Keying on Prokofiev

The San Francisco Symphony's festival this month, "Russian Firebrand, Russian Virtuoso: The Music of Prokofiev," conducted by Michael Tilson Thomas, features, quite appropriately, four pianists (Yefim Bronfman, Vladimir Feltsman, Mikhail Rudy, and Ilya Yakushev) who, like Prokofiev, grew up or received their musical training in Russia (or in two cases, the former republics of the Soviet Union). There is a certain mystique surrounding the Russian piano school, as well as plenty of stereotypes. Some of these stereotypes perhaps have some justification: The intense emotionality of performance has always been considered a virtue in Russia, a goal toward which every Russian pianist must strive. Other stereotypes appear to be far less informed. Take, for example, a 2004 New York Times review of Mikhail Pletnev's concert in Avery Fisher Hall. The reviewer was perplexed by Pletnev's "constantly shifting tempos." In his words, "the intensity in certain climactic passages of the [Beethoven sonata] 'Waldstein' is surely meant to be achieved by keeping the buildup of fortissimo chords absolutely steady." The reviewer blamed Pletnev's rubato on the Russian Romantic piano tradition. This is a misconception rooted in lack of knowledge. True, Russian pianists of the past, such as Rachmaninov and Horowitz, the two pianists most revered by Pletnev, used a lot of tempo rubato. But the freedom of tempo was not an exclusive trait of the Russian piano school. Thus, Anton Schindler left a detailed description of Beethoven's own performance of the first movement of Op. 14, No.1. Beethoven's tempos were far from steady. At certain moments Beethoven slowed the tempo down to andantino or even andante, then he resumed the original fast tempo; accelerando and ritenuto were liberally applied.

Czerny's Rules

Carl Czerny, Beethoven's student and Liszt's teacher, did write that "every composition must be played in tempo prescribed by the composer and adhered to by the performer." But then he meticulously listed rules for tempo changes. For example, according to Czerny, players could retard to underline a return of a melody, or to separate musical phrases, or on long notes, or after a pause, or in a transition to a different tempo, or in a diminuendo, or in a crescendo, or in section endings, or in expressive passages, or in places where the performer "gives free rein to his fancy" (that is to say, anywhere). As Czerny said, "in almost every line of music there are certain notes and passages where a little ritardando or accelerando is necessary to beautify the reading and to augment the interest." The Times reviewer could have easily found most of this information in the excellent book of the former New York Times music critic Harold C. Schonberg, The Great Pianists: From Mozart to the Present. Schonberg warned in his book that if a pianist today were to try to play Beethoven in a true Beethoven manner, he would be "laughed off the stage as an incompetent, a stylistic idiot who knew nothing about the Beethoven style, and as a bungler who was incapable of adhering to a basic tempo." Schonberg's warning unfortunately turned out to be somewhat correct in the case of his younger colleague, who could not rise above a stereotypic image of the Russian style. In my view, Pletnev's adroit tempo fluctuations greatly enhanced both the structure and expressivity of the music he performed that night, just as they did in Beethoven's Germany.

Clues to a Style

What is the Russian style, then? There is no easy answer to this question, and I am not attempting to provide one in this short piece. But I would like to offer a few thoughts, skirting, however, the sticky issue of the mysterious Russian soul. To begin with, if there is a Russian style, it's been morphing considerably since its inception in the early 1800s. And yet, we can trace at least some constant traits that have survived for more than 200 years. It all started when the 20-year-old Dubliner John Field arrived in Russia along with his teacher, Muzio Clementi. Clementi soon returned to London, but Field stayed behind and settled in Russia permanently, concertizing and composing on his path to fame. Among Field's many distinguished students were Mikhail Glinka and Alexander Dubuque. While the latter's compositions cannot even be compared with Glinka's output, he became one of the leading pianists in Russia. His numerous students included Mily Balakirev and Nikolai Zverev, who, in turn, taught Sergei Rachmaninov and Alexander Scriabin. One of the foremost features of Field's piano playing was the development of a new melodic style that "sang" on the piano. The other was his unrivaled beauty of tone. In Glinka's words, it seemed that Field "did not strike the keys but his fingers fell on them as large raindrops and scattered like pearls on velvet." At the same time, Field's music was, according to Glinka, "full of energy, capricious, and diverse."

