Paul Harris considers... playing scales (part 1)
I was talking to a teacher recently who, with a heavy heart, a deep sigh and a rather hang-dog expression, announced, “all my pupils are bad at scales.” “Oh dear,” I replied sympathetically, and felt an article coming on...
In fact the teacher’s despairing and unhappy remark needs quite a lot of unpacking. And we do need to unpack it, because she’s wrong – all her pupils are not bad at scales. Her despondency originates from a basic misunderstanding. Let’s begin with the ‘bad at’ bit. To be ‘bad at’ something requires some form of comparison. And comparisons, as we know, are odious.
Let’s imagine a world in which there are no scales. One day you are experimenting with musical patterns and you invent the first ever scale.
For a time you are the only person in the world who plays this scale. Is it possible for you to play it badly? Of course not! Because there would be no-one with whom to compare yourself. But other musicians get to hear about this scale, and, because it’s fun, begin to play it too. And then they create new scales. And then someone decides that playing scales can be tested and makes up all sorts of rules and regulations. Now there is a lot of scale playing with which to make comparisons. There are those playing their scales faster, others playing them in a dizzying range of patterns and across a greater range of notes. If we like, we can compare and judge our scale playing against these other scale players. But here we reach a major philosophical bridge. And it’s one we must cross. For if we don’t, we set up the potential for everlasting negative thinking.
We may not be able to play our scales as fast as someone else – doesn’t make our slower scales bad. We may have to play them very slowly to ensure the right notes – nothing wrong with that. We may not be able to play as many varied patterns as someone else – doesn’t make those we can play bad. We may not even be able to play scales with an even pulse – again it doesn’t make our rhythmically relaxed scales bad. We need to recalibrate our thinking. We need to be able to accept a wider range of what we understand as ‘good’.
Perhaps we can only play the mini-micro scale of C major (just the first three notes.) It doesn’t make us bad at scales if that’s the only one we know. And if we enjoy it, and play it confidently and with character, because it’s the basis of a piece we’re learning, then – in our limited way – we are good at scales.
But, after a little more discussion I discovered what my teacher friend really meant. She meant that her pupils didn’t learn their exam scales. And therefore they were bad at scales. But simply labelling them as bad is a dead end. I’m sure they could play one or two of the scales – even if only at a very slow tempo. There’s always somewhere along that continuum (can’t do it – can do it) that we can put ourselves. As a pianist I’m a fair distance from being able to play Rachmaninov’s Third Piano Concerto – but I can play the first few bars – and quite well too! What’s the point of that you may ask? It’s a start, and though the task ahead may be quite substantial, if I’m on for it, then at least there’s a chance.
And this is the central issue. If our pupils are enjoying the process, then there is every chance they’ll succeed. If they want to do the exam and it’s the right exam for them to be doing and they are doing it at the right time, then they should eventually be able to play those scales. And if we make the preparation fun and imaginative, then that outcome is even more likely.
We all do things differently. It’s inevitable. Some of our pupils will be able to play their scales in a way that compares favourably with exam expectations, others will play their scales in an infinite number of other ways. So I want that teacher to flip her thinking and accept all the different ways that her pupils may play scales. And accept that none of them are bad. She’ll become a much happier teacher as a result.
Part 2 next time: how can we make the process fun and imaginative?
Lazarus, Thurston, Blackpool and the Eldorado Ice Cream Company
In the Summer of 2000 I had the great pleasure of meeting James Gillespie, editor of The Clarinet Journal, during the International Clarinet Association (ICA) convention in Oklahoma. James asked me if I would like to contribute a regular column. These personal reflections are now reprinted with his permission. The following ‘Letter from the UK’ was first published in September 2010 in The Clarinet Journal, the official publication of the ICA.
Any guesses for what, or rather who is the connection? The answer is the distinguished clarinettist Colin Bradbury – and all will be revealed shortly.
I recently invited Colin to speak at my sixth Malcolm Arnold Festival. Being the 90th anniversary of Sir Malcolm’s birth we’ve decided to programme all the nine great symphonies and I thought it would be of considerable interest to invite nine celebrities, each to introduce the Symphony with which they have a special association. The Fourth was given its first performance by the BBC Symphony Orchestra, first clarinet Colin Bradbury. I was delighted when Colin agreed to come and share his recollections of that memorable first performance. And as we chatted on the phone I thought the time was ripe to write about Colin’s illustrious career. We met for lunch a week or two ago and explored his highly significant contribution to the clarinet world.
Colin was born in Blackpool and was lucky enough to attend a school whose Headmaster was a keen music lover with a special penchant for Mendelssohn. One particular term the Head decided to buy a number of clarinets - most in C, but one in B flat. Colin, who was already quite a star on the recorder was chosen to be the lucky recipient of the B flat instrument. His lessons with Tom Smith, member of the Blackpool Grand Theatre Orchestra, were going well and when the school received notification that a new orchestra for very talented young players was to be formed, young Colin was encouraged to apply for an audition. It was to be called The National Youth Orchestra of Great Britain and Colin became a founder member. It was on the first course that he met Malcolm Arnold who was both composer-in-residence and an unlikely ‘housemaster’. Colin recalls, ‘As a housemaster he ended up joining in all the pillow fights!’
