It was first performed by the Ealing Symphony Orchestra, conducted by John Gibbons and narrated by John Griff at the 8th Malcolm Arnold Festival in Northampton on October 19th 2013. I'm rather pleased with it and it's going to be available for sale (Queen's Temple Publications) soon. Should make a great item for any concert for young people. Although it's known as a Wind Quintet, the first version was in fact for violin, clarinet and tuba! There's a wonderful performance of it with the legendary Robert Hardy doing the narration on Victoria Soames Samek great CD.
John Davies plays Iain Hamilton
Iain Hamilton with John Davies
After much fascinating work and research, I am now able (all permissions formally granted!) to post the first movement of the Iain Hamilton Clarinet Quintet, Op.2 played by John Davies with the Aeolean Quartet as broadcast in March 1950 on the BBC.
Amazingly the quality is very good. It was transferred from a set of really poor 78s and I didn't think it would be possible. They were in a severe state of decay and disintegration! But I found an expert who has done a truly magnificent job and so we can now hear this rarely played work in a very rare recording – I have the rest of the work (which I hope to post eventually), and together with the slow movement of the Mozart Quintet, this is about all we have of JD actually playing. It’s a moving and dark work – it really deserves to be known and John plays it beautifully.
I have written a longer article about the Quintet and all about this recording for the next edition of the ICA Magazine.
I have a theory...
Paul Harris discusses the fascinating (and sometimes enigmatic) side of music that we know as music theory.
When thinking of ‘theorists’ – those who indulge in the study of theory as a career for example – we probably imagine a group of very earnest and rather solemn-looking scholars sitting at desks, surrounded by books and thinking, occasionally committing their deep thoughts to paper and publishing them in weighty tomes. Such people live in a land far away from those of us who spend most of our time at the coalface, teaching our pupils to play music. But that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t take the odd trip into their world. We may learn fascinating things. In very general terms, Music Theory is about what makes music work. It’s the story behind the notes; it concerns all the stuff that falls in that area that is ‘about’ music.
In this article I’d like to look at the theory and history behind some of the areas we usually think of as music theory and uncover some other areas that don’t often make their way into theory exams. And in the next article we’re going to return to some of those topics often assembled together in those ‘theory exams’ and explore how they can support our practical work and look at ways of incorporating them in our regular teaching.
So let’s begin with sound. After all, music is sound (or ‘organised sound’ as many theory definitions would have it), so it would seem reasonable for musicians to want to know something about it. There’s much to learn about how we actually hear the sounds our instruments make – how the ear and brain processes these magical vibrations and turns them into music that can affect us so much. There’s the whole fascinating area of harmonics (yes, harmonics really can be fascinating!) – which are present in all sounds and the reason behind why different instruments actually sound different. Did you know that there is one instrument (possibly more than one) that produces no harmonics (or overtones)? This gives that particular instrument it’s very distinctive sound. (All will be revealed in the next article.)
The harmonic series (that naturally occurring series of notes that are linked mathematically to any fundamental tone) also has an interesting bearing on the way harmony has developed and goes at least part way to unlocking the reason why music in a major key sounds happy and in a minor key sounds sad. Then there’s the vast subject of tuning and temperament, an area of music theory that Bach himself was particularly interested in. If he hadn’t have been, we may never have got the ‘48’ and music may have developed in quite a different manner.
What about all our various scale patterns and the intervals we can divide them into? How did all that come about? Some say it’s all the result of a certain blacksmith and his occasional visitor, the great philosopher Pythagoras of Samos, some time round about 400BC. Pythagoras realised that the size of the hammer (hitting the anvil) caused sounds of different pitches and that these sizes and their pitches were related. He worked out all sorts of mathematical connections – which is probably where the age-old connection between music and mathematics began. The origins of all the millions and millions of scales that we play with such varying degrees of pleasure, began their life in that little Greek island of Samos in the eastern Aegean Sea. It ought to be a regular place of pilgrimage for all musicians!
And had you ever wondered why we split the perfect octave up into twelve units? If you keep going round the circle of fifths from a C you will eventually land back there 12 notes later. Hence the twelve notes of the chromatic scale. But in fact it needn’t have been twelve. It turns out that twelve is simply a number of pitch sub-divisions that the human ear can organise with reasonable ease. And each of those semitone intervals is divided into 100 cents, although of course it isn’t always 100 cents as those with a knowledge of different temperaments will know! And that, on a very practical level, is where things get really interesting. For a real sensitivity to (and knowledge of) fine tuning begins to open up the huge and wonderful world of pitch nuance. How should we tune that leading note – a little up or down? Which would be the more expressive? Where exactly does a minor third fit into a perfect fifth to make a really meaningful minor chord? Is D sharp the same as E flat? It isn’t! There’s not much we can do about it on the piano, but for all non-fixed pitch instruments (and voices) we can begin to produce and savour some very expressive and evocative sounds.