Two Brothers, Two Schools

Then came the first two conservatories. They were established by two extraordinary pianists, the brothers Rubinstein. The older, Anton, founded the St. Petersburg Conservatory in 1862; the younger, Nikolai, the Moscow Conservatory four years later. Many professors were invited from abroad, so that during the first few years of operation the professorial meetings were conducted, in the order of diminishing use, in French, German, and Russian. As pianists, the brothers Rubinstein could not be more different. Nikolai played rather in the Field-Dubuque Moscow vein, with polish and incisive precision. Anton, on the other hand, thrilled audiences with his overwhelming power and explosive passion (all the wrong notes notwithstanding). But he combined elemental strength with feathery lightness; he spent hours at the piano, trying to imitate the timbres of the best operatic singers of the time. If we try to see what united all those different Russian artists, from Field to the Rubinstein brothers, it was the singular attention to a singing quality of tone and to a beguiling variety of touch. Since then, these features have become a hallmark of piano performance in Russia. If Italy can be proud of its bel canto style of beautiful singing, the typical Russian style of piano playing can be termed perhaps as la belle touche, the beautiful touch. This style was cultivated in the new conservatories, as well — not only because Dubuque and the Rubinsteins were teaching there, and not only because they all demanded extremely rigorous and disciplined performance training. The curricula of both conservatories included an extensive array of classes that, besides general-education courses, consisted of nine to 10 years of study in music theory, ear-training, harmony, counterpoint, canon and fugue, orchestration, analysis of musical form, and composition. The young pianists developed their abilities to hear and understand music to the fullest. Upon graduation, technical difficulties did not exist for them.

What Prokofiev Knew

Sergei Prokofiev went through 10 years of studies at the St. Petersburg Conservatory from the age of 13, after a few years of private lessons in piano, harmony, and musical form. He graduated not only as an exceptional composer but also as a brilliant pianist.

The four pianists performing this month in the Prokofiev festival studied under a newer system of musical education in Russia, which has actually expanded in comparison with that of the older conservatories. The junior division was eventually dropped from the conservatory curriculum, and only the five-year senior division remained. But the former junior division grew into children's music schools (seven years) and undergraduate colleges of music (four years). That means a pianist graduating from a conservatory with a diploma equivalent to a master's degree has many years of studying music theory, harmony, polyphony, form analysis, music history, and about 11 years of ear-training. And, of course, the long-established methodology of teaching and developing piano technique from the age of 6 or 7 through the age of at least 23 results in the highest professional standards that apply not only to finger velocity but also to tone control, voicing, phrasing, dynamic nuance, pedaling, and, once again, touch. To be sure, this astounding system of musical education, in and of itself, does not make great pianists. But it provides superb professional tools for someone who has the potential to become a great artist. These vastly developed skills of comprehending, hearing, and creating the finest aspects of music constitute another constant within the evolving Russian piano style. I cannot say that this evolution is always for the better, and it is impossible to predict now what consequences the latest social developments will bring. Great numbers of distinguished Russian artists, pedagogues, and young pianists live now outside of their homeland. Cultural attitudes inside Russia are also changing with startling swiftness. The previous Tchaikovsky Competition I heard, in Moscow in 2002, was a disappointment. Almost everyone's playing was clean and technically flawless, but there were no striking individualities, not a single memorable interpretation. And just recently the juries at the 13th Tchaikovsky Competition announced the results of the first round (now you can hear the entire competitiion on the Internet at www.xiiitc.ru). Among the 46 participants of the first round, such brilliant pianists as Maxim Anikushin (U.S.), Kawamura Fumio (Japan), Nikolai Mazhara (Russia), Sohn Minsoo (South Korea), and Ingolf Wunder (Austria) stood out as the most fascinating and original artistic personalities. Nevertheless, they were eliminated after the first round, while many far less interesting, even sometimes substandard contestants moved on. It looks like the rest of this Tchaikovsky Competition, at least as far as the pianists are concerned, may turn just as dull and unstimulating as the last one. The trend of producing unremarkable competition laureates, indistinguishable one from another, unfortunately continues. Of course, an international competition, even in Russia, is not the best place to take risks and make artistic discoveries. The Symphony's Prokofiev festival, on the other hand, may be such a place.