Colin also met Jack Thurston who was coaching the clarinets (and, incidentally, gave perhaps the first performance of Arnold’s Sonatina from the manuscript during one of the courses). Thurston became the decisive factor. Colin soon decided to take playing the clarinet seriously. After a performance of the Mozart Concerto with the NYO at the Edinburgh Festival he won a scholarship that saw him move to London and the chance to study with Thurston at the Royal College of Music. What of Thurston the teacher? ‘He was a very serious musician, tremendous musical integrity, faithfulness to the composer’s intentions. Technically, he wasn’t much help to me, but the musical inspiration made up for it fifty-fold.’
After the RCM, Colin found himself playing in Summer Song, a West End musical built on some fantasy on the life of Dvorak. ‘On the strength of it I bought myself a 1936, two and a half litre SS Jaguar.’ But the show soon folded, ‘So I had to drive ice cream trucks in the summer to keep myself alive. The Eldorado Ice Cream Company!’ But in 1956 Colin joined Sadler’s Wells Opera Orchestra, becoming principal a year later, and then in 1960 he began an enormously distinguished thirty-three years with the BBC Symphony orchestra. I asked Colin about the highlights. ‘The transforming thing, in my opinion, was when Boulez came in 1970. It was a Golden age. Then of course there was the Kempe period, some stunning performances – people still talk about our performance of the New World. Of course, people probably know me best for all those televised Last Night of the Proms.’ Colin is particularly referring to his yearly performance of the famous clarinet cadenza (originally written for Haydn Draper) in the Fantasia on British Sea Songs arranged by Henry Wood.
The late 70s saw the start of Colin’s great interest in the Victorian clarinet repertoire. ‘In 1978 I met the pianist Oliver Davies, and, through his great enthusiasm, we began to rediscover all this wonderful 19th Century clarinet music. Oliver had albums and albums of 19th century clarinet music. We ended up recording The Victorian Clarinettist and I think it’s been the only record I’ve made that was a real commercial success! It was on the radio a lot and received good reviews.’
In fact the record found it’s way into the ‘fills’ box at BBC Radio 3 continuity studios: if a programme finished early, instead being filled with waffle, they would put on a track from The Victorian Clarinettist. Colin and Oliver went on to do three more recordings of Victorian repertoire. Not content with simply performing and recording this music Colin then began his own publishing company, Lazarus Edition through which he has made many of these fine works available again.
Colin is still working hard today: playing, teaching, publishing and adjudicating. What about his views on contemporary clarinet playing? ‘When it comes to what people have to say musically, I find myself increasingly criticising performances, not for the technique, but for what I think is over-fluency, sometimes even flippancy - does he really need to play it as fast as that? If there was a little more space given... I’ve always said that technique isn’t something you build up, it’s lack of technique that is something you break down. Between the performer and the audience is a huge mountain, which is a lack of technique. All the work we do slowly breaks that mountain down and makes communication much more direct.’
Colin doesn’t go to Blackpool much these days and The Eldorado Ice Cream Company has long since melted away but Lazarus’s name will remain with us through Colin’s important publishing venture. As we were concluding our fascinating afternoon’s conversation, Colin went to his bookcase and removed a slim volume – it was Jack Thurston’s attendance register. We looked through it – virtually all the names are completely forgotten except for Colin’s of course.
What makes a good masterclass?
Paul Harris considers... What makes a good masterclass?
The audience waits excitedly: some are masterclass veterans and some are new to the experience; some have copies of the music on their laps, some have the music in their heads. There are teachers, parents and other young players; there is an atmosphere of hushed reverence and expectation. The young musician (who has worked hard in preparation) sits nervously wondering what the forthcoming encounter will bring. The master enters...
The stage is now complete. The three participants of a masterclass are finally assembled together: master, learner and audience – but the success of what is about to happen is very much in the hands of the master.
Music masterclasses come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. Those with a very specific brief, and delivered by an authority on the subject shouldn’t really go wrong. A masterclass on ‘the interpretation of mordents in the late keyboard sonatas of Domenico Scarlatti’ is probably going to cut the mustard pretty effectively. Some masterclasses are more ‘modern’ and the master may spend much of the time exploring, for example, creativity. In this article I’m going to look at the more generic kind of masterclass where the student prepares a piece and plays to a master who, in some way or another, is going to try to influence their performance, hopefully for the better.
So what exactly is a masterclass? Liszt was one of the first teachers to give masterclasses. It was a platform for teaching and sharing ideas with a group of students. And so that therefore is our first principle of the good masterclass: acknowledging and sharing with the audience. Some masterclasses are little more than a public lesson, a one to one, with the audience as passive onlookers. As far as the master is concerned the audience may or may not be there – they are of little concern. That’s okay and (in the hands of a good teacher) may be reasonably informative, but it’s not really in the spirit of the game. The master who ignores the audience is letting down one of the three participants. The expert masterclass presenter engages the audience, who become more than note-taking observers. They are individually and emotionally drawn in to the occasion, which means they get so much more out of it. And the master draws on their collective energy to enhance his or her own. This doesn’t mean the master need ask the audience questions or get them (physically or mentally) to take part in actual activities - though some masters do. The skilled master simply makes contact through the innate generosity of his or her own personality.
