositions can be found at the end of this article. Nevertheless, a superficial examination of guitar recital programmes around the world is discouraging. In the orchestral and chamber fields, none of these composers has so far enjoyed the international exposure of Villa-Lobos. The absence of Brazilian classical composers of any standing in the repertoire of established and amateur players alike is almost total. Brazilian guitarists of international prominence tend either to create a repertoire of their own, consisting of commissioned new music, or to rearrange and dress up some of the best items of the popular tradition for wider consumption as a cross-over. Symphonic, opera, chamber and piano series around the world also rarely bring any Brazilian music at all into their programmes, with the exception of a few works of Villa-Lobos. One might conclude, then, that either Villa-Lobos’s legacy was not sufficient to let a culture of serious guitar composition flourish, or that his was an exceptional case, an isolated surge of creative power in an otherwise non-existent culture for classical music. A superficial evaluation might lead one to conclude that the focus of composition – and of guitar composition – moved north to other countries, and that Villa-Lobos’s example is to be seen at its best in the works of composers like the Venezuelan Lauro or the Cuban Brouwer. None of this is quite the case. International criticism and musicology has granted little attention to the production of Brazilian classical music after VillaLobos. There are many reasons for that, some of them of an artistic, some of a sociological, historical and geo-political nature. In fact, the three most important Brazilian composers of the generation following Villa-Lobos – Francisco Mignone (1897–1986), Oscar Lorenzo Fernandez (1897–1948) and Camargo Guarnieri (1907–1993), all of them established composers with a large catalogue of symphonic and chamber music – have left guitar works of great quality. In the case of Mignone, this production rivals VillaLobos’s own in number of works and standard of craftsmanship. If one prefers to accept the often-repeated motto about the guitar having a precarious repertoire, an explanation for the disappointing international career of Mignone and Guarnieri as guitar composers is even more elusive. The purpose of this article is to bring attention to the guitar output of the second generation of Brazilian nationalist composers and to investigate the reasons for their restricted dissemination among guitar students and professionals. It will also include a shortlist of the major Brazilian compositions of the last fifty years or so which I consider worthy of wider dissemination. In such a relatively young country as Brazil, questions of national identity have always been at the core of artistic creation. Thus, an overview of the history of nationalism in Brazilian music is our point of departure.

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br azilian nationalism Chopin and Liszt, eastern European composers, were probably the first to bring to their work a consistent exploration of specifically national features in early Romanticism, but, after the revolution year of 1848, rapid political changes and the ensuing need to define national values put intense pressure on composers of the second Romantic generation. ‘Classical’ music, which is in essence an international style, can trace its origins back to the ecclesiastical and courtly music of a handful of Central European countries. Slavonic, Scandinavian and Iberian composers, following the example of their literary forerunners, brought to the centre of their creative methods the search for a vernacular that would ideally express both the consecrated classical forms and the specificity of their respective national characters. It follows naturally that the Americas and other ex-colonies which were large and rich enough to have a classical music culture would tread, after a considerable gap, the same path. But that is not necessarily the case, because the mechanism of the creative mind in a colonised environment is not the same. Whereas countries such as Russia, Poland or Bohemia have had a continuous tradition of folk and religious music for centuries – a tradition which is concomitant with the formation of the international style in classical music – the process of colonisation has left the scar of a split identity. The artist of a colonised mentality is forever trying to come to terms with the fact that most tools of the trade are imported, and that the sense of collective identity is not so clear cut: the societies that once populated that particular environment either have been displaced or have disappeared. These scars are still present today, not only in artistic realms but also in the very constitution of society: the questionable attitude towards technological and global issues and the several levels of ethnic and social conflict all bear witness to this fact. It is also important to remark that there is a strong discrepancy between the ways this process of colonisation took in North and South America. The commonly encountered definition of Brazilian society as a confluence of European, black African and native Indian cultures seems to imply that these three branches had all the same relative cultural weight; in fact, native Indian elements played a very modest role in the forging of a characteristically Brazilian artistic idiom. From the very beginning of the sixteenth century, Jesuit missionaries explored their musical inclinations as a strong tool for conversion. If at the beginning some of the elements of plainchant may have been ignored and Christian texts adapted to Indian melodies, by the end of that century Indian culture had already capsized under the powerful apparatus of catechism, a process often called deculturation: Indian children were already performing Christian plays, playing the flute, violin and even harpsichord, and being graduated as ‘Masters of Arts’ in the first capital, Salvador in Bahia, where they were entitled to play several instruments and organise choral singing. Cultural (and physical) survival was a hard task for those Indian groups who refused to submit to the Portuguese; they tended to run away, deeper and deeper into the hinterland, and lose much of their vitality as the groups became smaller and less powerful. Two and a half centuries later, the Rousseau-tinged myth of the savage as an icon of purity and virtue impregnated the imagination of Romantic writers, and the

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The Colonial Period

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Mário de Andrade, Música, doce música (São Paulo: Livraria Martins, 1963), p 13. In all quotations, translations from the Portuguese are my own.

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first steps in the affirmation of a Brazilian national cultural identity adopted the ‘good savage’ as the symbolic Brazilian individual, notwithstanding the smallness of the Indians’ actual share in their own cultural profile. Although there is no music surviving from the first decades of colonisation, one can safely assume that it was not of the same outstanding level as that being performed in Mexico or Lima: conversion of such sophisticated civilisations as the Aztecs and Incas required superior efforts of artistic persuasion. Brazilian music in the Colonial period (which ended with the flight of the Royal family from Portugal to Rio de Janeiro in 1808) was essentially Portuguese, in spite of the fact that it was composed and performed almost exclusively by black and mulato (mixed white and black race) people. To this day, this interaction is one of the decisive factors in the establishment of a specifically Brazilian idiom. Poet, writer and musicologist Mário de Andrade said that ‘the Portuguese crystallised our harmonic tonality, gave us the strophic squareness – probably the syncopation as well, which we have taken charge of developing, in contact with the rhythmic fidgetry of the African’. It must be added that this symbiosis between elements of African music and the overwhelming power of European culture was very slow and almost imperceptible at the beginning. It was taken for granted that the status quo could only be maintained if the culture of enslaved black people was treated with contempt. The progressive social ascent of mulatos did nothing to benefit the acceptance of African cultural elements. Quite the contrary: in their anxiety to belong to the mainstream of society, free people of mixed race tried to negate any feature that could betray their origins. This behaviour is quite understandable and still present not only in Brazil but also in the Andinian countries, where mestizos from the town tend to reject the rural traditions. There are records of Portuguese sacred music and Italian opera being performed in the major towns of Rio de Janeiro, São Paulo and Paraná in the south and Pernambuco, Bahia, Maranhão and Pará in the north of the country already in the sixteenth century. What is so far the first important manuscript by a Brazilian composer is a Recitativo e aria by Caetano Mello Jesus, dated 1759, from Salvador, but the first consistent movement of Brazilian musicians and composers happened in the state of Minas Gerais in the last decades of the eighteenth century. Minas Gerais had quickly become one of the wealthiest and most enlightened parts of the country, thanks to its seemingly never-ending sources of gold and precious stones. Splendid Baroque churches were erected in its major towns, and at one time over a thousand musicians were working in a handful of neighbouring towns. At first these composers were imported from Bahia or Pernambuco, but local talent quickly flourished and the first Brazilian composers who can boast a corpus of works are Emerico Lobo de Mesquita (1746– 1805), Francisco Gomes da Rocha (?–1808) and Manuel Dias de Oliveira (1745– 1813), among others whose surviving work is not so extended. All these composers, like most players and choir and orchestra directors of the period, were probably of black or mulato origin. Practically the totality of this music is composed for the church, and characteristically Brazilian traces are non-existent. The individual features that can be perceived are of an utterly practical nature – harmonic complexity is usually proportional to the category of musicians available at a certain church; the choices of instruments for certain scores might seem unusual, but probably owed as much to the current availability of instruments and capable players. So strongly attached was this music to the Baroque

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churches of Minas Gerais that, by association, it has been called ‘Brazilian Baroque’ – a completely misleading label. This tentative beginning of a Brazilian music history is much more akin to the early classical style of a Johann Christian Bach, Pergolesi or a young Haydn, whose music was certainly imported by the Church during the period. The arrival of the Portuguese Royal family in 1808 – they were running away from the Napoleonic invasions – shifted the cultural focus back again to Rio de Janeiro. It was a brief period of thirteen years, but a decisive one for the country, as the court was avid for entertainment of every nature. Opera composers were brought from Portugal and a Royal Chapel was reorganised. This sudden surge of activity revealed the uncommon talent of Father José Maurício Nunes Garcia (1767–1830), another mulato who can safely be called the first major Brazilian composer. Author of a wide variety of religious works and of a method for pianoforte, his compositions display a detailed knowledge of Haydn; his masses and especially his Requiem make a good showing alongside the average sacred music composed in Europe at the time. Once again there is the individuality of a gifted composer but no trace of a national style. Independence was declared in 1822, and the return of the Royal Family to Portugal meant a pronounced scaling down of resources for the performing arts. Nevertheless, the newly crowned Emperor, Pedro I, was a music enthusiast and a composer himself, and under his aegis Francisco Manuel da Silva (1785– 1865), a former pupil of Nunes Garcia and the author of the National Anthem, founded the National Conservatory. The return of Pedro I to Portugal cast a shadow over this musical activity but there was still an extraordinary interest in Italian opera, which must be regarded as a second important European influence towards the formulation of a Brazilian national style. The bel canto style of Rossini and Bellini was adopted by composers of light and popular songs, and the arias performed at social functions in the houses of well-to-do people became the basis for the formation of the Brazilian serenade style, the modinha, which was to have a very important role in the works of Villa-Lobos and Mignone decades later. The reign of Pedro II marked an unusual flourishing of Brazilian culture. A genuine erudite himself, an expert in linguistics, architecture and environmental issues, and admirer of poetry and literature, he was also very musical. Wagner was one of his passions: he was present at the opening of the Bayreuth festival and even invited Wagner to make a base for his activities in Rio de Janeiro. The support he gave to the creation of a national press, to the translation and publication of books, to scientific research, etc, is inestimable, but music will always be grateful to him for promoting Carlos Gomes (1836–1896), another composer of vaguely mulato origin and possibly the major opera composer of the Americas. Opera in Brazil at the time, in spite of a few attempts to create opera in the vernacular, meant Italian opera. Gomes, coming from a background as a bandmaster, had already composed works of major consequence when he was sent with a scholarship to Milan. There he met with great success: his opera Il guarany was performed in every major opera house in the world. As his style became more sophisticated, however, his initial success declined. A few years after his death he was already forgotten except for a few extroverted arias. With the hindsight of a century, one could today safely say that Gomes is the natural link between Verdi’s mature style (Verdi was a great admirer of Gomes) and the

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End of the Colonial Period: Nunes Garcia, da Silva, Gomes

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young Puccini. Fashion in opera operates in mysterious ways, but revivals of Gomes’s operas have kept the taste of isolated attempts – in spite of the splendid music and superior treatment of the voice; the less successful dramatic construction might be the reason. But there is one important feature in Gomes’s otherwise purely Italian style. There is a Brazilian national theme in at least two of his operas: the successful Il guarany (The Guarani), based on the romantic novel by Alencar, in which the main character is a Guarani Indian; and the most artistic, Lo schiavo (The Slave). It might seem a timid start, but this would prove to be the slit through which subsequent composers would peep. Gomes also composed popular songs at the beginning of his career, some of which are still performed; even though he was not a major agent in the development of national song, they are characteristic of their times and can already be classified as genuinely Brazilian modinhas and lundus. The Abolition: birth of a popular style:

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The abolition of slavery finally came in 1888 and the fall of the monarchic system could only follow suit in 1889, when the Republic was proclaimed and Pedro II and his family were sent to exile in France. These are two very important events which exposed an undercurrent that had been present already in the 1870s. The presence of European musicians in Rio de Janeiro had encouraged the wealthy society to adopt European dances – waltzes, schottisches, polkas, etc – as their favourite light entertainment. Professional musicians, the majority of whom, as has already been said, were of black origin, had the benefit of an insider’s knowledge of the formal requirements of European dance music. With the sudden freedom of expression allowed by the Abolition of 1888, these musicians were legally allowed to gather for their own pleasure and to adopt musical elements of African origin for their interpretation – a distinctive way of avoiding the strong part of the beat, an incorporation of choreographic elements, the use of melodic repetition to achieve a certain periodic recurrence of rhythmic features in the melody. This is the first real division between the activity of a ‘classical’ composer and the birth of a ‘popular’ musical expression. It marked the gradual replacement of the old-fashioned vocal style of the modinha with the more expansive seresta, and the birth of the choro as the dominant urban instrumental dance form. This new kind of expression was solemnly ignored by a few composers of an exclusively European education – some of them quite extraordinary composers like Henrique Oswald (1852–1931) or Leopoldo Miguéz (1850–1902) – but started to attract the attention of a few others, composers of a very high calibre such as Alexandre Levy (1864–1892) and Alberto Nepomuceno (1864–1920). Perhaps Nepomuceno will be best remembered for his splendid, if rather Germanic, Symphony, but following the example of other minor composers he wrote in 1891 his Série brasileira, a work that suffers from the composer’s lack of experience but is the first symphonic piece whose main thematic material is derived from Brazilian folklore. He was also a leader in the maintenance of musical education of high quality and a champion of the use of Portuguese as the language for national song. Nepomuceno is a transitional composer in many ways: between the internationalism of his education and the strong impulse towards a music of national character (probably prompted by his close relationship with Edvard Grieg); between the conventionally scholastic and the innovative and personal; between the symphonism of the nineteenth century and the new necessities of the twentieth; between the old monarchic order and the Republic. fabio zanon

Concomitantly, some interesting things were happening in the realms of popular and light music. Ernesto Nazareth (1863–1934), the ubiquitous pianist of cafés and cinemas, started to write light piano pieces of exquisite workmanship but of an unmistakably Brazilian character. His numerous waltzes had already incorporated the intense melodic style of Chopin and the wide leaps of Italian opera; his even more numerous tangos were only so called because the real name of those dances, maxixes and choros, could not be pronounced in the respectable households of the rich people who bought his music. His eloquent talent was idolised by generations of composers, from Villa-Lobos and Mignone to Gnatalli and Nobre. In the realm of operetta, a woman, Chiquinha Gonzaga (1847–1935), was making history by being, against the furore of public opinion, a professional musician, and by incorporating the new choreographic style, derived from the lundu, the polka and the habanera, into her stage works. The birth of a new nation on the philosophic grounds of Positivism created the right environment for a discussion of the national cultural identity and where it was to be found. The acknowledgement of a superimposed diversity in opposition to an idealised, Rousseau-like aboriginal identity, corrupted and violated by the white man, as the one found in the Romantic poets and writers like José de Alencar and Castro Alves, was imminent. In a certain sense, the volcanic personality of Heitor Villa-Lobos (1887–1959) managed to reconcile both visions. His Indian ancestry was probably very remote if it ever existed, his musical upbringing was in accordance with the petit-bourgeois expectations of his milieu, but the desire to translate into sound the zeitgeist and the saturated aural experience of his early years pressed him to become a musical cannibal, who would chew and digest a plethora of foreign influences from César Franck to Stravinsky. His intellectual basis – encyclopedic and geographic knowledge from his father, sentimental Catholicism, Positivism and, later, a certain dictatorial rigidity and the dangerous self-confidence of one who won’t be outdone – was much weaker than his privileged ear and unique power of synthesis. Villa-Lobos can be better understood in the light of the Week of Modern Art which took place in São Paulo in 1922. In a series of three performances, lectures and exhibitions in the Theatro Municipal, what was generally regarded as a subterranean movement of a group of insane enfants terribles became the platform for a deep discussion about the updating of Brazilian artistic intelligence, the right to permanent aesthetic research and the establishment of a national creative awareness. Seminal art works were ridiculed by the press, Villa-Lobos was frequently greeted with catcalls, and the literary mentors of the movement, Graça Aranha and Mário de Andrade, had to deliver lectures under verbal insult. But the magnetic personality and erudition of Mário de Andrade – poet, writer, scholar, essayist and the most influential musicologist of the period – had a strong impact not only on Villa-Lobos but on scores of younger composers: two of his intellectual siblings who admitted they owed more to Andrade’s teaching than to anybody else’s were Mignone and Guarnieri. There was certainly an element of aesthetic shock in the proceedings: after all, the Theatro Municipal was an opera house, and the taste of the wealthy audience could not go much beyond Puccini or Saint-Saëns; but there was also a tremendously conservative denial of the legitimacy of national – folk or popular – elements as a basis for the elaboration of serious works of art. Academicism in many ways meant the glorification of the white man’s dominance. In that sense, the complete success of Villa-Lobos’s music in France in the twenties and in the mignone, fernandez, guarnieri

Villa-Lobos

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whole world after the Second War (most notably in the usa), did the most for the acknowledgement of the cultural role of aboriginal and black African elements. For the obtuse, once-aristocratic, coffee and industrial elites of Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo, the niche that this music gained in Paris was testimony to its artistic value; the enormous curiosity for the way the lower classes lived and entertained themselves overtook any aristocratic prurience. Another important contribution made by Villa-Lobos’s astonishing intuition and creative power (and also by Mário de Andrade’s thoroughness as a musicologist) was a second discovery of Brazil, one that extended beyond the urban realms of the major southern towns like Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo. Precarious transport and means of communication meant that the vast extensions of land of the northern coast, Amazon and far south were a closed book. Folklore in these regions was and is extraordinarily complex and unexpected, but the artistic circles in the capital could only suspect that. Villa-Lobos and Andrade mapped out, the former with his vast production, the latter in his musicological and literary writings, the vehement presence of Indian, Hispanic and African elements in these local cultures, many of which could be traced back almost intact to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. This proved to be a tremendous encouragement for the creation of not only a national literary culture, but a regional one as well. Curiously the generation of composers who most benefited from this wider common ground came from immigrant families who had only recently arrived in Brazil: Mignone, Guarnieri, Gnatalli and Santoro came from an Italian background, and Fernandez from a Spanish one. Reception

Mário de Andrade, Ensaio sobre a música brasileira (São Paulo: Livraria Martins, 1928), p 19.

Critical and academic reception has undergone dramatic swings in the last eighty years or so. A first reactionary generation of critics would simply dismiss Villa-Lobos as savage and incompetent: Oscar Guanabarino, the implacable critic in Rio de Janeiro, would go so far as to classify all folkloric culture as a corruption and simplification of classical models and unworthy of serious attention. Andrade, an active critic himself, and scores of other writers schooled under his wing, would develop a school of criticism informed by a Marxist view which would exclude any aesthetic possibilities outside the sphere of nationalism. Andrade’s own assessment synthesises this line of aesthetic thought: If a Brazilian artist feels within himself the strength of a genius like Beethoven or Dante, it is obvious he must write national music. Because as a genius he will certainly know how to find the essential elements of nationality. He will have, therefore, an enormous social value…And if the artist belongs to the ninety-nine per cent recognised not to be a genius, then this is an even stronger reason to make national art. Because attaching himself to the Italian or French school he will be only another one in the oven, where in the beginner’s school he will be meritorious and necessary…The one who makes international or foreign art, if he is not a genius, is useless, nil. This premise leads to the logical conclusion that composers like Nunes Garcia or Carlos Gomes had prompted little repercussion at international level for the simple reason that they had not imprinted national values in their music and

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would always be second-raters in a culture that had never belonged to them in the first place, which is a scandalously unfair statement. Great hope was deposited on the shoulders of the second generation of nationalist composers. Mignone, Fernandez and Guarnieri, as the leading lights of this nationalistic upsurge, were frequently cast in the role of cultural ambassadors to Europe and North America. Their failure to find a niche in the international repertoire coincided with a second wave of European immigrants, who arrived in Brazil around the time of the Second War. Among them was the intelligent and persuasive German composer and theorist H.J. Koellreutter, who instructed generations of Brazilian composers, many of whom had at first embraced nationalist ideals, in the art of the Second Viennese School. The ensuing discussion between those faithful to Andrade’s ideas and a new wave of international avant-garde was certainly beneficial to the aesthetic formation of composers, but it was at the same time harmful for the musical institutions which were still in a formative period. Such an enormously popular essayist as the Argentine Juan Carlos Paz affirms that the formulation, in the Americas, of a concrete musical reality reveals the delay that logically must exist…[it is] manifested especially in the diverse and limited localisms within which it has locked itself… A simple comparison of art music produced in Latin America with the one developed under similar conditions in Europe…reveals the causes of its retard – spiritual, technical, speculative and aesthetic – and the lack of synchronicity.

Juan Carlos Paz, Introducción a la música de nuestro tiempo (Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, 1971); translated into Portuguese by Diva Ribeiro de Toledo Piza as Introducão à música de nosso tempo (São Paulo: Livraria Duas Cidades, 1977), p 314.

This statement, obviously aimed at the various nationalisms still in vogue in the sixties, takes into account neither the abject lack of institutional interest and technological and factual support, nor the precarious state of general and musical education in the continent as a whole, which latter also prevents the appearance of a consistent production of an avant-garde which is synchronically attached to European and North American production. The ensuing development of composition and of musical institutions in Brazil has followed, in very general lines, that of other countries, especially the United States. Nationalists and internationalists feuded for government subsidy along with command of concert societies and newly created music departments at major universities. General lack of public and critical interest in the more forbidding experiments, and failure to achieve any degree of international recognition, impelled younger composers towards a purely academic path, where they could work under the protective shield of research grants and a monthly wage, and remain oblivious to the reality of a professional composer who has to get his works published and performed. Political contingencies have also played an important part in the present configuration of musical life in Brazil and its perception abroad. The military coup of 1964, followed by a considerable repression of public expression from 1968 to 1980, required a definite political position from all sectors of society, and classical composers were no exception. Composers of a governmentalist inclination failed to persuade the military commanders of the need for a sustained development of classical music and were later punished by the opinion of the cultural

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Music & Politics

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establishment for their opportunistic attachment, while composers in the opposition tended to retreat to the relative security of university posts which are, in effect, public servant jobs. Their participation in this turbulent period of struggle for the right of expression and a breach in the prevailing political attitude was insignificant. This difficult phase coincided with the gradual but ultimately all-powerful ascension of pop music as the sole subject of interest for the mass media. From a purely technical and aesthetic point of view, Brazilian popular music is of a generally higher musical and literary interest than, say, rock-and-roll. Bossanova represented the current aspirations to a modern society, and the huge festivals in the sixties and seventies brought to the fore a generation of educated upper-middle-class singer-songwriters, who could envelop their protest songs in a subtle involocrum of contemporary poetry and eclectic nationalist music. This led many of them to temporary exile, and their status as manipulators of public opinion grew exponentially after their irrefutable role in the gradual political opening in the late seventies and early eighties. A whole generation of new journalists, but also of academic researchers, displaced their focus of interest from a classical music that was being composed just for itself to a cultural experience of major sociological relevance. mpb (Música popular brasileira) became an emblem of a puissant cultural and social movement with the capacity to engage vast numbers of people in social causes – a role that had been fulfilled by Villa-Lobos and his vast ‘patriotic concerts’ fifty years earlier. In a short period of twenty years, classical composers were excluded from the major cultural decisions and mpb, frequently marketed as ‘Brazilian jazz’, became the favoured cultural export. It is no accident that singer-songwriter Gilberto Gil was chosen for the Ministry of Culture at the beginning of 2003 – even long established literary intellectuals were neglected in the choice of this important position. Political events since 1964 have been of incalculable importance for the current development of Brazilian musical affairs and for its lack of inception in musical circles abroad. Composers of earlier nationalist schools, such as Mignone, Guarnieri and Villa-Lobos himself, have been forgotten by major institutions like symphony orchestras and opera houses for their excess of local colour and assumed lack of relevance within an international cultural network. Progressive composers who came to the fore from the 1960s onwards lack the logistic support to develop a language and to produce a corpus of works that might win them entry into the international circuit of contemporary music. And possibly above all, interest in the major composers of Latin America is generally perceived to be so tightly bound to sociological and political circumstances that the European audiences would probably not be as sympathetic to a conflict of cultural identity that does not belong to them. Future Prospects

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Aesthetic judgement of music of a national character has its own problems. The first wave of romantic nationalism was easily digested by the philharmonic public because the classical essence of its construction was never doubted: Dvorˇák, Grieg, Rimsky-Korsakov, Sibelius and many others were still composing coherent symphonic and operatic designs and national features acted almost exclusively as local colour. Whenever folkloric elements became determinant in the elaboration of a musical language, as in Mussorgsky and Janácˇek, the acceptance was much slower – it requires a leap of faith on the listener’s part, and a keenness to educate oneself to a culture that is not as central to the understanding

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of a continuous line of classical development as, say, Bruckner and Mahler are. Colonised cultures, moreover, as has already been explained, keep the search for a sharper musical fingerprint at the core of their psychological configuration, a type of personal conflict that is not shared by most developed nations. Nevertheless, a recent upsurge of international interest in the music of composers such as Villa-Lobos and Ginastera might mean that this state of affairs is walking towards a turning point. International recording companies have kept in their catalogues complete recordings of all the major cycles by Villa-Lobos, and critical reception has been surprisingly good. Recent developments in the musical life in Brazil – stabilisation of several concert series in all major capitals, renovation and general improvement of technical standards of the major symphonic orchestras, solidification of the international careers of performers on various instruments, renewed interest in the research of three hundred years of music history as a consequence of a general rise in academic standards at the universities – these have all made a contribution in prompting the public to take pains to investigate the unknown heritage of national classical music. An unbiased assessment of this heritage is bound, in my opinion, to lead to a progressive increase in international standing for the operas of Carlos Gomes and for the composers belonging to the second nationalist generation. Composers of such superlative interest as Guarnieri, Mignone and Fernandez cannot remain forgotten when the ground is so favourable for a gradual enlargement of the classical music canon in cultural centres which are now supposed to encourage multiculturalism.

fr ancisco mig none (1897–1986) ‘Mignone is possibly the most complete musician we have ever had.’ A brief description of the varied activities Mignone performed in the musical life of Brazil is enough to support a statement that otherwise might seem rather facile. On top of an extensive production of symphonic, chamber, vocal and piano music, he excelled also as a conductor, pianist, writer and teacher. His numerous collections of waltzes – for the piano, bassoon and guitar – are possibly his best-loved works in Brazil, but there are two areas where his reputation seems to rest more firmly: art song, a genre in which his popularity amongst Brazilian composers is unchallenged, and ballets and symphonic pieces, where the contribution of African elements to Brazilian music is best expressed. This might seem rather surprising, coming from a son of Italian immigrants who was born in a town of a decidedly Italian character (São Paulo), and whose upbringing and technical preparation were uncannily Italian and French. Influenced by his father, a professional flautist, Mignone learned both the flute and the piano. At the age of twenty-three he went to Milan, where he completed his studies with Vincenzo Ferroni, a student of Massenet who applied French methods of teaching. After spending two years in Spain, he returned to Brazil for good in 1929 and lived in Rio de Janeiro, where he became the director of the National Institute of Music and was active in musical life at large until his death in 1986. He first came to public attention in 1923, when Richard Strauss, touring South America as conductor of the Vienna Philharmonic, included Congada, an excerpt from Mignone’s opera O contratador de diamantes, in his programmes. In the late twenties, when his technical training had already reached a mature

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Vasco Mariz, Francisco Mignone, o homem e a obra (Rio de Janeiro: funarteeduerj, 1997).

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Francisco Mignone, A parte do anjo: autocrítica de um cinqüentenário (São Paulo: Editora Mangione, 1947).

Vasco Mariz, História da música no Brasil (Rio de Janeiro: Nova Fronteira, 5th edn, 2000), p 240.

stage, he increased contact with Mário de Andrade, and that led to a succession of major orchestral works of Afro-Brazilian inspiration: Maracatu de chico rei, Batucajé, Babaloxá, Quadros amazônicos, Iara and Festa das igrejas (of which only the first and last have so far been recorded) consolidated his reputation and won him regular invitations to conduct his works in Europe and North America. Arturo Toscanini conducted Festa das igrejas quite frequently and recorded it with his nbc orchestra. In the late forties Mignone underwent a long period of infirmity and of aesthetic crisis, vividly discussed in the book A parte do anjo. Very few composers have managed to face criticism so lucidly and justify their aesthetic choices with such honesty: Mignone admitted to a certain artificiality in his first nationalist phase and the irresistible pull of Italian traces in his cultural upbringing, which led him to study, practise and later discard atonality and twelve-tone technique. He came out of this crisis with renewed vigour, and to his late period belong a series of large works for piano, several concertos, three string quartets and most of his guitar works, not to mention another three operas. He had already made some attempts at writing for the guitar in the forties and fifties – some of them belonging to the realm of popular music and written under a pseudonym – but Mignone’s meeting with the young guitarist Carlos Barbosa Lima in 1970 (when the composer was already seventy-three) seems to have been the catalysing factor for his interest in the instrument. In that year he composed two large series of solo works, the Twelve Waltzes in all minor keys, dedicated to Isaías Savio, and the Twelve Studies, dedicated to Barbosa Lima. Six years later he would write his Guitar Concerto, which was premiered in the usa but has remained unpublished and little performed. In this essay we shall concentrate on the two major sets of solo works. Any approach to Mignone has to come to terms with the fact that he is a tonal composer living in a decidedly non-tonal period of the twentieth century. In a letter written in 1980, he says that at my respectable age I can assert that I am the master, by right and fact, of all the processes of composition and decomposition in use today and tomorrow…I feel capable of writing without any trouble a piece in C major, as well as of elaborating concepts of traditional, impressionistic, expressionistic, dodecaphonic, serial, chromatic, atonal, bitonal, polytonal music, and – who knows? – if it crosses my mind, avant-garde with concrete and electronic touches. Anything can be done in art, as long as the work can bring a message of beauty and leave in the listener a desire to hear the work again. Of course the tone of this letter is jocose, but it testifies to the fact that he had come to terms with his strengths and limitations. Mignone’s work is strong in craftsmanship, harmonic invention and instrumental colour; it is not music of concept, it is music made by a professional craftsman. Many times I have compared him to Rimsky-Korsakov, a comparison which many people might find derogatory – in fact, it is an acknowledgement that a composer who nurtures preoccupations of national identity, local colour and instrumental realisation is also entitled to create work of real permanence, even though other aspects of musical language might at first seem more crucial. In other words, if the work is not profound or innovative that doesn’t necessarily mean it is empty. In the case

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of Mignone, the psychological complexity of his works is considerable, despite the fact that he chose not to embrace the conflicts inherent in the various kinds of departure from tonality. The Twelve Waltzes (valsas) of 1970 (published in Brazil in the same year by Irmãos Vitale), in all minor keys, explore one of Mignone’s passions. They are music of nostalgia – of longing for a lost youth, for the serenades he had played with choro musicians in São Paulo during the 1910s, for a certain tenderness of everyday life which had been lost during the ensuing decades. They are, for the most part, waltzes of a dark, bitter and afflicted tone, a character which is enhanced by the relative discomfort of certain keys like A b or E b minor. As a cycle, variety might have been compromised by a certain sameness of expression derived from the absence of major keys. Nevertheless, as one can already perceive in his Valsas de esquina for piano of 1938–42, Mignone works very carefully on details of expression, richness of texture and harmonic ambiguity. The formal plan, still derived from the regular a b a with coda of the traditional urban waltz (where b is a contrasting section in major key), is frequently bent for expressive purposes. Thus, one can find exceptions to the model already in Valsa nº 1 in C minor, where the first section is of a languid and nostalgic character, section b is also in C minor but much more volatile in expression, and the coda is a spirited precipitato – an ingenious scheme also employed in Valsa nº 9 in A b minor. Valsa nº 2 in C # minor is a long descending chromatic theme with a variation, followed by a shorter coda with variation, and Valsa nº 3 is a passacaglia. Valsas 4 in E b minor, 5 in E minor and 8 in G minor follow the traditional plan, but 6 in F minor and 7 in F # minor are more concise – a theme repeated with a variation and a short coda, in accordance with the stark and exhausted character of these pieces. Valsa nº 10 in A minor is a prelude and toccata, where an episode in A major has a strong feeling of the viola caipira, the Brazilian folk instrument derived from the five-course Baroque guitar; Valsa nº 11 in B b minor follows the palindromic form of a b c b a, and the last, in B minor, utilises the form of a Chopinesque study to highlight its cheerful and brilliant style. One might think that the profusion of awkward flat keys would naturally lend greater prominence to the pieces written in ‘guitaristic’ keys such as E, A or D minor. Quite the opposite: Mignone’s harmonic language, frequently exploring chromatic embellishments, chromatic descending sequences, diminished chords in various textural situations and ‘sighing’ suspensions, not to speak of a very cunning control of part-writing within a restricted compass, manages to avoid the disturbances provoked by the infrequent appearance of chords based on open strings. Another characteristic feature of his harmonic style is the preference for tight chords and the free employment of inversions, maybe as a vestige of a chordal style suitable for bowed instruments. One is tempted to say that a waltz is always a waltz, but different nations have underlined some aspects of this flexible dance form and imprinted it with what can be called national characteristics. While the Viennese waltz has kept the bouncing and gentle flow of the earlier ländler, French waltzes tend to be more fluid and spry, Russian waltzes brighter and more athletic. Brazilian waltzes are essentially serenade music, not necessarily intended for dance; they have incorporated the Portuguese feeling of nostalgia and the wide leaps borrowed from Italian bel canto arias. Ornamental elaboration has, moreover, a strong leaning towards chromaticism, as we can hear in many waltzes by Ernesto Nazareth (the

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12 Waltzes Francisco Mignone, 12 valsas [1970] (Irmãos Vitale, 1970).

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one called Confidências is a remarkable example); descending sequences are a constant, and the characteristic language of the flute, based upon short linking passages of arpeggios and chromatic scales, is also a feature. This atmosphere, at once tender, crisp and sorrowful, is perfectly conveyed by Mignone in all of his twelve Valsas. Written in a year when experimental music was at its height in Brazil – the New Music Festival was founded in São Paulo around that time – these pieces, with their decidedly conservative outlook and genuine longing for the past, were overlooked by players. Professional Brazilian guitarists working in the seventies were generally not attracted to this kind of latter-day appendix to nationalism, and the works of Mignone and Guarnieri were already, at this time, being championed by only a handful of interpreters on any instrument. A complete performance of these waltzes was only carried out by Edelton Gloeden in 2002, as part of his PhD dissertation on Francisco Mignone, and nowadays one can say that they are in the process of finding a niche in the repertoire through the efforts of Gloeden and several of his students who have included some of them in their programmes. 12 Studies Francisco Mignone, 12 Studies [1970] (Columbia Music Company, 1973).

