Heartstring Quartet

Heartstring Quartet

A marriage made in heaven…

 

I always imagined that a string quartet would be like a faithful marriage. I believed that it would be a perfect harmonious relationship that, over time, would lead to an almost psychic connection between the four players. Every nuance and glance would be understood completely and reflected in a seamless exquisite musical performance.

 

I had read about quartets that had been together for many decades.

 

When we formed our string quartet over three years ago it was a very exciting time. We gave our quartet a name, a name made up of fragments of our own names; a bit like ABBA but without the satin trousers and dangerous footwear.

 

We bought special files to hold our music and proudly inscribed them with our name in our best calligraphy.

 

I took my second violin parts of Mozart’s evocatively named “K156” and “K168” to my teacher and practiced them diligently. I listened to recordings. I wanted to be the best I could be. Each player is important in a quartet; every instrument has its own voice which is essential to the whole.

 

My teacher told me that she had heard someone say that a string quartet was like a bottle of wine. The cello is the bottle holding everything together. The first violin is the fancy label, the part that gets noticed first. The viola and second violin together are the middle voices, the substance, the wine itself.

 

We all thoroughly enjoyed playing together, met almost every Sunday morning and made a steady improvement.

 

Then one day the lead violinist said “I love our quartet! It’s wonderful that we practice together so regularly… much more regularly than our other quartet.”

 

The viola player nodded in agreement “Yes, our other quartet doesn’t meet very regularly. Sometimes we forget what we have been working on.”

 

“Our other quartet.” I felt devastated by those words. Too wounded to even speak.

 

I went home, took out my violin, and played Gabriel Fauré’s suitably tragic “Élégie”, sniffing miserably between each note. I missed out the middle section, partly because it seemed too optimistic and partly because it was too difficult to play.

 

Another time it was suggested that Brenda the clarinettist join us. “There are some lovely pieces for clarinet quartet, and Brenda doesn’t get the chance to play with other people very often.”

 

I couldn’t believe that such an obscene suggestion was being proposed.

 

Thankfully the violist dismissed the suggestion, saying that she preferred to play in a string quartet and that she wasn’t interested in playing with a clarinet.

 

If I could have uttered any words, I would probably have been rather less coherent and detached. There would undoubtedly have been some sobbing and, had I possessed one, pitiful waving of my lace handkerchief.

 

Since this time, I have (more or less) come to terms with the situation and now accept that it is normal and perhaps even healthy for musicians to play in different, often overlapping groups.

 

I have even had a few dalliances playing in other groups myself.

 

The latest quartet has me playing first violin, which, like eating brussel sprouts, is difficult to do but is also good for me. I also get to set the tempo; inevitably moderato. Definitely no allegro or, as I call it, rushing.

 

Whichever group I have played in though, there has always been one constant companion; my darling faithful cellist – together forever.

 

As Audrey Hepburn said “If I get married, I want to be very married.”

The Unifying Force of Music

The Unifying Force of Music

Music brings people together…

 

The unifying power of playing music in a group can help to dissolve differences between nations and bring about a common understanding and appreciation of diverse cultures.

 

It is not simply the playing of music together, but the time spent together, especially during break times, discussing our differing cultural practices and, very importantly, eating cake.

 

A violinist friend once told me that she had taken her violin to the luthier to overcome a problem with lack of resonance. He told her that he had successfully resolved the problem by removing rather a lot of cake that had fallen through the ‘f’ holes. He advised her to avoid eating cake with the violin on her lap in future.

 

Yesterday was our string quartet practice session hosted by our violist who happens to be Danish.

 

Nothing focusses flagging concentration more than the words “Let’s go through this one more time and then we’ll have a break.”

 

During our breaks over the years we have found that, although Denmark and England are geographically close, there are certainly some minor cultural differences which are very interesting to discover.

 

Yesterday we were discussing Christmas and the decorations and food that accompany the festivities and how these differed between the two Countries.

 

During this conversation our (English, with French heritage) first violinist picked up the small jug from the centre of the table and poured a substantial amount of the contents onto her piece of cake.

 

Our Danish violist host observed this action with keen interest.