The second principle, perhaps the most important, is to have the ability instantly to understand the needs of the student. The ability instinctively to pick up and recognise what the student can and can’t do and what would be most helpful in allowing them to travel deeper into their music making. In other words, the ability to empathise. Some masters can go no further than ‘this is how I play it and I’m here to show you how to do it more like me’. Perhaps that may be sufficient? But that’s not really the stuff of the really effective masterclass. Effective masterclass presenters also have the related ability to put their students at (reasonable) ease. It’s often pretty nerve-racking being the student – though some students have remarkable confidence, some verging on arrogance, but that’s another matter. For most students, if their self-esteem is preserved then the potential for exciting discovery is very strong.
The third principle is that the master needs to have something interesting to say. I’ve sat through countless boring masterclasses where masters have felt their role is simply to make alternative performance suggestions. Play this a bit louder/softer/faster/slower. Phrase it like this. Try this fingering. Use less pedal. These kinds of hints and tips may or may not be useful, but we want more from such an occasion. I want a master to challenge my thinking; to take my imagination to places I may not have been to before. I don’t mind if some of the ideas presented are too extreme, not physically possible, or defy commonly held or received opinions. In fact the masterclass may well be all the better for such provocative and stimulating content. Some of the very best masterclasses I’ve encountered have been given by musicians who have profoundly questioned the nature of music and the nature of learning. Where the masterclass itself was much more about asking questions than providing answers. I’ve often come away seriously enthused by such occasions.
The fourth principle is the importance of communication. The master and student need at least to be speaking the same musical language (if not always the spoken language). Such an occasion is ripe for much misunderstanding – inevitably the master may make many assumptions and the potential for confusion and misconstruction is considerable. The student will rely heavily on words and expressions that mutually express a common meaning. If the master doesn’t achieve this the student will take away little from the encounter.
The fifth and final principle is that a good masterclass needs to be entertaining. And I don’t use the word in the sense of being ‘funny’ or lightweight. A masterclass can be very serious with profound teaching taking place, but at the same time it can be delivered with a winning and appealing touch. Well placed humour plays a vital role in engaging all three participants, and can very helpfully serve to ‘break the ice’, putting both audience and player more at ease.
For a masterclass to be successful and effective, the master’s ego will be held in check. Virtually all masters will have something of an ego, which is generally okay and to be expected. But with the ego firmly under control, the truly helpful master can build confidence, open the student’s mind and guide them, sensitively, down new avenues of thought and experience. The event is not used as a platform for the master to show off. Worse still is any ‘master’ who leaves a student upset or embarrassed or doubting their worth – to be avoided at all costs.
Let’s have a look at the approach of some specific masters.
As with all things in life, we can now encounter some of the greatest masters simply by switching on our desktop computers and trawling through YouTube. There you will find, at no cost, masterclasses by some of greatest musicians of the recent past. It’s an astonishing resource: Heifitz, Casals, Segovia, Michelangeli are all there. But I’d particularly like to share three of my (many) favourites, each delivering their classes in a highly contrasting ways.
Firstly there is Daniel Barenboim. Barenboim is a very deep thinker. You may not agree with all his thoughts, but they are incontestably provoking and stimulating. His masterclasses on the Beethoven Sonatas (available as a DVD set and some are on YouTube) are very special. His metaphors are drawn from a deep consideration of the very meaning of life and he can use words to connect us with some very weighty imponderables. He has thought deeply about the syntax of music and presents his opinions with respect, directly and with great integrity.
Then there is the Portuguese pianist Maria João Pires. She has an astounding imagination and unusual masterclass technique. There’s not much ‘telling’ going on. Instead, she spends a lot of time asking questions and challenging why we do what we do. Fascinating stuff.
The third is the incomparable Maxim Vengarov. Vengarov is hugely entertaining –he makes us laugh. But in that laughter there is phenomenal teaching taking place. His imagination knows no bounds and he comes up with wonderful and extraordinary metaphors and images that vividly bring the music to life and allow us to play with enormous ambition. His joie de vivre is infectious. I also had the very good fortune to attend a Vengarov masterclass where he showed another side of his considerable musical personality: here there were few colourful analogies but many deep insights into the nature of the pieces on which he and the student were working.
These are just three among many. The common features are their energy, which never falters, and their challenging and engaging approach.
So what does make a good masterclass? In addition to the five principles I’ve identified, it will be both inspirational and aspirational, leaving the students who take part and those audience members who play or teach with a burning desire to get back to the coal face and practise, teach or perform with a greater sense of awareness and enthusiasm. It will affirm the beliefs, hard work and diligence of those involved and the experience will be, to some degree, truly life-enhancing.