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The Twelve Studies are also a late product of Mignone’s evident inclination for a national language based on classic forms. Written in the space of a couple of months, in the same year as the Valsas, they immediately entered the repertoire of their dedicatee Carlos Barbosa Lima, who was by then already living in the United States. They were published in 1973 (by the Columbia Music Company, usa) and recorded on lp by the same guitarist a couple of years later. A complete public performance had to wait until 2003 (at the Purcell Room, London; myself as the guitarist). Some of these studies have graced guitar programmes over the years (nos 2, 3, 5, 6 and 8 are the most popular), but they cannot remotely be compared with Villa-Lobos’s set in terms of international penetration. Barbosa Lima has told how he mentioned to Mignone that, apart from VillaLobos, he didn’t have any portentous works by Brazilian composers (there was, in fact, Guerra-Peixe’s Sonata, another work in serious need of a revival, and one certainly not well known at the time). Mignone’s response, in the form of another set of twelve studies, makes a clear allusion, a tip of the hat, so to speak, to the older composer whom he admired unconditionally. In compositional terms, though, they are utterly different works, and in many ways Mignone’s are complementary to Villa-Lobos’s set. Where Villa-Lobos wrote a set of concert studies following Chopin’s model, in which the deployment of patterns, textures and technical figurations is paramount and, with a few exceptions, thematic development tends to be relegated to a secondary level, Mignone’s collection is one of transcendental studies in a Lisztian vein, better described as character pieces in which a dramatic discourse is informed by a more complex motivic fabric and only occasionally coloured by specific technical problems. Their harmonic language is also markedly diatonic in contrast to that of Villa-Lobos, who uses elements of chromaticism and bitonality according to the spirit of the time, techniques which can be placed alongside similar experiments of his contemporary Prokofiev. If innovation was certainly not one of Mignone’s preoccupations in the composition of these works, precise craft was at the core of his approach. Study nº 1, cantando, is emblematic of the procedures that are used in the following pieces. It takes Allard’s Estudio brillante in the guitar version by Tárrega as its closest

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model, in which a nocturnal melody emerges from the undercurrent of a diffuse cloud of arpeggios. Where Allard’s work, charming as it is, could hardly be called a model of composition, since it does not manage to sustain thematic or harmonic interest, Mignone writes a long melody of nostalgic character, in which the occasional appearance of repeated notes lends a speech-like and intimate quality to the proceedings; the harmonic plan, with its evident orientation toward the tonal pillars of A minor, is imbued with considerable ambiguity by the subtle deployment of secondary relations and chromatic movement in all parts. The rate of harmonic change is guided with absolute control – compressed at the centre, progressively stretched at the ends of sections – and episodes in several unrelated minor keys follow unselfconsciously in quick succession. The use of the natural tuning of the guitar is most felicitous: the open basses E, A and D, played simultaneously, are used as an aggregate alternately for chords of E, A or D minor, or, now played individually, as minor second colouristic dissonances, not unlike the ‘wrong-note’ acciaccaturas heard in Rodrigo’s guitar works. Another strong feature of this study, one found in nearly every piece of the cycle, is the inventiveness of texture and detailed writing of expression. Mignone commands with equal facility tight and wide chordal formations, with special care for the transitions; arpeggios nearly always bring some kind of thematic implication through the inclusion of secondary part movements, usually off-beat (a feature found frequently in the studies of Chopin and Liszt as well); despite Mignone’s use of almost the entire compass of the guitar, one rarely feels strain in the treatment of the upper register. Intelligent choices of register and texture, combined with a careful notation of dynamic inflections, articulation, agogics and tempo fluctuations, give to the discourse as a whole a certain naturalness of flow, almost as though the interpreter could speak through the instrument. The nationalistic features which nurture these twelve studies can be divided into groups: Studies 1, 2, 5 and 7 belong to the realm of the modinhas and serestas or serenades. Given that he had already composed or was about to compose a cycle of twelve waltzes, Mignone naturally avoided any reference to waltz movement in these studies, and these serenades refer to the older strophic quaternary metre of the modinhas, in which intense climaxes are reached through a careful planning of melodic peaks, and leaps of sixths, sevenths and octaves are usually led to a feminine ending. The bass line, reminiscent of the guitar style employed by choros players, tends to be agile and convoluted. Form and atmosphere in these studies can be incredibly varied: Study nº 2 consists of two long melodies, one placed in a straightforward way at either side of the other, which is varied and rounded off with an arpeggiated bridge; nº 5 employs a strange, almost palindromic, a b c c' b a' form, in which recurring motives are sometimes discarded on behalf of what might be called ‘stylistic assonance’: although there are no recurring motives, the three sections have similarities in rhythmic configuration and melodic and harmonic style. Study nº 7, subtitled cantiga de ninar (‘cradle song’), is an incredibly rich monothematic piece whose only feature of contrast is the alternation of chromatic elements and counterpoint of a modal nature; that this piece should be written in the ungrateful key of F # minor, with a chromatic modulation to F minor as the most striking harmonic event, makes it all the more interesting. Studies 3, 6, 8 and 9 deploy Brazilian dance forms in a quite felicitous way. Mignone’s watchmaker’s dexterity in finding the right voicing and subtlety of

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inflection, in an otherwise plain texture, serves this dance style admirably well. Study nº 3, tempo de chorinho, is technically and psychologically the simplest of all, but the inherently mischievous, playful character of the choro genre is conveyed through continuous and minute changes of tempo, inflection, articulation and expression that can be quite hard to control in performance. Studies 6 and 9 employ typical rhythmic figurations of the xaxado and embolada, two dance forms of African origin, most popular in the northeast of Brazil. In this type of music, the choreographic element is a determining factor, difficult to understand from the classical standpoint: our notation, strongly based on the alternation of strong and weak beats, tends to consider rests as absences of movement; in African music, an absence of sound very often signifies the presence of a preparatory movement (for instance the raising of the arm of a drum player). This tends to displace the centre of interest to the upbeats. Mignone manages to convey such a feeling of displaced ‘accent’ by highlighting staccato chords or by accenting single bass notes within a basically continuous sequence of crisp and convoluted semiquavers. In this way the natural swing comes out in performance quite effortlessly, creating a careless and engaging atmosphere. Study nº 8, allegro, is more of a farce, where the binary, rapid march rhythm of the northeastern frevo is crossed with a fast gigue in 12/8 to create a mutating metre and an atmosphere at times childish and fidgety or aggressive and threatening. Studies 4 and 12 belong to the traditional toccata-like style and derive most of their interest from the technical juggling required, and Studies 10, lento e con muito sentimento, with its desolate chromaticism and stark style of wide, sobbing leaps and 11, Spleen – andante, with its dark, Amazonian severity of expression, form a dramatic interlude near the end of the set.

oscar lorenzo fer nandez (1897–1948) At his untimely death at the age of fifty, in 1948, Lorenzo Fernandez was the most often performed composer in Brazil, enjoying unprecedented prestige as a composer, conductor and teacher. His sudden death, however, marked the beginning of a steady weakening of this popularity. His musical education was a hundred per cent Brazilian. As a lifelong adept in the profound study of harmony, his musical style became more refined in comparison to Villa-Lobos, but also more laboured; this deep knowledge led him to found and direct the Brazilian Conservatory of Music in Rio de Janeiro. He has often been described as a ‘well-behaved’ composer, especially in contrast to the enfant terrible nature of Villa-Lobos. To a certain extent this is true: overall, his work lacks the enormous originality of his more famous contemporaries Villa-Lobos and Guarnieri, and the outgoing personality of Mignone. But the strong symphonic argument and richness and fluency of his inspiration have been a basis for a strong revival in the last ten years, and he unreservedly deserves a high position on the rostrum of Brazilian nationalistic composers. His vocal works are particularly strong, but his two Symphonies, his vast production of chamber music and a short showstopper, Batuque, one of Leonard Bernstein’s favourite encores, also deserve wide circulation. Fernandez’s early death did not allow him to enjoy the benefit of the first generation of Brazilian guitarists of international standing (Laurindo de Almeida coming first in the fifties, followed in the sixties by Turíbio Santos, Barbosa

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Lima, Maria Lívia São Marcos and the Abreu brothers), and his lack of direct contact with the guitar prevented him from writing much for the instrument. He has left only two pieces of a couple of pages each. Prelude was published in 1942 by Irmãos Vitale in Brazil (and later republished by Peer in the United States) with a dedication to the Uruguayan guitarist Julio Oyanguren. It is a modest piece, a simple and wistful melody whose notes alternate with a counterpoint on the bass. Its metrical ambiguity and pensive atmosphere are of some interest, and it certainly shows it has been composed by a professional hand, but it is hardly a candidate for a secure place in the repertoire. Velha modinha (Old Song, published by Peer) on the other hand, in spite of being also a piece of little ambition, is such a charming melody of nostalgic and sweet effect that one would not be without it. It was extracted from a piano suite and the arrangement was dedicated to Andrés Segovia, but the guitar version has proved to be more popular than the original, and also more effective. Credit has to be given to Fernandez for marrying so successfully a strict counterpoint to an outpouring of lyrical expression, and guitarists have frequently used this piece as a quiet and intimate encore.

Works for Guitar Oscar Lorenzo Fernandez, Prelude (Irmãos Vitale, 1942).

Oscar Lorenzo Fernandez, Velha modinha (Peer, 1942).

mozart camargo guar nier i (1907–1993) Many composers of conservative outlook have suffered an unjust treatment. One thinks of J.S. Bach, whose work was neglected by his contemporaries and immediate posterity; or of Mendelssohn, Spohr and Saint-Saëns, who attracted false assumptions of amateurishness or lack of creative vigour. I hope it is not an exaggeration to add the name of Camargo Guarnieri to the list. I had the chance to meet him briefly in the 1980s and witness his uncompromising personality and evident bitterness for the total neglect of his works by interpreters outside his sphere of influence. His professional activity at the time was limited to the direction of the São Paulo University Symphony Orchestra, a second-rate group in those days. There was a bizarre technical contingency, which kept the orchestra and the university music department as two independent organisms. Political opinions had kept them separated and students in the music course, where I studied, were not encouraged to learn his music, both for that reason and because nationalism was not the order of the day. In fact we did not know his output at all, and later it was a big surprise to learn that his total production as a composer can challenge even Villa-Lobos’s in size, although at least three quarters of it has not been published. Other contingencies have contributed to his lack of popularity. He came from Tietê, a small town in the countryside of São Paulo state; at that time, musical life tended to be more vibrant in Rio de Janeiro and, as he worked in São Paulo all his life, nobody cared to play his music in Rio. Moreover, the essence of his art is a strong barrier to be traversed. While many other (and sometimes inferior) composers tended to charm with exoticism, Guarnieri was an implacable technician for whom music was ‘all emotion’, who preserved the brasilidade of his language in a purified and intimate form, and for whom the search for the perfect final form was an obsession. His relation with folkloric sources was ascetic, and most of the material that he used as a basis came from direct experience – he did not borrow from Indian or northeastern sources, and most of his

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Vasco Mariz, História da música no Brasil, p 249.

Works for Guitar Mozart Camargo Guarnieri, Ponteio [1944] (Ricordi Brasileira, 1978).

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works can truly be called paulistas. Not for him the easy success of some of VillaLobos’s more extroverted pieces, Mignone’s Congada or Fernandez’s Batuque, and that has limited the appeal of his work for foreign players and orchestras. There is a difference in the nationalistic schooling of Guarnieri in relation to that of Mignone. Whereas Mignone was already a fully formed composer when Mário de Andrade converted him into fully embracing nationalism, Guarnieri had this inclination from the very beginning and, as a younger man, absorbed from Andrade the strong intellectual background that his childhood in the countryside lacked. He would often say that he had been educated ‘at the Lopez Chaves University’, a reference to the weekly intellectual gatherings held at Andrade’s residence. When he was already thirty-five he was awarded a scholarship to study in Paris with Charles Koechlin, Nadia Boulanger and Charles Munch, studies which refined his technique and improved his command of orchestral writing. Returning to Brazil in 1939, he embarked on a career as a teacher and conductor, writing music every day as a matter of course, regardless of performance opportunities. His catalogue is immense, and includes large series of piano and violin concertos, string quartets, symphonies and other orchestral works, operas and a voluminous vocal and pianistic production. He enjoyed the profound admiration of his colleagues: Mignone said in 1972 that ‘from the point of view of balance and craftsmanship, Guarnieri is the greatest musician of the Americas today’. Andrade held him in the greatest esteem, in spite of their enormous political divergences: ‘there is at least one Brazilian composer who knows how to develop’. Musicologist Luiz Heitor Corrêa de Azevedo praised his ‘use of an extreme chromaticism where each sound is freely employed’, and said that ‘he wrote the most tender pages of Brazilian music, and those most profoundly marked by love’s disease’. Recent recordings of his piano works by Caio Pagano and of his Symphonies 2 and 3 by John Neschling and the São Paulo Symphony Orchestra can only hint at the exceptional qualities of his work, and it is hoped they will herald a well-deserved revival at international level. Unfortunately he had little inclination towards the guitar. When asked for more pieces for the guitar, he replied: ‘I don’t dislike its sound, but it is a very awkward instrument to handle; it always feels like I am composing for piano left hand alone.’ Perhaps this is not the best point of departure, however: all six short pieces he composed for the guitar suggest a ‘piano left-hand’ approach in their thick textures and laboured effect. His first work is called Ponteio (1944, published by Ricordi Brasileira in 1978), dedicated to Abel Carlevaro. Ponteio, strictly speaking, is a performance feature of street-market minstrels in the Brazilian countryside: when the voice is halted between improvised strophes, there is usually a purely instrumental interlude – ponteio means ‘plucking’ – to give the singer some time in order to collect his thoughts before singing the next verses. The term was borrowed by Guarnieri to designate his own Preludes; he composed a series of fifty of them for the piano, possibly his magnum opus for the instrument, standing right at the centre of Brazilian repertoire. His single Ponteio for guitar is an abstract piece, in which motivic relations of ascending fourths are treated in the faux-counterpoint style of Bach’s solo cello pieces. The harmonic plan relies heavily on relations of thirds and chromatic alterations, and the work is divided into two halves, coming to a climax in a tremolo passage. Carlevaro recorded this piece.

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His next piece, Valsa choro [nº 1] (1954, published by Ricordi Brasileira in 1978), dedicated to his son Mário, is closely related to Mignone’s Twelve Valsas. The same atmosphere of longing and regret pervades the piece, as well as a preference for the lower register and a tight texture. The style is not as ornamental and flamboyant as Mignone’s, but there are many moments of metrical ambiguity and rich counterpoint, and the long melody of the central section is minutely calculated in chromatic steps to a dramatic climax. It is a lyrical and captivating piece, and the only guitar work by Guarnieri to have entered the regular repertoire of Brazilian guitarists, in spite of the lack of recordings with an international distribution. His most profound and certainly most intriguing guitar pieces are the Three Studies. Ricordi Italiana published Study nº 1 (1958, dedicated to Isaías Savio) in a collection of contemporary guitar music in 1961. Despite the absence of a key signature, it is written as an uncompromising two-part invention in F minor. It is certainly not an extroverted piece, but one that displays the best characteristics of Guarnieri: an absolute command of harmonic development, achieved through a cunning handling of enharmonic possibilities that would challenge any student of harmony; a superior power of contrapuntal writing; and a general atmosphere of desolation and deeply hurt sensibility. Studies 2 and 3 were published by Bèrben in Italy in 1984 and dedicated to his grandson Mário. The former shows qualities similar to those of Ponteio, but the expression is not so elusive, motivic development is more straightforward and the level of harmonic activity is higher, with a strong preference for chromatic modulations and altered chords. Study nº 3 is less emphatic and more soothing, and its harmonic language suggests a kind of not-so-strict bitonality. All in all, these three studies hardly fit the expected model of a technically challenging piece. They are all slow, pensive, tortured, and they might be viewed as a study in enharmonic modulations and the tonal possibilities of a harmonic web that treats almost each sound and chord as an individual in itself, despite a faint suggestion of E minor as the key for the second study and A minor for the third. The melodic development is strict and laborious, but out of this complex baroquism some entirely logical climaxes emerge at central points, thus creating a perfectly symmetrical structure in each study. Guarnieri’s last guitar piece was a Valsa choro nº 2, written in 1986 and dedicated to Jodacil Damasceno. It is still unpublished. In general lines it follows the same structure as the first Valsa choro, with a severe counterpoint suggesting the movement of seven-string guitars in choro groups, and a melody whose most visible feature is the long appoggiatura. As in Guarnieri’s other guitar works, one can sense a unique power to create chromatically complex developments which might be perceived at a certain point as impossibly bitter and outlandish, but which are brought back to the point of departure in a most ingenious way, thus enhancing the release of tension and fully rewarding the listener’s engagement. All this tends to make one keen to come back to them again and again. This is hardly the type of extroverted, springy and exciting music that one has been accustomed to associate with Latin America, but it is Brazilian to the core and will certainly give much pleasure to so-called thinking performers.

Mozart Camargo Guarnieri, Valsa choro [1954] (Ricordi Brasileira, 1978).

Mozart Camargo Guarnieri, Study nº 1 [1958] (Ricordi Italiana, 1961); Studies 2 & 3 (Bèrben, 1984).

Mozart Camargo Guarnieri, Valsa choro nº 2 (1986, n.p.).




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s e l e c te d b r a z i l i a n mu s i c Works by Mignone, Guarnieri & Fernandez,

Francisco Mignone (1897–1986) 12 valsas [1970] (Irmãos Vitale, 1970) 12 Studies [1970] (Columbia Music Company, 1973) Concerto [1976] (n.p.) Oscar Lorenzo Fernandez (1897–1948) Prelude (Irmãos Vitale, 1942) Velha modinha (Peer, 1942) Mozart Camargo Guarnieri (1907–1993) Ponteio [1944] (Ricordi Brasileira, 1978) Valsa choro [1954] (Ricordi Brasileira, 1978) Study nº 1 [1958] (Ricordi Italiana, 1961) Studies 2 & 3 (Bèrben, 1984) Valsa choro nº 2 [1986] (n.p.)

Sadly, much of this music is hard to obtain. Much of the music published in Brazil can be bought on the internet through www.musimed.com.br. Readers interested in obtaining unpublished works may contact the author by writing to [email protected] for more information.

Composers of Nationalist or Post-Nationalist Inclination

* The following is a very personal selection of Brazilian classical music composed after 1950. In a country where the practice of popular music sometimes is not so clearly separated from the classical sphere, especially when the guitar is the subject, it might seem difficult to draw a line, but excellent guitarist-composers such as Baden Powell, Paulo Bellinati or Marco Pereira, whose career is based on the show-business circuit rather than the classical concert or academic circles, are not included. Most of the composers listed were or are active in the fields of chamber, symphonic or experimental music, and it must be said that the list of younger composers is the most incomplete of all. Sérgio Assad (b. 1952) Aquarelle (Henri Lemoine) Círculo mágico for flute & guitar (Henri Lemoine) Jobiniana nº 1 for 2 guitars (Henri Lemoine) Pinote for 2 guitars (Henri Lemoine) Recife dos Corais for 2 guitars (Henri Lemoine) Sonata (Gendai Guitar) Vitória Régia for 2 guitars (Henri Lemoine) José Vieira Brandão (1911–2002) Mosaico (Editora Zahar) Walter Burle-Marx (1902–1991) Bach-Rex (n.p.) Saudade do nosso amigo (Homenagem a Villa-Lobos) (n.p.) Radamés Gnatalli (1906–1988) 10 Studies (Chanterelle) Brasiliana nº 13 (Max Eschig) Dança brasileira (Chanterelle) Alma brasileira (Mel Bay) 3 Concert Studies (Chanterelle) Suite (n.p.) César Guerra-Peixe (1914–1993) Sonata (Irmãos Vitale) 5 Preludes (Irmãos Vitale)

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6 breves (pieces for beginners) (Irmãos Vitale) 10 lúdicas (Irmãos Vitale) Osvaldo Lacerda (b. 1927) Ponteio [1959] (n.p.) Moda paulista (Ricordi) João de Souza Lima (1898–1982) Cortejo (Irmãos Vitale) Divertimento (Irmãos Vitale) Peça for flute & guitar (Irmãos Vitale) Ernst Mahle (b. 1929) Suite (n.p.) Theodoro Nogueira (1913–2002) 6 brasilianas (Ricordi) 5 valsa-choro (Ricordi) 4 serestas (Ricordi) 12 improvisos (Ricordi) Concertino for guitar & orchestra (Ricordi) Lina Pires de Campos (1918–2003) 4 Preludes (Musicália/Ricordi) Ponteio e toccatina (Irmãos Vitale) Paulo Porto Alegre (b. 1956) Nheengará ayssé (12 Studies in Brazilian Popular Style) (n.p.) 5 peças (Novas Metas) Mini-Suite (Novas Metas) Suite brasileira (n.p.) 10 Easy Studies (Novas Metas) Isaías Savio (1900–1977) Cenas brasileiras (Ricordi) Prelúdios pitorescos (Ricordi) Suite descritiva (Ricordi) Esther Scliar (1926–1978) Study nº 1 (mec-funarte) Edmundo Villani-Cortes (b. 1930) Tríptico (n.p.) Choro patético for flute, oboe, bassoon & guitar (n.p.) Pretencioso for cello & guitar or guitar solo (n.p.) 4 Songs (n.p.) * José Antônio Almeida Prado (b. 1943) Sonata (Tonos) Portrait [1972–1975] (Tonos) Livre pour six cordes [1975] (Max Eschig)

Composers of the 1st, 2nd & 3rd Independent Generations

Pedro Cameron (b. 1939) Repentes (Irmãos Vitale) Nestor Hollanda Cavalcanti (b. 1949) Suite quadrada (Irmãos Vitale) Márcio Côrtes Verdades (Irmãos Vitale) mignone, fernandez, guarnieri

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Egberto Gismonti (b. 1944) Central Guitar (Max Eschig) Variations: hommage à Webern [1970] (Max Eschig) José Alberto Kaplan (b. 1935) Sonatina (Chanterelle) Edino Krieger (b. 1928) Ritmata (Max Eschig) Prelude (Jorge Zahar) Passacaglia in memoriam Fred Schneiter (n.p.) Concerto for 2 guitars & strings (n.p.) Ronaldo Miranda (b. 1948) Appassionata [1984] (Orphée) Marlos Nobre (b. 1939) Momentos i–iv (Max Eschig) Reminiscências (Henri Lemoine) Rememórias (Henri Lemoine) Hommage à Villa-Lobos (Max Eschig) Prologue e toccata (Max Eschig) Entrada e tango (Henri Lemoine) Concerto for 2 guitars & orchestra (n.p.) Cláudio Santoro (1919–1989) Study (Savart) 2 Preludes (Savart) Ricardo Tacuchian (b. 1939) Série Rio de Janeiro (uerj) Lúdica i (Max Eschig) Lúdica ii [1986] (Brasiliana) Páprica (n.p.) Impulsos i & ii for 2 guitars (n.p.) Imagem carioca for 4 guitars (n.p.) Sérgio de Vasconcellos Corrêa (b. 1934) Sonatina (Ricordi Brasileira) Desafio for flute & guitar (Novas Metas) Concerto (n.p.) Amaral Vieira (b. 1952) Divagações poéticas (Irmãos Vitale) Ernest Widmer (1927–1990) 5 Pieces (n.p.) Experimental Composers

* Jorge Antunes (b. 1942) Sighs (Salabert) Rodolfo Coelho de Souza (b. 1952) Study nº 1 for guitar & narrator (Novas Metas) Willy Correia de Oliveira (b. 1938) Que trata de España (n.p.) Mikhail Malt (b. 1957) Λ [Lambda] 3.99 for guitar & computer-generated sounds (n.p.)

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Chico Mello (b. 1957) Entre cadeiras (n.p.) Dança (n.p.) * Harry Crowl (b. 1958) Assimetrias (n.p.)

Young Independent Composers

Alexandre Eisenberg (b. 1966) Prelúdio, coral e fuga (Orphée) Pentalogia (n.p.) Sonata for flute & guitar (n.p.) Alexandre de Faria (b. 1972) Entoada (emec) Prelude nº 1, ‘Olhos de uma lembrança’ (n.p.) Prelude nº 2, ‘Death of Desire’ (n.p.) Prelude nº 3, ‘Capablanca’ (n.p.) Concerto nº 1 (n.p.) Concerto nº 2 for guitar & strings, ‘Mikulov’ (n.p.) Arthur Kampela (b. 1960) Danças percussivas (n.p.) Maurício Orosco (b. 1976) Sonatina russa (n.p.) Prelúdio e toccata (n.p.) Arabesca i & ii (n.p.) Prelude & Fugue (n.p.) Study nº 1 (n.p.) Acchile Picchi (b. 1956) Prelúdio, valsa e finale (n.p.) 3 momentos poéticos for guitar & orchestra (n.p.) Antônio Ribeiro (b. 1969) Desalento (n.p.) João Guilherme Ripper (b. 1959) Prelúdio e tocatina (n.p.) Fred Schneiter (1961–2001) Onde andará o nicanor? (Goldberg) Suite sinuosa (n.p.) Marcus Siqueira (b. 1974) Elegia e vivo (n.p.) Impromptu fragile · Impromptu mobile (n.p.) Hoquetus, ecos, espelhos for guitar, harp, celeste & almost 2 chamber orchestras (n.p.) Tato Taborda (b. 1960) Organismo for 4 guitars (n.p.) Roberto Victorio (b. 1959) Concerto flute, guitar & chamber ensemble (n.p.) Tetraktis (n.p.) Daniel Wolff (b. 1967) Scordatura (n.p.) mignone, fernandez, guarnieri

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biblio g r aphy Almeida, Renato. História da música brasileira, Rio de Janeiro, F. Briguiet, 2nd edn, 1942 Andrade, Mário de. Música, doce música, São Paulo, Livraria Martins, 1963 —. Ensaio sobre a música brasileira, São Paulo, Livraria Martins, 1928 Azevedo, Luiz Heitor Corrêa de. 150 anos de música no Brasil, Rio de Janeiro, José Olympio, 1956 Béhague, Gérard. Music in Latin America: an introduction, Englewoods Cliffs (nj), Prentice Hall, 1979 Corrêa, Sérgio Nepomuceno Alvim. Catálogo geral de Lorenzo Fernandez, Rio de Janeiro, Rio-Arte, 1992 Duprat, Régis. A música no Brasil colonial, São Paulo, edusp, 1999 Enciclopédia da música brasileira, São Paulo, Art Editora, 2nd edn, 1998 Franca, Eurico Nogueira. Lorenzo Fernandez, compositor brasileiro, Rio de Janeiro, 1950 Kiefer, Bruno. História da música no Brasil, vol. 1, Porto Alegre, Editora Movimento/sec-rs/mec, 1976 —. Villa-Lobos e o modernismo na música brasileira, São Paulo, Editora Movimento, 1981 —. Francisco Mignone, vida e obra, Porto Alegre, Editora Movimento, 1983 Mariz, Vasco. História da música no Brasil, Rio de Janeiro, Nova Fronteira, 5th edn, 2000 — (coord.). Francisco Mignone, o homem e a obra, Rio de Janeiro, funarteeduerj, 1997 Mignone, Francisco. A parte do anjo: autocrítica de um cinqüentenário, São Paulo, Editora Mangione, 1947 Neves, José Maria. Música brasileira contemporânea, São Paulo, Editora Ricordi, 1981 Nóbrega, Ademar. As bachianas brasileiras, Rio de Janeiro, Museu Villa-Lobos, 1971 Paz, Juan Carlos. Introducción a la música de nuestro tiempo, Buenos Aires, Editorial Sudamericana, 1971; translated into Portuguese by Diva Ribeiro de Toledo Piza as Introducão à música de nosso tempo, São Paulo, Livraria Duas Cidades, 1977 Penalva, José. Carlos Gomes, o compositor, Campinas, Editora Papirus, 1986 Peppercorn, Lisa. Villa-Lobos: the music, London, Khan & Averill, 1990 Santos, Turíbio. Heitor Villa-Lobos e o violão, Rio de Janeiro, Museu VillaLobos, 1975 Schic, Anna Stella. Villa-Lobos: souvenirs de l’indien blanc, Paris, Actes du Sud, 1987 Siqueira, José Baptista. Ernesto Nazareth na música brasileira, Rio de Janeiro, Editora Aurora, 1966 Tarasti, Eero. Heitor Villa-Lobos: the life and works, London, McFarland, 1995 Toni, Flávia. Mário de Andrade e Villa-Lobos, São Paulo, Centro Cultural São Paulo, 1987 Verhaalen, Marion. Camargo Guarnieri: expressões de uma vida, São Paulo, edusp, 2001 Wright, Simon. Villa-Lobos, New York, Oxford University Press, 1991

32

fabio zanon

A Lesson with Ida: an imaginary interview with Ida Pre
i sarn dyer

The legacy of Ida Presti (1923–1967) presents a strange dichotomy. On the one hand, Presti is regarded by many as the greatest guitarist of the twentieth century; on the other, her approach to the guitar is often regarded by teachers as sui generis, a model difficult and even dangerous to follow. But Presti’s example continues to hold up a mirror to the limitations of our present pedagogy and the limitations of some present expectations of the guitar. In this imaginary and largely speculative encounter, Ida Presti explains the development of her unique approach to the guitar.

ida p rest i Ah, Monsieur le Méthodologiste, I believe. Alexandre tells me that you have a special interest in understanding the playing of other guitarists and that when you were studying with him, you often questioned him about my playing. sar n dyer That’s true. In the relatively short history of the modern guitar, our great players have collectively revealed its character to us and I believe that we should try to benefit as much as possible from their examples. As to whether I can call myself a methodologist, well – your playing has undermined many of my preconceptions.

When Ida Presti met Alexandre Lagoya (1929–1999) in 1950 – he had already corresponded with her from Egypt – she declared him to be the best guitarist she had ever heard. Two years later they married and founded their illustrious duo, achieving a success universally compared to Andrés Segovia’s popularisation of the solo medium.

ip Surely not! Does my playing appear so strange? sd It certainly doesn’t seem so when you are playing – in fact, it is almost impossible to imagine anything appearing more natural. ip How mysterious! But you know, I am not the right person to ask about matters of technique: I have never really thought about it. Whatever abilities I have, these have developed from playing music, not from theorising. The challenge to me has always been to play music on the guitar as I hear it in my head and technique has developed naturally from this. As you know, my father was my first teacher. Although he was a pianist, he made a study of the guitar to be able to help me. When he listened to me, he had certain musical expectations and, in trying to fulfil these, I was obliged to find my own way from the start. So, from the very beginning, there was no separation between musical expression and technique. I do not mean to say that the study of technique is not valuable: musicality does not develop in the same way and at the same speed in everyone.

Copyright © 2003 by Sarn Dyer

Presti also had lessons with Emilio Pujol (1886–1980), a student of Francisco Tárrega (1854–1909), and with Mario Maccaferri (1900–1993), a student of Luigi Mozzani (1869–1943). Later, she was to use Pujol’s Escuela razonada de la guitarra (Buenos Aires: Ricordi Americana, 1971) in her teaching. The similarity between these teachers’ right-hand positions and Presti’s is superficial, but certain of the Escuela’s precepts – the involvement of the entire arm ‘from the shoulder to the fingertips’, for example – may have been significant in Presti’s formation if they were not merely fortuitous.

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In teaching, Presti tended to leave all matters of technique to Lagoya, concentrating her own attention entirely on expression. For her, there was no poor music, only poor players.

Alexandre, on the other hand, is very interested in this subject and is always looking for new ideas, so really it would be much better if you were to ask him… sd …Lagoya certainly understands the technical aspect very well, but, in spite of the balance you achieve in performance, aren’t your techniques rather different in certain important aspects? ip Yes, they are not quite the same, but the differences are not so great. As you know, we both play on the right side of the nail. sd But do you both do so in the same way and for the same reasons? In both your cases, the nail does not grip the string at the point of contact and is always mobile, but your nail crosses the string from right to left, releasing at the centre. Lagoya also releases the string at the centre, but because he uses his nails with a longer right-hand side, there is less movement along the length of the string, although the nail travels approximately the same distance. What do you think?

pat

ho

Presti

Lagoya

(rh: index)

(rh: index)

irection of of free stroke direction free stroke

f st

ring

pa

th

of

direction of free stroke

st

rin

g

path of string greater angle release point

path of string release point

ip I don’t know. Let me see… [Presti picks up her guitar and begins to warm up by playing arpeggios over the entire span of the fingerboard, often using remarkably fluent left-hand extensions. Her right hand is very mobile, free and expressive, and her sound strong and immediate, with an extraordinary vibrancy: a very physical way of playing, and yet seemingly relaxed. Owing to the flexibility of her left hand, before changing position on the fourth finger, Presti is able partially to cover the distance by separating it from the third finger by almost a right angle. In vibrato, the finger is held almost upright on the fingerboard, displacing the string equally in both directions. Her right-hand thumb begins its action slightly extended and does not span the strings from one position; instead, the arm makes subtle adjustments to place it on the required string] …well, perhaps you are right.

These comments on the position of Lagoya’s hand refer principally to the period of his duo with Presti.

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sd The positioning and ‘set’ of the fingers also seems to play a part. For example, it appears that, in free stroke, you move the string primarily with the middle joint of the finger, whereas Lagoya uses both the knuckle and the middle joint. His fingers are also a little straighter than yours. In playing position, your middle finger is at an approximate right angle to the strings, the index leans leftwards and the ring finger leans rightwards. In Lagoya’s case, it is the index that is approximately at a right angle, while the middle and ring finger both lean towards the right. Did you begin playing on the right side of the nail to improve tone? sarn dyer

ip Not exactly – probably the position came first and then I tried many different ways to make a strong sonority.