 

“I’ve just poured milk all over my cake!” exclaimed our first violinist.

 

Our Danish violist host nodded and looked expectantly for an explanation.

 

“Yes, we sometimes do that on the second Sunday of the month.” I said “It’s a very old tradition.”

 

“That’s right!” agreed our first violinist “It’s called ‘milking the occasion.’”

 

“I see” said our Danish violist “I thought perhaps you were protesting because I hadn’t provided cream to go with the cake.”

 

We all laughed uproariously, and fully refreshed, continued playing wonderful string quartet music together.

 

Music, laughter and cake - all strong contenders for the universal language.

Our Big Concert

Our Big Concert

Last Wednesday night was the most prestigious concert yet for our community orchestra…

 

We had all managed to find the venue, a 14^th/15^th Century church at the brow of a dark cobbled street. It was converted into an educational centre and concert venue in the 1970’s but still retains the architecture and feel of an ancient place of worship. 

 

The magnificent sandstone medieval arches sweeping upwards towards the richly carved vaulted ceiling made it a rather different environment to the little village hall that our orchestra is accustomed to performing in.

 

After a bewildering game of Tetris, involving music stands and chairs, the stage was finally set and we settled into our places for a last minute run through. The difference in acoustics was very noticeable with sound waves behaving in a most peculiar fashion.

 

The lighting was alien to us too; a soupy murky ambiance with brilliant spotlights on the stage casting deep shadows onto our sheet music. “Don’t look into the lights!” commanded Maestro; an instruction guaranteed to make at least half of us do so and spend the next three minutes looking like startled bush babies.

 

The audience started to arrive. Someone had mentioned that they had been to a concert at this venue the week before and the audience consisted of only around thirty people, but Wednesday night they kept arriving, more and more people until every seat was taken and more chairs were being requested. The front row seats to my right were reserved for the Mayor and Mayoress. I don’t think the Mayor showed up, unless he was dressed down in one of those brown cardigans with reinforced shoulders – the sort that are always advertised at the back of weekend newspapers.

 

The Mayoress was there though; a petite and friendly looking woman sporting an impressive chain of office and an equally impressive head of purple hair. Seated next to her was another woman with hair of a brilliant shade of aquamarine. Their hair remained these colours even after my eyesight had recovered from looking into the spotlight.

 

Maestro tapped his baton on his stand, paused on the upbeat, and then we were off, starting at a bristling pace with The March from Carmen by Bizet. The first half of the concert went well and the audience was very generous with its applause.

 

Then came the second half; the lighter side of our repertoire including music from films. A chance to enjoy playing with Hollywood style luscious long bows and wearing suitably dramatic facial expressions (often unintentionally).

 

We had rehearsed the powerful and fierce five-beats-in-a-bar section of “Lord of the Rings” hundreds of times before, but instead of the usual heavy base line introduction:

“BOM! bom bom BOM! bom, BOM! bom bom BOM! bom.”

It had changed to:

“BOM! bom BOM! bom bom, BOM! bom BOM! bom bom”

 

It may not seem like a great difference, but it was enough.

 

The music started to slide apart as we lost all sense of structure.

We had left the safety of The Shire and were lost in the terrifying depths of Middle-Earth.

I looked up at Maestro, he was now Gandalf with his wand, his hair was turning grey before my very eyes.

His mouth was fixed and he pointed towards his dark fiery eyes – an instruction to watch carefully, very very carefully.

He began conducting with a potent mystical intensity, drawing us all together into a unified whole again.

 

At the end of the piece the audience applauded wildly.

 

Subtle glances were exchanged between the players, glances that spoke of a shared experience of triumph over adversity.

 

At the end of the concert, we all stood to accept the applause. The audience members looked as though they had enjoyed themselves and the purple-haired Mayoress seemed to be impressed.

 

The stage was dismantled and we orchestra players wearily carried our instruments down the dark cobbled street and went our separate ways, reflecting on the very special evening that we had spent together.

 

An orchestra to be proud of.