A manuscript comes home
It's not often that an important clarinet manuscript comes up for sale - but one did a couple of weeks ago at Bonham's, the famous auction house situated on London's Bond Street. The manuscript in question was Malcolm Arnold's Second Clarinet Concerto - a work that has very special resonances with me. I've played and taught it many times, perhaps most memorably, working on it with the eight year old Julian Bliss for a performance in Huddersfield to which Sir Malcolm himself came along in 1997.
Malcolm wrote the concerto (in 1974) whilst living in Ireland - it was a turbulent time in his life. His second wife had left him and he was suffering from acute mental health problems which ultimately culminated in a serious suicide attempt. During this extremely difficult period he was lucky enough to have a very dedicated doctor, Robin Benson, who looked after him with great devotion, often well beyond the call of duty. When Malcolm finally left Monkstown to return to England and spend, on and off, virtually the next three years in hospitals of one sort or another he decided to give Dr Benson a rather special gift. "Dear Robin, your kindness is so much appreciated. This is the original manuscript of a piece which has been so beautifully bound in Dublin. Please thank you for yourself and accept this useless present." The useless present was of course Malcolm's handwritten score of the Second Clarinet Concerto.
37 years later the family obviously decided to sell the manuscript and is appeared as Lot 93 at a sale of Books, Maps, Manuscripts and Historical Photographs on March 22nd. I wasn't able to go to the sale myself but there were clearly some very interested parties. In the event, and to my great delight, it was bought by Sir Malcolm's daughter, Katherine. The manuscript had come home again.
I was very excited when Katherine invited me round to have a look at it. I was keen to know if there were any of those famous penknife scratchings occasionally found in Malcolm's manuscripts. Was there to be any evidence of changes of mind? Were any notes in the Pre-Goodman Rag the result of second thoughts? Malcolm virtually always wrote straight into full score and in ink. He composed inside his head, he neither used the piano (or any other instrument) and rarely made sketches. If any changes were to be made (and there were very few throughout his entire life's work) he would use a penknife to scratch out the wrong note and re-ink in the right one.
I arrived at Katherine's house in north London and was very quickly ushered into her study where on the desk sat the score. Malcolm's allusion to it having been beautifully bound was quite accurate. The binding is in a lovely and luxurious reddy-brown leather with gold lettering on the front. I opened the pages with great anticipation and a real thrill. The writing was, as ever, neat and very clear. I turned the pages one by one, hearing the music come alive in my mind - sometimes it was the Benny Goodman performance (which I know well through a recording of his premiere at St John's Smith Square) and sometimes it was Julian's who has often played it with great enthusiasm.
I was not too surprised to find very little in terms of alterations. I searched through the score three or four times looking very carefully for those tell-tale markings. There were one or two but nothing to give the impression that Malcolm had had any serious changes of mind. I found just two instances of penknife activity. In the first movement, fifteen bars after letter F, a crescendo mark, followed in the next bar by a diminuendo had been disposed of and in the third movement, from three bars after J the slur was originally extended until the end of the phrase. Otherwise the work is entirely as we know and love it.
What of the other manuscripts of Malcolm's clarinet works? The Clarinet Sonatina is held by the Royal College of Music in London and they occasionally have it out on display. But both the manuscript of the Fantasy and of the First Clarinet Concerto are presently lost. We can only hope that one day they will re-emerge.
What’s at the very heart of your teaching?
Paul Harris asks you to consider … what’s at the very heart of your teaching?
I’ve just finished reading Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, the marvelously candid account of a mother and her two musical daughters. It’s really about what drives us, why we do things and constitutes a fascinating insight into the pursuit of musical excellence. But at what cost? I was gripped throughout, but what made me really sit up was Amy’s description of what the violin had come to symbolize in her mind. For her it was ‘excellence, refinement and depth; respect for hierarchy, standards and expertise.’ But for her daughter, who had been pushed to her limits (and on the way had become a wonderful young player) it symbolized oppression. It got me thinking – I wondered what our own instrument represents to us. What it symbolizes and whether that might affect our teaching.
I was very fortunate with my teachers and my education in general. Especially with my clarinet teacher who taught me from my very first lesson and then continually right through my time at the Royal Academy of Music. Those formative years really plant some very significant seeds in terms of how things will develop in the future. And I’m not thinking of musical or technical abilities but something deeper – I’m thinking about what exactly the clarinet, my instrument, embodies to me. My teacher was (and still is) a very kind and sharing person. The clarinet, as a result, symbolizes warmth and friendship. My lessons, though always full of serious hard work, were extremely enjoyable. There was always much laughter. The clarinet still strongly embodies that sense of fun. I’ve always enjoyed chamber music, all the way back to the school ensembles I used to play in, which always culminated in enjoyable and highly appreciated concerts. So my image of performing has always been a very positive one. At school I wasn’t a great academic but I loved my clarinet and wanted to know everything about it – so I did my best to learn everything I could and that made me feel special; it gave me a status. And of course these deep images and symbols have transferred themselves, in all sorts of ways, into my teaching.