Lagoya, by comparison, always associated the use of the right side of the nail with an improved and more powerful tone.

sd How did your position come about? Was it as a result of playing a fullsize guitar from a very early age? ip Yes, that is almost certainly the reason. Because of this, it was necessary to place my arm halfway between the bridge and the waist of the guitar, and therefore my fingers attacked the strings parallel to the bridge. I used mostly the middle joint in pincé (free stroke) because otherwise, in this position, my child’s hand would not have been able to span the strings… sd …so, by not flexing the fingers at the knuckle joints, in fact slightly extending them, you were able to increase the span between the thumb and fingers. How is the guitar positioned to use the right hand in your way? ip I try to position the guitar well to my right, separating the right leg by turning my right foot a little to the right. I like to feel that I am in the centre of the activity of my arms and hands... sd …and that position also allows you to place the right arm as you did as a child. This also causes the right hand to be presented perpendicular to the strings without any rightwards (ulnar) deviation of the wrist, but you also sometimes slightly deviate the hand in two different ways: first, by a small articulation of the wrist as you play the string, and second, by actually maintaining the hand in a more ulnar-deviated position. Why is this necessary? ip There is more than one reason, but mainly it is to reduce the resistance of the nails and to allow the arm and wrist to respond to the movements of the fingers. I began to do this as a child, before I used my nails, to reduce the resistance of the fingertip and to add strength. My nails were never strong and their exposed parts begin quite low on the finger. If they broke, they took a long time to grow back. Consequently I had to find a way of using them when they were short. I would use the wrist with the action of the finger to turn the finger on the string in a little clockwise movement. Later, I found that some of this deliberate movement could also happen by itself, in sympathy with the movements of the fingers and thumb. But in buté (rest stroke) I maintain the hand in a more turned position. This happens naturally when I use my fingers vigorously, and also reduces the resistance of the nail, adding to the sonority. I like to feel that I am using the nail like a violinist’s bow. sd It appears fundamental to your technique that the side of the nail doesn’t grip the string but is always in movement. Any gripping by the side of the nail would be likely to damage it. Could you be more specific about these sympathetic movements? The freedom of your right hand is a striking aspect of your technique. ip Well, for example, particularly when the thumb plays, the forearm makes a small anti-clockwise rotation. Sometimes I add strength to this rotation to play louder. If the movements of the fingers are small, this rotation is also small and sometimes quite difficult to see. If I play an arpeggio in this direction [Presti plays some very fast p a m i arpeggios], there is also a slight sideways movement in the hand at the wrist. In this direction [now p i m a], the rotation of the forearm is more marked. Every sequence of fingers has a different result in the arm and wrist. a lesson with ida

Both Marie Lévesque and Alice Artzt observed that Presti was sometimes obliged to give concerts with broken nails or almost no available nail at all. The clockwise movement is an arc resulting from the ordinary flexion of the finger in combination with a slight movement of the wrist towards the bridge; the finger may well join in with a small movement towards the bridge as well as the ordinary flexion. But these movements are all integrated. This use of the wrist can be seen in Presti’s playing in La petite chose (1938), a film based on Robert Destez’s novel, directed by Maurice Cloche, with original music by Germaine Tailleferre. Presti, aged fifteen and already a fully formed artist, plays Las dos hermanitas by Tárrega. In private correspondence with the author, Alice Artzt noted that Presti was well aware of the need to find means to compensate for any extra strength available to male players. The mobility of Presti’s hand presupposes that she always used her nails rather short. Yves Chatelaine, who, as a child, studied with Presti, confirmed that the nails should be filed as if they were to be used with the fingertip; but in practice only the nails were used.

35

sd What is the secret of playing on very short nails? ip Well, I eventually solved the problem with false nails, but when I had very little nail to play on, my method was to use the wrist as I described and to play in such a way that the string stayed in contact with the flesh as it rolled first over the fingertip and then down onto whatever nail was available. Whatever the state of my nails, the movement of my finger is directly downwards onto the string, towards the soundboard, as if I am playing a piano key. sd Do you play using only the nail or with flesh and nail together?

In his book, Guitar Travels (1977, published privately), John Roberts quotes Emilio Pujol as saying that when Presti played for him at a young age, she gave this as her reason for not being able to follow his example in playing without nails. According to Alice Artzt, Presti began’ using gel-type artificial nails almost as’ soon as these became available (Ongles’ Villard, Taylor, etc) c. 1965. Ms. Artzt’ provided the quoted remark: ‘I bless’ the man…’ Examples are to be found in the duo’s playing of the Prelude from J.S. Bach’s English Suite nº 3.

ip The fingertip touches the string but only incidentally: the work of moving the string is done with the nail. As a child, my fingers used to perspire so much that playing with the fingertips was difficult. Later, I used a little fine grease on my fingertips. Also, I found that if the fingertip is used with the nail, there are two resistances to be overcome, making it more difficult to control the loudness and softness. I often had problems with my nails and had to adapt my playing accordingly. sd So your technique changed when you began using artificial nails? ip I was able to be consistent in the length and use of my nails so that they could find the strings more easily. In general, artificial nails simply made life simpler. I bless the man who invented this product! sd With your primary use of the middle joints in free stroke, you are able to play at astonishing speed. Your cross-string trills, played, I believe, i a i m, are sometimes ten to a metronome beat of eighty! ip I’m thankful that I never counted! sd How crucial is the positioning of the hand to achieve such rapidity? For example, if I adjust your hand by rotating your forearm a little one way or the other, are you still able to achieve this speed?

In masterclass, Lagoya, by comparison, said that he did not consider a slight supination or pronation to be significant.

ip [trying] Well, that surprises me – it is much more difficult, in fact impossible for me. My fingers seem blocked and I am unable to use the same energy. sd Perhaps we should look at your position more carefully. If you extend your fingers in playing position and lower your hand directly down onto the strings without turning your forearm, does the whole palm make contact with the strings? ip [pressing her palm to the strings and then looking at the marks on her palm] No, I think the strings only touch the palm below the index and almost to the palm below the middle finger. The right side of the palm is raised a little above the strings. sd So it would appear that the exact amount of rotation of the forearm is significant: it is neither pronated nor supinated but as it would be if the arm hung loosely to the side. ip I think this position and use of my forearm and hand is quite similar to that of a pianist. As you know, the piano was the instrument I played first. sd Do you use any ballistic – or throwing – force in the action of your fingers? That is to say, do you fully expend the energy of a stroke before making another stroke?

36

sarn dyer

ip I’m not aware of this at all. My fingers return as soon as possible to play again. [playing with great rapidity] At speed, there would be no time to expend all the energy. sd So the follow-through of the finger after playing the string is quite minimal. Is there any exercise that can help in establishing your position? ip Practising buté (rest stroke) a m i in groups of four, six, eight and so on, can be very useful for this and difficult to do if the hand is not more or less perpendicular to the strings. [demonstrates, her wrist now losing much of its arch or flexion. The fingertips are firm and have a curling action towards the adjacent string]

(a m i a | m i a m | i a m i | a m i a, etc. (4 / mm = c. 168)

sd I have heard that you recommend to your students that they hold matchsticks between their fingers to achieve the right action, but surely if the fingers are held together in this way, it will create tension in the hand? ip No, no, the fingers must never be held together! This purpose of this little exercise is to remind the student not to separate the fingers. sd Lagoya allows the fingertip to relax before flexing it to play the string. Do you do the same? ip I’m not aware of doing this at all. sd There are many aspects to your use of the right hand that might not find favour with the teachers of today: the rightwards deviation of the wrist in rest stroke, for example, and the degree of its arch or flexion. Surely this would tend to restrict the movement of the fingers in any hand less flexible than yours? ip [laughing] You make me sound so naughty! A pianist could not play without turning or, as you say, deviating the hand – sometimes, as in the case of large intervals, to an extreme degree. As you will have noticed, my right hand is quite mobile and it doesn’t stay in any position for very long. The wrist is always relaxed unless I am using it with the action of the fingers as I have described. As for restriction of movement, I find none. [Presti flexes, extends and deviates her wrist while moving her fingers & thumb] sd [imitating her movements] I see. Because the action of the fingers is primarily from the middle joint and there is so little flexing at the knuckle or proximal joint, there is no restriction. But surely the movement from the middle joints is harder to control than a movement from the knuckle joints? [I demonstrate] ip [now imitating my movements] Well of course, but only if you make such big movements! Try again with small movements of the middle joints and then try to make the same small movements moving mostly from the knuckle joints. sd I see what you mean: small movements are very difficult when the finger moves primarily from the knuckle joint. Lagoya changes the fingernail’s angle of attack to make a clearer sound on the wound strings. Do you achieve your remarkable clarity and sonority on those strings in the same way? ip No, I don’t find this necessary; my way of sounding the string is usually the same for both bass and treble strings. I also try to give as much character or resonance to the bass strings as possible to compensate for the closeness of the bass and upper parts – when Alexandre is playing an accompaniment to my a lesson with ida

37

melody on the bass strings, I might play, for example, with a very deep rest stroke, or just with the flesh, and so on. Examples are to be found in the duo’s playing of Domenico Scarlatti’s Sonata in D minor (orig. B minor) k 173.

sd How is such a perfect staccato achieved even at tempos as high as four notes to a metronome beat of one hundred? ip There is no special method, although there are a number of ways in which staccato may be improved. For example, the finger must be able to return very quickly to the string. Small finger movements are very helpful, but I do not mean by this a restriction of movement, but a movement that is small by its own nature. Also, of course, the faster the string is released, the better the staccato will be. I have never had to think about this very much: my technique seems simply to make this easy for me. sd But then, an equally striking aspect of your playing is your ability to play legato. Is there a secret to this? ip First of all, legato must be heard in the head. It is like the ability to play fast: it is not just a question of trying to play fast for its own sake but of responding to the needs of the music; not simply legato, but the feeling and the effect of legato. Legato is mainly a question of finding a way of fingering that feels legato to me, and of keeping the right hand, wrist and arm as relaxed as possible: tension and legato playing do not go well together! Sometimes, I like to make the notes overlap as if I am using the pianist’s pedal.

Such campanella fingerings were often demonstrated by Lagoya and are also mentioned by Alice Artzt in her memoir of Presti published in Guitar Review 31.

[she plays the Allemande from Bach’s Suite bwv 996 using ingenious campanella fingerings in the scalic passages] sd I know that you and Alexandre have always put great emphasis on relaxation and, in particular, on the importance of playing with a relaxed right wrist. ip That is true. My own intention is that all movement begins, as much as possible, from a state of rest, or my hands will not respond well to me. I am also very conscious of the weight of the hand and of any effort of the wrist to hold it in position. Tension in the wrist obstructs the fingers when they are more energetic, but that is something you should ask Alexan… sd But does a little tension in the wrist matter so greatly? ip For me, yes. I am uncomfortable if my wrist and forearm are unable to respond sympathetically to the movements of my fingers and thumb. And, of course, if there is tension in the arm or wrist, it will not feel natural to let the hand fall slightly from the wrist, or, as you say, to flex. I have always found it uncomfortable to hold my hand and arm in position by anything other than the smallest exertion; and, of course, the more my forearm is pointing towards the floor, the less effort is needed by the elbow to hold it in place. sd I would guess that very small flexions of your wrist play a part in the actions of your fingers and that this element does have a ballistic quality, like tiny flicks. We haven’t spoken about the left hand, but yours is extraordinarily flexible. I remember seeing you playing a chord, in some Beethoven Variations, with E b on the sixth string (tuned in D), G on the fourth, B b on the third and D b on the second! ip I remember.

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sarn dyer

[Ida’s left-hand fingers appear to open effortlessly on the frets as she plays the seemingly impossible chord] Yes, I am lucky to have been born with supple hands [she separates the tips of her second and third fingers against the edge of a table to make a right angle], but not, I think, so much for my right hand. Alexandre says that he would like to have my ‘curly’ thumb but, really, it’s not essential! sd Ida, since 1967, guitarists have made enormous progress in their technical development. What are your thoughts about this? ip It has been extraordinary, and now there are many players who play beautifully with wonderful sonority; but I do not, for example, hear a control of dynamic and articulation from legato to staccato very often: for me, these are the lifeblood of music. If expression is not sought from the beginning of study, it may be very hard to develop later. sd And how much less can we excuse ourselves in the light of the example you set for us. One last question. On some of your recordings with Lagoya, your usual seating protocol is changed, is that not so? ip [smiling] Are you quite sure? sd Quite sure. For example, on your second recording of Sor’s L’encouragement? ip Well, you are right, Monsieur le Détective! In fact, our seating positions are reversed for the whole of the recording that included L’encouragement. When we realised this, we decided to leave it like that. It was as if to say that the duo mattered more to us than our individual identities. Alexandre was Ida and Ida was Alexandre. We hoped that those who listened not only with their ears, but with their hearts also, would hear that in our playing.

The recordings to which Presti refers are those of June 1963. Stereo channel positions also appear to have been reversed for the last sessions of February 1966, although seemingly not (?) for the Carulli Serenade in G. On other recordings, Presti is placed on the right as she was in performance.




additional remar ks 1 The accurate observation of another player requires the observer first to know the limits of that observation. In a great technique, an exceptional element is often contained in the invisible and can only be confirmed by its close duplication. However, there is often one particular factor on which an entire approach is, consciously or unconsciously, predicated and, once this is defined, observation becomes easier. In Ida Presti’s case, this factor was almost certainly that of relaxation combined with strategies to compensate for her lesser strength as a woman. On this subject, Alexandre Lagoya once remarked that it is precisely this lack of strength that might lead a woman player to discover certain secrets of playing more easily than in the case of a man. The male tendency, he felt, was often to pit his strength against the instrument. 2 Although it is not the intention of this article either to recommend following Presti’s example – particularly to the letter – or to advise against it, the author nevertheless believes that there are lessons of great value in her approach.

a lesson with ida

39

a b c d

Broadly, these are: The ability to present the right hand at a right angle to the strings without deviation of the hand at the wrist, allowing a faster release of the string. The ease and comfort with which the hand may maintain its position. The freedom from tension in the hand and forearm, allowing a sympathetic response to the movements of the fingers. The advantages to variations of articulation afforded by the inherent economy of movement. If there is a general disadvantage to her approach, it is in the difficulty experienced by some players in maintaining a relaxed wrist. A tendency to tension is better accommodated by other approaches. It would be most inadvisable to combine Presti’s rest-stroke position with tension in the wrist or elsewhere.

3 Both Presti and Lagoya made sophisticated use of a relatively unsophisticated and symmetrically rounded nail shape, creating a single curve from the point of contact to the release point at the centre of the nail as shown in the illustrations. Had Presti used a different approach (essentially creating a larger area of nail at the release point) the extra deviation of the hand at the wrist for rest stroke might not have been necessary.

Alternative (rh: index) path of string

direction of free stroke

path of string release point

4 Following his book celebrating Segovia’s playing style, Vladimir Bobri had planned a similar profile of Ida Presti. She died very shortly before the date of the photographic session for the book. 5 Under the editorship of Angelo Gilardino, Edizioni Bèrben will publish both the works composed by Ida Presti for solo guitar and the transcriptions for two guitars by Alexandre Lagoya. A solo guitar work, Segovia, will appear in the series The Andrés Segovia Archive. 6 Edizioni Bèrben will also publish a biography of Ida Presti, written by Anne Marillia with the cooperation of Presti’s daughter, Elizabeth. The text will be in both French and English. 7 Paul Balmer’s film about Ida Presti, Ma devise (Music on Earth, London; see www.musiconearth.co.uk) – a true labour of love – is currently due for release within a year or two as a dvd. The film tells the story of Presti’s life and will include all known archive film of Presti–Lagoya, personal memoirs from those who knew her and performances from Alice Artzt, Evangelos & Lisa, and Duo Ito–Dorigny. The commentary will be spoken by Ms Artzt.

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sarn dyer

8 Alexandre Lagoya estimated that, including broadcast performances, over fifteen hours of Presti–Lagoya’s recordings remain unreleased. These include several concertos and works by Schubert and Beethoven. (Archive recordings of concertos by Pierre Petit and Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco have recently been broadcast in France.) 9 My thanks to Alice Artzt (usa) and Marie Lévesque (Canada), friends and students of Ida Presti, for their generous correspondence prior to the writing of this article. My observations are not necessarily the same as theirs, nor are they responsible for any errors on my part. Additional thanks also to Paul Magnussen for alerting me to a later compilation of Presti–Lagoya recordings on rca.

a tentat ive disco g r aphy of ida presti Ida Presti & Luise Walker: les grandes dames de la guitare (Pearl gemm cd 9133, Pavilion Records Ltd, Sparrows Green, Wadhurst, East Sussex, England) Ida Presti (recorded 1938) Robert de Visée: 4 movements from Suite in D minor [1] Johann Sebastian Bach: Courante from Cello Suite nº 3, bwv 1009 [2] Niccolò Paganini: Romance from Grand Sonata (ms3) [3] Isaac Albéniz: Rumores de la Caleta, op. 71/8 [4] Joaquín Malats: Serenata española [5] Daniel Fortea: Andaluza [6] Federico Moreno Torroba: Allegro (1st movement of Sonatina in A) [8]

Mat ola 1677-1; Fr. hmv k 7910 Mat ola 1678-1; Fr. hmv k 7910 Mat ola 2177-1; Fr. hmv k 8114 Mat ola 2177-1; Fr. hmv k 7957 Mat ola 1852-1; Fr. hmv k 7957 Mat ola 2326-1/27-1; Fr. hmv k 8087 Mat ola 2272-3; Fr. hmv k 8114

Presti & Lagoya: 1956 solos. ge 13 (Fine Fretted String Instruments, 16455 South Bascom Avenue, 1-b Campbell, ca 95008-0631, www.finefretted.com) Ida Presti Fernando Sor: Andante largo op. 5/5 [1] Emilio Pujol: Evocation cubaine (Guajira) from 3 morceaux espagnoles [2] Alexandre Lagoya: Rêverie [3] Alexandre Lagoya: Caprice [4] Johann Sebastian Bach: Andante from Violin Sonata nº 2, bwv 1003 [5] Ida Presti & Alexandre Lagoya (includes solos by Presti and Lagoya) (rca Victor 74321258662; deleted) Ida Presti Emilio Pujol: Evocation Cubaine (Guajira) from 3 morceaux espagnoles [1] Fernando Sor: Andante largo, op. 5/5 [3] Johann Sebastian Bach: Andante from Violin Sonata nº 2, bwv 1003 [5] Alexandre Lagoya: Rêverie & Caprice [7] Presti–Lagoya Manuel de Falla: Spanish Dance nº 1 from La vida breve [10] Johann Sebastian Bach: Musette & Gavotte from English Suite nº 3, bwv 808 [11–12]

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Manuel de Falla: Fisherman’s Tale [13] Johann Sebastian Bach: Prelude & Fugue nº 17 [14] Enrique Granados: Intermezzo from Goyescas [15] Fernando Sor: Fantaisie in E, op. 34 (L’encouragement) [16] Enrique Granados: Danza española, op. 37/4 (Villanesca) [17] André Jolivet: Serenade [18] Isaac Albéniz: Tango [19] Jean-Yves Daniel-Lesur: Elegy [20] Ferdinando Carulli: Largo & Rondo, op. 34 [21] Simonot: Suite of Royal Dances (from the film Marie Antoinette) [22] Ferdinando Carulli: Serenade in C, nº 3 [23] Ida Presti: La hongroise [24] Anton Diabelli: Serenade in D, op. 83 [25] John Dowland: The King of Denmark’s Galliard [26] John Dowland: Mrs Nichols’ Almaine [27] John Dowland: The Frog Galliard [28] Phaedra (1962, directed by Jules Dassin): soundtrack, composed & conducted by Mikis Theodorakis, with uncredited performances by Presti–Lagoya (United Artists ulp 1016; deleted) Love theme from Phaedra [1] London’s Fog [3] Agapimou [6] Rodostimo [9] Ida Presti & Alexandre Lagoya: duo extraordinaire: the complete Philips recordings (Philips 446 213-2) cd 1 (446 214-2) Recorded 6/1962 Domenico Scarlatti: Sonata in E, k 380 [1] Johann Sebastian Bach: Courante, Allemande & Prelude from English Suite nº 3, bwv 808 [2–4] Jean Baptiste Marella: Suite nº 1 in A (Andante · Minuetto · Rondo · Gigue) [5–8] Enrique Granados: Danza española, op. 37/2 (Orientale) [9] Isaac Albéniz: Danza [10] Antonio Soler: Sonata in D [11] Recorded 5/1963 José Galles: Sonata in B minor [12] Antonio Soler: Sonata in D minor [13] Fernando Sor: Fantaisie in E, op. 34 (L’encouragement) [14–15] Manuel de Falla: Spanish Dance nº 1 from La vida breve [16] Enrique Granados: Intermezzo from Goyescas [17] Isaac Albéniz: Tango, op. 164/2 [18] Joaquín Rodrigo: Tonadilla (Allegro non troppo · Minueto pomposo · Allegro vivace) [19–21]

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sarn dyer

cd 2 (446 215-2) Recorded 6/1963 Joseph Haydn: Concerto in G, Hob. viih: 2 (Vivace assai · Adagio ma non troppo · Rondo presto) [1–3] Antonio Vivaldi: Concerto in C, rv 425 (Allegro · Largo · Allegro) [4–6] Antonio Vivaldi: Concerto in G, rv 532 (Allegro · Andante · Allegro) [7–9] Alessandro Marcello: Concerto in D minor (Allegro moderato · Adagio · Allegro) [10–12]

An earlier recording by Presti–Lagoya of the Vivaldi Concerto in G (rv 532) on a small 33 rpm record (rca 230 001) does not appear on this rca compilation.

Recorded 6/1965 George Frederick Handel: Chaconne in G [13] George Frederick Handel: Fugue in G [14] George Frederick Handel: Allegro in D minor [15] cd 3 (446 216-2) Recorded 2/1966 Domenico Scarlatti: Sonata in D minor, k 173 (orig. B minor) [1] Tomaso Albinoni/Remo Giazotto: Adagio in G minor [2] Bernardo Pasquini: Canzone in E minor [3] Alessandro Marcello: Andante from Concerto in D minor [4] Recorded 6/1962 Claude Debussy: Clair de lune from Suite bergamasque [5] Pierre Petit: Toccata [6] Francis Poulenc: Improvisation nº 12 [7] Recorded 2 /1966 Manuel de Falla: Ritual Fire Dance from El amor brujo [8] Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco: Prelude & Fugue in E from Les guitares bien temperées, op. 199 [9] Ida Presti: Étude fantasque [10] Pierre Petit: Tarantella [11] Ferdinando Carulli: Serenade in G, op. 96/3 (Largo–Allegro moderato · Andante sostenuto con variazioni · Finale: Presto–Larghetto–Presto) [12–14] Niccolò Paganini: Sonata concertata (ms2) (Allegro spiritoso · Adagio assai ed espressivo · Rondo) [15–17] Missing from the above collection (Duo extraordinaire) and included on Nonesuch h-71161 duplication (deleted): Domenico Scarlatti: Sonata, k 87 (l 33)

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Mauro Giuliani’s Guitar Technique
Early Nineteenth-Century Pedagogy lorenzo micheli

i int ro duc t ion Studying the guitar has always been my favourite occupation, and to reach perfection my chief aim. Anxious to find the best and most direct path leading to this goal, I was obliged to follow an untrodden path to approach the ideal which was fixed in my mind. Finding myself somewhat advanced, by dint of zeal and perseverance, and not without a certain success, there arose in me the desire to share the fruits of my researches with those following the same career, and to preserve them from misdirection, by putting in order my ideas on this subject and by providing them with a guide which is short, certain and new – something which, as far as I know, has been sought until now, but in vain. These studies, which I now present to the public, are the result of lengthy and extensive labours, borne out by experience and practice; and I am convinced that lovers of the guitar will, with assiduous practice, in a short time be in a position to command with expression anything which has been written in a correct style for the instrument. ith this laconic foreword, more in keeping with the rhetorical canons of an exordium, perhaps, than with a genuinely informative intent, the Italian guitarist and composer Mauro Giuliani opens his Studio per la chitarra (Study for the Guitar), op. 1. While certainly not Giuliani’s sole didactic work, it nonetheless represents the only attempt by him to define some of the fundamental issues in guitar studies, and lend them a theoretical framework. Let us clear aside all possible misunderstanding and explain at the outset that this opus 1 is not a method, nor does it pretend to be. Only to a limited extent, indeed, does it display the salient features of a musical method: a systematic unfolding of the material at hand, a strictly graded approach (or at least one that does not assume prior knowledge of other concepts) and the coordinated

W

Original Italian version copyright © 2003 by Lorenzo Micheli English translation copyright © 2003 by Jonathan Leathwood. The translator would like to thank Philip Weller and Stanley Yates for their many helpful comments.

‘Lo studio della chitarra fù [sic] sempre la mia occupazione preferita, ed arrivarci alla perfezione lo scopo mio principale. Ansioso di ritrovare il più giusto ed il più dritto sentiero, che conduce a questa meta, mi fù d’uopo aprire una strada non battuta, per avvicinarmi all’ideale che fisso mi stava nella mente. Vedendomi poi inoltrato a forza di zelo e di costanza, e non senza qualche successo, nacque in me il desiderio di render partecipi del frutto delle mie veglie quelli che corrono l’istessa carriera, e di preservargli [sic] dagli sviamenti, mettendo in ordine le mie idee su tale assunto, e somministrando loro una guida corta, sicura e nuova, quale, a mio sapere, fino adesso si desiderò, ma invano. Questi studj, che vengo a presentare al pubblico, sono il risultato delle lunghe e moltissime mie fatiche, confirmate dall’esperienza e dalla pratica, e sono persuaso che gli amatori della chitarra, con un assiduo esercizio, in breve tempo saranno in grado di acquisire con espressione quanto è stato composto in un genere più corretto per questo istrumento.’ Mauro Giuliani, Studio per la chitarra, op. 1, The Complete Works in Facsimiles of the Original Editions, ed. Brian Jeffery (London: Tecla, 1984), vol. 1, Preface. Translations of all quoted material in this article are by the translator. The Studio was published in Vienna under the imprint of Domenico Artaria with the plate number 2246, and advertised in relevant specialised publications in April, 1812.

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‘Gli esercizi seguenti sono adunque destinati per quelli che, possedendo di già i primi elementi, desiderassero vieppiù perfezionarsi senza l’ajuto di un maestro.’ Giuliani, Studio, op. 1, Preface.

use of musical examples and theoretical sections. The explanatory excursus are limited to a few interventions in Part iii and in the key to fingering indications: it is the author himself who explains in the Preface that ‘the following examples are, then, intended for those who, already possessing the first elements, wish to perfect themselves without the assistance of a teacher.’ Rather than a systematic treatment, therefore, Giuliani prefers to present in juxtaposition, without any claims to completeness, four sections: 1 the right hand (Part i, containing the famous 120 arpeggios) 2 the left hand (Part ii, focusing in sixteen lessons on thirds, sixths, octaves and tenths, laid out in four major keys) 3 other important aspects of technique (Part iii: articulation, ornaments, slurs, slides) 4 an overview of everything covered in the previous parts (the twelve lessons of Part iv) The economy of means which allowed Giuliani to realise one of the most effectively idiomatic writings and styles in the history of the guitar seems aptly reflected in the terse and succinct ‘manual of exercises’ ( prontuario di esercizi ) of opus 1. Pauses for reflection, in which the teacher methodically retraces the steps that led him to mastery of the instrument, are reduced to a minimum, giving way to snapshots of some of the author’s most notable attainments. In essence, then, the Studio per la chitarra, op. 1 – despite its opus number it was preceded by dozens of other published works – is not so different from the many other collections of studi and lezioni in which, little by little, Giuliani presents and singles out some key stages in his ‘discovery of the six strings’. A quite different discussion emerges if we look to the methods of the three other great guitarists of the early nineteenth century: the Italian Ferdinando Carulli and the Spaniards Dionisio Aguado and Fernando Sor.

ii ferdinand o carul li

For details of modern facsimile reprints, see the Bibliography.

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Ferdinando Carulli’s didactic output is of exceptional breadth and significance (not least in terms of commercial success): the Méthode complète pour guitare, op. 27 (Complete Method for Guitar), running to four editions in a few years, makes up the core of Carulli’s teaching, one that was to be enriched through years of additions and subsequent enhancements. In this way were born the Première suite à la méthode de guitare ou Mèthode pour apprendre à accompagner le chant, op. 61 (First Sequel to the Guitar Method: method for learning song accompaniment, complete with a collection of fourteen arias and romances for voice and guitar), the Seconde suite à la méthode de guitare, op. 71 (Second Sequel to the Guitar Method) and the Supplément à la méthode ou La première année d’étude de guitare, op. 192 (Supplement to the Method: the first year of guitar study), as well as Harmonie appliquée à la guitare (Harmony Applied to the Guitar), the Antiméthode ou L’élève guidé par le maître (Anti-method: the pupil guided by the master), the Méthode pour le décacorde ou nouvelle guitare, op. 293 (Method for the Ten-String or New Guitar), and the Méthode complète pour parvenir à pincer de la guitare, op. 241 (Complete Method for Learning to Play the Guitar).

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A brief look at the list of topics covered by the Méthode complète, op. 27, allows us to readily confirm the more traditional, more systematic nature of Carulli’s teaching. Divided into three parts, the Method opens with some preliminary instructions on how to hold the instrument, the positioning of the hands and tuning. One is struck by Carulli’s immediate stance in favour of using the left thumb for fretting notes, a technique roundly discouraged by other pedagogues: In some Methods, the Authors explicitly prohibit their pupils from using the left-hand thumb to stop the sixth string, and sometimes the fifth, on the opposite side of the neck to the fingers. The richer music is in harmony, the more pleasing it is; and since four fingers are not enough to realise, at the same time, a melody along with basses in various keys, one must necessarily use the thumb; thus I invite all those who want to play with greater ease to avail themselves of it. The first step in learning the guitar, according to Carulli, is scale practice: on the basis of this principle, Part i of the Method is presented as a succession of scales in first position, around which are built little exercises and easy pieces to help the student gain confidence in the most common keys. As far as the right hand is concerned, the beginner is recommended to observe a strict partitioning of the strings: the thumb plucks the three bass strings (except when the accompaniment ventures into the low register, when one may resort to the index as far as the fifth string), the index plucks the second and third strings and the middle the first, while the ring finger comes into play only in arpeggios. Although, as we shall see, his three great contemporaries thought it indispensable to practise alternation of the fingers from the very start, Carulli considers it the domain of the advanced student, and so reserves it for Part ii. A few more aspects of harmony playing round out the first part: a succinct description of the barré ( petit barré, in cases where the index stops two or three strings, and grand barré, when five or six strings are stopped); a paragraph on chords and arpeggios, in which the player is enjoined to play chords together, taking care not to break them (for chords of five notes this is made possible by a rapid sweep of the thumb on the two lowest strings); and an interesting passage on how to obtain fluency in performance while letting fretted bass notes ring as long as possible: To play a piece of music well on the guitar, one must ensure that on encountering bass notes that are not open strings, one leaves the finger on the string until it must be lifted for another note: good care is needed to sustain the sound of this note and to avoid sounding the open string at the moment that the finger stops pressing down. Part ii turns around the fundamental question of articulation. Carulli now addresses himself to the practice of staccato (Manière de détacher avec facilité,‘How to play detached notes with ease’, pp 31ff) – by which is meant no more than separate notes; that is to say, sequences of notes without left-hand slurs. To this end, he invites the pupil to abandon the ‘transitional phase’ in which a single finger is assigned to each string, inadequate in rapid passagework or when the dynamics approach forte:

mauro giuliani’s guitar technique

‘Dans quelques Méthodes, les Auteurs défendent absolument aux élèves de se servir du pouce de la main gauche, par le côté opposé aux autres doigts, sur la sixième corde, et quelquefois sur la cinquième. La Musique est d’autant plus agréable qu’elle est plus riche d’harmonie, et quatre doigts ne suffisant pas pour exécuter, en même temps, un chant et des basses raisonnées en différents tons, il faut nécessairement employer le pouce; ainsi j’invite tous ceux qui veulent jouer avec plus de facilité à s’en servir.’ Ferdinando Carulli, Méthode complète pour guitare, op. 27 (Paris, c. 1809), pp 3–4.

‘Pour bien rendre sur la guitare un morceau de musique, il faut lorsqu’on rencontre des notes de basse qui ne sont pas à vide, laisser le doigt sur la corde jusqu’à ce qu’une autre note oblige de le lever: cette attention est nécessaire pour soutenir le son de cette note et éviter celui qui rendrait la vibration de la corde à vide au moment où le doigt cesserait de la comprimer.’ Ibid. p 10.

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‘En pinçant avec un seul doigt sur chaque corde, comme j’ai dit dans la première partie de cette Méthode, lorsqu’il y a beaucoup de doubles croches dans un morceau de musique Allegretto ou Allegro, ce seul doigt ne peut pas suffire pour faire en mesure toutes les notes qui sont placées sur une corde; ainsi, après avoir parcouru les premières leçons de cet ouvrage, il faut prendre l’habitude de détacher de la manière suivante…’ Ibid. p 31.

‘Il se rencontre encore bien souvent en montant de la sixième corde à la cinquième, et de la cinquième à la quatrième, qu’après avoir pincé une note sur une corde, elle doit être liée avec la note à vide qui est sur la corde suivante; alors il faut glisser le pouce de la main droite d’une corde à l’autre sans le relever, ce qui produira l’effet du coulé.’ Ibid. p 34.