 

“I have learned that success is to be measured not so much by the position that one has reached in life as by the obstacles which one has had to overcome while trying to succeed.” ~Booker T. Washington~

Between Baroque and a Hard Place

Between Baroque and a Hard Place

Nothing worthwhile comes easily…

 

I went for a violin lesson last night. I was rather apprehensive as the last lesson consisted of playing a study as quickly as possible without stopping. My teacher played along with me, each time faster and faster, shouting “keep going – we don’t stop for mistakes!” It was pretty hair-raising.

My homework was to play the study at a pace which I would describe as “far too fast” using different slurs and bowings.

 

I hadn’t done my homework.

 

I couldn’t face the shame of playing the study “far too slowly”.

 

After fretting about this, I decided at the last minute to leave the study at home and to take a violin/cello duet that I had been working on with my partner, an Allegro by Handel, a piece which I felt reasonably confident about playing.

 

I arrived at my lesson and confessed that I hadn’t done anything with the study and had brought another piece with me.

 

“Baroque!” exclaimed my teacher “You do realise that this is what I do don’t you?”

 

Of course! My teacher is one of the leading lights in the baroque playing world.

 

“Do you want the long baroque lecture or the short baroque lecture?” she asked.

 

"Um, the long one please.” I replied tentatively.

 

She opened an old violin case and took out her baroque violin, a beautiful instrument with black and white edging either side of the slender finger board.

She explained that the strings were gut rather than metal, the bass bar was shorter, the bridge was lower and the whole instrument was tuned a semitone lower than a modern violin.
“So I couldn’t possibly play this with you playing yours, it would sound awful!” she exclaimed. “Play me your ‘A’”.
I played my ‘A’ string and she played the ‘A’ on hers.
“Urgh, you see, awful isn’t it?” She asked.
“Urgh, yes, disgusting.” I agreed, trying to appear more offended by the sound than I actually was.

 

Then she handed me a baroque bow, looking dangerously taught. “Have a go with this.”

 

I held the strange bow and was about to play, at the same time developing a terrible tickle in my throat. She took hold of the bow to move it nearer to the bridge and said “You need to play it around here...”

 

I coughed, politely covering my mouth.

 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, unexpectedly finding herself holding the bow on her own. “This has happened to me before with a child, I was adjusting the angle of her violin and she just let go. I said to her ‘I’m glad someone was holding it!’”

She returned the bow to me. “Ok,” she said “Let me hear you play.”

 

I raised my bow and started to play the incessant series of quavers.

 

Bop bop bop bop bop bop bop bop…

 

“Ok, stop, stop” she commanded after I had played a mere four bars.

 

She played the piece for me. My jaw dropped. It was absolutely wonderful. I felt honoured to be a private audience to this incredible sound.

 

“That sounds much nicer.” I said, not wanting to go over the top with praise.

 

For the next forty or so minutes my teacher talked...

 

There are pauses, but not really pauses, like a breath, but much shorter than a singer’s breath.

 

Although not written into the music, there are stresses, but not really stresses, similar to the start of a new sentence, but very subtle.

 

She talked of notes being dotted but not really dotted, more held onto, some notes being cherished a little more and others a little less, yet barely noticeable.

 

She described a stream flowing over smooth rocks and stones.

 

Where there are three notes such as ‘G’, ‘D’ and ‘G’. It is almost as if it is a single ‘G’ with the ‘D’ as an ornament. There should be a diminuendo across the three notes, but not really a diminuendo, more of a gentle decay.

 

She talked of architecture. Of the soulless nature of a house with flat windows and doors compared to a house with a porch, bay windows and balconies. Of fabulous rococo ceilings with some notes being the gold leaf and other notes being the white plaster.

 

She said to pay attention to bar lines but also to ignore them and let the music determine which notes belong together.

 

She talked of two voices conversing within the music, of curving and pivoting the bow, of swelling and shaping notes like a wave rising and falling in the deep ocean.

 

My head was now swimming in this deep ocean.

 

Then I heard a ‘bing!’ sound.

 

“Ah, I think my cake’s ready.” She said and left the room.

 

I quickly packed up my instrument and music and waited for her return.

 

“Oh! I hope I haven’t put you off!” She said.
“No, not at all.” I replied “There’s a lot for me to think about. Thank you very much. It’s been really very interesting. What sort of cake is it?”