So I wanted to find out what other peoples’ deep images of their instrument are and whether they too feel it affects their teaching. When one friend was handed her first flute she immediately felt she had been given the ‘keys to the kingdom.’ It opened her eyes and she could suddenly see so much. It was an instrument of power, a device through which she could channel her emotions. And her flute has never since lost that force. Needless to say her teaching is highly imaginative and her pupils absorb from her a real confidence in their own playing.
Another teacher has a much more practical kind of image. Playing his saxophone is akin to sport. He has always much enjoyed the physical sensation of playing the instrument. To him it symbolizes energy and movement and his teaching, he tells me, is appropriately vigorous and full of sporty allusions and metaphors. Another teacher I spoke to closed his eyes, thought for a few moments and said, ‘riding a bike, good teachers, bad teachers, scary concerts, stress, fun…” Yet another (a pianist) felt her instrument symbolizes independence and escapism. She continually takes her pupils on journeys into their imaginations where they visit colourful and vivid places in order to understand and play.
But I was also invited to share in some darker symbols. One teacher friend said her instrument represented pain, another anxiety, yet another: damage. I pushed this last one. She had had some unkind teachers, she told me. ‘I wanted to do lots of expression, but my teacher disagreed. He’s my teacher so he must be right I thought. I must be wrong. But that didn’t seem to make sense. I was not happy.” That person is now one of the best teachers I know. “I want to pass on my love of expressive playing, but I feel bad about playing myself. I rarely do. Even in lessons. But my pupils play with so much expression and feeling.”
So I invite you to think about what your instrument means to you. And what affect it may have over your teaching. There are many, wide-ranging, influences over the way we teach. In one way or another, so many of our experiences and people we know play their part in how we do what we do. But those deeper symbols perhaps have the greatest effect.
Do we need to Practise?
Pupils always find it perplexing that their teachers should ever need to do any actual practice. ‘You’re a professional– you don’t need to practise!’ And we may think, ‘I’ve taught that piece a hundred times – I don’t need to practise it.’
If you do play professionally as well as teach, then the chances are that you do practise! Perhaps quite a lot. But hard-working full-time (or even part-time) teachers often find fitting regular practice into their busy schedules quite a challenge. We need both time and mental energy. Two luxuries often in short supply. So it’s only right to ask: is it worth finding that time and energy? After all we know most of the pieces we teach pretty well don’t we? I’m sure it won’t surprise you to learn that the answer is still a resounding yes - it’s very much worth the effort.
And here’s why. We need to experience how the piece feels physically and think about the kind of difficulties our pupils may encounter; we need to have all the ingredients clearly to hand; we need to explore and cultivate appropriate metaphors; we need to think about possible opportunities for improvisation; and if our muse is on call and willing, we may even write some useful or fun exercises based on the piece (or at least develop some mentally); we might search for a suitable piece of music (with similar ingredients) to sight-read or play as a duet. And it’s also very important to experience the sheer joy of simply playing a piece of music through from beginning to end.
Does that seem a lot to do? How about making a comparison with the list of instructions you give your pupils each week (or at least some of your pupils!) But once you get started, and in the best traditions of Simultaneous Learning, you’ll be making all sorts of interesting connections and the time will positively fly by.
As you begin practising each piece try to approach it through the eyes, mind, experience, knowledge and imagination of your pupil. Let’s think about character first. What would appeal? This piece/passage/note is like setting off for a football match or it’s like coming back from a football match (and your team has just won – or lost perhaps); it’s like waking up and you’re still feeling really tired or it’s like floating on a calm lake. Knowing your pupils’ interests is invaluable here. The number of possible images and situations are infinite of course but it’s important to think about them before the lesson – if we wait for inspiration during teaching we may be disappointed – our imaginations may be otherwise engaged. Pupils will almost always respond to a vivid or funny image. An accent is far more likely to be performed with enthusiasm if the player is trying to give the audience a shock rather than just playing that note louder.
As we play take in all the ingredients – the essential building bricks of a pro-active and energetic lesson. How will we make connections between them? What connections would be especially pertinent? Which particular ingredients would fit well together to make interesting warm-up exercises? Do I have time to write a special and personalised little exercise or study? Pupils love these by the way and their delight will certainly balance (if not greatly exceed) the trouble of writing it. Which ingredients does this particular pupil need to concentrate on? Which ingredients would go well together in some improvisation?
Look at the technical bits and practice them as your pupils might. What problems could they experience? Factor in their size and muscle development. Devise a new exercise to help.
One of the most informative revelations that may emerge from this kind of practice is the occasional realisation that we may have been making assumptions about the piece which inhibit musical or technical fluency. Because we may have taught a piece many times without playing it (or without having played for some time), more subtle difficulties can easily slip by unnoticed. I often practice simple teaching pieces and find particular passages can actually be deceptively awkward. It’s allows us to be more sympathetic!