‘La Guitare n’a que cinq positions sur le manche, et elles sont aux cinq notes qui se trouvent sur la chanterelle, sans compter le mi à vide…J’ai remarqué que plusieurs auteurs dans leurs Méthodes comptent à chaque touche une position, c’est à dire à chaque demi-ton; je ne puis pas approuver cette manière, car sur tous les instruments qui ont un manche, tels que le Violon, l’Alto, la Basse, la Mandoline, le Luth, on

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Playing with a single finger on each string, as I recommended in the first part of this Method, is not enough when there are a lot of semiquavers in a piece of music marked Allegretto or Allegro, for this single finger cannot play in time all the notes lying on one string; therefore, once one has covered the early lessons in this work, one should get into the habit of plucking in the following way… Staccato (articulation without left-hand slurs) is obtained by alternating index and middle on the first three strings; for the bass strings, Carulli continues to maintain that the thumb alone is enough. Once again the ring finger has a marginal role, limited to the occasional arpeggio figure. The opposite of staccato, the slur – liaison or coulé – ascending or descending, is treated in the succeeding paragraph: it functions especially to make the passage more doux et agréable (‘sweet and pleasant’). Contrary to the practice of Sor and Giuliani (who, as we shall see, slur a quite variable number of notes in uneven groupings, often joining all the notes on the same string with a single slur), Carulli, in passagework, slurs notes almost always in pairs, with extreme regularity. Such a schematic approach entails frequent recourse to the so-called écho (echo) slur – that is, a slur descending from an open string to the string below, obtained by hammering on to the string. Carulli even advises the reader to imitate the effect of the slur with the right hand, by sliding the thumb through two adjacent bass strings. This last expedient, a sort of écho in reverse (in that the effect is produced by the right hand, ascending, rather than the left, descending), is described in the following way: It often happens that, when ascending from the sixth string to the fifth, and from the fifth to the fourth, after plucking a note on one string, it has to be slurred to the note played open on the next string; in that case one slides the right thumb from one string to the other without lifting it off, which will produce the effect of a slur. Next is a brief look at the most common ornaments, in which Carulli suggests among other things three possible realisations of a trill: plucking the initial note once only, and slurring all the rest; plucking the principal note each time and slurring the upper note; or playing all the notes on two strings with index and middle. And now Carulli goes more deeply into knowledge of the fingerboard. He proposes, in the paragraph ‘On positions’, an original and very personal notation, based not on the number of the fret but on that of the ‘position’. The positions, in the system elaborated by Carulli, are five only, and correspond to the five natural notes obtainable from the E string: F (i), G (ii), A (iii), B (iv) and C (v). These, corresponding with five key areas, do not have a fixed fret, inasmuch as they may move up or down a fret, according to changes in key: The Guitar has but five positions on the neck, and they are at the five notes found on the chanterelle [the top string], not counting the open E…I have noticed that several writers, in their Methods, assign a position to each fret, that is to each semitone; I cannot endorse this method, for on all instruments with a fingerboard – such as the violin, viola, bass, mandolin, lute – one assigns a position to each

lorenzo micheli

whole tone, and one could not do otherwise, because all the notes are subject to sharps or flats, and to move the hand up or down by a semitone owing to the effect of sharps or flats is not to change position, since the notes themselves are not changed. In fact, Carulli is not alone in his dissatisfaction with the practice of indicating positions simply by the fret number: the sophisticated system of equísonos devised by Dionisio Aguado addresses a similar issue. A brief nod at scales in double notes, chords and natural harmonics, together with a good number of studies and musical examples, closes Part ii; as for Part iii, it consists of twenty-four lessons for two guitars and the long Grande étude dans tous les tons et dans toutes les positions (Grand study in all the keys and all the positions). Carulli’s work comprises all the elements to be expected of a didactic instrumental method. The manual-like layout, efficient and rational, is aimed at exact results and immediate need. Only rarely, though, does it venture to deal with topics of greater scope (sound, timbre, parts and variations of the instrument) – still less to debate the whys and wherefores of the author’s own solutions.

compte à chaque ton entier une position, et on ne le pourrait pas autrement, parce que toutes les notes sont susceptibles d’avoir des dièses ou des bémols, et avancer ou reculer la main d’un demi-ton par l’effet des dièses ou des bémols ce n’est pas changer de position puisqu’on ne change pas des notes.’ Ibid. p 40. For Aguado’s equísonos see p 51 below.

iii dionisio agua d o A rather greater abundance of thoughts on the instrument may be found in the major works of Dionisio Aguado: the Colección de estudios (Collection of Studies), Madrid, 1820; the Escuela de guitarra (Guitar School), Madrid, 1825; the Nouvelle méthode de guitare (New Guitar Method), op. 6, Paris (translated into Spanish and printed in Madrid in 1840); and – the apex of Aguado’s didactic work – the Nuevo método para guitarra (New Method for Guitar), Madrid, 1843 (French edition for the presses of Schonenberger in Paris, 1844), followed by an Apéndice al nuevo método (Appendix to the New Method), Madrid, 1849–1850. The ‘work in progress’ character of these texts invites some comparison with Carulli’s work, itself a ‘building site’ of second thoughts and alterations, and the object of continual rewritings and updates. Compared with Carulli, however, Aguado is more speculative, more given to theoretical reflection. The Colección de estudios presents a neatly bipartite structure which is, naturally enough, meant to focus attention on to the forty-six studies of the second part. In the words of the author: This treatise contains two main parts…The first is devoted to the description of the Guitar and its special features. I briefly describe the instrument with the particular purpose of defining terminology, so that the teaching I go on to expound may be understood with precision. The second part is concerned only with the practice of the studies contained in this collection. The Nuevo método, op. 6, opens with a long introduction dedicated to the tripodison (or reglamanos), a metal support on three feet, equipped with a mechanism to hold up the instrument, invented by Aguado with the aim of improving the player’s posture:

mauro giuliani’s guitar technique

All these works except for the Escuela de guitarra are reproduced in Dionisio Aguado, The Complete Works for Guitar: in reprints of the original editions with prefaces by Brian Jeffery (Heidelberg: Chanterelle, 1994). See Bibliography for details. nb In the quotations to follow from Aguado’s works, the first page number is that of the original publication, and the number in brackets is that of the Chanterelle facsimile. The spelling and use of accents of the original publications has been retained.

‘Este tratado contiene dos partes principales…La primera está destinada para la descripcion de la Guitarra y sus particulares propiedades. Describo sucintamente el instrumento con el único objeto de fijar los términos del lenguage, para que pueda entenderse con exactitud toda la doctrina que sucesivamente establezco. La segunda division es solo relativa á la práctica de los estudios contenidos en esa coleccion.’ Aguado, Colección de estudios (Madrid, 1820), p 1 [33].

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‘Creo que una de las dificultades…es, el no tener una postura determinada. Para remediar este inconveniente discurrí buscar médio, y despues de varios ensayos, hé incontrado uno, que al mismo tiempo que fija hasta cierto punto el instrumento, le pone á disposicion del que le toca, quedandole libre el uso de sus facultades físicas.’ Aguado, Nuevo método, op. 6 (Madrid, 1840), p 2 [84].

‘…las observaciones que he deducido de mi práctica en la egecucion de los pasages de agilidad.’ Ibid.

Parte primera: teórico-práctica: literally, ‘Part i: Theoretico-Practical’.

‘…reduciendo la teoría y ampliando la práctica.’ Aguado, Nuevo método para guitarra (Madrid, 1843), p [11] (unnumbered in the original).

Consideraciones generales acerca del modo di dar sentido a la música. Ibid. pp 70–71 [144–145].

In the following quotation the advice to move only the ‘last joint’ (última falange) must, of course, refer to the middle joint of the fingers, since it is not possible to move a finger from the tip joint alone. Indeed, immediately following the quotation Aguado uses the plural (‘las últimas falanges’), perhaps to indicate the middle and tip joints. Pictures 5 and 6 in table nº 2 seem to confirm this idea: not to move from the base joint, but from the middle one. As for the thumb, Aguado’s terminology can presumably be taken

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I believe that one of the difficulties…is the lack of an agreed way to hold the guitar. In order to remedy this inconvenience I pondered on how to find a way, and after various attempts, I have come upon one, which, while fixing the instrument up to a certain point, puts it at the player’s disposal, leaving free the use of his physical faculties. The Método proper falls into two sections: the first contains twenty-eight chapters (lecciones), each one focusing on a particular aspect of technique, and accompanied by one or more observations (observaciones) illustrating how to execute (come se ha de egecutar) the difficulty in question. The second section presents three groups of estudios, dedicated in turn to the right hand, the left hand and the coordination of the two hands. To end with, Aguado expounds ‘the observations which I have derived from my practice in the performance of passagework’, with annotations on fingering. The Nuevo método para guitarra (1843) represents a high point in nineteenthcentury thinking about the guitar; it bears witness to the extensive journey of a musician who has devoted a good part of his existence to teaching. Here too, Aguado divides his work into Part i: Theoretical & Practical (containing the customary chapters dedicated to parts and variations of the instrument, terminology, the tripod and even a short ‘theory of acoustics suitable for playing’) and Part ii: Practical. In the Preface, Aguado claims to have changed the layout in comparison with his preceding methods, ‘reducing the theory and expanding the practical aspects’. It is really in Part ii that Aguado goes deeper than before to lay bare every aspect of learning and to provide the student with as complete a picture as possible of the problems ahead: in the five sections which comprise this part are analysed all – or nearly all – the fundamental points of technique, from fingering to harmonics, from campanelas to the imitation of other instruments. Hundreds of musical examples – exercises of a few bars or finished pieces of considerable musical value – complete the second part. There are even the beginnings of a ‘theory of interpretation’ (General remarks on how to give feeling to the music) and a short outline of harmony applied to the guitar. Practically impossible as it is to revisit and summarise every one of Aguado’s technical and didactic principles, given the striking richness of detail and the highly analytical layout, here we shall at least try to sketch the more significant ideas in broad outline. What emerges so forcefully is a new – and, at least for the entire nineteenth century, unsurpassed – attention to posture, to movement, to the reactions of the body; an awareness that learning about music cannot set aside the physiological processes that permit the act of playing. In this regard Aguado dwells at great length on movements which to the reader may seem trivial, even at the risk of redundancy. Total control and perfect simultaneity of the action of the two hands are the outcome of a carefully targeted practice, which dissects the student’s body into a chain of ‘microunities’ (of which only the final link, the phalange alone, physically produces the sound). All this aims to reduce expenditure of energy to the minimum, thanks to a stability and an immobility which no guitarist before him had ever laid out so lucidly: Each time [the thumb] plays, [the pupil] should bend the last joint in such a way that the rest of the thumb hardly moves…The training of the right-hand thumb is highly important, for by becoming used to moving no more than its last joint, it helps to ensure on its part

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that the hand does not move. The index and middle fingers must in turn play the same way. It is on this condition – that the fingers plucking do so, if possible, without moving anything more than the last joints – that a secure and energetic stroke depends. If in the initial lecciones (lessons) Aguado seems to favour, for the right hand, the training of three fingers (p, i, m), without scorning repetitions of the same finger on consecutive notes, then it is not long before the ejercicios (exercises) – and still more the estudios (studies) – start to involve the ring finger, which seems to be developing towards a complete freedom of use, above all where it is used to sing a melody. Some bold right-hand patterns (for example, the groups of four repeated notes a a m a, m a m a in Estudio nº 23) leave one with the feeling that the ring finger has achieved the same mobility as the other fingers, for all that it sets out at a definite ‘disadvantage’: This [ring] finger is weak by nature, and for this very reason one must pay special attention to it, though not so much that the strings played by the other fingers cease to be clearly heard. The right-hand thumb is just as highly developed. Specific exercises are given to it, and it plays the leading role in virtuosic passages of great instrumental effect. Exercise 89, for example, presents a tone colour often encountered in Aguado: ‘This exercise is to be performed only on the bass strings, and played with the thumb alone.’ The same effect is found in variation 4 of Le menuet affandangado, op. 15 (‘This variation on the wound strings’). On the subject of left-hand fingering, it is worth recalling the ‘invention’ of equísonos (‘equivalent sounds’). Setting out from the principle that sounds of identical pitch can be obtained on the guitar from different strings, Aguado suggests a type of notation in which the number indicated designates not the string, but, indeed, the equísono. Thus, These particular places at which the same pitch can be obtained, I call equísonos…For example, high F has four equísonos on the guitar: (1) on the first string on the first fret; (2) on the second string on the 6th fret…(3) on the third at the 10th fret…and (4) on the fourth at the 15th… The notation of the equísonos, or rather the discovery of the possibilities offered by the lower strings for sounds which until then would have been played on the highest available string, with the consequent increase in variety of timbre, represents in embryo an intuition which will find rich application in the music of Francisco Tárrega and Miguel Llobet. Also notable is the propensity for unusual stretches of the left hand; indeed, Aguado devotes some ninety exercises to the left hand and its associated technical difficulties: from simple and double slurs (illustrated by a lavish selection of patterns) to shifts; from scales in thirds to octaves. In particular, the discussion of slurs (ascending and descending, of two, three or four notes) is allotted much space in the text, above all in the section of exercises; as in Carulli’s method, the treatment of ornaments is incorporated into this section. Aguado’s music makes a good deal of use of the glissando, or arrastre, indicated by a horizontal line or

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literally, but the qualifying ‘hardly’ (apenas) implies that the rest of the thumb will move a little, in any case: ‘Cada vez que [el pulgar] pulse, [el discipulo] ha de doblar su última falange de manera que apenas se mueva el resto del dedo…La educacion del dedo pulgar de la mano derecha es sumamente importante, porque acostumbrado á no mover más que su última falange, contribuye por su parte á que no se mueva la mano. Lo mismo deben ejecutar despues el índice y medio a su vez. En esta circunstancia, esto es, en que los dedos que pulsen lo hagan, si es posible, no moviendo más que sus últimas falanges, consiste lograr una pulsacion segura y enérgica.’ Ibid. p 12 [30]. ‘Este dedo [anular] es débil por naturaleza, y por lo mismo se ha de aplicar la atencion especialmente á él, sin que por eso dejen de oirse bien las cuerdas pulsadas por los otros.’ Ibid. p 52 [126].

‘Este ejercicio se ejecuta solamente en los bordones, y se pulsa con solo el dedo pulgar.’ Ibid. p 44 [118]. ‘Cette variation sur les cordes filées.’

‘A estas distintas localidades en donde se puede ejecutar un mismo sonido, llamo equísonos…v. gr. fa agudo…tiene en la guitarra cuatro equisonos: 1º en la prima pisada en el primer traste; 2º en la segunda pisada en 6º traste…3º en la tercera en 10° traste…y 4º en la cuarta en 15º…’ Ibid. p 23 [43].

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with an acciaccatura (this last type of notation for glissando survives into the era of Tárrega and Llobet). Two brief chapters – Wealth of the Guitar and Imitations – bring out yet more valuable details for the assessment of Aguado’s contribution. The harmonics described in Lesson 43, like those described by Carulli in his opus 27, are ‘natural’: ‘Unas de las gracias de la guitarra consiste en los sonidos armónicos. Estos se producen pisando armónicamente una cuerda, es decir, tocándola con la yema de un dedo (sin apretarla) encima de las divisiones de su longitud, que algunas corresponden con las de los trastes (del 7º, por ejemplo); en este estado se pulsa, é inmediatamente después de concluido el acto de pulsar, se levanta el dedo de la izquierda dejando de estar en contacto con la cuerda, y ésta queda sonando armónicamente.’ Ibid. p 47 [67].

‘En esta série faltan muchas notas de la escala cromática, que se pueden hacer en sonidos armónicos valiéndose de un medio publicado por mi amigo el Sr. Fossa en un artículo puesto al principio de la pieza titulada Ouverture du jeune Henri, arrangée pour deux guitares. Partiendo del principio que la cuerda al aire da su 8a armónica encima de la 12a division de trastes que la divide en dos partes iguales, saca por consecuencia forzosa que la misma cuerda pisada en primer traste tendrá su 8a armónica encima de la 12a division…y como en este caso los dedos de la izquierda están ocupados en pisar del modo acostumbrado, es necesario que los de la derecha hagan dos funciones, la de pisar armonicamente, y la de pulsar.’ Ibid. p 48 [68]. ‘Este invento tiene la ventaja de producir sonidos claros y de buena calidad, y tambien de dar todas las notas de la escala cromática. Es verdad que para cada armónico se han de mover ambas manos, á escepcion de los que se hacen en cuerdas al aire, que se ejecutan con sola la derecha; pero esta dificultad se vence pronto, pues los armónicos, de cualquiera manera que se hagan, no son para pasages de mucha agilidad.’ Ibid. p 49 [69].

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One of the guitar’s most charming aspects lies in its harmonics. These are produced by stopping the string harmonically – that is to say, touching it with the flesh of a finger (without pressing down) over various fractions of its length, some of which correspond to the fretbars (e.g. the 7th); at this point one strikes the string, and immediately after finishing the stroke, lifts up the left-hand finger so that it is no longer in contact with the string; the string will then keep ringing with the sound of the harmonic. But then, a little further on, Aguado regrets the incompleteness of the series of natural harmonics, and in order to make up for this lack reports a solution proposed by his friend François de Fossa (dedicatee of Aguado’s Trois rondo brillants, op. 2): In this series many notes of the chromatic scale are missing, which can nevertheless be made into harmonics by availing oneself of a means published by my friend Mr Fossa, in a note placed at the beginning of the piece entitled Ouverture du jeune Henri, arrangée pour deux guitares. Starting out from the principle that the open string gives its octave harmonic over the 12th fret, dividing it into two equal parts, it necessarily follows that the same string stopped at the first fret will have its octave harmonic above the 12th fret…and since in this case the fingers of the left hand are occupied with pressing down in the usual way, it is necessary that those of the right hand fulfil two functions, one of stopping the harmonic, the other of striking the string. These are the ‘artificial’ harmonics, or octavados. In contrast with what we shall find in Sor’s Method, Aguado does not argue against their use; on the contrary: This invention has the advantage of producing sounds that are clear and of good quality, and also of giving all the notes of the chromatic scale. It is true that for each harmonic both hands have to move, apart from those falling on open strings and played with the right hand alone; but this difficulty is readily overcome, for harmonics, however performed, are not meant for passagework of much agility. Among the guitar’s ‘imitative’ effects, the tambora is obtained in two ways: one is to tap the strings making up the chord with a quick movement of the middle finger or – even better – of the thumb close to the bridge; the other is to strike the bridge with the straightened index and middle fingers, while the left hand makes the chord (it was this latter kind of tambora which nineteenth-century composers favoured: Andrés Segovia uses them both, as his edition and record-

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ing of Joaquín Turina’s Fandanguillo show). An imitation of trumpets can be effected by stopping the strings with the left hand immediately over the fret, so as to get a ‘rattling’ sound, dirty and metallic. The harp, lastly, in a description analogous to Sor’s, can be imitated by ‘digging in’ between the strings with the right hand, over the twelfth fret (or, as Sor says, halfway between the twelfth fret and the bridge), seeking out a fuller sound; and indeed it is an example drawn from Sor’s Morceau de concert which illustrates this technique. On the whole, though, if in Aguado it is difference in timbre which suggests the various sonorities, in Sor, imitation of other instruments (horns, trumpets, oboe, harp) comes about mostly by imitating the writing and use made of these instruments in the orchestra: Imitation of various other instruments is never an effect of tone colour alone; it is necessary that the passage be voiced as it would be in a score for the instruments that I wish to imitate. Other characteristic effects of the instrument, such as vibrato (trémulo, or ‘prolongation of the sound, sustained by the left hand’), campanelas and sounds made by the left hand alone, are each the subject of a separate paragraph. Two lecciones, to conclude with, seem to deserve special attention. Lesson 46, on sonidos apagados (damped sounds), distinguishes four ways to ‘damp’ the sounds produced by the plucked string: 1 raising the finger of the left hand stopping the string; 2 after sounding an open string, bringing a left-hand finger to rest against it; 3 interrupting the vibration with the same finger of the right hand which has just plucked the string; 4 combining the action of the right and left hand (the sounds resulting from this dual action are said to be cortados, or cut off). These four ways of damping notes allow the interpreter to realise an extended range of shades of articulation, which goes from simple non-legato to pizzicato (étouffé), passing through conventional (musical) staccato. Aguado’s thinking on the mechanisms necessary for accurate control of the duration of sound is so exhaustive that – apart from having no equivalent in the treatment of the great pedagogues of the time – it strikes one as still relevant and provocative for the modern interpreter. Lesson 48 returns to the question of timbre already implicitly addressed in the section on equísonos. Aguado draws attention to the extraordinary resource of varying the quality of sound by plucking at different points along the string: ‘The guitar’s chief wealth, it seems to me, lies in the unique tone colours produced by plucking at various points along the string.’ In sum, Aguado’s Método is a sincere act of love towards the guitar, the result of decades of thought on pedagogy in the working life of a great musician. In it may be found some intuitions that were to have a profound influence on guitar technique for more than a hundred years. In the face of such a raft of theoretical and practical information, and such punctilious notations as characterise the Nuevo método of 1843, it is a surprise to discover that Aguado’s published works – especially the concert works – are very poor in ancillary markings, limited to sporadic fingerings and a few equísonos: the one work of significance to

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‘L’imitation de quelques autres instruments n’est jamais l’effet exclusif de la qualité de son; il faut que le passage soit disposé comme il le serait dans une partition pour les instruments que je veux imiter.’ Fernando Sor, Méthode pour la guitare (Paris, 1830), modern facsimile edn (Geneva: Minkoff, 1981), p 20.

See Aguado, Nuevo método, p 51 [71]. Note, however, that point 2 reflects the correction given by Aguado in his Errata for the book, given on p [16] (unnumbered in the original).

‘La principal riqueza de la guitarra consiste, á mi parecer, en la diferente calidad de sonido que produce cada cuerda pulsada en distinto parage.’ Ibid. p 52 [72].

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be decked out with numerous indications of dynamics, timbre and articulation is not an original work, but the Gran solo, op. 14, by Sor: ‘Esta composición de sor…me ha parecido á proposito para dar á entender en la guitarra ciertos efectos de la orquesta. Hé hecho en ella algunas adiciones, que, sin tocar á lo esencial, juzgo la darán mas brillantez.’ Dionisio Aguado, Gran solo de Sor, escrito para el uso de Agustín Campo por su Maestro D. Aguado (Madrid, 1849).

This composition by sor…has always seemed to me to have been written expressly to convey certain orchestral effects. I have made some additions to it, which I judge will lend it greater brilliance without affecting the essential content.

iv fer nand o sor 1830 saw the publication in Paris of the Méthode pour la guitare, par Ferdinand Sor (Method for the Guitar, by Fernando Sor) – the most famous, perhaps, of all nineteenth-century guitar methods. An in-depth examination of it would take us too far afield, at too great a length; still, a few observations may help us to glean something of both its importance and its peculiarities. Leafing through the pages of Sor’s book, one is struck first by the scarcity of musical examples, especially in comparison with the writings of Aguado. All the illustrative material – the examples and the few exercises, together with a limited number of studies for the practice of thirds and sixths – is collected into a slight appendix. Sor himself justifies this arrangement in the Conclusion:

‘Je n’ai jamais pu concevoir comment on pouvait faire une Méthode avec beaucoup plus d’exemples que de texte…Les exemples en musique me disent bien ce que je dois faire; mais le texte doit me dire comment je dois le faire…J’ai supposé que celui qui achète une méthode veut apprendre; j’ai cru de mon devoir de lui faire connaître toutes les raisons que j’ai eues pour établir les principes fondamentaux de la mienne.’ Sor, Méthode, pp 81–82.

[Translator’s note: In medias res (‘in the] middle of things’) refers to the practice of] beginning a narrative by plunging into a] crucial situation or action.]

‘Je ne dirai jamais au lecteur: Voilà ce qu’il faut faire, mais voilà ce qu’il m’a fallu faire.’ Ibid. p 7.

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I have never been able to understand how one could write a Method with a much greater quantity of examples than text…Musical examples will certainly tell me what I must do; but the text shall tell me how I must do it…I have assumed that anyone who buys a method wishes to learn; I thought it my duty to acquaint the reader with all my reasons for establishing these fundamental principles of mine. Hard to miss, too, are the frequent asides, allusions and personal anecdotes, vividly rendered with all the necessary dialogue and drama; a far cry, certainly, from the expected ‘objectivity’– real or apparent – usually thought proper to this genre of writing. The heavy-handed interjections of Sor the performer and pedagogue,‘victim’ of the reign of the free market, often give the impression of a certain rigidity, polemical and defensive – of an obtrusively self-regarding attitude marked by a tendency to present his own ideas ‘in opposition’ to those of others. None of this can fail to make the reader – the modern reader, at least – smile. Yet a third trait stands out: the almost complete absence of a graded approach. There is little sense of the ‘guided course’ that we normally expect from a musical method. To borrow a term from literary studies, Sor begins his description of the learning process in medias res – to such an extent that, where a traditional method might spell out the simple but indispensable ‘mechanical’ principles, to be assimilated through constant repetition until they become automatic, Sor instead launches into subtle disquisitions on harmony. ‘I shall never say to the reader, This is what is necessary to be done, but This is what I found it necessary to do,’ he hastens to write in the first lines, almost as though he were anxious to account for the peculiarity of what he is about to publish. How to characterise this work, then? A possible, provocative key to its reading was suggested twenty years ago by Matanya Ophee:

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The true nature of Sor’s Method has not been understood by many scholars. The reason lies in the fact that it is simply not a method from which one can learn to play the guitar. The book does not, in the last analysis, turn out to be an accurate description of the author’s actual ideas on technique. The attempt to institute an orderly and analytical discussion of technical and musical questions is often obstructed by obvious shows of temper and outbursts of bitter feeling…I am convinced of the impossibility of undertaking any analysis at all of Fernando Sor’s didactic conceptions without taking into account the artist’s psychology, his paranoia and the defensive arguments which abound in his writings. A method from which one cannot learn to play – almost an oxymoron. One way out of the theoretical impasse caused by the anomalies of the Méthode is to contradict Sor and go so far as to rethink the genre to which it belongs; or perhaps we might invoke the semantically broader term treatise – that is, a theoretical work which systematically unfolds a definite line of argument. Having said so much, it remains true that in the main, Sor expounds his ideas, born of years of experience in performing and teaching, with clarity. In Part i there are chapters dedicated in turn to the instrument, posture, and placement and use of the hands. The right hand is to rely almost exclusively on thumb, index and middle; the ring finger is brought into use to perform chords with four notes, in the event that the two lowest voices do not lie on adjacent strings and cannot be struck together with the thumb. As for the left hand, Sor takes harsh exception to the widespread practice of bringing the thumb from behind the neck to fret the sixth string as needed (a polemic already advanced by many pedagogues, not least Francesco Molino in his Grande méthode, Paris 1824): on the contrary, being the shortest digit, the thumb can more usefully confine itself to offering a point of support and balancing the force exercised by the fingers (which fall at a right angle to the fingerboard), acting as a pivot around which the whole hand can easily change position. Two centuries on, Sor’s conviction has carried the day. Next to be discussed, among other topics, are the attack of the fingers on the strings, timbre (and the imitation of other instruments) and use of the nails: Never in my life have I heard a guitarist whose playing was endurable if he played with nails…it is necessary that Mr Aguado’s playing should have so many excellent qualities as it has, that he should be excused his use of the nails.

Matanya Ophee, ‘Il tocco appoggiato: precisazioni e argomenti storici’, Il Fronimo nº 43 (April 1983), p 10. [Translator’s note: These comments of Matanya Ophee are in fact a retranslation from the printed Italian: they were submitted to Il Fronimo in an English version that is no longer available.]

The more restricted term of method denotes by common consent a practical, progressive ‘manual’ characterised by the presence of exercises which allow the student to go beyond (µετά) the way (ὁδός) of learning. I propose this distinction even though Sor provides his own definition of method as a ‘treatise of the established principles on which the rules are founded, which ought to guide the operations’, as opposed to exercise, lesson and study (Sor, Méthode, p 46n).

‘Je n’ai entendu de ma vie un guitariste dont le jeu fût supportable s’il jouait avec les ongles…Il faut que le jeu de M. Aguado ait autant d’excellentes qualités qu’il en a pour lui faire pardonner l’emploi des ongles.’ Ibid. pp 21–22.

Sor’s position towards the damping of notes is of great interest. Damped sounds are divided into sons étouffés and son secs. Étouffé (‘muffled’) and sec (‘dry’) – corresponding respectively to pizzicato and staccato – are distinguished on the basis of the moment at which the sound is damped: staccato is a sound interrupted after the vibration of the string has been set in motion, while in pizzicato the sound is muffled in the very act of sounding the string: These [staccato] sounds are stopped only in their sustain, while the former [étouffé] are stopped in the act of plucking the strings.

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‘Ceux-ci [les sons secs] n’ont d’étouffé que la continuation, au lieu que les premiers [les étouffés] le sont dans l’acte d’attaquer les cordes.’ Ibid. p 23.

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‘J’ai toujours trop regretté qu’il n’y ait pas un moyen de donner plus de son à l’instrument, pour m’occuper des moyens de lui en ôter.’ Ibid.

‘Je ne fais que cesser de presser le manche avec la main gauche, sans abandonner la corde dès que la note a été attaquée; je n’impose pas même cette tâche à toute la main, le pouce seul remplit le but par un petit effort presque imperceptible.’ Ibid.

The pizzicato, on account of its weak sonority, is rarely employed in Sor’s music – ‘I have always been too unhappy that there is no way of giving the instrument more sound to busy myself with ways of taking it away,’ he says: his most famous example is perhaps the fifth variation of the Fantaisie, op. 7. Its realisation is entrusted entirely to the left hand, which presses the strings with less energy than usual (but not so little as to ‘make a harmonic’). In staccato, too, the right hand plays no role; this time the left hand presses the strings with customary power, but then the pressure of the thumb on the neck is relaxed: I merely stop pressing onto the fingerboard with my left hand, without leaving the strings as soon as the note has been plucked; I do not even impose this task on the whole hand, the thumb alone answering the purpose by a small, almost imperceptible effort. In the performance of damped sounds, Aguado opts for various combinations of the left and right hand; Sor on the other hand, in an utterly coherent way, recommends a clear-cut exclusion of right-hand resources in favour of the left (just as evident, as we shall shortly see, in the realisation of scales and harmonics). Part ii, apart from a section dedicated to practical knowledge of the fingerboard, offers valuable evidence on the subject of scales:

‘Quant à la main droite, je n’ai jamais visé à faire des gammes détachées, ni avec une grande vitesse, parceque j’ai cru que la guitare ne pourrait jamais me rendre d’une manière satisfaisante les traits du violon, tandis qu’en profitant de la facilité qu’elle présente pour lier les sons, je pourrais imiter un peu mieux les traits de chant. Par cette raison je n’attaque que la note qui commence chacun des groupes dont le trait est composé.’ Ibid. p 31.

‘En employant le doigté des guitaristes …ma main se trouvait tout-à-fait hors de la portée des cordes…Je ne pouvais prendre cette position qu’en deplaçant le bras (et par là augmentant la difficulté de reprendre justement celle qui me convenait), ou en courbant le poignet…Si le lecteur désire apprendre à détacher avec vitesse les notes d’un trait d’exécution, je ne puis mieux faire que de le renvoyer à la Méthode de M. Aguado.’ Ibid. p 32.

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As for the right hand, I have never aimed to play scales with separate notes, or with great speed, because I thought that the guitar would never be able to render satisfactorily the characteristics of the violin, while by profiting from the ease which it [the guitar] offers for slurring notes, I could somewhat better imitate the characteristics of the voice. For this reason I only pluck the note beginning each one of the groups of which the passage is composed. The performance of scales slurred, plucking only the first note on each string with the immediately adjacent finger, allows Sor to avoid the fatiguing alternation of index and middle, and not to disturb the stability of the hand by plucking every note and shifting from string to string: Using the fingering of guitarists [to play scales detached]…my hand would find itself quite out of the usual range of the strings… I could only take up this position by displacing the arm (and in so doing making it more difficult to return reliably to my preferred position), or by bending the wrist…If the reader desires to learn to play the notes of a passage fast and detached, I can do no better than to refer him to the Method of Mr Aguado. On occasion, quick repeated notes are integral to the music, as with the triplets in the first movement of the Grande sonata, op. 22, the triplets in the last variation of the Fantaisie, op. 16, or the repeated notes in the Allegro non troppo of the Deuxième grande sonata, op. 25. In these cases, Sor always keeps to a minimum the number of repetitions of i and m on a single string – never going beyond the second string, in any event. In the examples just cited, the accented notes are always played with the thumb, which then has often to play chords of three or four notes with a rapid sweep:

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œ œ œ œ œ œ #œœœ .œ œ œ œ œ œœœ .œ œ œ œ œ # œœœ .œ œ œ œ œ . . . V œ.

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œœ .œ œ œ œ œ œœ .œ œ œ œ œ œœ .. # œœ ..

œœœœœœ œ œœ .. bb œœœ ..œ œ œ œ œ # œœœ œœ # #œœœ œ.

Part iii contains an explanation of the ‘theory of thirds and sixths’: chains of these intervals, which in other methods are presented as one resource among many, are in Sor elevated into the founding principle of his own technique. ‘The entire key to mastery of the guitar (as a harmony instrument) lies in the knowledge of thirds and sixths,’ he states without equivocation; and again, ‘I have no doubt that this exercise will fully convince the reader that, with knowledge of thirds and sixths, it is possible to finger all the most difficult guitar music.’ In essence, the entire gamut of possibilities for left-hand fingering (including shifts) can be assimilated automatically through study of the fixed models of scales in double notes – fixed because the intervals are fixed. Sor’s conception, even when he gives us some extra detail on the use of the left hand in a melody, is always inspired by the criterion of utmost economy of movement. It is this same criterion which inspires one of the twelve general maxims listed in the conclusion: not to lift right away the finger just used (in the performance of notes ascending on the same string), and to prepare on the same string as many fingers as possible (in the case of descending notes). It is a rule as simple as it is fundamental, and even today many players do not pay it sufficient attention: When two or three notes fall consecutively on the same string of the guitar, then if they lie in an ascending direction the second note will damp and stop the sound of the first, and the third that of the second. If, while lowering a finger to press down the second note, I at the same lift the finger holding down the first, I make two movements instead of one, and I even run the risk of lifting the finger a moment too soon and sounding the open string – making my playing less clean rather than more. If the notes descend, then rather than waiting for the moment when the note is to be stopped, I put the finger down in advance, so that I have no movement to make other than to lift the finger which was holding down the upper note. This procedure spares me another movement, and in particular a display which I have never liked. A considerable space, within Part iii, is allotted to the treatment of harmonics, or flute-notes (‘harmonics, which in Spain are called flute-notes’). Sor recounts his investigations into the best way to produce clean and strong harmonics, and gives the rules he finally established: 1 not to press the string at the required place too lightly, but in such a way that I could feel it securely under my finger; 2 that the action of plucking the string with the right hand should be followed right away by that of letting it ring freely by lifting the lefthand finger; 3 that in so far as the sounds to be produced required a position closer to the nut, the act of plucking the string should be more forceful, and the pressure of the left-hand finger stronger – without, however, compelling the string to come close to the fret.

mauro giuliani’s guitar technique

Fernando Sor, Second Sonata, op. 25, first movement (Allegro non troppo), bars 141–145. ‘Toute la clef de la possession de la guitare (comme instrument d’harmonie) consiste en la connaissance des tierces et des sixtes.’ Sor, Méthode, p 45. ‘Je ne puis nullement douter que cet exer‘cice ne convainque pleinement le lecteur qu’avec la connaissance des tierces et des sixtes, on peut doigter toute la musique de guitare la plus difficile.’ Ibid. p 43.