What about the great Hucbald the One-legged? He wrote perhaps the first book on music theory (sometime around 900 and a must-read for all theory enthusiasts) and was responsible for rationalising musical symbols, many of which we still use today. And we mustn’t forget Guido d’Arrezo’s ‘Guidonian Hand’ – perhaps the first attempt at a ‘fun’ way to learn to sight-sing. Guido is another medieval theorist and is regarded as the inventor of modern musical notation.
And I wonder if you’ve ever thought about why is the treble clef so called? Here’s the (perhaps unexpected) answer: in early contrapuntal music the tune was usually in the tenor accompanied by an alto line. Sometimes there was a third line too, higher in pitch and called the treble (the third line). Here are a couple more: why is a stave made up of five lines? What is the golden section and why were Debussy and Bartók so fascinated by it? Such questions are seemingly endless and represent just the tip of the iceberg (my allotted number of words hasn’t allowed me to answer them here – but I hope you’ll be inspired to go off on your own voyage of discovery!). Some of them really can help us in our teaching (to a certain degree anyway) and some of them not so much. But they are all interesting and many of our pupils may be truly fired up by having their imaginations guided in these unusual directions.
In fact if we think of Music Theory as being all about firing our pupils imaginations, it turns it into a very different beast. Theory is about discovering and understanding all those things that lie behind so much of what goes on in our lessons. You don’t need to know how an engine works to get about in your car – but it can make a big difference if you do.
Playing Scales (part 2)
Paul Harris considers... playing scales (part 2)...
When I used to run a music department there was one particular teacher who simply wouldn’t teach scales. She disliked them so much that she absolutely refused to teach them. I ended up having to teach her pupils their scales and it wasn’t even my instrument. And to make matters worse, the pupils knew their teacher’s view. So I began with a massive disadvantage! Even those who didn’t really know what scales were, thought of them as somehow evil. I certainly had my work cut out to find ways of making them palatable.
I’m a great believer in the process being more important than the outcome. In this case the outcome was learning some scales (for some, learning scales for an exam). The process was to be concerned with introducing the idea of scales and scale learning and that process needed to be imaginative, relevant and fun. So I began to develop a method where actually playing the scale would come at the end of what I hoped would be an interesting and, yes, an agreeable journey.
So we began with thinking about what a scale is. It’s a collection of notes that form the building materials of a piece of music. So which scale to begin with? Simple – our own scales. Each pupil was sent home to create their own scale. They could choose any five notes (which included flats and sharps as long as they could play them). Some wrote their scales down, other remembered them. We enjoyed hearing each pupil’s collections of notes which were named after themselves – Robert’s Scale, Sally’s Scale... We hadn’t necessarily put the notes into alphabetical order yet. Their next assignment was to make up a short piece based on the notes of their scale. That seemed to go down well too. Again, we enjoyed hearing the interesting pieces based on each pupil’s made-up scale. Then they wrote their scales down and went home to make up another short piece, but this time based on a friend’s scale. Once more, the results were most enjoyable.
They had, straight away, taken on the idea that scales were okay – even fun – and that they formed the basis of pieces. Next we had a look at someone else’s scale, and the obvious choice was a pentatonic scale – just like theirs. So we learnt to play the pentatonic scale and some little pieces I found based on it. We took some of the other ingredients out of the pieces (rhythms, dynamic and articulation markings) and applied these to the scale. It seemed a sensible thing to do to make practising it more interesting. And they agreed.
So now to make the leap to the scales of the pieces they were learning. We looked at the pieces carefully, decided on the scale used and spotted patterns in the music. Were there any technical issues to consider? If there were we created some short exercises to help overcome these. Then we improvised in the key: call and response sort of activities, always being careful only to use notes of the scale. We added other ingredients. Then I found some short studies in the key based on the scale patterns. Next we attempted to play, by ear and in the key, phrases from pieces they knew – the first phrase of Jingle Bells, the opening phrase from EastEnders. Eventually we decided that all technical problems had been overcome and the notes were well known. It was time to perform the scale. As a preliminary, the note names were said out loud – up and down. Then one or two ingredients were added from the piece – a dynamic and a character for example. Finally we had reached our outcome, a performance of the scale, played with relevance and good will. The process had been fun and imaginative. The outcome – playing the scale accurately, with character and with some real satisfaction – had been achieved.
I tell this story because there are many ways to teach and learn scales. If we teach them dryly and only because they have to be learnt and played at some distant event (an exam for example) there is little joy to be had. If it’s felt there is not enough time to devote to such teaching, then perhaps it’s necessary to decide why we’re in such a hurry. Scales are important; they are the building blocks of both pieces and technique and can be quite pleasant, to teach and to learn, if approached with a little imagination.
Playing Scales (part 1)
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.