In the old days resourceful teachers would make up cassettes or CDs of pieces for their pupils to listen to. It’s all so much easier today. We simply guide them to appropriate performances on YouTube or Spotify. So with that time saved let’s enjoy more practising and thinking.
Surprisingly you’ll relish teaching those old familiar pieces a whole lot more.
© Paul Harris 2010
First appeared in Music Teacher Magazine December 2010 and reprinted by kind permission.
It’s all in the preparation…
To remain as effective and responsible teachers, preparation is very important. And that preparation can come in all shapes and sizes. Some requires expenditure of energy, some will conserve and revitalize. Let’s have a closer look at how we can best prepare.
If we’re involved in wider opportunity-style or whole class teaching then of course we have to do an appropriate amount of preparation to avoid all kinds of possible (let’s settle with) confusion. In such a situation Benjamin Franklin’s memorable maxim ‘Fail to prepare – prepare to fail’ was never more apposite. If it’s individual or smaller group teaching then perhaps the necessary preparation for each lesson doesn’t seem to require such effort. But we all do need some quality time to stay on top of the game. As to using it most effectively let’s begin by reminding ourselves about the very nature of what we are.
We’re human beings – not human doings! We don’t have to be doing all the time. There needs to be some time, each week, when we simply stop doing. Time for re-energizing the batteries; time for reflection; time to let go of problems; time to re-affirm our love of music and our love of teaching. And yes – we do need to do this every week. I am sure some of you are thinking, ‘but I don’t have the luxury of such time.’ Well – things have got to change. It’s vital. You need this time. It’s an essential part of our preparation.
In extreme cases (I’m not sure what constitutes an extreme case, but I’ll leave that for you to decide!) put aside the occasional ten minutes, perhaps once or twice a week. But really I’d like you to do this once a day after some busy teaching. Sit in a quiet room in a comfortable chair and, for the first few minutes just relax and think about nothing in particular. Then reflect on what went well - an enjoyable moment, a pupil suddenly ‘getting it’ or playing a phrase beautifully. Reflect on something that didn’t go so well (nothing wrong with that – happens all the time) but try to think of alternative strategies: could you have taught it differently? Were your expectations too high or too low? Did you make an inappropriate connection? Did you use the wrong vocabulary? What would have made it work better? Such thinking is invaluable. The next time such a situation occurs you’ll negotiate it with much greater success.
Do you ever find yourself getting frustrated? Why couldn’t he get that rhythm right? I told him how it goes enough times! If these kinds of thoughts slip into your mind then time for reflection is even more important. Pupils rarely get things wrong deliberately. There’s usually a reason and the effective teacher needs to find that reason. It’s almost certainly rooted in some kind of misapprehension or maybe somewhere along the chain of learning, there’s a broken link. We must find it and repair it. That’s the way forward and quiet reflection will often produce the answer.
So what about some actual practice? Many instrumental teachers do keep their practice going on a regular basis which is ideal. Pupils, especially younger pupils, love to hear their teachers playing and will model and copy a lot of what they do (which is a good thing – we can begin to encourage independence of thought and action as pupils mature). Simple thoughtful practice of pieces we are teaching is invaluable. It will alert us to the particular ingredients from which our teaching should develop, it will remind us of particular technical issues. And as we’re practising our teaching pieces let’s put ourselves into the minds of our pupils. What thoughts might they have about it? What metaphors and images might help them to bring the piece to life?
And what of that most treasured and important part of our teaching equipment? Our imagination. It needs feeding too. Take it to an art gallery or read an inspiring book. Go to a concert or listen (and I mean sit down, eyes closed and really listen) to a favourite performer playing a special piece or one you’ve always wanted to get to know. The internet can bring virtually anything into our houses with the minimum of effort – there’s no excuse!
So enjoy some regular and varied preparation. Ensure you shut down from time to time (you don’t have to feel guilty about it) and just be. Empty your mind and then allow some gentle re-affirming thoughts to fill the space. Both you and your pupils will benefit enormously.
© Paul Harris 2010
First appeared in Music Teacher Magazine 2011 and reprinted by kind permission.
Another flight of the gentle lark
In the Summer of 2000 I had the great pleasure of meeting James Gillespie, editor of The Clarinet Journal, during the International Clarinet Association (ICA) convention in Oklahoma. James asked me if I would like to contribute a regular column. These personal reflections are now reprinted with his permission. The following ‘Letter from the UK’ was first published in September 2010 in The Clarinet Journal, the official publication of the ICA.
It’s always thrilling to uncover something that no one has known about for many years. In this case I’m talking about one hundred and sixty five years! And particularly so when it makes some unexpected and delightful connections. This all came about when a friend happened upon a very rare concert programme dated January 16th 1845.
Readers may recall that I used to teach in a wonderful school housed in an imposing old stately home. The original estate that is now Stowe School was owned by various noble families over the years and during the first half of the nineteenth century it was occupied by the extremely noble sounding Richard Plantagenet Temple Nugent Brydges Chandos Grenville (1797–1861), The Second Duke of Buckingham and Chandos and Member of Parliament for Buckinghamshire.