‘Deux ou trois notes consécutives étant faites sur une même corde de la guitare, si leur marche est ascendante, la seconde étouffe et détruit le son de la première, et la troisième celui de la seconde. Si en laissant tomber le doigt qui fait la seconde, je lève en même temps celui qui tenait la première, je fais deux actions au lieu d’une, et je m’expose même à lever le doigt un instant trop tôt et à faire entendre la corde à vide, ce qui, au lieu de rendre mon jeu plus pur, lui donnerait moins de pureté. Si elles sont descendantes; au lieu d’attendre le moment où la note doit être produite pour la presser, j’y ai déjà le doigt, et je n’ai d’autre action à faire que celle de lever celui qui tenait la plus haute; ce qui m’épargne encore un mouvement, et surtout un étalage que je n’ai jamais aimé.’ Ibid. pp 86–87. ‘1º De ne point presser trop légèrement la corde au point déterminé, mais d’une manière qui me la fît bien sentir sous mon doigt; 2º que l’acte de l’attaquer avec le doigt de la main droite devait être immédiatement suivi de celui de la laisser vibrer en liberté en levant celui de la main gauche; 3º qu’à mesure que les sons à produire exigeraient une position plus rapprochée du sillet, l’acte d’attaquer la corde devait être plus violent, et la pression du doigt de la main gauche plus forte, sans obliger cependant la corde de se rapprocher de la touche.’ Ibid. p 58.

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Sor explicitly declares his aversion to artificial harmonics, for which – this time suffering from a lack of prescience – he sees little future, on account of the excessive expenditure of energy involved; if it is true, indeed, that octave harmonics allow the entire gamut of notes, it is also true that in playing them, ‘Outre la double tâche qui m’était imposée en m’obligeant de mesurer des distances bien exactes pour les deux mains, j’y trouvai l’inconvénient (pour moi) d’être forcé d’employer toute la main droite pour attaquer une seule note, et que chacune de celles que je voulais produire, non seulement me coûtait un mouvement du poignet, mais de tout le bras, et que, n’ayant pas un point d’appui, il m’était presque impossible de diriger avec assurance le doigt pour déterminer exactement la moitié de chaque distance.’ Ibid. p 58.

‘Comme il y en a qui sont presque inappréciables, je les ai retranchés autant que possible dans mes compositions.’ Ibid. pp 59–60.

[Translator’s note: Captatio benevolentiae] is the rhetorical strategy of securing the] addressee’s goodwill.]

‘Devant jouer avec MM. Hertz et Lafont le trio de Hummel sur la Sentinelle, j’ai été obligé de me faire la variation de guitare Ex. 88, parceque celle qui s’y trouve m’offrait des difficultés bien plus grandes que la mienne. D’après cet aveu, on peut voir que si le genre péculier à la guitare est celui de la variation en question, je ne suis pas si fort sur cet instrument que celui qui l’a écrite. Je pourrais l’exécuter, mais ce serait aux dépens des principes dont je ne voudrais me départir jamais.’ Sor, Méthode, p 85.

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apart from the dual task imposed on me of having to calculate quite exact distances for both hands, I found in it the inconvenience (for me) of being forced to use the whole of the right hand to pluck a single note. I found also that each note I wanted to produce cost me a movement not only of the wrist, but of the entire arm, and that, not having a point of support, it was almost impossible to direct the finger with confidence to determine exactly half of each distance. Sor, then, rules out the use of artificial harmonics – not least because of their weaker sonority. By the same token, he also excludes the possibility of producing all the notes of the chromatic scale. The table of natural harmonics that he proposes, bringing together all the harmonics obtainable from the six strings as far as the second fret, is clearly utopian; there is no choice, then, but to make a prior selection of natural harmonics, and to reduce drastically the range of keys in which they can be deployed: ‘Since there are some here that are almost imperceptible, I have excluded them as much as possible from my compositions.’ But there is at least one exception to the wholesale rejection of artificial harmonics: the practice, originating in violin technique, of sounding the double octave by touching the string with the little finger of the left hand five frets away from the note fretted (Sor himself provides a prominent example in the Fantaisie, op. 16, variation 4). At this point, according to the author – we are about halfway through the Method – the reader possesses all the instrumental theory needed to learn to play: the subsequent chapters go more deeply into the question of fingering as it relates to performance and phrasing of a melody, and the realisation of guitar accompaniments (with examples drawn from Mozart, Paisiello, Cherubini and Sor himself, plus an ambitious analysis of a fragment of Haydn’s Creation in transcription). Finally, in the long Conclusion, Sor recapitulates the principles to which he has held true in conceiving his works, drawing up a list of twelve ‘golden rules’ for the student. Not even in these last pages does the writer manage to give up polemics and digs against his colleagues: the art of captatio benevolentiae is utterly unknown to him. Only here in the Conclusion, his tone wavering between irony and admiration, do we find a single explicit reference to Mauro Giuliani (though its target is named only in the accompanying example): Having to play Hummel’s trio on La sentinelle with Messrs Herz and Lafont, I had to write my own guitar variation example 88, because the one that was there posed far greater difficulties than my own. In the light of such a confession, one can see that if the style proper to the guitar is that of the variation in question, I am not as skilled on the instrument as the one who wrote it. Indeed, I could perform it, but only at the expense of principles from which I would never willingly depart.

lorenzo micheli

Sor

V

###

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Giuliani

4

V

## V # c

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œ œ œ #œ œ nœ œœœœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ

´ ´ ´ ´ ´ œ #œ nœ œ #œ #œ œ ´ œ œ œ œ œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ #œ ## œ #œ œ œ nœ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ V # œ Œ Œ Œ Ó Œ œ œœ Œ Ó œ œ œ œ œ 1 œ œœœ œ 2 œœ ˙ œ œ ### œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ . œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ . V œ j œ j œ œ œ ´ ´ ´ ´´´ ´´´ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ nœ ### œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ . n œ # œ œ œ œœ œœ .. œ V œ œ œ Œ Ó Œ Œ ‰ œœ œ œ œ œ œ

8

Example 88 in Sor’s Method, comparing two versions of the guitar variation of Hummel’s La sentinelle – as originally written by Giuliani (lower stave) and as rewritten by Sor (upper stave). Giuliani’s version is given as it appears in the facsimile published by Tecla, differing slightly from how it appears in Sor’s Method. The repeat of the first part is notated in Sor’s example but is not present in the complete work from which Giuliani’s version is taken. All examples from Giuliani’s works have been prepared from the Complete Works in facsimile, published by Tecla and edited by Brian Jeffery (see bibliography). We are very grateful to Tecla (www.tecla.com) for granting permission to use its editions.

œ œ œ œœ œœ œ

‰ œ œ œ œ #œ nœ œ œ

r œ œ œ œ œ œ œr œ œ œ œ œ3 œ U œ œ œ œ œ œ # œ n œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ### œ œ œ œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ j‰ œ V œ

12

œ œ ### œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ V œ Œ Ó

U ˙˙ ˙ ˙

œ œœœœ œ œ œ œ Ó

œ œ #œ œ ### œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ V

´ ´ œœœ

´ ´ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ ∑ ∑

œ œ œœœœœ œœœœœœœœœ œœœœœœ J ‰ œœ

16

r œœœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœ œœ œ œœœœœœœ œœœ œœ ### n œ œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œ œ œ œ V Œ ∑ Œ Ó œ Œ œ œ

19

V

###

œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ

œ #œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ

œœ

œ œœ

œœ

œ

œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

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mauro giuliani’s guitar technique

59

v mauro g iuliani Giuliani’s slurs have been restored in our example on the previous page.

‘En général, tout ce que l’on appelle batterie, si elle ne représente quelque autre chose qu’elle-même, m’a toujours produit l’effet d’un roulement continuel dont la monotonie est insupportable.’ Sor, Méthode, p 30. ‘Je ne présente ici que les moyens qui conduisent à jouer comme moi…des combinaisons comme celles de l’exemple vingt-troisième en éloignent au lieu d’en approcher. La raison en est que non seulement il m’aurait fallu employer le quatrième doigt, mais très souvent il aurait été obligé (lui étant le plus faible) de marquer les parties accentuées.’ Ibid.

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Although Sor, in reproducing the variation written by Giuliani for Hummel’s opus 71, omits a good many of the original slurs, the comparison between these two versions of the same piece – between two approaches to the same musical problem – marks a unique case in guitar history. Once again it becomes apparent that the spirit of rivalry between one school and another, which we have seen threaded throughout Sor’s Méthode, cannot be resolved by formal proofs of one or the other’s superiority; rather, it carries profound implications for our understanding of technique (taken always as adjunct to the musical idea). What is so striking is that the two variations, unmistakably different as they are, both appear utterly idiomatic. For Sor, nevertheless, they express two starkly opposed notions of technique, so much so that he holds one of them to be more or less unplayable. What, then, are those principles from which Sor would never willingly depart? In the light of all we have seen, we might begin by trying to understand why Sor should have removed all of the bass notes in Giuliani’s version. This is surely due to Sor’s avowed preference for playing this kind of triplet figuration not with i, m and a (as the presence of bass notes would generally require), but with p, i and m, the thumb playing the first note of each triplet. Sor’s reworking, moreover, tries to minimise the need for i m alternations through an extensive use of slurs. To enable these slurs, there is a clear tendency to invent figuration that is, as much as possible, playable on a single string. In Giuliani, arpeggio formulas, whether in fixed position (especially seventh and ninth positions) or with shifts incorporated, are used liberally. Sor, on the other hand, replaces almost all of the arpeggios with slurred steps or, at most, thirds (reducing in this way the range of the melodic line). More than this, while Giuliani freely enjoys frequent and rapid shifts between positions and registers, thanks to a heightened left-hand mobility, to Sor these shifts, where not strictly indispensable, cause a sort of vertigo (only with some difficulty can we imagine in Sor writing such as that of the solo part in Giuliani’s Third Concerto, op. 70, even in those pages in where he uses the fingerboard to the full, such as the variations of the Fantaisie, op. 7). Returning to the Sentinelle, Sor’s clear preference for stepwise passagework, performed probably by slurring the first two notes in each triplet, points up his two chief dislikes – of the i m alternation and of arpeggio figuration. His lack of sympathy for the latter is manifest in the second part of the Method: As a rule, everything known as batteries or broken chords, if they stand for nothing other than themselves, has always produced the effect on me of a continuous rolling of an unbearable monotony. A few paragraphs earlier, Sor has said clearly that he wishes to limit the formulas of fingering used to the few necessary to his own music; and this because I present here only the methods which will lead to playing like mine…formulas such as those of example 23 move away from these methods, rather than towards them, for the following reason: not only would they require me to use the fourth finger, but very often this finger would be obliged (although it is the weakest) to mark the accented parts. lorenzo micheli

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ V œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

Example 23 in Sor’s Method, p v.

Glancing at this ‘notorious’ example, one sees that not only does it show two arpeggio formulas used by practically all guitarist-composers of the 1800s, it even corresponds exactly to arpeggios 31 and 83 of Giuliani’s opus 1: p imam i pi m a mi

p i ma mi p i mam i

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i m i

0 41

2

a

i m i

i m i

a

0 1 0 2 3

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i m i

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p

p

p

p

p

Giuliani, Studio, p 4 (Giuliani’s fingerings).

p

Ibid. p 9.

p

Now, having pointed out some of Sor’s idiosyncrasies, we shall try to establish whether Giuliani’s playing is equally defined in principle, or perhaps more empirical in its basis. As we have seen, the Studio per la chitarra offers a catalogue, so to speak, of technical solutions presented by Giuliani in their finished form; it may be that a concise examination of various other works might provide further useful indications. The Right Hand Like Carulli in the Méthode complète, Giuliani’s opus 1 notates right-hand fingering with a sort of caret ( ) for the thumb, and one, two or three dots for i, m and a (index, middle and ring fingers). The ring finger comes into use in arpeggios on four strings and sometimes, apart from arpeggio formulas, on the first string, as demanded by the texture or just by common sense. Scales – and unslurred notes in general – are played by alternating index and middle; we shall soon see how, in order to articulate scales of a certain length, Giuliani makes use of an adroit mixture of plucked notes and technical slurs. Much of Giuliani’s music can be played with just three fingers (p, i, m). Nevertheless, it is clear that Giuliani’s assured use of the ring finger looks ahead to its total emancipation, foreshadowing the important advances that were to be made by Aguado and, later, Coste. On this view, the 120 arpeggio formulas of opus 1 stand squarely at the forefront of the development of four-finger technique (p, i, m and a). As far as the thumb is concerned, Giuliani often indicates its use by turning the stem of the note towards the bass; this is made clear in opus 1 at the beginning of Part ii:

ˆ

In all these examples in Part ii the bass, that is the notes with downward stems, are played with the thumb, and the others above with the index of the right hand.

‘In tutti questi esempj della seconda parte i bassi, cioè quelle note che hanno la coda al di sotto, si toccano col pollice, e le altre di sopra coll’indice della mano destra.’ Ibid. p 13.

Scales and passages in broken thirds, sixths, octaves and tenths are performed by alternating thumb and index. Like most of his contemporaries, Giuliani seems to have taken the use of the right hand rather for granted: throughout his work one is hard put to find relevant markings, even where the performer might be expected to need them. Such mauro giuliani’s guitar technique

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is the case with the sforzato chords in the third movement of the Sonata, op. 15, possibly to be played with the thumb, or with the triplets that appear with such striking orchestral effect in the sextet ‘Siete voi?’ in Rossiniana nº 5: here, even though exceptional agility of the thumb is required in many places in Giuliani’s work, one cannot help wondering if in fact strings six and five are to be plucked with p and i, while m and a play the sixths and thirds of the tune: 217

Giuliani, Rossiniana nº 5, op. 123, bars 217–220.

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‘La main doit s’appuyer légèrement sur le petit doigt qui doit se poser presque à côté de la chanterelle, et précisement au milieu de la distance du chevalet à la rosette.’ Carulli, Méthode complète, p 4.

‘La mano derecha caerá junto á la boca siguiendo la misma direccion del brazo, no apoyando de manera alguna ninguno de sus dedos sobre la tapa, á fin de que sus movimientos sean mas libres.’ Aguado, Colección de estudios, p 3 [35].

‘Le petit doigt me sert quelquefois en l’appuyant perpendiculairement sur la table d’harmonie au-dessous de la chanterelle, mais j’ai grand soin de le lever dès qu’il ne m’est point nécessaire. La nécessité de cet appui vient de ce que dans les passages qui exigent une grande vélocité du pouce pour passer des notes de la basse à celles d’une partie intermédiaire, tandis que le

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As to the extremely widespread practice of resting the little finger on the top of the guitar, we have no way of knowing if Giuliani counted himself as one of its supporters – surely the majority of writers of the first guitar methods – or its detractors. Jean-Baptiste Phillis, in his Nouvelle méthode pour la lyre ou guitarre à six cordes (undated) recommends resting the right hand on the soundboard, supported by the little finger five centimetres from the bridge. Carulli, too, declares himself in favour of giving the right hand a point of support (‘the right hand should rest lightly on the little finger, which must be placed almost immediately next to the first string, and exactly halfway between the bridge and the rosette’). Sor takes up an intermediate position, assigning the decision to the needs of the moment, and describing the advantages that resting the little finger might bring in many situations. But new currents in pedagogy were flowing in the opposite direction: already, in his Colección de estudios (1820), Aguado, setting the trend for nearly all guitarists after him, adopts a stance in favour of (real or supposed) freedom of movement for the hand: The right hand should fall close to the soundhole in line with the arm, not resting any finger on the soundboard in any way, so that its movements may be freer. Giuliani is never explicit on the matter. Certainly, many of his most virtuosic pages, with their frequent shifts of register, preclude the resting of the little finger on the soundboard. But there are just as many examples in which one cannot help wondering if in fact he might have resorted to this expedient. One hypothesis might be of a ‘flexible’ attitude – not unlike Sor’s – in which, whenever the fingers have to play consistently on the three highest strings, the right hand profits from the control which only an external point of rest can give. It seems natural to imagine a position of this kind in many of Giuliani’s variation sets, or – to cite a well-known passage – in the triplets of the Grande ouverture, op. 61; here, for a time, Giuliani’s writing for guitar corresponds perfectly with the advice of Sor: Sometimes I make use of the little finger by resting it at a right angle to the soundboard beneath the top string, but I take great care to take it off whenever it is not necessary. The need for this support arises in those passages which require great rapidity from the thumb in passing from bass notes to intermediate ones, while the first and

lorenzo micheli

second fingers are busy with making up the remainder of the bar in triplets…in this case the little finger keeps my entire hand in position, and I have to attend only to the use of the thumb; but as soon as my hand can comfortably keep its position without this support, I stop using it. # # œ œ œ œ œ n œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ# œ œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ V # œ œ nœ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

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premier et le second doigt sont occupés à compléter la fraction de la mesure en triolets…alors le petit doigt me tient toute la main en position, et je n’ai à m’occuper que de la marche du pouce; mais dès que ma main peut conserver la position convenable sans cet appui, je cesse de l’employer.’ Sor, Méthode, p 56. Giuliani, Grande ouverture, op. 61, bars 66–68.

ƒ

S

We have no evidence, either, regarding the use of nails. As has frequently been pointed out, at the beginning of the nineteenth century (but already in the Baroque era) there are many attestations of musicians who played with them, and of others who censured them. Yet chamber practice and a vast output of ensemble music – not to mention concertos! – formed a considerable part of Giuliani’s activity, and the guitar parts would surely have been difficult to hear if played with flesh alone. From this underestimated – but, until it can be refuted, relevant – observation, one may reasonably infer that his technique may well have relied on the use of nails. The Left Hand & Shifts If for the right hand we must be content with a general paucity of indications, the sources yield a little more material on the left. In general (with exceptions that we shall see), in printed editions of Giuliani’s works, the richness of performance markings grows smaller with the increase in opus number and with each advance in the year of composition. The odd case of editorial carelessness aside, no doubt owing to haste in selling the manuscript (on Giuliani’s part) or in bringing the new publication on to the market (on the part of the publisher), we may assume that with the passing of time the composer no longer felt himself bound to provide technical data that by now must have been well known: in this regard we need only examine the early sets of themes and variations, such as opp. 2, 4 and 6 (published between 1807 and 1810) and compare them with later publications of analogous works, in order to remark how fingering, dynamics and agogic indications become ever fewer and farther between. A particularly striking feature is Giuliani’s conservative use of the left-hand thumb to fret the sixth string. In the second part of opus 1 this occurs in any number of instances (indicated in the music by an asterisk), and it is possible to find traces of it in other works – for example, in variation 8 of opus 6, where a B on the sixth string is accompanied by the direction ‘7th fret with the thumb’, and in the first of the four Variations, op. 128, which are preceded by a legend explaining: ‘The roman numerals indicate the positions or frets. The arabic numerals indicate the fingers of the left hand. p refers to the left-hand thumb.’

# # œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ V # ‰ Œ ‰ œ Œ J 7mo tasto S col pollice

137

œ

œ œ J S

The preface to Giuliani’s op. 128 quoted here is taken from R. Chiesa, ‘La diteggiatura’, from E. Allorto, R. Chiesa, M. Dell’Ara & A. Gilardino, La chitarra (Turin: edt, 1990). There are two editions of op. 128, published by Ricordi (1827) and Diabelli (1828). The latter lacks the preface, and is the one chosen for Tecla’s facsimile edition.

Giuliani, Variations, op. 6, bar 137.

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In fact, the Variations, op. 128, represent a fascinating source for the study of Giuliani’s conception of the left hand: a surprising and perhaps unique example – not counting the collections of studies – of a work fingered by Giuliani in its entirety. (I assume that the fingering is indeed his.) Dealing as we are with an easy work, we may suppose that it was the editor, hoping to attract the greatest number of potential buyers, who expressly commissioned the meticulous fingering. Two interesting points emerge (apart from the use of the left thumb already mentioned): the first, in variation 4, is perhaps the only case in Giuliani’s work in which the composer appears to demand with a specific fingering a socalled ‘echo slur’ (legatura a eco). The second observation concerns two ‘atypical’ barrés (apparent from the finger numbers; Giuliani never notates barrés in his scores, although he often presupposes them, mostly partial and limited to the upper strings): one is made by the middle finger on two strings in the second variation, and the other on three strings, made by the little finger towards the end of the first variation (this latter case might lead us, a posteriori, to refinger the identical arpeggiated chord at the end of Rossiniana nº 1, op. 119).

. . ≈ 3 2 0 œ 3 1 0 3 1 0. 2. # œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ V œ≈ œ œ Ó œ œ 3 2 0

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Three extracts from Giuliani’s Variations, op. 128.

V

41

3 œ 4œ œ 1œ 4œ 3œ 1œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ Œ Ó 2

2

1

0

1

3

2 1 4 2 1 0 58

V

4

# ˙ œ4 4œ œ4 ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ 1 œ 1œ ‰ J

A mere boutade, almost a joke, seems to be the only interpretation of bar 10 of Exercise nº 24, op. 48: in the presence of an extension of the least agile fingers in position xii, the left thumb is brought on to the fingerboard – this time from below! – to press down the first string and so act, in the manner of a cellist, as a ‘movable capotasto’: XII

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ≈ ≈ ≈ # # V # ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ col dito pollice f [with the thumb] F

10

Giuliani, Exercise nº 24, op. 48, bars 10–11.

This episode apart, opus 48 contains a wealth of examples showing Giuliani’s left-hand use. Many of the ‘exercises’, indeed, are nothing other than recapitulations, more or less literal, of material already deployed in previous works, in particular of the Concertos, opp. 30 and 36, filled out with a mass of indications of left-hand position. In a certain sense, it is as though one were in front of autograph notes for the fingering of the concertos (which are lacking in them). The roman numerals, allowing us to visualise left-hand shifts right away, emphasise Giuliani’s predilection for writing in the extended register, with jumps of very wide intervals, and his own total confidence in the high part of the fingerboard (above all the ninth position, reflected in the abundance of pieces in his favoured

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key of A major). When the leaps of position are especially wide, the shifting of the hand usually takes place over an open string, which takes on the function of a ‘pivot’, allowing one to negotiate the whole passage thanks to its resonance. Prominent examples – among hundreds – can be found in Exercises 8 and 18 in opus 48; or, again, in the third movement of the Concerto, op. 30, and at the end of the Variations, op. 128. This last example has a shift from the seventh to the first fret, resolved by the composer through a pivotal open B. In short, the use of an open string for leaps of eight or nine frets applies to the great majority of cases, to the point of being raised to a real rule (to be used, like all rules, with discretion) for the fingering of Giuliani’s music. VIII 0

œœ a V œœ Œ œ 31

≈

œœœœ Œ

I 0

U œœ Œ œœ œ uŒ

V

œœœ œ

Four examples showing the use of open strings to facilitate left-hand shifting in Giuliani’s music:

Con brio

œ. œ.

I

I XIV II

### b V C

œ f S

I

IX

œ œœ œ œœœ œ œœœœœœœœ Œ Ó œœ œ œ œ œ œ

œ. œ.

S

IX

. œœ œ Œ œ

œœœœœœ œœœ œ œ

œœœ œ œœ œ Œ œ œ

œ

´ ´ ´´ ´ ´ ´ ´ ´ ´ ´ ´ ´ ´ ´´ œœ #œ. œ œ œ œ œ #œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ 9 œ Œ œ œ œ œœœ œ œ œj ## œœ œ œ nœ. œ c V # Œ œ œ œœœ Œ Œ Œ Œ œ nœ. œ œ œ œ œ f [VII]

# 211 œœœ d V œ 111

≈ 4œ 1 ≈ 1 I œ œ 2œ œ œ 2œ 1œ ≈ 2œ 1œ 3 ≈ 1œ 0 ≈ 0 œ œ œ œ 4œ œ 0œ 0 Œ œ œœ 2 1 3

a) from Exercise nº 8, op. 48 b) from Exercise nº 18, op. 48 c) from Concerto, op. 30, 3rd movement d) from Variations, op. 128 The fingering in examples (a), (b) & (d) is from contemporary editions and surely Giuliani’s own; (c) is given for comparison – an open E may be used to smooth over the descending and ascending shifts in the first two bars of the example.

œœ œ œ

4

2

Harmonics, Glissando, Timbre Rather rarely, in Giuliani’s work as a whole, are the guitar’s more idiomatic effects brought into play. Giuliani’s use of harmonics, especially in comparison to other guitarists of the time, is extremely sparing. The seventh of the Eight Variations, op. 6, is composed entirely of natural harmonics, and preceded by an exhaustive explanation of the notation: In order to produce the harmonics or flageolets well, it is necessary to rest the fingers lightly on the strings in line with the frets, which are indicated with numbers above the notes; note that the numbers below the notes show the strings of the guitar. In the Pastorale of the Gran duo concertant for guitar and fortepiano (written four-handedly with Ignaz Moscheles) the harmonics are likewise natural (flaggioletti). To Giuliani, the use of this more resonant kind of harmonic must have seemed almost obligatory in a concertante piece with fortepiano.

mauro giuliani’s guitar technique

‘Per bene esprimere li armonici, ò flaggioletti, bisogna appoggiare leggiermente le dita sulle corde a misura dei tasti, i quali verranno indicati con numeri al di sopra delle note; si previene che i numeri che sono al di sotto delle note mostrano le corde della chitarra.’ Giuliani, Otto variazioni, op. 6.

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‘Con suoni armonici, ossiano flautati.’ Thomas Heck maintains that flautati means ‘with vibrato’ (Mauro Giuliani: virtuoso guitarist & composer [Columbus, oh: Orphée, 1995], p 155); this conjecture, however, besides making ossiano illogical grammatically – ossiano indicating a synonym – seems not to agree with the etymology of flagioletto, which, deriving from the Latin flabeolum (‘a puff of air’), through Old French flageol, refers to a small flute. Flagioletto and flautato must therefore be equivalent terms. ‘Col medesimo dito della mano sinistra che forma il tuono della piccola nota, dopo di averlo vibrato, si striscia fino alla nota di melodia, facendo risuonare tutti gl’intervalli, a guisa dell’abbellimento che nel canto si chiama portamento di voce.’ Giuliani, Studio, p 39.

‘Con la mano destra vicino allo sca[n]nello per imitare il suono de’ corni.’

Within the more balanced sonorities of two guitars in the Variazioni Concertanti, op. 130, on the other hand, the harmonics are artificial (variation 5: ‘With harmonics, or flute-notes’). Both types of harmonics occur in the Rossiniane (a well-known instance is the recitative in artificial harmonics in the Introduction to Rossiniana nº 1). Intermittent, too, is the use of glissando, called strisciato (‘sliding’) by Giuliani: in opus 1, Part iii, it is the subject of a study and a specific chapter. In his brief instruction Giuliani describes how the effect is achieved, and invokes its vocal origin in the portamento della voce: With the same finger of the left-hand that stopped the small note, which has just been sounded, one slides up to the melody note, sounding all the intervals on the way, in the same way as in the portamento in singing. Examples of strisciato occur in the minor-mode variation of opus 4, and also in the Rossiniane. In the last resort, the attempt to unearth in Giuliani’s work – as often one is tempted to do – the traces of a thoroughgoing research into colour and timbre turns out to be a rather forced affair. His fingering, always attentive to musical coherence, does not seem to be adapted to this kind of application (excepting a few brush-strokes of instrumental colour, found above all in the early works). Episodes such as the imitation of horns in opus 6 (‘with the right hand close to the bridge so as to imitate the sound of horns’) are not so much rare as unique. However this may be, there is no denying Giuliani’s uncommon sensibility and his extraordinary capacity to recreate on six strings the breadth and impact of great operatic and symphonic frescoes, as can be seen both in the Ouvertures for two guitars and in the Rossiniane. Articulation, Slurs, Phrasing Right-hand articulation depends above all on the distinction between notes that are joined by a technical slur (a hammer-on or pull-off) and notes that are articulated (plucked) separately. This distinction is notated with direct clarity and coherence in all of Giuliani’s works. The graphic sign indicating that the note is to be plucked with the right hand is, for the vast majority of nineteenth-century guitarists, a dot placed above or below the notehead. (This has often brought about a certain confusion between a true staccato and, as in this repertoire, the mere absence of a slur.) Such a meticulous and fine distinction between slurred and unslurred notes provokes a fundamental question: do there exist basic criteria governing the way in which Giuliani assigns his slurs? In light of some of his more significant works, two chief points emerge. The first is that often – and this is deliberately emphasised for didactic purposes in many of the Exercises, op. 48 – Giuliani adopts the principle of a single slur for all the notes lying on a single string. The right hand, in this case, limits itself to plucking the first note of each group of slurred notes:

≈ ≈ œ j ‰ Œ # # # œj ‰ Œ œœœœ œ œœœœœœœœ œ œ œ œ œ œ V ≈ J ‰ Œ œœœJ ‰ Œ œœœ œ œ œ ≈ œ œ

49

Giuliani, Variations, op. 38, variation 3, bars 49–50.

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As a second principle, Giuliani systematically avoids the practice of ‘echo slurs’ (legature a eco); to this end, in cases in which the player might be tempted to use the open string, he precisely marks which notes are to be slurred and which are to be plucked: 49 . . . . . . . . . œ œ œ œ ### œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ V œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ Œ Œ Œ ‰ J

Giuliani, Variations, op. 2, variation 3, bars 49–50.

The consequence of these two principles, which together go to explain the great variety of slurring patterns in Giuliani, is a striking asymmetry of articulation: groups of two, three, or four slurred notes may fall at almost any point in the bar, and not necessarily on the accented beat. In this way the metre of the music and the internal metre of the groups frequently come into conflict. By disallowing echo slurs, Giuliani adopts a position diametrically opposed to Carulli, who, by contrast, makes liberal use of them to achieve – where possible – a completely regular accentuation, aided by the avoidance of multiple slurs (i.e. groups of more than two slurred notes). The former principle, on the other hand, recalls the practice of Sor and indeed of lutenists and Baroque guitarists: Giuliani sometimes performs scales of a certain length by plucking the first note of each group of notes lying on a single string (like a stroke of the bow) and slurring the remaining ones. The effect is rather like a diatonic ‘glissando’. Perhaps the most celebrated case is that of the first movement of the Sonata, op. 15:

∑ Œ Ó œ œ œ œ . œ. œ. œ œ œ œ V‰œœœœœ œ f

176

Giuliani, Sonata, op. 15, first movement, bars 176–177.

When performing passages of this kind, one must avoid marking the plucked notes with too much emphasis: in this way the scale will sound fluent, but without losing that restless dynamic quality (achievable only on plucked-string instruments) conferred upon it by the unequal sonority of slurred and unslurred notes. Of course, irregularity and naturalness cannot coexist unless the tempo chosen by the performer is fast enough: how often is an effective performance of this Sonata compromised by being noticeably under tempo! Phrase markings in Giuliani are, in the end, more or less non-existent. True musical staccato is left to the judgement of the interpreter, and, saving exceptional cases such as that of variation 6 in opus 9 (in which a semiquaver scale with points underneath, and therefore articulated, is accompanied by the indication staccato) or cases in which long articulated passages are marked with a point (as, again, in the first movement of the Sonata, op. 15), must be construed from the shape of the musical discourse. Phrasing slurs, following the expected practice of guitar music of the period, are not written, an absence which makes indispensable once again the recourse to the practice, stylistic knowledge and taste of the player. The precision with which Giuliani indicates articulation and left-hand slurs can often be of great help:

. . . . . . . . . œ nœ œ œ # œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ . . . . œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ ### ≈ œ œ œ œ œ V Œ Œ œ œ œ œ

3

mauro giuliani’s guitar technique

It is of course possible that these indications still refer only to notes plucked with the right hand rather than slurred with the left. But I am strongly convinced that in both op. 9 and op. 15 Giuliani may well intend a ‘pianistic’ staccato to create a strong contrast with nearby slurred groups of notes. Quick passages where legato and staccato are alternated, as here, abound in the sonatas of Mozart (see, for instance, k 279/i, bars 33–35, or k 281/i, bars 82–85); in Giuliani, then, the effect to aim for is a pianistic ‘with pedal /without pedal’ contrast. Giuliani, Concerto, op. 30, 3rd movement, bars 3–4.

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. . . . . . . œœ œ # # # ‰ œj œ œ œ œ œ # œ n œ œ #œ nœ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ œœœ V œœ œ # œ œ œ œ œ Œ Ó œ œ œ œ œ F

21

Giuliani, Grande ouverture, op. 61, bars 21–22, and beneath for comparison, the 3rd movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata, op. 10/2, bars 20–23.

œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ nœ œœœœ œ f S œ œ œ ? œœœ œœœ œœœ ‰ œ œ œ b nœ œ J œ œ

20

&b

p. œ œ ˙.

. œœ œ .

. œœ œ .

. œ œ œ .

∑ Œ Ó œ œ œ . œ. œ. œ˙ œ œ œ œ V œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ f dol:

Giuliani, Sonata, op. 15, first movement, bars 176–177. In the parallel passage in the exposition of this movement, bars 51–52, the slurred groups do not quite correspond with the strings, but it is hard to believe in a musical intention more than a typographical slip – Giuliani’s, or more likely the printer’s. This is perhaps one instance in which literal precision is not essential: Antoine de l’Hoyer, for example, tends to notate long slurred passages, in which the slurs must evidently be grouped by string, using a kind of shorthand in which notes are slurred, let us say, in groups of four (although this slurring is not literally possible). If de l’Hoyer did not feel the necessity for precision, nor, perhaps, did Giuliani’s publisher Steiner, whose engraver was likely copying the musical text from the first edition (Imprimerie Chimique, a poor and barely legible edition).