 

“Just an apple sponge. Would you like to book another lesson?”

 

“Yes, I’ll email you some dates, thank you again. Goodbye!” I said before leaving.

 

I’ve definitely got some serious practice to be getting on with.

 

“Nothing in the world is worth having or worth doing unless it means effort, pain, difficulty… I have never in my life envied a human being who led an easy life.” ~Theodore Roosvelt~

The Grand Staff of Life

The Grand Staff of Life

Transposition for different musical instruments is not as dull as it might sound…

 

Last night was music theory class again and we briefly covered the concept of transposition for different instruments. I had been vaguely aware of murmurings in orchestra in the past about transposing a piece of music for the new trombonist but hadn’t appreciated what all the fuss was about.

 

I am still virtually clueless about this musical mystery but am beginning to feel that it may help my understanding if I try to think of it in terms of social relationships.

 

I may be completely wrong about this; but here goes:

 

I’ll start with the piano. The piano can, it is said, play any note that we in the western world would ever wish to hear. The piano can hold a discussion on any topic at any level; a fascinating individual who, if he wasn’t your friend, you would want him to be. Perhaps someone like Peter Ustinov or Stephen Fry.

 

The middle ‘C’ note on the piano has been named ‘Middle C’ for reasons unknown.

 

Moving on to my violin: I more or less comfortably play the same notes as the right hand side of the piano keyboard. ‘Middle C’ is one of my lowest sounding notes so I can happily hold a meaningful ‘conversation’ with the piano so long as he doesn’t get to deep. If he does, I can appreciate that he is a clever chap; I like and admire what he is saying, but I can’t join in. I may therefore tend to get distracted and start chatting to more like-minded high spirited individuals who are on the same wavelength as me; other violins or maybe the flute.

 

Now the gorgeous cello: The cello has ‘Middle C’ as one of its highest notes so is most content to have deep meaningful discussions with the darker side of the piano. The cello and the violin get on pretty well and are in tune with each other and can chat about middle of the road topics; not too hysterical and not too moody. If the violins and flutes go off on a flight of fancy you can often hear the cello mocking us in the background. We appreciate each other’s full range though because we both love the piano.

 

The viola: Our viola friends have ‘Middle C’ in the middle of their range of notes. That’s enough said about that, but we all get along very well and we call ourselves the ‘C’ instruments.

 

So our group of amazing and adored friends, the ‘C’ instruments, are at a party (orchestra). There are other guests at the party though; exotic and peculiar folk who call themselves clarinetists. We all agree to talk about a subject revolving around ‘Middle C’ – the weather - because that’s what we’re all comfortable with.

 

There we are engrossed in a most enjoyable conversation about the weather; thunderstorms, sparkling sunshine, heavy rain, whistling winds etc. Then a clarinetist pipes up “badgers are nice!”. Now we all think badgers are nice but it somehow seemed the most inappropriate thing to say. The room falls silent.

 

The cello eventually speaks “Ah, my dear friend. We are very happy that you have joined us, but we have all agreed to discuss the weather today.” The clarinetist replies “Yes, I know, I love badgers.” “Hmm,” says the cello “Repeat after me… ‘oh, it looks like rain is on the way’”. The clarinetist obliges “Ah, the badger is wearing pink socks for a change.”

 

Us ‘C’ instrument friends say nothing but discretely roll our eyes at each other.

 

The piano, being a sensitive soul, wishing to relieve this awkwardness, makes an announcement “I’ve got a grand idea… if we just talked about the weather all the time I think the conversation would B flat… let us instead discuss the spiralling cost of welding equipment.” He then turned to us ‘C’ instruments and gave a theatrical knowing wink.

 

The clarinetist, who like all of us, will do anything for the wonderful piano, exclaimed “Oh yes, what a marvellous idea! I love the sight of big fluffy snowflakes falling from the night sky!”

 

The party is once again alive with the hum of congenial conversation and the clinking of glasses.

 

So, right or wrong, that is my current understanding of musical transposition - a way of tricking awkward instruments into compliance and enabling them to join the orchestra party.

 

Apparently it is impossible to do this with bagpipes… oh well.