In January 1845 Stowe had some rather special visitors – Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. Such a State occasion was a major event and the Duke spent lavishly. On January 16th, the second of the three-day visit, he organized a large-scale concert which took place in Stowe’s beautiful music room. It featured, both as orchestral player and soloist a certain Mr. Lazarus. The orchestra was conducted by the famous and flamboyant Mr Jullien and they played selections from popular operas, movements from symphonies as well as a host of occasional pieces. Lazarus himself was soloist in Sir Henry Bishop’s arrangement of ‘Lo, here the gentle lark’, first performed just two years earlier in this version, with flute player Joseph Richardson who played the obligato.
I found all this particularly exciting for two reasons. Firstly, having researched widely over the past few weeks, especially in Pamela’s Weston’s extensive writings about Lazarus, I could find no previous mention of this performance.
To discover the second reason we need to look at dynasties. Pamela loved tracing clarinet dynasties. Here’s mine: I was taught, at the Royal Academy of Music, by John Davies (still going strong now in his 90s) who was taught by George Anderson (himself teaching at the Royal Academy of Music up to the time of his death when he was into his 80s) who was taught by Henry Lazarus (who was teaching right up until his own 80th year). Because each of these great characters of the clarinet world had such long working lives I’m only three generations removed from Lazarus. So it was very exciting to discover that Lazarus himself had played in the very same Music Room in which I have given so many performances. I haven’t played there for a while but I’m going to try to arrange a performance of the Bishop for next January 16th – only a hundred and sixty six years later!
As far as his own additions to the clarinet repertoire is concerned Henry Lazarus was responsible for a fair number of still popular works. As a composer he is best known for his operatic fantasias (particularly those on I Puritani and Ernana). He was also the dedicatee of some fine pieces. I especially love the Six Nocturnes by Charles Oberthür and then of course there’s his notable and comprehensive Tutor, “The New and Modern Method” published in 1881. I bought my copy (the new edition) interestingly enough in Los Angeles on a trip there a few years ago! I’m sure many readers will have their own copy on a shelf somewhere. If yours has perhaps suffered neglect recently then don’t forget the many colourful and enjoyable duets it contains. Mine gets used in almost every lesson I give – my pupils love those grand symphonic duets – ideal for warming-up or sight reading. And Lazarus’s instructions for performance are still delightful to read, “when performing before an audience, bear a calm appearance, emit the sounds without showing externally the difficulties that have to be overcome, and it will greatly impress those around you with the apparent facility of your execution.”
Indeed as a teacher Lazarus held some very prestigious positions. He was professor at the Royal Academy of Music for nearly forty years, the first ever clarinet professor at the Royal College of Music and he taught at the famous Military School of Music, Kneller Hall. His obituary, in an edition of The Musical Times, of April 1896, stated simply: He was, in the opinion of many, the most accomplished clarinettist which this country has produced, his playing being characterized by fullness and beauty of tone and an unerring technique.
The Henry Bishop arrangement of Lo, here the gentle lark, for clarinet, flute and piano is still available from Fentone Music. What are you doing next January 16th?
Why am I a music teacher?
Paul Harris asks, “Why am I a music teacher?”
Here you are reading and enjoying your latest copy of Music Teacher, but when was the last time you thought ‘why am I a music teacher?’ Of course I know we’ve all got the mortgage to pay, but I hope that’s not the reason! Or at least if it’s part of the reason, then it’s only a very small part!
Spend a minute now thinking why you are teaching music. No, really! Stop reading and have a think!
I’d love to know your answer – but I’m not going to try to second-guess. There are many reasons why people teach music, and they are (mostly) good reasons. Instead, I’m going to try to explain why I love teaching music and let’s see whether there’s any overlap and agreement.
First of all, I like music. I like playing it and I like listening to it. A lot. Both occupations make me feel good. There are lots of deeper psychological, social, intellectual and cultural reasons for that, but they needn’t worry us over-much. Many have tried to speculate on what music is for – what music is. Some have taken a scientific stance, some an emotional one, some a philosophical one. Many great minds have addressed the question. But isn’t it interesting that after all this time we still don’t really know. So let’s leave it at that. I like music and I want to share with others something I know can enhance their lives. Similarly, I hope that a major part of your reason for teaching music is simply that you love it and want to share your passion.
But there is something else: something very important. In a world, especially for young people, that is dominated by exam stress, a world that seems to encourage endless judgmental thinking, that causes so many to feel that they are under-achieving, we, as music teachers, really can do just a little something about it. We can help our pupils really achieve. We can help them build that hugely important self-esteem (not ego) that will give them confidence and strength.
To do this does require a particular belief and a particular approach to teaching. Firstly, to uncover that belief let me ask you a simple question. After eight years of playing the flute, two pupils take an exam. The first pupil passes grade one (and is delighted), and the other passes grade eight (also delighted). Who has made the greater achievement? Note I’m not asking who has passed the ‘higher’ exam – and what a lot of received opinion and cultural indoctrination there would be in that question! The answer is simple – both have achieved equally. That’s what is important: we can help make both pupils enjoy their own success at their level and, along the way, we can try to teach them not to make the destructive (and meaningless) comparisons that can spoil it all.