176

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The imaginative unevenness of Giuliani’s slurring has aroused in interpreters – at all levels – and in modern editors more than a little perplexity: often it drives them to work on the text a drastic ‘normalisation’, thinking to make it more consonant with the musical squareness often associated with music of the Classical period. Still, it must be borne in mind that this freedom of inflection does not play a mechanical role alone, though that is undeniably a factor. Rather, it may be turned into an element functional to the musical discourse, invoking a poetic of subtle variatio – one which we may perhaps struggle to appreciate, but which, in the last resort, and notwithstanding all the differences, can be compared to the taste for notes inégales in the music of the French Baroque.


biblio g r aphy Aguado, Dionisio. The Complete Works for Guitar: in reprints of the original editions with prefaces by Brian Jeffery, Heidelberg, Chanterelle, 1994. Four volumes: vol. 1 includes the Colección de estudios (1820) and the Nuevo método de guitarra, op. 6; vol. 2 comprises the Nuevo método para guitarra (Madrid, 1843) and the Apéndice al nuevo método para guitarra (1849/50); the Escuela de guitarra (Madrid, 1825) is not included —. New Guitar Method, ed. Brian Jeffery, London, Tecla, 1981; translated by Louise Bigwood from Nuevo método para guitarra (Madrid, 1843) Allorto, E., R. Chiesa, M. Dell’Ara & A. Gilardino. La chitarra, Turin, edt, 1990 Carulli, Ferdinando. Méthode complète pour parvenir à pincer de la guitare par les moyens les plus simples et les plus faciles, op. 241 (Paris, 5th edn, 1825), modern facsimile edition, Geneva, Minkoff, 1987 —. Méthode complète pour guitare, op. 27 (Paris, c. 1809), modern facsimile edition, Florence, Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1981 —. Méthode pour apprendre à accompagner le chant, op. 61 (Paris, c. 1810), modern facsimile edition, Florence, Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1981 —. Seconde suite à la méthode de guitare ou lyre, op. 71 (Paris, c. 1810), modern facsimile edition, Florence, Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1981 —. Supplément à la méthode ou La première anneé d’étude de guitare, op. 192 (Paris, c. 1822), modern facsimile edition, Florence, Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1981 Giuliani, Mauro. The Complete Works in Facsimiles of the Original Editions, edited by Brian Jeffery [39 volumes], London, Tecla, 1984 Heck, Thomas. Mauro Giuliani: virtuoso guitarist and composer, Columbus (oh), Editions Orphée, 1995 Sor, Fernando. Méthode pour la guitare (Paris, 1830), modern facsimile edition, Geneva, Minkoff, 1981 —. Method for the Spanish Guitar (London, R. Cocks & Co, 1832), modern facsimile edition, London, Tecla, 1995; translated by A. Merrick from Méthode pour la guitare.

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OnTeaching the Unteachable luis zea

int ro duc t ion nasmuch as what and how we teach is a reflection of what and how we learn, this article is about both teaching and learning the unteachable.Although written with the guitar in mind, it mostly addresses issues of relevance to musical performance and teaching in general. What I mean by unteachable will – I hope – become clear as readers go through the article. Tempting though it was at first, I soon gave up the idea of providing a definition because I could ‘think of none which does not assume that the reader already knows what it is, or which does not falsify by leaving out much more than it can include’. Émile Jacques-Dalcroze (1865–1950) once formulated the principle that

I

real teaching begins when the student has a problem – all else is simply instruction. Certainly, genuine teaching involves a lot more than providing unequivocal explanations and instructions. It may reasonably be argued that objective knowledge is teachable and subjective knowledge is not. This notion, however, is simplistic and deceptive, for while it is evident that music-making skills differ widely in nature and degree of complexity, they often straddle an elusive borderline between what seems and doesn’t seem discernible to the intellect or perceptible to the senses – and hence between what seems and doesn’t seem teachable. In other words, teaching and instruction cannot so easily be separated. Besides, effective teaching obviously depends on the recipient’s cognitive capacity, too, quite apart from what is being taught. Added to this that the more taxing problems are usually the most interesting and stimulating ones (even if coping with them is not always as rewarding as it is challenging), I would prefer a slightly more focused – yet less radical – formulation of Dalcroze’s principle:

It was for these reasons that T.S. Eliot avoided the attempt to define poetry. See ‘The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism’ (1933), in Selected Prose of T.S. Eliot, ed. Frank Kermode (London: Faber, 1975), p 95. Lois Chosky, Robert Abramson, Avon Gillespie & David Woods, Teaching Music in the Twentieth Century (Englewoods Cliffs, nj: Prentice Hall, 1986), p 33.

real teaching begins when the teacher faces the seemingly unteachable – often all else is simply instruction. The inescapable question now arises: how can we teach the seemingly unteachable – if indeed we can? By and large, I try to hint at – rather than assert – answers, Copyright © 2003 by Luis Zea

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and I endeavour to do this mostly by invoking ideas derived from the pianist and teacher Artur Schnabel (1882–1951), the thinker Karl Popper (1902–1994), and in particular from various age-old Eastern teaching traditions. My emphasis on the expression hint at stems from the premise (inherited from these traditions) that the role of the teacher can be no more than to point the way. For in music – as in every art – the more unteachable the knowledge appears to be, the less likely it is that it can be encapsulated in discursive language – and consequently, the less likely that the student will find it in an outside source. To pretend otherwise is perniciously misleading and amounts to ending up like Rowan Atkinson’s ‘blind man, in the dark room, looking for the black cat…that isn’t there!’ I would thus reformulate Dalcroze’s principle again by saying that real teaching is inducing the student to learn from within himself – rarely can mere instruction be expected to accomplish that.

Aaron Shearer, ‘On Primary Intent’, egta Guitar Journal nº 7 (1996), p 7. This is a valuable article which also addresses the crucial role of aims and visualisation. Kassner made this remark at the 1996 August International Guitar Festival in Caracas.

This paragraph encapsulates, in a nutshell, Karl Popper’s seminal idea of problem-solving about the growth of human knowledge, to which I largely adhere. See Karl Popper, Conjectures and Refutations: the growth of scientific knowledge (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1963; 5th edn, 1989), pp viii–ix (preface).

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Teachers have a big responsibility if they are willing to take up this task (particularly with younger beginners), all the more so if we realise, as Aaron Shearer points out, that ‘habits of thought and movement are unavoidably being formed during every moment we play our instrument – making it easier or more difficult to learn’. Shearer’s idea reminds me of an insightful lecture by Eli Kassner in which he stated that ‘you learn best with whom you first learn’, clearly implying that habits – good and bad – are more easily acquired at the beginning of study than at any other time along the learning path. While much of what follows will seem relevant to so-called remedial teaching at advanced levels (especially on an individual basis), I like to think that the essential concepts are pertinent to learners at all levels and ages – even children, who, after all, are not as trouble-free as we might like or expect them to be. A healthy optimism is always welcome, but regardless of how challenging a teaching situation appears to be, the success of our efforts remains unpredictable and at times even indiscernible. Of course, we cannot teach without departing from certain aims and assumptions. In other words, all teaching involves empirical predictions within a horizon of expectations: we want to achieve x, so we should do y; if we do a, b will follow. The reality is, though, that any teaching approach is likely to produce unintended results, some of which might turn out be undesirable, too. It is in this way that new problems – as well as new aims – emerge and we find ourselves in need of making successive adjustments by trial and error. Such a process should be a good reminder of the fallible nature of our attempts. And yet, it also indicates that we can gradually approach a solution by way of approximations, even if we are never certain that we will actually reach it. Thus, the teacher’s role has meaning and purpose – and the student’s knowledge can grow – for the plain reason that we can learn from our mistakes. Far from being static, then, as if following rigid rules, the best kind of teaching and learning is dynamic and creative. I would kindly ask those readers who might expect a comprehensive method for Teaching the Unteachable to bear in mind that my main aim is far less formidable – though more realistic – than that; namely, to encourage teachers and learners, regardless of their outlook, to trust that inborn childlike curiosity which instinctively compels us to explore the world around us in quest of ever

luis zea

more personal and imaginative solutions to perplexing problems. For I envisage teaching not as a compartmentalised parcel but as a boundless and humbling field to be pioneered. Indeed, should you find in this article any inspiration to rely more on your innate ‘poetic wisdom’ and less on pre-packaged, ‘industrial’ answers, I shall be gratefully rewarded.

i musical intang ibles

‘I do not know how I may appear to the world; but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy, playing on the seashore, and diverting myself, in now and then finding another pebble or prettier shell than ordinary, while the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.’ Isaac Newton’s words quoted in Denis Donoghue, Yeats (Glasgow: Collins, 1971; Fontana Modern Masters), p 50.

The Spirit behind the Letter No matter how scrupulously a piece of music be notated, no matter how carefully it may be insured against every possible ambiguity through the indications of tempo, shading, phrasing, accentuation, and so on, it always contains hidden elements that defy definition, because verbal dialectic is powerless to define musical dialectic in its totality. The realisation of these elements is thus a matter of experience and intuition.

Igor Stravinsky, ‘The Performance of Music’, in Poetics of Music in the Form of Six Lessons, tr. Arthur Knodel & Ingolf Dahl (Cambridge, ma: Harvard University Press, 1942), p 123.

It’s difficult to think of a musician who would dissent from Stravinsky as he distinguishes between the letter and the spirit of notated music. Surely, the score can tell the truth but not all the truth, and we shouldn’t – indeed we cannot – limit our questions to merely those having unequivocal ‘correct’ answers. So it is only natural that the teaching of musical interpretation should aim at an appreciation of all those elusive, yet vividly present, elements which lie somewhere beyond the written score and appear to exist outside the realm of discursive language. That they are related to theoretical concepts such as musical characterisation, musical structure and proportions, phrasing and articulation, timing, texture, colour and dynamics is undeniable. Not as evident, perhaps, is that the grasping of such complex and interconnected concepts cannot be the outcome of intellectual inquiry alone. Moreover, whatever we may find in them that is in fact susceptible to rational explanation is likely to be only a fraction – or even a misrepresentation – of their full significance, which ultimately derives from a direct experience of the music. But assuming that a teacher has grasped those ‘hidden elements’, and that he realises that such knowledge is not amenable to unambiguous verbal description, what can he reply when a student asks him an admittedly unanswerable question like How exactly can I play this phrase marked ‘ironic’ in the score so that it conveys a musical identity of its own? Often, the student doesn’t formulate the question in the way he actually means it, or simply doesn’t ask anything at all. All the same, the perceptive teacher might detect a tacitly expressed concern and he would then ask himself: How can I help this student so that he understands and conveys the musical character of that phrase? The same situation can arise with many other questions:

on teaching the unteachable

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What is the right tempo and character for this piece? How much rubato is appropriate here, and how much agogic there? My teacher tells me to play Bach with slurs, another teacher suggested to avoid them, and yet another one says that you can do as you please. Who is right? How much separation is there between these two phrases? How can I play this music so that I do justice to the composer’s intentions, yet without compromising my own artistic vision? These and similar questions are some of the daily ‘puzzles’ faced by students and professionals alike. The trouble is that our teaching and learning appear to gravitate around ‘an almost primordial dependence upon words’, to borrow Leonard B. Meyer’s expression: Leonard B. Meyer, ‘Forgery and the Anthropology of Art’, in Music, the Arts & Ideas (University of Chicago Press, 1967), pp 62–63. In my opinion, Meyer’s quotation points to the root of all positivism in the sense that we instinctively tend to look for certainty in a world full of uncertainty – hence our general proclivity to believe in only what we can formulate in words and verify by logical argument and positive sensory experience.

The enlightening ‘click’ that accompanies the arrival of an answer to a perplexing problem seems similar to the experience of creating poetry as described by T.S. Eliot: ‘It seems to me that at these moments, which are characterised by the sudden lifting of the burden of anxiety and fear which presses upon our daily life so steadily that we are unaware of it, what happens is something negative: that is to say, not “inspiration” as we commonly think of it, but the breaking down of strong habitual barriers…Some obstruction is momentarily whisked away. The accompanying feeling is less like what we know as positive pleasure, than a sudden relief from an intolerable burden.’ ‘The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism’, p 90.

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Without their magic we feel lost. We look at the stars at night and ask their names. Why? If the night enchants, what difference does it make? And yet we tend to ask. The reason is, I think, that from earliest childhood we learn to understand and manipulate the world with words. To know the name is to exercise some control, however small – to be a bit less insecure. It would be most reassuring to begin our quest for truth by asking the right question, but that is unlikely to be the first question we ask. In any case, the world is like a river in constant flux, and eventually students can ask and teachers can answer what they will – sometimes it will work, sometimes it won’t. But we may still ponder: is there a wiser way? A mere endorsement of Stravinsky’s remarks, for instance (that it is just ‘a matter of experience and intuition’) is likely to prove insufficient for the student, even though he might intellectually appreciate the point behind the advice, and realise too that he must be patient and persevere before he can find a solution to such problems. In the meantime, the issue stands that when dealing with unanswerable questions the teacher is supposed to do something – or more precisely, the student expects him to say something, the snag being that if and when the enlightening ‘click’ finally happens, whatever did the clicking doesn’t arrive – nor can it be understood – like the typically didactic, unambiguous instructions given by, say, a primary-school teacher (the guitar has six strings, for example). Instead, ‘it’ appears to behave like a metaphor which by its very nature can only connote, that is, stand for something beyond what it literally says. In this sense, whatever the student needs to ascertain seems far distant from the realm of logical reasoning and much closer to the world of poetry, emotion, myth or even magic. What is more, the notion of connotation itself implies that the teacher is merely acting as a catalyst. In other words, teaching the unteachable seems to depend on the ability to activate the student’s awareness so that, instead of an actual transmission of discernible knowledge, the understanding emerges from within himself – given certain conditions. Considering that teaching involves a perplexing mixture of verbal and non-verbal language – a realisation which only succeeds in making the challenge even more challenging – how, then, can the teacher handle the elusive task of connoting musical truth? It’s time to turn to Artur Schnabel, the pianist who was a master of the unteachable, both as teacher and performing artist, and I should point to the remarkable book Schnabel’s Interpretation of Piano Music by Konrad Wolff (1907– luis zea

1989), who was an outstanding pupil of the legendary Viennese master. This book, still regrettably unknown to many musicians (and apparently out of print), is the finest writing I have come across on the subject of musical interpretation in general – and about an artist whose legacy cannot be overestimated. Many broad areas of music making are illumined by Schnabel’s teachings, and I have chosen to discuss musical characterisation for the first section of the article.

Konrad Wolff, Schnabel’s Interpretation of Piano Music (London: Faber, 1976; first published 1972). I had the honour and good fortune of meeting Wolff in New York and establishing a friendship with him. His was that humane humbleness bestowed upon the few by true wisdom.

Musical Meaning & Musical Characterisation In whatever music I’m learning, I always find the odd spots here and there (sometimes a whole piece) whose meaning seems to elude me. When this happens, I take it for granted that approaching problems of musical meaning with the hope of arriving at unequivocal answers is both unwise and unprofitable, for the character of any piece of music can only be intuitively grasped. By this I mean that there are musical truths inaccessible to conceptual thought whose understanding is exclusively musical, although we can use language to hint at – or allude to – them. If, for instance, I were asked why I hear that the following phrases which open Britten’s Nocturnal are meant to be played as if they were casual thoughts placidly floating in gravity-free space, I could not honestly give a conceptual explanation: II Musingly ) Musingly(q(q) (Meditativo) (Meditativo) 3

œ œ #œ œ œ

V œ. π

,

œ œ. # ˙-

3

œ #œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ

,

# ˙-

Nor could I tell why I find the arrival of the dotted rhythms in the Passacaglia premonitory:

Benjamin Britten, Nocturnal after John Dowland, op. 70, ‘Musingly’, bars 1–4. These extracts from Britten’s Nocturnal are copyright © 1964, 1965 by Faber Music Ltd, and reproduced by kind permission of Faber Music Ltd, 3 Queen Square, London wc1n 3au.

starting broadly (cominciando largamente) 29

V Œ π

5

r bœ œ bœ œ naturale

5

b œœ œœ œ œ R

5

r b b œœ œœ

5

r n n œœœ ˙˙˙ ... œ œ

Britten, Nocturnal, Passacaglia, bar 29.

marc.

V

œ œ œ

w

‰

j œ

nat.

In fact, I can’t help associating this whole section of the Nocturnal with a man’s murky dream, in which he gradually ascertains a sign of approaching danger, and with it comes his sombre realisation that someone is about to be tortured and killed. As the dream unfolds, the man suddenly realises that in fact everything in it is real – even though he is still dreaming – and that the victim is himself. Then the climax of the Passacaglia arrives: Britten, Nocturnal, Passacaglia, bars 34–36. with force (con forza)

r nœ œ r œœ œœœ # œœ œœ # œœ œœ n # œœ œ b Œ V œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ n # œœœ R R ƒ œ( ) V œ( ) w

34

S j nœ œ # œœ œ

# œœ

œ œ

> > > bœ œ œ # œ n œ n œ b œ b œ œ # œ # œ # œ n œ # œœ b œ œ ƒ œ œ œ œ œ

S

œ

œ œ

nœ #œ #œ œ ff #œ œ bœ nœ nœ œ bœ bœ œ # œœ œ # œ # œ œ n œ n œ œ nœ > > > sempre

on teaching the unteachable

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From this point on, I visualise that man uttering This is Martin Esslin’s grisly description of Antonin Artaud’s own voice recorded for his radiophonic poem for four voices, xylophone and percussion entitled Pour en finir avec le jugement de Dieu (‘To have done with God’s judgement’), which he wrote in 1948 for Radiodiffusion Française, and which was banned by its general director on the grounds that it was obscene and blasphemous. See Martin Esslin, Artaud (Glasgow: Collins, 1976; Fontana Modern Masters), p 9. (More about Artaud in the second part of this article.)

Richard Taruskin, Text and Act: essays in music and performance (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), p 54.

Perle’s quotation found in Taruskin, Text and Act, p 98. In this paragraph and elsewhere, I have borrowed the expression poetic wisdom (sapienza poetica) from the Italian thinker Giambattista Vico (The New Science, 1725). One commentator has described it as ‘The one genuinely distinctive and permanent human characteristic …which manifests itself as the capacity and the necessity to generate myths, and to use language metaphorically: to deal with the world…not literally, but “poetically”.’ Terence Hawkes, Structuralism and Semiotics (London: Methuen, 1977), p 15.

Remarks by J.M. Keynes, de Morgan and Bernstein, found in Bernstein, Einstein (Glasgow: Collins, 1973; Fontana Modern Masters), pp 138–9.

weird and violent words…wild, piercing, inarticulate cries – outbursts of such deep intensity of anguish beyond speech that they freeze the blood: it is as though all human suffering, mankind’s sum-total of dammed-up, frustrated rage, torment and pain had been compressed into these tortured, primal shrieks. When I first read this passage it immediately stirred my imagination and for some reason reminded me of the Britten. So part of my imagery is borrowed – but then I would like to think that images belong to anyone who needs them! Isn’t that what poetry is all about? If a student was uncertain about the musical character of this section, I might try to stimulate a response by using my own dream-related images mixed with a paraphrase of Esslin’s passage, or even a reading of it (if by some chance I happened to have the book handy). Of course, I can hardly expect every teacher to approach this student in the same way. I could, for instance, be pressed for an answer as to why I am using these particular images (or using imagery at all); and the only reason I can think of is that I feel the music that way – hardly a convincing reason in itself, and certainly one likely to be taken for ‘that old performer’s standby, calculated to make any musicologist see red’. Useful though they are, Britten’s indications musingly and meditativo (in the first example above) as well as starting broadly and with force (in the second and third examples) are mere hints with a relative value. So in the absence of unequivocal instructions, what are Britten’s intentions? If intuition and imagination are the sine qua non of music making, one cannot but wonder why do these precious resources – the most powerful of the artist’s assets – often appear to be in a state of lethargy, and seldom put to good use? Is it just that little room exists for such fantastic creative faculties in our positivist and technocratic society, trained as it is to succeed by producing and consuming nicely prepackaged and easily digestible solutions to our needs? Composer George Perle’s claim that ‘the greatest single source of bad performance is literalism…it’s what you expect nowadays’ is disquieting and calls for reflection. It strikes me that we are often oblivious of what I tentatively call the miracle of the metaphor; that is, the power of imagery to awaken our creativity and enliven our capacity to grope into the unknown – in this case, the musical meaning of a composition. May it not be that all we need is to give the voice of our poetic wisdom a chance to be heard? It is food for thought that accounts of the achievements of great scientists so often indicate that, far from being insignificant or meaningless, intuitive knowledge is at the root of every scientific discovery – which is why the real scientist, just like the real artist, always knows more than he can account for: It was [Newton’s] intuition which was pre-eminently extraordinary – ‘so happy in his conjectures…as to seem to know more than he could possibly have any means of proving.’ The proofs, for what they are worth, were…dressed up afterwards – they were not the instrument of discovery…[Einstein] found his results by a phenomenal intuitive instinct as to what the results should be. And Einstein himself speaks of

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the search for those highly universal laws…from which a picture of the world can be obtained by pure deduction. There is no logical path leading to these…laws. They can only be reached by intuition, based upon something like an intellectual love…of the objects of experience. So if intuition plays such a such a vital role in science, can we expect a lesser role for it in the arts? Perhaps it’s time we reminded ourselves that it is possible To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour. Indeed, it is through the power of the metaphor that we surpass our hackneyed meaning of equivalence to create the illusion of direct experience, be it sensory perception or the corporealising of an idea or emotion, so that the notional is transformed into the apprehensible, the impossible into the possible – and the unteachable into the teachable. Schnabel was – like every creative musician – well aware of the power of imagery. The following verbal reactions to his students show this: One speaks upward and forward, and therefore one must not play downward and backward. Play the dominant ‘better’ than the tonic. Play the eighth notes slow and the quarter notes fast…play slow and sound fast! Pass the third measure! The question of form arises here only as one of the space to be conquered in one impulse, as inner necessity, as emotion put in motion, as something almost physical. The conception materialises and the materialisation redissolves into conception. Rubato [is] severity without rigidity…a permission, never an order!

Quoted in Karl Popper’s The Logic of Scientific Discovery (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1934; tr. 1959), p 32. Popper, the great critical rationalist, also underlined the indispensability of intuition in scientific endeavours, and curiously, it would seem that art and science have at least this much in common: ‘There is no such thing as a logical method of having new ideas, or a logical reconstruction of this process…every discovery contains “an irrational element”, or a “creative intuition”, in Bergson’s sense.’ Ibid. William Blake, ‘Auguries of Innocence’, in The Penguin Book of English Verse, ed. John Hayward (London: Penguin, 1956), p 243. I am grateful to my friend Brian Arthur, who first introduced me to this poem.

These remarks are quoted in Wolff, Schnabel’s Interpretation of Piano Music, pp 19, 20, 24–25, 28 & 70–71.

I am reminded of the masterclasses by the cellist Frans Helmerson – some of the best and most inspiring teaching I have ever witnessed: When you use the bow for this passage you have to feel as if you’re ironing a silk shirt and the iron is set on cotton mode! You have to taste the note! Don’t close your mouth when you speak…the sound has to be more open! You don’t have to think of what your feet do when you walk. When using the bow it has to feel like ice-skating. When the contact is made there is friction with the material but you also have to feel that you can slide on it, if you’re relaxed enough. Don’t push the accelerator and the brake at the same time!… let the car go! When playing this concerto imagine yourself fifty years older. You sound like you’re walking on thin ice…

on teaching the unteachable

Remarks such as these pervaded the yearly series of masterclasses given by this great Swedish cellist in Caracas between 1990 and 1994.

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Wolff, Schnabel’s Interpretation of Piano Music, p 181.

Saying by the great Chinese master Chuang Tzu (c. 300 bc). See Chung-Yuan Chang, Creativity and Taoism: a study of Chinese philosophy, art & poetry (London: Wildwood House, 1963; 1975 edn), p 13.

Judging by the enlightening effect on the students, I was left in no doubt about the miraculous power of these images to communicate those ‘musical truths’ to which I referred earlier. Of course, such images have a contextual significance, and they are intended to connote, rather than denote, musical meaning – in other words, they are expedient method and little else. No wonder Schnabel used to call out to his students: ‘What I say here ought to be remembered not as words, but as music.’ That the teaching of these musicians shares a common ground is evident, but both were probably unaware that the notion of language as a pointer – rather than a repository of knowledge – is essentially an age-old idea, for it has been widely used for teaching purposes by Eastern masters since ancient times. The following lines are most revealing: The fishing net is used to catch fish; let us have the fish and forget the net. The snare is used to catch rabbits; let us have the rabbit and forget the snare. Words are used to convey ideas; let us have the ideas and forget the words. Indeed, let us have the music and forget the words! Equally illuminating is one of my favourite Chinese stories, which tells about a seeker who approached the Sixth Zen Patriarch Huineng for advice:

Chih Chung Tsai, Zen Speaks. Shouts of Nothingness: collection of ancient Chinese anecdotes (c. 300 bc), tr. Bryan Bruya (London: Harper Collins, 1994), p 35.

‘I’ve been studying the Nirvana Sutra for years and years, and there are still some passages that I don’t quite understand. Do you think you could explain them to me?’ ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t read’ – replied Huineng; ‘If you can read the passages out for me, I’ll see if I can help you understand them.’ ‘But if you can’t even read the words, how can you understand the truth behind them?’ The Zen Patriarch replied: ‘The truth and words are unrelated. The truth can be compared to the moon, and words can be compared to a finger. I can use my finger to point out the moon, but my finger is not the moon, and you don’t need my finger to see the moon. Do you?’

The Russian linguist Viktor Shklovsky assigned to poetry the central use of what he described as ‘making strange’. A commentator explains that such usage was meant ‘to counteract the process of habituation encouraged by routine everyday modes of perception. We very readily cease to “see” the world we live in, and become anaesthetised to its distinctive features. The aim of poetry is to reverse that process, to defamiliarise that with which we are overly familiar, to “creatively deform” the usual, the normal, and so inculcate a new, childlike, non-jaded vision in us. The poet thus aims to disrupt “stock responses”, and to generate a heightened awareness: to restructure our ordinary perception of “reality”, so that we end by “seeing” the world instead of numbly recognising it.’ Hawkes, Structuralism and Semiotics, p 62.

Whether in the mouth of Schnabel, Helmerson or a Zen Patriarch, what impresses me about such images is not only their power but their simplicity. Far from encouraging us to fish in a sea of verbose explanations (as a great deal of teaching does), imagery then has an eminently practical purpose; namely, to awaken us from an alienated perception of ourselves and the world – a goal, as I see it, akin to that of all great art. What matters is not the teacher’s actual words, but the fact that relative truth (whatever he says) becomes a metaphor for absolute truth (unteachable knowledge). This idea does not mean that an informed awareness of conventional teachings (literature on music history, theory, analysis, technique, etc) can be dispensed with, for the effectiveness of a metaphor depends on a close familiarity with such knowledge left tacit, just as the laugh or jolt in a joke is triggered when the punch line collides with that unstated, but nevertheless common, knowledge. Along these lines, it is through what might be called the ‘metaphorical path’ that the more creative musician moves outside the immediate, jaded context of his own medium (vocal or instrumental) into that of another (and away from what at first he might have thought to be the range of all possible solutions to a

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given problem), so that a wider and fresher scope of alternatives emerges. I cannot think of a more lucid explanation of the general meaning of this idea than Karl Popper’s: What characterises creative thinking…seems to me often the ability to break through the limits of the range – or to vary the range – from which a less creative thinker selects his trials. This ability, which clearly is a critical ability, may be described as critical imagination. It is often the result of culture clash, that is, a clash between ideas, or frameworks of ideas. Such a clash may help us to break through the ordinary bounds of our imagination. Thus what is comfortable or idiomatic in one medium can stand as a metaphor for what was originally arduous or unnatural in another, and our imagination is roused by the magical click that results from the clash between different musical mediums. The classic example is the idea of ‘singing’ an instrumental line – as opposed to literally ‘playing’ it. We guitarists sometimes like to imagine the sound of the cello when dealing with a melody in the lower register of the instrument (as in Regino Sainz de la Maza’s Petenera or Villa-Lobos’s Prelude nº 1, for example). Indeed, musicians in general establish all sorts of conceivable associations. Violinist Emmanuel Hurwitz, for instance, is reported as saying that ‘string players should phrase more like pianists with awareness of notes having a decay, [instead of trying] to produce a constantly big sound, as if to bore into a line and every part of the texture’. And pianist Alfred Brendel asserted that he has ‘learnt more from conductors, singers, string players and wind players than from the mere pianist…on the whole a good flexible conductor with a good orchestra will be the model for what the pianist should also do’. Exactly how, when or why the right metaphor performs the miracle is likely to remain a mystery – but we don’t need all the answers. Regardless of which metaphor works for whom, the point stands: metaphors are powerful, and as Schnabel taught us, it is within ourselves that we find the fertile soil in which our musical understanding can grow, and our intuition can grasp the spirit behind the letter of a work: Nothing in the world has ever grown from the exterior to the interior. The interior is the basis for understanding. There is the desire, the force, the gift…Love has to be the starting point – love of music. It is one of my firmest convictions that love always produces some knowledge, while knowledge only rarely produces something similar to love.

Karl Popper, Unended Quest: an intellectual autobiography (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1974), p 47.

Both Hurwitz’s and Brendel’s comments are taken from Stephen Plaistow, ‘Alfred Brendel at 70’, Gramophone, June 2001, p 11. ‘to expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day; night, night; and time is time, Were nothing but to waste night, day and time.’ William Shakespeare, Hamlet, ii.ii

Artur Schnabel, My Life and Music (Gerrards Cross: Colin Smythe, 1970), pp 132–33.

ii physical intang ibles Music & Technique: inseparable companions In moments of great intensity, the spiritual and physical aspects of making music can become so completely unified that it is no longer possible to tell where one stops and the other begins. But these two aspects may also sometimes disintegrate to a point where the creative potential of a performer cannot be realised at all. This is mostly due

on teaching the unteachable

Wolff, Schnabel’s Interpretation of Piano Music, p 22.

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to the fact that music and technique are to a large degree separately trained and developed…Their balance and coordination therefore remains a principal pedagogical problem.

Richard Wright’s recent efforts come to mind. His First Pieces, First Principles (still unpublished) were written as carefully graded pupil and teacher duets. From the very first piece, the high musical quality of the material immediately gives the student the chance to partake of a genuine musical experience at the same time as he learns the basic elements of technique and music notation, alongside the often neglected areas of phrasing, articulation and musical characterisation. See his ‘Articulation and the Myth of Difficulty’, Guitar Forum 1 (egta uk, 2001), pp 77–85.

‘If the wrong person preaches a right teaching, even the right teaching becomes wrong. If the right person expounds a wrong teaching, even the wrong teaching becomes right.’ Muso Kokushi (1275–1351), Dream Conversations (On Buddhism and Zen), tr. & ed. Thomas Cleary (Boston: Shambala, 1994), p 76.

Even though Artur Schnabel’s prime concern to integrate music and technique, summed up by his pupil Konrad Wolff, may still resonate in the consciousness of today’s music-teaching establishment, I nevertheless feel that the guitar world has reason to be optimistic, for there are a growing number of teachers willing to face this challenge from the onset of learning. It is fair to say that optimum efficiency with minimum effort is the venerable maxim which has guided many a sensible musician in pursuit of technical mastery. Anchored in it, there has emerged the familiar conception of technical training as the gradual refinement of physical motion in terms of certain parameters like speed, volume, accuracy, stamina, versatility of tone colour, etc. Since this process is experienced through the most concrete means imaginable – namely, our body and instrument (as opposed to musical knowledge, whose nature seems far less tangible) – it has understandably been argued that technical and musical skills can and should be developed separately (and in this respect it is assumed, I think rightly, that valuable knowledge can be borrowed from disciplines such as physiology or kinesiology). I believe here we have that peculiar case of a useful and creditable idea (i.e. optimum efficiency with minimum effort) being interpreted in a way that turns it into a dangerous one. That music making involves a highly developed technique is self-evident; one must even admit that this whole conception of physical training is quite persuasive. It breaks down, however, as soon as it is alleged that such a process of refinement is susceptible to definitive rational analysis and conscious control – as also when, sooner or later, we find ourselves facing questions which indicate that the borderline between the technical and musical sides of playing may not be as distinct as is commonly believed. And I am not referring to clichéd, though valid, concerns such as how can I play fast and even scales or arpeggios? how can I get a good, big sound? etc; I am thinking of questions more like the following: How can I achieve coordination of both hands so that the phrasing and tempo of this long scale passage stand unaffected? What can I do to produce the sound that will match the mystical character of this sarabande? How can I play the slurs in that phrase without distorting its rhythmic and melodic identity? What is a good fingering for this intensely lyrical melody? How can I clarify the voicings that connect these accented staccato chords? How can I handle such a difficult shift in the middle of this phrase?

See the note on p 74.

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It seems to me that these are more profitable questions to ask, for they might lead us to realise that any technical problem worth considering is at the same time a musical problem, to the extent of it being possible to solve the one if and when you solve the other. I use the word solve quite literally, for the feeling of certainty is final and unmistakable (rather like Eliot’s ‘sudden relief from an intolerable burden’), though admittedly not the kind that you can reconstruct, prove or plan in advance. True, we might find that we had solved the one and not the other, but, at least in my experience, this tends to happen if I was still

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seeing them as separate problems. Even though understandable, such separation is deceitful, for what allows you to ‘kill two birds with one stone’ is precisely the simple realisation that there weren’t two problems to begin with but one. A good technique can of course stimulate the imagination of a creative musician, but by and large, what he wants to say dictates how he says it. So when we do find ourselves isolating the technical problem it is – ideally – because we’re trying to solve the musical problem which gave birth to it. It is in this light that the relevance of Alfred Brendel’s dictum comes forth: ‘Technique can never reach a point where problems cease to exist, precisely because the real problems are not technical but musical.’ And yet I would go even further and say that it is irrelevant whether you start from one end or the other; for if we agree that both are like the two sides of the same coin, then either route is legitimate in so far as it leads to a solution of the one and only problem. Training the body to perform abstract physical motions – no matter how ‘perfect’ and ‘beautiful’ they may seem – to afterwards press the ‘music-making button’ is in fact a delusive notion. For such an approach is often more successful in forging a gymnast rather than a musician – and in creating an apparent borderline where in reality there is none. I admit that some highly talented and motivated people may succeed in integrating their physical and musical faculties in spite of the artificial divide, but to me they represent the exception rather than the rule. Doesn’t the true musician discern a more direct route and envision technique as the capacity to connect the music inwardly heard with its materialisation on the instrument? I suspect that Bach gave his keyboard students all the technical advice they needed, but I find it hard to think that the solutions he offered (say, when teaching his Inventions, the Anna Magdalena pieces or the Well-Tempered Clavier) were devoid of any relation to musical goals and merely intended to aid manual dexterity. Indeed, far from being an isolated process of training the fingers according to abstract rules about physical motion, both our teaching and learning of technique become a more worthwhile and rewarding experience inasmuch as we aim to establish fluent channels that connect muscular movement and a myriad of sensory perceptions at one end, with intuitions, emotions and musical meaning at the other. And I mean two-way channels, for the solution to the questions I posed above can be triggered off by travelling along multiple routes, as I try to illustrate below:

Alfred Brendel, Musical Thoughts and Afterthoughts (London: Robson Press, 1976), p 110.

world of sounds

HEARING

M USI C A L MEANING world of intuitions and emotions

touch sight world of visual images

world of tactile sensations and bodily movement

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Schnabel knew that when these subtle connections are established, ‘technique goes beyond the mere control of the body, which ceases to be the recipient of orders from the inner ear: technique rather becomes itself a bodily activity which, in turn, is able to stimulate the creative imagination’. Ruth Gillen, ed., The Writings and Letters of Konrad Wolff (Westport, ct: Greenwood Press, 2000), pp 121–5.

In my diagram I have only referred to hearing, sight and touch, since they are the senses directly involved in guitar playing. It is evident, however, that taste and smell cannot be excluded, for they are capable of evoking powerful associations with our emotions and other senses, too. (Think of the extraordinary cases of blind deaf–mute persons such as Laura Bridgman and Helen Keller.)

Bronowski is cited in Karl Popper & John Eccles, The Self and Its Brain (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1977), p 286.

Morihei Ueshiba (1883–1969), the great master and founder of Aikido, urged his students to ‘study how water flows in a valley stream, smoothly and freely between the rocks…everything – even mountains, rivers, plants and trees – should be your teacher’. Morihei Ueshiba, The Art of Peace: teachings of the founder of Aikido (Boston: Shambala, 1992), p 26.

Eugen Herrigel, Zen in the Art of Archery (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1953), p 44.

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This diagram is intended to represent how the realms of hearing, sight, touch and musical meaning can become a source of metaphor for each other. For example, the more refined our inner hearing gets, the more spontaneously and efficiently our fingers tend to materialise what we hear. This explains the common experience of being able to find an appropriate fingering for a certain passage – as well as the manual dexterity it requires – at the same time as you discover a natural phrasing for it, or capture its musical character. Thus, refined hearing induces refined physical motion. Another example is the notation of, say, a familiar chord progression which evokes the mental image of the corresponding chord shapes on the fingerboard, as well as the tactile sensations associated with them, or the actual sound and musical meaning of that progression. In this way, channels are established whereby a visual image (score) can stand as a metaphor for another visual image (chord shapes described on the fingerboard), a tactile image (fingers sensing those shapes on the fingerboard), an aural image (the sound of the chord progression) and even its emotional content (musical meaning). Likewise, our awareness of certain bodily sensations can easily evoke visual images of the notation in the score or our fingers on the fingerboard, just as it might suddenly spur our imagination to unveil unsuspected ways of phrasing a melody, or to create a new instrumental colour for a certain passage. There are, for example, the tactile perceptions associated with the swiftness, accuracy or flexibility of the left hand as it measures distances, senses string pressure or discerns finger patterns on the fingerboard; or with the texture, thickness and resistance of the strings as the right hand produces a sound. Such associations might even establish a link with our emotions and the meaning of the music we’re playing. This is how refined physical motion and refined tactile perceptions can trigger off distinct visual and aural images, as well as creative musical responses. When we realise that these channels can in fact be established from any end and in any direction, the above examples will suffice to suggest the vast – though certainly elusive – universe of possibilities waiting to be activated. I guess a good starting point for establishing these channels is quite simply to become more sensitive to one’s own body and mind. As we develop visualisation, whatever images we operate with can be extremely powerful because – as J. Bronowski elucidates – they are manipulated in ways which are indistinguishable from those we would require if the images were real objects or experiences. Just as an example, I always felt that a squirrel’s movements were a fantastic metaphor for a good left-hand technique, which is why I am fond of using the visual image of this friendly little fellow as a means of inducing a student’s left hand (or my own) to move with the same naturalness, precision, swiftness and lightness of such a wondrous creature…so why not leave the practice room and go out to watch squirrels? Along these lines, some of my favourite visualisations for refining certain aspects of right-hand technique are borrowed from Master Awa’s teaching tips in Eugen Herrigel’s classic book, Zen in the Art of Archery. To induce freedom of thumb action, for example, one can suggest to a student that he is an expert archer about to shoot an arrow, and remind him that The shot will only go smoothly when it takes the archer himself by surprise. It must be as if the bowstring suddenly cut through the thumb that held it.

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Or to bring about openness and presence of sound, along with ease of physical motion, the student can imagine that the rapport between a string and the finger preparing to pluck it, as well as the quality of the ensuing movement at the moment of release, will be similar to that of a little child holding the proffered finger. It grips it so firmly that one marvels at the strength of the tiny fist. And when it lets the finger go, there is not the slightest jerk. Do you know why? Because the child doesn’t think: It will now let go of the finger in order to grasp this other thing. Completely unselfconsciously, without purpose, it turns from one to the other, and we would say that it was playing with the things, were it not equally true that the things are playing with the child.

Ibid. p 45.

When in fact metaphors seem appropriate, I may use my own words to convey these (or similar) images, or suggest reading something like Herrigel’s book. I believe that a technical training which aims at developing visualisation acquires a refreshing perspective, for the creative teacher can easily lead the student to a much broader dimension, one in which he can grow with ears that see (both the page and fingerboard) and eyes that hear; ears that touch and fingers that hear; and eyes that touch and fingers that see. Pursued as an end it itself, though, visualisation can become a mere utilitarian tool or ‘trick of the trade’, unnourished by any spiritual rapport with the music. Indeed, we need fingers which not only can touch, hear and see, but also feel the music; and we want our other senses to act accordingly. It was this idea that prompted me to place musical meaning and the world of our intuitions and emotions at the centre of the diagram above. After all, we want to make music, and this only happens – for myself, certainly – when the music, the musician and the instrument dissolve into one. To elucidate this idea a little, I would like to turn our attention to one of the oldest and most formidable of the Chinese martial arts: hsing-i, which evolved, in fact, by creating human metaphors for the movements of certain animals. Even though removed from the immediate context of my discussion, perhaps there is a thing or two we can learn from martial artists, especially in the light of their astonishing feats of body–mind coordination. Hsing denotes ‘form’, meaning the external being or manifestation of a person or an action, and i means ‘intention’ or ‘mind’ – that is, the immaterial driving force behind that external form. So students of hsing-i seek to capture the fundamental meaning of an animal’s movements, rather than merely trying to imitate them literally. Thus, they learn to grasp by observing a bear, to swoop swiftly down from above by watching a swallow, to strike with the hand by focusing on the pecking motion of a chicken, and so on. An untrained student has neither hsing nor i; that is, no knowledge of form or of meaning. But even after he attains mastery of both, there remain the highest stages of development still to be conquered. For he’s expected to come back full circle to a condition of possessing no hsing and no i, only that now both blend as a natural part of the martial artist’s being. In this way he can move and react with supreme confidence and freedom according to the demands of each moment, instead of following rigid rules. The paradox is that at such advanced levels the fighter bears a surprising resemblance to a totally untrained person, and yet is inconspicuously in complete harmony with

Speaking of Aikido, Ueshiba pointed out: ‘The techniques…change constantly; every encounter is unique, and the appropriate response should emerge naturally. Today’s techniques will be different tomorrow.’ The Art of Peace, p 113.

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Jazz musicians often develop these skills to an extraordinary degree; the benefits for sight-reading, memorisation and improvisation are evident. ‘All right doing is accomplished only in a state of true selflessness, in which the doer cannot be present any longer as “himself ”. Only the spirit is present, a kind of awareness which shows no trace of egohood and for that reason ranges without limit through all the distances and depths, with “eyes that hear and ears that see”.’ Ibid. p 64.

See Howard Reid & Michael Croucher, The Fighting Arts (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1983), p 97; published originally as The Way of the Warrior by Century Publishing, England.

nature: he is nature and nature is him. I believe it is precisely the same kind of freedom and egolessness which allows martial artists to react spontaneously and effectively to the here-and-now of a combat situation that every creative musician hopes to capture while engaged in music making. Such freedom lies beyond the faculty of visualisation itself and the mere adherence to fixed patterns. This idea leads me to take a closer look at the positivist conception of technique as the strictly rational compliance with rules and natural laws. Pseudoscience & the Myth of Scientific Truth That technique cannot be reduced to the observance of set rules about physical motion is argued by Busoni, among others: Busoni’s remarks found in Brendel, Musical Thoughts and Afterthoughts, p 111.

Routine means the acquiring of a little experience and a few tricks of the trade, and the unvarying application of them to any given context. Accordingly, the number of related contexts must be remarkably high. To my mind, however, music is so constituted that every context is a new context and should be treated as an ‘exception’. The solution of a problem, once found, cannot be reapplied to a different context. Our art is a theatre of surprise and invention, and of the seemingly unprepared. Similarly, Konrad Wolff refers to Schnabel’s mistrust for dogmas and taboos in playing:

Wolff, Schnabel’s Interpretation of Piano Music, p 171.

In ordinary conservatory training certain ways of playing are sometimes considered ‘illegal’ tricks. In reality, there is no such thing. Musical masterpieces are distinguished from academic compositions by not adhering to all the rules all the time. It is impossible to anticipate and solve all the problems – including all the technical ones – arising in the interpretation of these great works in advance by following technical school rules. There is no fingering which a pianist must regard as taboo; no hand or finger position which must never be assumed; no method of touch that may not be used. There are only fingerings which are less usual; hand and finger positions which are seldom necessary; methods of touch only exceptionally called for in music. If they are unusual, the reason is that in the great majority of cases they do not serve the musical purpose. As I reflect on Busoni’s and Schnabel’s ideas I ask myself: can we really talk about rules? Are there universal criteria to establish what kind of movements, fingerings, methods of tone production, etc, do or do not qualify as ‘grammatically correct’? A common answer is that the criteria result from one’s lifelong experience as well as from the rational understanding of natural laws – for example, the laws that regulate the motion of physical objects, including our hands, fingers, and so on. This is convincing enough – but to whose experience are we referring? What about Django Reinhardt’s? Was his technique in fact questionable, just because it didn’t follow the ‘rules’? It may be argued that he’s really an exception to the rules, because of his handicap and unusual talent. And after all, he played jazz, not classical. As opposed to this, I’d say that he’s the rule to follow inasmuch as he evinced a phenomenal capacity to connect his inner

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hearing and emotions with their physical materialisation on the instrument – regardless of there being a handicap or not in the first place. In fact, this capacity is the epitome of great technique (whose presence or absence, incidentally, is not determined by the instrument or style you play). And if you ask what Django might have accomplished without his handicap, my answer is: perhaps a lot more, and yet perhaps not. For maybe it was his handicap that spurred and even induced the refinement of his ability – who can tell? The martial artist’s ideal of blending with nature is certainly far removed from Western rationalism, which rather aims at dissecting it. We stigmatise intuitive knowledge as mysticism, but for salvation we turn to what is actually a distorted idea of science. For many people, in fact, science equals truth. This is still a very popular notion in our modern culture: indeed, it is bandied about or tacitly assumed in the classroom and every conceivable kind of media. Perhaps the most glaring example is the tv commercial which boasts the phrase ‘scientifically tested’ as a seal of final approval and absolute guarantee of the product’s quality. Whether we are aware of it or not, this idea has exerted an enormous influence on the way we relate to the world and try to solve our problems. Even if we are not scientifically minded, I would imagine that most, if not all, of us have at some point posed questions like how should I (clearly implying what is the correct way to) hold the guitar? produce a good sound? play scales? make a left-hand shift? and what not. Understandable though they are, the trouble with such questions is their begging for a dogmatic answer: we ask them in the hope (knowingly or unknowingly) of reaching ultimate explanations. That science leads to secure and incorrigible knowledge through our critical observation of nature’s workings is a myth largely due to Francis Bacon (1561–1626), the great philosopher who systematically prescribed induction as the true method which elevated science over pseudoscience. His intepretatio naturae is based on the premise that only by accumulating experimental data resulting from our allegedly ‘pure’ observation of the facts of nature, untainted by prejudice (anticipatio mentis) are we capable of unveiling its laws. Observation thus becomes nothing less than the vehicle for ‘the spelling out of the book of Nature’, as Popper puts it. I am myself an ardent believer in natural laws but I very much doubt that our intellect will ever be able to grasp them. Nor does genuine science seek to explain and verify them once and for all. In fact, any scientist whose goal is to arrive at irrevocably true knowledge is actually practising pseudoscience. On the other hand, for the reasoning mind there can be no such thing as an unprejudiced observation. If we agree that our observations are necessarily selective, prompted as they are by the task at hand, a chosen object, or a particular interest or point of view, then the strength of Popper’s argument is imposing: Conjecture or hypothesis must come before observation or perception: we have inborn expectations; we have latent inborn knowledge, in the form of latent expectations, to be activated by stimuli to which we react as a rule while engaged in active exploration. All learning is a modification (it may be a refutation) of some prior knowledge and thus, in the last analysis, of some inborn knowledge.

Popper, Conjectures and Refutations, p 14. ‘The wrong view of science betrays itself in the craving to be right’ (Popper, The Logic of Scientific Discovery, p 280). Even after Einstein, many people still take the alleged irrefutability of Newton’s laws for granted, and regard with disdain – or even feel shocked by – anyone who would dare to suggest that they are not natural laws, or that they are in any way untrue. The reality is that far from being given by Nature, these laws were invented by Newton, and after two centuries of spectacular success they were found wanting in some respects (though surely they stand as an astonishing creation of the human imagination, comparable to any great work of art). Popper, Unended Quest, p 52. Popper’s theory of knowledge merges with a theory of evolution.

It then seems reasonable to think that in any learning process, a critical phase is necessarily preceded by an intuitive or irrational one, in which an expectation or a regularity of some kind emerges, inviting us to create our dogmas. These on teaching the unteachable

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Popper’s famous schema which underlies his theory about the growth of knowledge in all living organisms is: p1 initial problem → ts trial solution(s) → e e process of error elimination applied to the attempted solution(s) → p2 and resulting problem(s) Popper, Conjectures and Refutations, p 49.

Bryan Magee, Popper (Glasgow: Collins, 1973; Fontana Modern Masters), p 20. It is said that one of Popper’s greatest achievements was to offer an acceptable solution to this problem. Strikingly, some of Popper’s seminal ideas (such as those about dogmatic and critical thinking) were an outgrowth of his interest in music. His bold ‘Speculations about the Rise of Polyphonic Music’ are remarkable, regardless of whether or not they are historically correct. For him, polyphony is ‘possibly the most unprecedented, original, indeed miraculous achievement of Western civilisation, not excluding science’. Unended Quest, pp 55–60.

The same could be said about practically any other aspect of musical interpretation, so long as we approach it from a strictly rational standpoint, that is.

Bryan Magee, Popper, p 43.

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very dogmas, though, can in some cases be critically put to the test by looking out creatively for circumstances in which they might let us down. Actually, the tendency to stick to our beliefs and dogmas is quite legitimate and even necessary, to some extent, for these beliefs allow us to learn in gradual stages, by way of approximations (the typical case being the search for a solution to a problem); and surely, without them we cannot even begin to grope into the unknown by at least having a good guess. Moreover, we should not give up too easily in our attempts to test them, because, as Popper points out, ‘we may prevent ourselves from finding that we were very nearly right’. What may not at first be evident is that once a rule or regularity is seen to operate – no matter how many times – it cannot thereby be regarded as a natural law. Bryan Magee explains the so-called problem of induction or Hume’s problem, after David Hume (1711–1776), who first posed it: The whole of science assumes that the future will be like the past in all those respects in which natural laws are seen to operate – yet there is no way in which this assumption can be secured. It cannot be established by observation, since we cannot observe future events. And it cannot be established by logical argument, since from the fact that all past futures have resembled past pasts it does not follow that all future futures will resemble future pasts. To put it another way, induction at best succeeds in making our conjectures probable, rather than certain, and the scientific knowledge we possess at any one time about the world is nothing but our tentative interpretation of the facts we observe – hence it stems primarily from hypotheses that we create. I would now invite the reader to do a little exercise of rationalism: let us place ourselves in a musical context and see how far we can get in a specific area of performance, say, fingering. If we wanted to be soberly rational about our fingerings (especially when dealing with complex works), we’d have to admit that it is always we who ask nature ‘is this a good fingering?’ and again it is we (coloured by all our concepts and prejudices) who answer by interpreting the deeds of an unyielding nature who is ever ready to meet our trials with an unequivocal no – or with an imperceptible yes. So it is unreasonable to expect to find irrefutable solutions just because we believe we’re following some rules or natural laws that presumably predict and account for everything that could possibly happen (that is how we end up practising pseudoscience while claiming to be scientific). On the contrary (and just as Magee said about genuine scientific theories), our logical fingerings are based on conjectures that rule out most of what could possibly happen, and are themselves ruled out if what they rule out happens. Thus, the usefulness of being rational is to be able to restrict the choice among logically possible solutions, and this is as far as our critical faculty alone can take us. But even though we cannot rationally establish that a fingering is irrefutable, we can assert that it is unserviceable – until by trial and error we might perhaps find otherwise. Our rules, then, are hypotheses which tentatively forbid certain fingerings and thereby become merely provisional predictions of the seemingly impossible. The beauty of it all, however, is that we can learn that there are bold solutions utterly different from what we ever suspected, and that our imagination is fired whenever we find that what we thought to be impossible was in fact possible. An example from personal experience is the opening of the fourth variation in Britten’s Nocturnal: luis zea

IV Uneasy (slow q ) 4

b œ b œ´ V œ œ 4

2

i

F

m

1

‰ Œ

œ œ bœ œ ‰ ÿ

i

œ œ œ œ ‰ ÿ

Britten, Nocturnal, ‘Uneasy’, bar 1.

cresc.

4

3

b œ b œ´ V œ œ 3

p

i

1

m

Even after trying many ideas (including imagery), I still found the first burst of fast notes (and the ensuing analogous one) next to impossible with the printed fingering (upper stave), until a somewhat unusual option (the ‘delayed’ action of a left-hand slur along the fourth string, with 3 on the C slurring down to produce the B b) crossed my mind and surprisingly turned out to be a highly effective and reliable alternative (lower stave). In the light of such experiences, in which we find ourselves refuting our own conjectures or ‘breaking the rules’ (by using an atypical slur, for example), Popper’s path-breaking idea of falsifiability – instead of verifiability – clearly sets itself as the only logical criterion of demarcation between science and non-science: Once we realise that all scientific statements are…conjectures, and that the vast majority of these conjectures (including Bacon’s own) have turned out to be false, the Baconian myth becomes irrelevant…we question nature…and try to elicit from her negative answers concerning the truth of our theories: we do not try to prove or verify them, but we test them by trying to disprove or to falsify them, to refute them…Nature very often resists quite successfully, forcing us to discard our laws as refuted; but if we live we may try again. Now while nature’s unequivocal no is discernible to the intellect, only our intuition can hear its imperceptible yes. Indeed, as creative musicians we sometimes reach a point where it is no longer possible to say about our fingerings that they are mere approximations to truth. Nor could anyone claim (as Popper so fittingly did about our positivist beliefs in natural laws) that they ‘cannot have a safer basis than our unsuccessful critical attempts to refute them’. The reason is that an artist’s best doings stem from the surest basis imaginable, namely, his poetic wisdom, which allows no room for uncertainty. Popper himself admitted the possibility of arriving at absolute knowledge, even if he regards such certainty as metaphysical, hence untestable and non-scientific, but not necessarily untrue, meaningless or useless, as positivists would contend. So what real musicians are after is creative (rather than unquestionable) fingerings – and by extension, creative hand movements, creative methods of tone production, creative phrasings: in short, creative musical interpretations.

This example is a good instance of the point I tried to make earlier about solving musical and technical problems together. Indeed, it is irrelevant whether you start from one end or the other, as long as we solve the one and only problem. In this case, it was a fingering that triggered the solution.

Popper, Conjectures and Refutations, pp 138, 192 & 48.

Ibid. p 57.

‘Only in our subjective experiences of conviction, in our subjective faith, can we be “absolutely certain”.’ Popper, The Logic of Scientific Discovery, p 280.

Explaining the Inexplicable When beginners are first introduced to the basic notions about source, quality and quantity of physical motion, or when they come to refine that knowledge at any later stage, it becomes evident, as F.E. Sparshott points out, that if we merely show the appropriate movements and say, ‘Do it like this’, they must grasp whatever it is about our movements that makes them like this. And in the vast ma-

F.E. Sparshott, ‘Education in Music’, section vii, in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie (London: Macmillan, 6th edn, 1980), vol. 6, p 55.

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Popper recalls the case of his friend, the violinist Adolph Busch (member of the famous Busch Quartet): ‘He told me that he once played Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in Zurich, and afterwards the violinist Huberman came and asked him how he played a certain passage. Busch said it was quite simple – and then found he could no longer play the passage.’ Karl Popper, Knowledge and the Body–Mind Problem: in defence of interaction (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1994), p 116.

jority of cases, students will require a minimum of explanation. But can we actually rationalise and elucidate what it is that makes our movements like this – especially if they have taken several decades of playing to become what they are? Of course, there can be little point in trying to explain more than a problem demands, and the attempt may even end up in a ‘paralysis of analysis’. On the other hand, the reality of how we play is always richer than the ideas we have about it. What is more, we can so easily mistake what we do for what we think we do, or falsify by contaminating our hands with the self-conscious look of movements that are being looked at. But let’s imagine we are dealing with an eager, advanced, and highly rational student who demands an unequivocal account of, say, how left-hand shifting works. Perhaps we could try yet another exercise of rationalism and see how far we get. In the sequence below, a is a cause that leads to an effect b, and the arrow represents their physical and tangible connection in time and space: A cause

Heinrich Neuhaus, The Art of Piano Playing (London: Barrie & Jenkins, 1973), p 113. Neuhaus was the legendary Russian teacher of such artists as Sviatoslav Richter, Emil Gilels and Radu Lupu.

Ibid. p 87. Neuhaus lists eight basic elements of technique (i.e. the playing of one note, trills, scales, arpeggios, two-note intervals, chords, shifts and polyphony) of which he believes ‘the great edifice of piano playing as a whole is made up’ (see pp 114ff).

Albert Einstein, The Meaning of Relativity (London: Methuen, 1922), p 2.

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B e¤ect

For example, if you have a billiard ball and you want it to hit another ball, the trajectory of the first ball and the effect of hitting a second ball is an observable and, to a considerable degree, predictable event, because the motion of a can be accounted for in terms of Newton’s mechanical laws and our ordinary sensory experience. And when it comes to shifting, the situation might be seen as essentially the same: one’s left hand is in one place, and it has to move to another. As long as we observe what we believe are nature’s laws, all that is needed is a straight command sent from the mind instructing the hand to move. Heinrich Neuhaus thought that all the technical problems in the piano repertoire had a common denominator which he described as the ‘fundamental nucleus’. Neuhaus explained it by borrowing concepts from physics (F = force; m = mass; v = velocity and h = height) in a manner that seems clear and persuasive, yet guarding his back by saying that ‘The mystery of art remains unfathomed, retaining all its force and scope…but one should not see the “unfathomable” where common sense, against which…all of us sin so much, can perfectly well understand all there is to understand.’ It seems to me that this kind of appeal to common sense epitomises a generalised symptom of pseudoscience, for it implies that our reasonableness should be capable of arriving at ultimate explanations, that it can unequivocally distinguish the fathomable from the unfathomable, and that everybody’s common sense can grasp – and agree about – ‘all there is to understand’. If that were so, then further explanation would not only be unnecessary but impossible, and one would justifiably wonder how is it that everyone else could have failed to realise the simple truth. The fact is, for all we know, that such ‘fathomable’ knowledge is pretty hard to come by. What is common sense, anyway? I believe it is a hazy and fleeting thing; namely, the often satisfactory and true, but just as often inadequate and mistaken, intuitions or opinions of many – though never all – men; which is why it seems more sensible to think like Einstein did: The only justification for our concepts and system of concepts is that they serve to represent the complex of our experiences; beyond this they have no legitimacy.

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I should clarify that my criticism is not aimed so much at Neuhaus as towards the positivist teaching itself, for I believe that he was a great teacher and that this is the case of a dubious idea becoming profitable in the hands of a master teaching talented students. Before the relativity theory, many people’s common sense assumed that time and space were absolute, measurable constants. If I follow Einstein’s ‘common sense’ I may no longer take it for granted that my perception of gravity, speed, time and space is necessarily the same as yours and everybody else’s. Doesn’t it then seem odd to represent a left-hand shift by reducing it to the concept of a body with a certain weight which has to follow a predictable and desirable trajectory within ascertainable intervals of time and space, when our experience tells us – mine, for sure – that every successful shift takes place in the realm of weightlessness, timelessness, spacelessness and purposelessness? If anything, such a notion seems ideal to warrant unsuccessful shifts. Besides, can we treat our hand as if it were an inanimate object, rather than an organic part of a living human being? The plain fact is that shifting, like every aspect of technique, involves a task of mind and body coordination. Considering that a is a left hand to be activated by a thought – say, ‘I now want my hand to shift from here to there’ – and b is the effect of arriving there, the above sequence (a leads to b) is inadequate to trace a logical connection between something as intangible as a thought and the motion of a concrete object such as one’s hand. Research tells us that the mind makes an amazing use of certain chemicals called neuro-transmitters. As the name implies, they transmit nerve impulses: Mind, by any definition, is nonmaterial, yet it has devised a way to work in close partnership with these complicated communicator molecules. Their association is so close…that mind cannot be projected into the body without such chemicals. Yet these chemicals are not mind. Or are they? This turns our attention to the so called body–mind problem: how can we rationally explain the relation between the states and processes of our bodies and those of our minds? In the case of left-hand shifting, this connection may be represented by means of the following diagram, in which the horizontal line separates the physical and metaphysical worlds:

A

‘If…teachers are enlightened, their teaching may effectively take any form. If they are not enlightened, whatever form their teaching may take, it will actually blind their students.’ Muso Kokushi, Dream Conversations, pp 50–51.

See Albert Einstein, Relativity, the Special and the General Theory: a popular exposition (London: Methuen, 1920), especially sections iii, viii, ix and x (‘Space and Time in Classical Mechanics’, ‘On the Idea of Time in Physics’, ‘The Relativity of Simultaneity’ and ‘On the Relativity of the Conception of Distance’, respectively).

Deepak Chopra, Quantum Healing: exploring the frontiers of mind/body medicine (New York: Bantam Books, 1989), pp 64–65.

This problem occupied much of Popper’s attention and he published two fascinating books on the subject: The Self and Its Brain (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1977; with neurologist John Eccles), and Knowledge and the Body–Mind Problem (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1994 ).

B

physical This diagram has been borrowed from Chopra’s Quantum Healing, p 97. metaphysical

?

The u-shaped detour suggests that an unobserved – and probably unobservable – process must take place which transforms our thoughts into physical movement, and that such a process is not accountable by, say, Newton’s rational laws,

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because it takes place in a ‘hidden’ zone, below the line. The neuro-transmitters behave like messengers running to and from the brain telling the whole body of our desires, emotions, memories, concepts, images, etc, and generating a myriad of physiological changes and physical responses: Part of an explanation given by neurologist and Nobel Prize winner Sir John Eccles at a conference of parapsychologists. See Chopra, Quantum Healing, p 65.

Edelman is a Nobel Prize-winning neuro-scientist (ibid. p 153).

‘Only when he no longer knows what he is doing does the painter do good things’ – a remark from Edgar Degas’s notebooks.

See J. O’Connor & J. Seymour, Introducing Neuro-Linguistic Programming (London: Harper Collins, 1990), p 8.

Chopra, Quantum Healing, pp 152–153.

Lao-Tzu (c. 300 bc), Tao Te Ching, § 56.

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It is quite astonishing that with every thought, the mind manages to move the atoms of hydrogen, carbon, oxygen, and the other particles in the brain cells. It would appear that nothing is further apart than an insubstantial thought and the solid grey matter of the brain. Miraculous as this fact indeed is, I wonder why are we not as impressed by it as by watching someone like David Blaine perform his feats of psychokinesis. So what happens in the ‘?’ zone? What is it? Surely not a place we can visit in the realms of time and space, but one which stands for wherever it is we arrive when our thoughts turn into physical motion. It seems to be nowhere – and yet everywhere. This whole issue boils down to a vindication of how complex our ordinary experience of life actually is, and how incomplete a thought-adventure of the kind we call science is when it tries to explain it. Rather than a thing, as Gerald Edelman explains, our brain is more like an ever-evolving process. And considering that every brain has unique neuronal connections and is unendingly growing new ones from the moment of our birth (thereby creating all the memories that give each one of us a sense of personal identity), is it reasonable to prescribe universally valid rules about physical motion, and to pretend to be in conscious control of everything we do when we make music? It often seems to me that our predicament is a much too wilful will coupled with the mistaken belief that what we do not purposefully do ourselves cannot happen. The point can be made that we are not meant to deliberately control everything while we play, but that we nevertheless need purposeful, conscious programming when we practise, so that our mechanical skills can become second nature. Neuro-Linguistic Programming (nlp), for example, envisions four stages of learning: (1) unconscious incompetence, (2) conscious incompetence, (3) conscious competence and (4) unconscious competence. While this seems a valid idea, it is doubtful that real-life learning takes place in as clear cut a way as that. One is inclined to share Chopra’s argument that a computer can be ‘taught’ to perform specific tasks, like adding 2 + 2, for example, and it will invariably yield the right answer – unless a computer error occurs. A young child asked to do the same operation may answer correctly; but he might just as well say ‘I want to go to the park.’ Are we entitled to consider the child’s answer ‘wrong’? Perhaps we should interpret it simply as a disclosure of our inability to predict and rationalise all the possible ways in which we respond to the world as we interact with it. Even when we recall or play a very familiar piece of music, something will seem different about it – for remembering is a creative activity. Our mind is constantly generating new images, new brain, and unlike a computer, we forget and recall, we like and dislike, we reconsider and change our minds. In fact, we are recreating ourselves every time we think. It then looks like our inquiry didn’t take us very far; nor does it seem to lead to any explanation that may satisfy our rational student – which is why Lao-Tzu’s aphorism remains as enlightening as ever: He who knows it, tells it not. He who tells it, knows it not.

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The Limits of Language That everything which makes our movements like this can be spelt out is definitely a naive pretence, especially when one considers that the most complex of human movements are possibly those used in the performance of instrumental music. But leaving aside how much we can and need to explain, I would think that what makes the teacher’s task particularly demanding – apart from the inherent complexity and elusiveness of the knowledge involved – is its stubborn resistance to being rationally formulated in language. Of course, the prevailing conception of teaching is based on the premise that ‘training cannot be achieved and is not attempted without a lot of explaining why one does what one is doing’. Thus, the challenge of having to explain what appears to be inexplicable remains, and in order to explore this idea further I would like to touch on some provocative issues raised by Martin Esslin in his fascinating book about Antonin Artaud (1896–1948), that most enigmatic and heroic cult-figure of twentiethcentury theatre: All thought…it could be argued, is verbal, is language; a thought that is incapable of being formulated in words, therefore, by definition would not be a thought, would not exist at all.

See Ottó Szende & Mihály Nemessuri, The Physiology of Violin Playing (London: Collets, 1971), p 13.

F.E. Sparshott, ‘Education in Music’, p 55.

Indeed, Antonin Artaud has been regarded as a mixture of prophet, highly inspired theatrical innovator, alchemist, gnostic teacher, martyr, mad hero and even the founder of a new religion. Esslin, Artaud, p 65.

Nevertheless, Esslin asks: To what extent can thought exist that is not formulated in words, that stubbornly resists being put into words at all? Are thought and language necessarily co-terminous? Artaud knew himself to be suffering from a mental disease to which he partly attributed his extreme difficulty in expressing his innermost feelings and emotions by means of words. In his desperate attempts to bridge the gap between his inner world – which he envisioned as thought in a pre-verbal, unformulated state – and its expression in language, Artaud became increasingly contemptuous of other artists (particularly writers) who seemed to be free of his predicament, for he felt – rightly or wrongly – that they indulged in a facile and insincere use of language based on the arrogant observance of rules of grammar and of elegance of literary style, as well as on the ideals of rationality, self-control, moderation and bienséance. In any case, you don’t have to be mentally ill to experience difficulty in converting such an intangible thing as an image or emotion into verbal language, for even great writers have to wrestle with words and meanings. And of course, teachers also experience the same difficulty, as we’ve seen. What I do find especially significant for my discussion about the teaching of physical skills is that Artaud’s problem embraced the difficulty of converting into words not only images, ideas or feelings, but even something so tangible and unmistakable as our sensory experience of physical states. The following extract from a letter to one of his doctors is particularly revealing: If it is cold, I am still able to say that it is cold; but it may also happen that I am incapable of saying it: that is a fact, for there is inside me something wrong from the affective point of view, and if I am asked why I cannot say it, I shall reply that my internal feeling on this

on teaching the unteachable

Ibid.

The grandiose vision behind Artaud’s so-called Theatre of Cruelty emerged as a result of his deep-seated need to transform and redeem mankind from alienation and suffering. ‘Abandoning all restraint,’ Esslin writes, ‘all intention of pleasing, of giving shape or formal perfection to his utterance and letting his wild fantasies, his fury and anguish, his pain and torment roar out, Artaud succeeded in evoking that very physical impact, that gut-reaction which had been the objective of his theatrical endeavours.’ Esslin, Artaud, p 74. ‘…Words strain, Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, Will not stay still. Shrieking voices Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering, Always assail them.’ T.S. Eliot, ‘Burnt Norton’, in Four Quartets (London: Faber, 1944), v, 149.

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Esslin, Artaud, p 67.

fragmentary and insignificant matter simply does not correspond to the three little words which I should then have to utter. This statement made an impact on me as I became aware of its implications: was it really Artaud’s deficiency that accounted for his inability to express his feelings and turn them into language? Could it not be that language itself was incapable of conveying them adequately? Esslin’s compelling description of one of Artaud’s fundamental tenets leads to the heart of the matter and encapsulates the lesson we can perhaps learn from the French master:

Ibid. pp 68 & 70.

Ibid. p 70.