We are all wired differently. One person’s grade one really is another’s grade eight. We all move at different paces and it’s so important to acknowledge that fact. You’re probably thinking, that’s all very well but that’s not how things are in the real world. Well – we’ve got to start changing things! And there’s one very effective way we can: believing that the process is more important than the outcome. The process in getting from zero to grade one, or zero to grade eight must be rich, elaborate, exciting, absorbing and engaging. If it is all those things then whilst the outcome may be important it doesn’t take on an importance that trumps the process.
And how do we make ‘the process’ all those things? Many readers will know my approach to instrumental and singing teaching which I call Simultaneous Learning. It’s a process where we are continually making connections to deepen and inspire understanding. It’s a process where we teach the ingredients of music to the degree whereby our pupils really ‘know’ and therefore can apply them in all contexts. That’s teaching. And we are continually drawing on our rich imaginations (we all have them) to create ever more activities to help each pupil get from their A (can’t do it) to their B (can do it), whatever their particular pace and however their particular brains are wired.
So that’s why I love teaching music. That’s why I’m a music teacher. I want to ensure that all my pupils love their music and can really enjoy their ongoing achievements. And the mortgage gets paid too.
© Paul Harris 2010
First appeared in Music Teacher Magazine December 2010 and reprinted by kind permission.
A Class Act
In the Summer of 2000 I had the great pleasure of meeting James Gillespie, editor of The Clarinet Journal, during the International Clarinet Association (ICA) convention in Oklahoma. James asked me if I would like to contribute a regular column – an invitation that I found both humbling and daunting! The following ‘Letter from the UK’ was first published in March 2010 in The Clarinet Journal, the official publication of the ICA.
Let’s play that guessing game where you try to work out who I’m describing before I’ve given away too many clues. Here goes then: he’s a top, living, English composer who has written a lot of seriously important music for the clarinet including a concerto and a quintet. He belongs to the generation that counts Peter Maxwell Davies, Harrison Birtwhistle and Alexander Goehr among their number (all who have written for the clarinet but none as much as our mystery composer.) Have you got him yet? He lives in New York (and has done since 1979). He has also written some of the most effective film music in the history of the cinema. And he now lives for jazz and cabaret. You must have got him by now! I write, of course, of Sir Richard Rodney Bennett.
Born in Broadstairs, Kent in March 1936 (also incidentally the birthplace of Prime Minister Edward Heath) into a very musical family – mother was a pupil of Holst and a concert pianist and father was a singer, songwriter and librettist. Richard began composing when he was about 13 and wrote his first clarinet work at the age of 16. This was a Concertante for clarinet, strings and percussion, probably for a school friend. It remains unpublished at the present time but is an effective pointer of things to come. There is one highly energetic movement of what was clearly intended to be a longer work. Like so much of Richard’s early music it is written using the 12-tone system. The clarinet writing is idiomatic and quite difficult and he wrote it in just two days. Nine years later came Richard’s second work – a Quintet for Clarinet, String trio and piano. Richard was very much drawn into the music of Elizabeth Lutyens at this time and this quintet drew much from her style. 1965 saw the composition of a Trio for flute, oboe and clarinet. Written for the same combination as Malcolm Arnold’s Divertimento and similarly in six short movements. It’s quite a gritty work again written in a strict serial style – but highly effective in the right programme. It was first performed by Richard Adeney (who also played in the first performance of the Arnold), Peter Graeme and the great Gervase de Peyer.
Next (in August 1966) came the delightful Crosstalk for two clarinets. I wrote about the background to this gem in my June 2007 letter so to cut a longer story short: Thea King and Stephen Trier were in residence at the Dartington Summer School of Music (along with Richard). Thea was chatting to Richard about the need for more duets one evening and woke up the next morning to discover some sheets of manuscript paper slipped underneath her bedroom door. Richard had composed this gorgeous and inventive four-movement suite for her literally overnight! It was given its first performance that very day.
We then had to wait eleven years for the next work – 1977 and the Scena III for solo clarinet. But it was worth the wait - this is a significant work in the unaccompanied clarinet catalogue. It was first performed by Philip Edwards who told me recently, “I very much enjoyed working on it and played it often. It’s atonal in outline and both effective and memorable.” After an arresting opening it develops along slightly Messiaenic lines, inspired by the e.e.cummings quotation found at the start of the music, Then shall I turn my face, and hear One bird sing terribly afar in the lost lands. Lasting eight minutes it’s quite a substantial work. Published by Novello it’s easily available and really worth a look at if you don’t know it. Four years later Richard produced another unaccompanied work – one of his best known – the Sonatina for solo clarinet. A highly effective, tuneful and characteristic piece which was commissioned for the National Clarinet Competition for Young People in 1981. The competition was won by Alex Allen who “particularly loved the beautiful slow movement.” The Sonatina has often found its way onto examination lists but also makes for an engaging and audience friendly concert item.