It is a profound mistake to equate all human consciousness with that part of it capable of verbal expression. Our consciousness is part of a multitude of elements only a small part of which is capable of being directly formulated in words…The formula ‘I am cold’ which abstracts all the body sensation, all the actual and complex feelings connected with one individual’s experience of such a physical state, exemplified for Artaud the manner in which too glib a use of language desiccates experience and eventually makes people who rely on such modes of communication and thought lose contact with life itself. No wonder Artaud felt that he had to ‘smash language in order to touch life’. As I ponder Artaud’s ideas a rather disturbing question arises: may it not be that we unknowingly tend to desiccate our own experience of teaching and learning to play an instrument by making too glib a use of language? Even though somewhat predictable, there is nothing intrinsically wrong or harmful about the following teaching tips: your sound is too harsh practise slowly you have to find a better fingering relax your fingers develop a good sound the hand is too tense to make that shift properly you have to control the movements

‘It is by no means necessary that a concept must be connected with a sensorily cognisable and reproducible sign (word)… our thinking goes on for the most part without the use of [such] signs…and beyond that to a considerable degree unconsciously.’ Albert Einstein’s remarks quoted in Bernstein, Einstein, pp 139–40. Esslin, Artaud, p 67.

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At face value, in fact, they seem sensible advice, and if at some point that’s what we want to say, by all means let us say it. It appears, however, that when we formulate our ideas in language it is all too easy to assume that their full meaning has been grasped and conveyed. It is as if the only requisite for understanding them is that they be encapsulated in words. Once done, we close them – as it were – and keep them in artificial compartments of knowledge. Now as Esslin suggests (and Artaud might have argued), are we not thus turning words into little more than complacent, pre-fabricated formulas to be used like a chequebook without backing – as jaded tokens that have lost all rapport with the reality they once emerged from and are still deemed to stand for? Be that as it may, the thought often crosses my mind that when trying to explain, say, how to play a scale, make a proper shift, or produce a good sound, our awareness tends to confine itself to the purely discursive use of concepts and to what we can formulate in words, at the cost of disregarding the myriad of bodily sensations which pervade our consciousness as performing musicians – and despite the

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fact that they must play a primary role in determining, or at least colouring, much of what is required of our fingers, our hands, indeed our whole being, to play that scale, make that shift or produce that sound. Think, for instance, of the tactile sensations induced by – or associated with – the temperature of the skin of our fingertips; the presence or absence of oiliness or perspiration (relative softness or dryness); the temperature and degree of humidity of the place; the thickness, resistance and texture of the strings; the shape, length and consistency of our nails; the use of flesh and nail in ‘caressing’, ‘gliding’, ‘piercing’ or ‘picking’ the strings as we play apoyando or tirando, and the corresponding fullness or thinness of the sound; the width and thickness of the fingerboard; the weight of our hands and arms as we play; the sheer sense of physical displacement as the hands move along and across the fingerboard or strings, and the corresponding feeling of security or insecurity; the degree of tension or relaxation of our muscles; the comfort or discomfort as we hold the guitar – the list is endless. Surely, hardly ever do we find ourselves able or willing to convert such bodily sensations into verbal form – just as the innumerable stimuli that constantly impinge upon us, drifting through our consciousness as powerful memories, images, inner wish-fulfilments or daydreams, are rarely put into words or thought about verbally (for example, the sound of a nearby river or cars passing by, the movement of the evening breeze, the pressure and weight of the clothes we wear, and many other external stimuli; as well as those emanating from within ourselves, such as the taste of the food we eat, the sensation of swallowing it, the fullness or emptiness of our stomachs, the rhythm of our breathing, the beating of our hearts, the movement of our tongue muscles as we speak, and so on and on). Thus, the need to be intuitively aware of, and spontaneously responsive to such stimuli is hampered, on the one hand, by the proclivity to identify ourselves merely with that part of our consciousness which can be spoken about – that stream of words which traffics our minds as an unending internal monologue. On the other hand, language itself appears inadequate to describe our bodily sensations, even though we are innate verbal labellers. Not unreasonably, then, it can be argued that teachers and learners are justified in ignoring that non-verbal aspect of consciousness. If it only exists outside the rational appeal of the verbal plane (on which most teaching heavily relies), why bother? After all, aren’t those non-verbal elements trivial in the extreme? Yet aren’t precisely those body sensations very similar to, and experienced in the same dimension as the ones aroused by our emotions? And isn’t human emotion part and parcel of the very substance of music itself? What is this thing we call emotion, anyway? As Esslin explains, words can evoke it, our consciousness is often overwhelmed by it, but emotion is not – itself – verbal. If we really look into their essence, we shall find that, however intense or sublime, emotions are ultimately experienced as bodily sensations (an increase or decrease in blood pressure, the quickening or slowing down of the pulse or heartbeat, the sudden release of sex hormones or perspiration, etc). The inescapable conclusion seems to be that the tangible (our bodies and sensory perceptions) and intangible (our thoughts and emotions) straddle what is merely a delusive divide and interact in ways impervious to discursive language. I am also tempted to ask: doesn’t the challenge of teaching and learning the unteachable involve the ability to re-establish contact with life itself – or should I not say with ourselves? The last section of my article explores this question.

on teaching the unteachable

Ibid. p 69.

‘Illusion works impenetrable, Weaving webs innumerable; Her gay pictures never fail, Crowd each other, veil on veil; Charmer who will be believed By man who thirsts to be deceived.’ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Maia.

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By now it may be clear that the division of my discussion into apparently isolated areas (‘musical, physical and extra-musical intangibles’) belies the fact that in reality they are interfused. Their separation is certainly artificial, though inevitable, for I am using discursive language to refer to them. Many of the issues addressed in this article have also been discussed in my series ‘The Works for Solo Guitar by Antonio Lauro’, published in Classical Guitar magazine since 1995.

iii ext r a-musical intang ibles Freedom: the ultimate quest If we now turn our attention from the musical and physical skills to those truly indispensable and unteachable ones closely associated with the notions of spontaneity, self-confidence, unaffectedness, presence of mind, etc, I am reminded of any musician’s concerns as he prepares to perform for an audience and faces the ‘moment of truth’: When I practice at home I play perfectly, but when I go on stage I fall apart. How can I prevent my nerves from affecting my performance? When I try really hard to do the scale the way my teacher told me, I flop it every time. I am usually my own worst enemy. How can I stop working against myself? When I concentrate on one thing I’m supposed to be doing, I neglect another. How can I keep my attention on the music without drifting away into distracting thoughts of failure or success, or anything outside the main task at hand – that is, to make music? Indeed, how can I stop thinking?

‘When a man is living, he is soft and supple. When he is dead, he becomes hard and rigid.’ Lao-Tzu, Tao Te Ching, § 76. Samuel Beckett’s bleak vision of the fate of the artist, quoted in A. Alvarez, Beckett (Glasgow: Collins, 1973; Fontana Modern Masters), p 17.

‘…So shalt Thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.’ William Shakespeare, Sonnet 146.

Extract from the Kena Upanishad quoted in The Upanishads, ed. Juan Mascaró (London: Penguin, 1965; Penguin Classics), p 51.

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And so, once again we end up in the same corner: how can we teach what is essential and yet appears to be so elusive and needn’t, indeed can’t, be taught? As I reflect on all the musical, technical and extra-musical problems posed in this article it seems clear to me that the common thread which underlies them is our primeval quest for freedom, something I envision as nothing more – but nothing less – than the naturalness and spontaneity of things. When we feel nervous while performing, the fiercest battle takes place within ourselves, that is, between our temporary identity (the thinking ego) and our essential nature (effortless being). While the latter simply is, knows and does, the former calculates, longs for success, shudders at the sight of failure and easily makes us feel as stiff as a rock. Indeed, we might experience a kind of ‘death’ compelling us to resign to ‘the expression that there is nothing to express, nothing with which to express, nothing from which to express, no power to express, no desire to express, together with the obligation to express.’ Not exactly an exciting prospect, this, so either we kill death, or else it kills us! Surely, the cherished freedom cannot be captured by intellection; but once attained, it endows our playing and whole being with an ineffable and overpowering simplicity that disguises its own depth to the eyes of the beholder. Paradoxically, then, the path to mastery begins when you stop trying to reach it, and ends with the master ignoring he is one – for true mastery passes unnoticed. In the East, spiritual practices – such as meditation – are considered essential for the attainment of freedom. Both teacher and student gravitate around this all-embracing goal which entails contacting a reality beyond all credos, philosophies, indeed all ‘isms’ (including Buddhism) and even deeper than our sensory perceptions, thoughts and emotions. In India masters referred to it as What cannot be spoken with words, but that whereby words are spoken… What cannot be thought with the mind, but that whereby the mind can think… What cannot be seen with the eye, but that whereby the eye can see… What cannot be heard with the ear, but that whereby the ear can hear. luis zea

May it not be that ‘hidden’ zone we talked about earlier? Coloured as it is by the filters we put on our perceptions, such a reality seems outside our ordinary experience of the world and anything the reasoning mind can conceive of. Kant argued persuasively that ‘the thing in itself ’ is unknowable. Contrary to this, though, Eastern masters hold that ascertaining it is possible, if only we are prepared to move from thinking to being, knowing and doing: The sun never thinks,‘How can I be luminous?’– it is! Nor does the squirrel ever wonder, ‘How can I move freely?’– it knows!…or the wind ever ask, ‘How can I blow?’– it does! In Zen circles there is a story about a man who is galloping on a horse and seems to be going somewhere important. When someone standing along the pathway asks him, ‘Where are you going?’ the man replies: ‘I don’t know! Ask the horse!’ Whether we realise it or not, this is also the story of most of us. For we are ceaselessly thinking without knowing where our thinking will take us – and on top of that we can’t stop. If anything, we take pride in being rational and worship logic, believing that the knowledge about ourselves and the world can only be unlocked by thinking.. Or at best we may realise, like Popper did, that even though our thinking is fallible and can never attain truth, it can nevertheless take us gradually closer to the truth. Yet this is still not good enough for an artist, since he knows that at the end of his quest there is nothing left to be uncertain about, no more room for approximations to truth. Instead, he becomes the embodiment of truth itself: This something will come about which cannot be taught, that grace of the quiet hour when the spirit of the composer speaks to us, that unconscious moment of ecstasy…of self-detachment, call it intuition, grace – when all fetters, all inhibitions vanish. You feel yourself floating. One no longer feels: I am playing, but it is playing, and behold, everything is right. That science, of all things, is destined to stay within the bounds of uncertainty while art ends in certainty should be salutary. Contrary to Bacon’s old-fashioned doctrine of induction (that true knowledge only results from our rational and allegedly unprejudiced observation of nature), Einstein once stated that ‘it is the theory [i.e. our filters] which decides what we can observe’. While it then seems reasonable to assume that you can change your world if you change your filters, I like to think that by removing your filters you can know yourself and the world. It is extraordinary that the great physicist’s idea is already contained in a verse from the ageless Vedas: ‘What you see you become.’ This aphorism suggests that we and the world are metaphors for each other. To put it another way, knowledge differs according to the knower’s state of consciousness. In fact, Vedic masters hold that the world is to be grasped in terms of what they call samhita, a concept embracing three interconnected elements: the knowing subject (observer or rishi), the known object (the observed or chandas) and the process of knowing (observation or devata). According to the Vedic tradition, complete knowledge is only possible when these three elements blend together into one. What I find most revealing here is the indispensability of self-awareness for the attainment of truth, which suggests that Einstein’s knowledge was incomplete in so far as he may have excluded himself from the undertaking. If this is so, it is not unreasonable to conjecture that the laws of nature can be fathomed when, instead of analysing them, we unite with them. In other words, the essence of things is perhaps revealed when they no longer have the look of things that are being on teaching the unteachable

Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason (1787), tr. Norman Kemp Smith (London: Macmillan, 1929), pp 27, 74, 84 & 149. Kant tried to establish that the limits of our sensory experience are the limits of our logical reasoning. (See Popper, Conjectures and Refutations, pp 179–80.) See Thích Nhât Hanh, The Heart of the Buddha’s Teaching (Berkeley: Parallax Press, 1998), p 23.

Testimony from the great pianist Edwin Fischer, found in Gillen, The Writings and Letters of Konrad Wolff, p 125.

Jeremy Bernstein, Einstein, p 155.

Quoted in Chopra, Quantum Healing, p 223.

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knower (observer)

RISHI

A representation of the Vedic notion of samhita, according to which complete knowledge stems from the fusion of knowing subject, known object and the process of knowing. See Tony Nader, Human Physiology: expression of Veda and the Vedic literature (Vlodrop: Maharishi Vedic University, 1995), p 17.

Karl Popper, Objective Knowledge: an evolutionary approach (Oxford University Press, 1972) chapters 1 & 3.

KNOWL EDGE

devata

chandas

process of knowing (observation)

known object (the observed)

looked at, or the meaning of things that are being thought about. For only thus could our perceptions and our thinking be truly unprejudiced. On the other hand, the concept of samhita also suggests that the teaching of knowledge without a knowing subject (i.e. knowledge in the sense described by Popper as ‘objective’ and ‘conjectural’) is simply instruction. This idea now takes me back full circle to Dalcroze’s principle and prompts me to reformulate it yet again: real teaching is inducing the student to know himself – rarely can mere instruction be expected to accomplish that. Certainly, as our self-awareness grows so does our freedom to speak what cannot be spoken, think what cannot be thought, see what cannot be seen, hear what cannot be heard…and indeed learn what cannot be learnt and teach what cannot be taught. Have we not paid too high a price by focusing on the object of knowledge and the process of knowing at the expense of not knowing ourselves? For it may well be that what we are, what we apprehend and how we teach and learn the unteachable are but one thing – and nobody’s choice except ours.

T.S. Eliot, ‘The Naming of Cats’, in Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats (London: Faber, 1939), pp 11–12.

…But above and beyond there’s still one name left over, And that is the name that you never will guess; The name that no human research can discover – But the cat himself knows, and will never confess. When you notice a cat in profound meditation, The reason, I tell you, is always the same: His mind is engaged in rapt contemplation Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name: His ineffable, effable Effanineffable Deep and inscrutable singular Name.


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biblio g r aphy Alvarez, A. Beckett, Glasgow, Collins (Fontana Modern Masters), 1973 Bernstein, Jeremy. Einstein, Glasgow, Collins (Fontana Modern Masters), 1973 Blake, William. ‘Auguries of Innocence’, in The Penguin Book of English Verse, ed. John Hayward, London, Penguin, 1956, p 243 Brendel, Alfred. Musical Thoughts & Afterthoughts, London, Robson Press, 1976 Chang, Chung-Yuan. Creativity and Taoism: a study of Chinese philosophy, art and poetry, London, Wildwood House, 1963; 1975 edn Chopra, Deepak. Quantum Healing: exploring the frontiers of mind/body medicine, New York, Bantam Books, 1989 Chosky, Lois, Robert Abramson, Avon Gillespie & David Woods. Teaching Music in the Twentieth Century, Englewoods Cliffs (nj), Prentice Hall, 1986 Croucher, Michael & Howard Reid. The Fighting Arts, New York, Simon & Schuster, 1983; published originally as The Way of the Warrior by Century Publishing, uk Degas, Edgard. Notebooks (1856), in Artists on Art, ed. Robert Goldwater & Marco Treves, New York, Pantheon Books, 1945 Donoghue, Denis. Yeats, Glasgow, Collins (Fontana Modern Masters), 1971 Einstein, Albert. The Meaning of Relativity, London, Methuen, 1922 —. Relativity, the Special and the General Theory: a popular exposition, London, Methuen, 1920 Eliot, T.S. Four Quartets, London, Faber, 1944 —. Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, London, Faber, 1939 —. ‘The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism’ (1933), in Selected Prose of T.S. Eliot, ed. Frank Kermode, London, Faber, 1975, pp 79–96 Emerson, Ralph Waldo. ‘Maia’, in Yogananda, Autobiography of a Yogi (q.v.), p 41 Esslin, Martin. Artaud, Glasgow, Collins (Fontana Modern Masters), 1976 Gillen, Ruth, ed. The Writings and Letters of Konrad Wolff, Westport (ct), Greenwood Press, 2000 Hawkes, Terence. Structuralism and Semiotics, London, Methuen, 1977 Kant, Immanuel. Critique of Pure Reason (1787), tr. Norman Kemp Smith, London, Macmillan, 1929 Kokushi, Muso (1275–1351). Dream Conversations (On Buddhism and Zen), tr. & ed. Thomas Cleary, Boston, Shambala, 1994 Lao-Tzu (c. 300 bc). Tao Te Ching Magee, Bryan. Popper, Glasgow, Collins (Fontana Modern Masters), 1973 Meyer, Leonard B. Music, the Arts and Ideas, University of Chicago Press, 1967 Nader, Tony. Human Physiology: expression of Veda and the Vedic literature, Vlodrop, Maharishi Vedic University, 1995 Neuhaus, Heinrich. The Art of Piano Playing, London, Barrie & Jenkins, 1973 Nhât Hanh, Thích. The Heart of the Buddha’s Teaching, Berkeley, Parallax Press, 1998 O’Connor, J. & J. Seymour. Introducing Neuro-Linguistic Programming, London, Harper Collins, 1990 Plaistow, Stephen. ‘Alfred Brendel at 70’, Gramophone, June 2001, pp 8–11 Popper, Karl. Conjectures and Refutations: the growth of scientific knowledge, London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1963; 5th edn, 1989 —. Knowledge and the Body–Mind Problem: in defence of interaction, London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1994

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—. The Logic of Scientific Discovery, London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1934; English translation 1959 —. Objective Knowledge: an evolutionary approach, Oxford University Press, 1972 —. Unended Quest: an intellectual autobiography, London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1974 — & John Eccles. The Self and Its Brain, London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1977 Schnabel, Artur. My Life and Music, Gerrards Cross, Colin Smythe, 1970 Shearer, Aaron. ‘On Primary Intent’, egta Guitar Journal nº 7 (1996); reprint of ‘An Innovative Approach to Learning the Classic Guitar’, gfa Soundboard, vol. xxii nº 2 (Summer 1995) Sparshott, F.E. ‘Education in Music’, in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. by Stanley Sadie, vol. 6, London, Macmillan, 6th edn, 1980 Stravinsky, Igor. Poetics of Music in the Form of Six Lessons, tr. Arthur Knodel & Ingolf Dahl, Cambridge (ma), Harvard University Press, 1942 Szende, Ottó & Mihály Nemessuri. The Physiology of Violin Playing, London, Collets, 1971 Taruskin, Richard. Text and Act: essays in music and performance, New York, Oxford University Press, 1995 Tsai, Chih Chung. Zen Speaks. Shouts of Nothingness: collection of ancient Chinese anecdotes (c. 300 bc), tr. Bryan Bruya, London, Harper Collins, 1994 Ueshiba, Morihei. The Art of Peace: teachings of the founder of Aikido, Boston, Shambala, 1992 Upanishads, ed. Juan Mascaró, London, Penguin, 1965 Werner, Kenny. Effortless Mastery: liberating the master musician within, New Albany (in), Jamey Abersold Jazz, 1996 Wolff, Konrad. Schnabel’s Interpretation of Piano Music, London, Faber, 1979; first published 1972 Wright, Richard. ‘Articulation and the Myth of Difficulty’, Guitar Forum 1, egta uk, 2001, pp 77–85 Yogananda, Paramahansa. Autobiography of a Yogi, Bombay, Jaico Publishing House, 1946 Zea, Luis. ‘The Works for Solo Guitar by Antonio Lauro’, published in Classical Guitar magazine since 1995

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contributors

julian bream was born in 1933. His many performances, recordings and commissions have established him as one of the most significant figures in the guitar’s history. His 1957 article,‘How to Write for the Guitar’, is reprinted in Guitar Forum as a tribute to him on his seventieth birthday, with our gratitude and congratulations. sarn dyer is a composer, arranger and librettist with a special interest in guitar methodology. He studied the guitar with Alexandre Lagoya and José Tomás, and composition with Patric Stanford. His compositions, transcriptions, arrangements, studies and teaching materials will be published at the end of this year by Guitar Master Editions (www.guitareditions.com). These include a course for learning the guitar fingerboard from the earliest stages of study using the folk music of Spain. lorenzo micheli came to international prominence in 1999 as the winner of the Guitar Foundation of America competition in the usa, having already gained several first prizes in Europe. He has since toured throughout the world and released recordings of Aguado and Castelnuovo-Tedesco, with further recordings of Llobet and de Fossa in preparation. His principal teachers were Paola Coppi, Frédéric Zigante and Oscar Ghiglia. fabio zanon (MMus, ARAM) was born in Brazil and had his education as a guitarist, conductor and musicologist at the University of São Paulo and at the Royal Academy of Music in London. Since winning the first prizes at the Tárrega and Guitar Foundation of America competitions in 1996, he has developed a solid international career both as a performer and as a recording artist with a vast repertoire, one in which neglected masterworks occupy a central position. luis zea is a performing and recording artist who studied with the legendary composer Antonio Lauro. He earned degrees from London (King’s College) and Reading Universities, and also studied privately with John Duarte and Leopoldo Igarza. He has toured and given masterclasses worldwide, and served as full-time Visiting Professor at Indiana University’s School of Music. He is also a composer, arranger and author. His articles have been published in Guitar International, Guitar Player, Gitarre und Laute and Classical Guitar, notably a long series devoted to the music of Lauro. He teaches in Caracas at iudem (Instituto Universitario de Estudios Musicales).

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Activities an annual summer event covering a wide range of musical and educational topics presented by members and guest speakers opportunities for members’ pupils to receive guidance from internationally celebrated musicians past artists have included Paul Galbraith, Sharon Isbin, Ricardo Iznaola, Los Angeles Guitar Quartet, David Russell, David Starobin, David Tannenbaum, the late José Tomás, John Williams, Fabio Zanon, Zagreb Guitar Trio to promote local interest in the guitar National Youth Guitar Ensemble, a major new project sponsored and organised by egta uk (see opposite) Publications published by Chanterelle and Mel Bay. ‘The egta Series with its parallel use of solo and accompanied pieces…represents a major contribution to the changing needs of guitar teaching.’ John Williams articles on pedagogy, repertory and technique by leading players, teachers and scholars latest news and views from members a central pool of unpublished teaching repertoire available only to members Other Benefits access to events organised by the European String Teachers Association instrument insurance with British Reserve egta series publications purchased from the Spanish Guitar Centres in London and Bristol, and Guitar Notes in Nottingham Guitar Forum is currently free to egta members Membership for guitar teachers · £25 for interested individuals · £20 for interested organisations · £50 for students in full-time education · £5 Only full membership carries full voting rights. Annual subscription is payable on January 1; half-year subscription applies to new members joining after 1 June John Williams, obe (Honorary President), Stephen Dodgson, Ricardo Iznaola, David Russell, David Starobin, Gareth Walters Secretary, Sarah Clarke, 29 Longfield Road, Tring, Herts, hp23 4dg, uk email: [email protected]

N AT I O N A L

youth I G U I T A R IE N S E M B L E I( U K )

T H E N AT I O N A L Y O U T H G U I TA R E N S E M B L E was formed in 1999 to provide talented young guitarists from across the country with the opportunity to play together under the guidance of leading guitar ensemble specialists. Its first public performance was in July 2000 at the 3rd International egta Congress at Girton College, Cambridge, in the presence of Leo Brouwer. In 2002, under its current musical director Richard Wright, the nyge played to a capacity audience at the Bath Guildhall as part of the Bath International Guitar Festival. The concert included the first performance of Stephen Dodgson’s Watersmeet for solo guitar and guitar ensemble, in which the soloist was the legendary John Williams (see picture). In 2003 nyge appeared at the Dundee Guitar Festival in July. Interest in the NGYE has grown to the extent that there is now a second ensemble for younger and less advanced players known as the nyge Academy. They gave their debut under the baton of Gerald Garcia, their Musical Director, at the 2003 egta conference in Cambridge.

John Williams with nyge and musical director Richard Wright at the 2002 International Guitar Festival in Bath.

AUDITIONS for both groups are held annually: the next auditions will be held late 2003 or early 2004. Successful candidates will take part in two courses and concerts per year, usually during the Easter and Summer holidays. NYGE: Age 16 & over. Minimum standard Grade 8. NYGE Academy: Age 13–18. Grade 5–8. Players who excel have the chance to graduate to nyge.

Contact Chris Susans, Wavertree, 26 Burton Road, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leics, LE65 2LL · 01530 416564 · [email protected]

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Classic Guitar DVD Anthology This classic guitar DVD features performances by some of the world’s best players: Carlos Barbosa-Lima, The Castellani-Andriaccio Duo, Nikita Koshkin, Ronn McFarlane, Lorenzo Micheli, Jorge Morel, The Newman & Oltman Guitar Duo, Judicaël Perroy, Andrew York, and Fabio Zanon. 2-hour DVD (20382DVD) $19.95.

Retail prices are shown in U.S. dollars

Martha Masters GFA Winner 2000 Performed by Martha Masters. This DVD video features Martha Masters, the winner of the 2000 GFA competition, performing in an intimate studio setting for your enjoyment. Martha’s program includes a diverse and interesting array of music from many time periods and ethnic traditions. 48-min. DVD (99786DVD) $19.95.

Paulo Bellinati Plays Antonio Carlos Jobim Performed by Paulo Bellinati. Paulo Bellinati is one of Brazil’s most accomplished contemporary guitarists. In this video he performs 12 pieces by Antonio Carlos Jobim, one of Latin jazz’s best known composers, accompanied by Cristina Azuma. 46-min. DVD (99725DVD) $24.95. 46-min. Video (99725VX) $24.95. Diners Club International ®

Complete Sor Studies for Guitar

By David Grimes. The guitar studies of Fernando Sor (1778-1839) address an impressive array of technical and musical topics. A careful study of these pieces will lay the groundwork for a solid technique and allow the guitarist to build the control necessary for the expression of his or her musical concepts. 160 pages. Book (95110) $17.95.

Francisco Tárrega: Collected Guitar Works By Francisco Tárrega. Volume I contains all of the 48 works which the composer had published in Spain up until the time of his death. Volume II contains all 63 of the works published after the composer’s death. They are presented here as unamended preprints of these historical editions. In standard notation only. Vol. 1 160-page book (97475) $31.95. Vol. 2 192-page book (98104) $29.95.

The Classical Book Edited by Richard Wright. Contains progressively-arranged classic guitar solos from the early 19th Century, including works by Aguado, Carcassi, Carulli, Coste, Diabelli, Giuliani, Molino, and Sor. Overall, this anthology provides great sight reading practice at an intermediate level, along with ample historical and biographical notes. 36 pages. Book (98100) $11.99.

The Baroque Book Compiled and arranged by Richard Wright. In this series of books, the EGTA consolidates and develops a methodic and imaginative process of guitar teaching. The pieces are more of less progressive in difficulty throughout and are grouped into three distinct technical categories. 36 pages. Book (97479) $14.95.

Etudes Mécaniques: 12 Easy-Intermediate Studies for Guitar By Stanley Yates. These 12 “mechanical studies” for guitar are intended as an atmospheric modern counterpart to the classical arpeggio study, a fundamental aspect of right-hand training. The left hand is kept relatively in the background while the right hand explores a particular pattern, texture, or technique. 24 pages. Book (20007) $7.95. CD (20009CD) $9.98. Graded Repertoire for Guitar, Book One By Stanley Yates. This volume provides students with the most stylistically comprehensive music available, while at the same time realistically meeting the pedagogical needs of teachers. Book (99630) $14.95. CD (99630CD) $9.98.

En Mode: 22 Easy Character Pieces for Guitar By Stanley Yates. A set of 22 easy character pieces for guitar with a light contemporary flavor, “in the style of...,” that provide early students with a wider range of musical genres than is usually possible with traditional “accessible” repertoire. Written in standard notation only. 24 pages. Book (20008) $7.95. CD (20009CD) $9.98. Publishing the finest in music for over 50 years!

Please add shipping and handling: $6.00 for 1 item. $1.00 each additional item.

Distribution in the UK by Kevin Mayhew Ltd.

MEL BAY PUBLICATIONS, INC. P.O. Box 66 • Pacific, MO 63069 • PHONE (1) 636-257-3970 TOLL FREE 1-800-8-MEL BAY (1-800-863-5229) • FAX (1) 636-257-5062

ONLINE ORDERING: www.baysidepress.com • ONLINE CATALOG: www.melbay.com

Telephone 01449 737978 FAX 01449 737834

S Y C A M O R E

S E R I E S

35 hithercroft road · downley · high wycombe · bucks hp13 5lt


Scenes & Themes
by john compton

scenes & themes provides the absolute beginner with additional material in the form of teacher–student duets to reinforce the learning of basic musicianship, literacy and specific guitar skills. ‘The pieces are tremendously effective because of the skill that has gone into writing the teacher’s part: all of them are great little pieces of music, and the children I tried them on all loved them and have been asking to do them again. I think these books will become some of the most widely used: I would strongly recommend every teacher to look at them.’ – Classical Guitar teacher’s book £6.00 · student’s book with cd £9.50


Sycamore Series Ensemble Music
a wealth of over 50 titles of trios and quartets, including both original compositions by John and arrangements of favourite music. Standards range from absolute beginner to concert platform but the bulk of this series has been written for the early to mid-grade student ensemble, of which John has immense experience. Original compositions from this series won the composers’ prizes at the 1994 and 1995 Guitar Orchestra Competition of Great Britain. All the titles come with score and one set of parts. Extra parts are available and all music is fingered and phrased as appropriate. for complete details, catalogue & order form, please visit

www.sycamore-series.ndirect.co.uk

GuitarrasideiEspaña www.gdespana.co.uk

sole uk distributors for

Paulino Bernabé

• Available by special order

Amalio Burguet

• Model 3, French polished £ 5 4 9 • Model 3m, all solid £ 7 3 9 • Model 1a, French polished £ 1 7 9 5 • Model Noguera, Spanish walnut & double top £ 1 2 0 0 • Much more, including bass, requinto, tercio, 8 string, 10 string

Prudencio Saez

• Extensive range of models from £ 2 3 5 • Cedar or spruce tops, plus mahogany, walnut, rosewood, sycamore

Azahar

• Prices from £ 1 9 9 • Rosewood & ebony fingerboards from £ 2 7 5 • Flamenco, cypress & ebony fingerboards £ 2 7 5 • Rio rosewood £ 3 9 9 • All solid £ 6 4 9

Santiago

• Solid top Spanish guitar, sweet tone and easy action, ideal for beginners · prices from £ 1 4 9

Jonathan Baker (director) · 18 Royal York Crescent, Clifton, Bristol, bs8 4jy, uk Contact us for literature and full details of ranges, stockists and special offers

[email protected] · tel/fax +44 (0) 117 973 3214

ENGLISH g u i ta r m u s i c S o n ata v i i Thomas Arn


arranged for two guitars 2 scores provided £5.95

English Music for two guitars

duets from the 16th century to the present day 2 scores provided £9.95

A i r s
Da n c e s

from ngland, Ireland, cotland &ales solo guitar £4.95

Te n E n g l i s h Pieces

music by enkins,obinson, larke & others 16th–20th century solo guitar £5.95

CAPRIOL Anthony Dodds lram 75 East Street, Bridport, Dorset dt6 3lb

We are proud to announce a series of compositions and arrangements of

Latin- American music by

LUIS ZEA Already published:

- Tríptico Venezolano (solo guitar) - Variaciones Líricas (solo guitar)

Please check our regularly updated WEB site at

www.dobermaneditions.com

c. p. 2021 Saint-Nicolas QC G7A 4X5 Canada Phone: (418) 831- 1304 Fax: (418) 836- 3645 e- mail: doberman.yppan@ videotron.ca

www.capriol.com

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Guitars International by arrangement with Armin Kelly Exceptional New Individually Handcrafted Classical Guitars from Around the World ENGLAND Ambridge Aram Barton Dean Fischer Gee Rodgers (tuners) Southwell

SWEDEN Fredholm

FRANCE Fanton d'Andon

U.S.A. Byers Concepcion Elliott Gutmeier Hill Ioannou Milburn Monrad Ruck Vazquez Rubio Velazquez White

GERMANY Nowak Panhuyzen Scharbatke Wagner ITALY Bottelli Galli Strings Tacchi

SPAIN Baarslag Eichinger Marin Montero Raya Pardo

Cleveland, Ohio U.S.A. By Appointment • 216.752.7502

www.guitarsint.com

[email protected]

london guitar studio The uk’s nº1 Guitar Shop plus one entire floor devoted to Flamenco

• strings • music • books • cases • casettes • cds • videos • and more open seven days a week: mon – sat 9–6 sun 10 – 5

from students to professionals london guitar studio 62 Duke Street, London w1k 6jt tel 020 7493 1157 fax 020 7495 4610 www.londonguitarstudio.com [email protected]

Tel 0121 429 7446 Fax 0121 429 4211 International Tel +44 121 429 7446 Fax +44 121 429 4211

51A St. Mary’s Road Bearwood West Midlands B67 5DH England E-mail: [email protected] Website: www.classicalguitar.co.uk

A warm and friendly welcome

HAVE YOU VISITED THE CENTRE? We have the UK’s largest stock of instruments at all prices from £40 to £10,000. A wonderful selection of concert guitars includes the full José Ramirez range

awaits you at our specialist Centre in the heart of the country. Visit at a time to suit yourself and enjoy the quiet and relaxed atmosphere where instruments may be played at your leisure in individual studios. We hold one of Europe’s largest stocks of classical instruments together with an excellent selection of CDs, music and accessories. Always on display are the complete ranges of guitars by Jose Ramirez, Raimundo, Asturias and Almansa. Also available are new and second hand instruments by: Dieter Hopf, Tezanos Perez, Manuel Contreras, Manuel Cacares, Arturo, Sanzano, Paco de Lucia, Masaru Kohno, Masaki Sakurai, Ignacio Rozas, Conde Hermanos, José Romero, Miguel Malo, Juan Gonzalez, Miguel Senovilla, Domingo Ortega, Tsuji, H. Makino, Aria, Aranjuez, Alastair McNeill, Prudencio Saez, Manuel Rodriguez, Admira…

HAVE YOU VISITED THE WEBSITE? www.classicalguitar.co.uk There is advice on buying, detailed information regarding instruments with many photographs, stock and price lists Opening Times: Weekdays 10.00 – 3.30 Saturdays 10.00 – 5.00 & any other time by prior arrangement If you are unable to visit the Centre we offer a guaranteed next day delivery service for all our instruments within the UK. Overseas deliveries are not a problem – these usually take three to five days for anywhere in the world. All consignments are fully insured. Part exchanges are welcome. We accept all major credit cards and credit terms can also be arranged if required.

— with many thanks for your excellent service and consideration, Best wishes Carlos Bonell International Concert Artiste & Professor of Guitar, Royal College of Music, London