Live music is back, my friends. British Columbia has officially opened up, and it is now possible to give live concerts once again. I am currently rehearsing with the Vancouver based Erato Ensemble in a program that will include 20th century works by Luciano Berio and South African composer Priaulx Rainier. You can learn more about this ground breaking group and our concert at the Annex on September 25th, 2021 at www.eratoensemble.com.
The program includes Berio’s exquisitely haunting Cries of London originally composed for and premiered by the King’s Singers in 1974. Rainier’s The Bee Oracles are based on text by Edith Sitwell and scored for Tenor and chamber ensemble. This work was composed in 1969 and dedicated to Peter Pears.
It’s great to return to Berio again after conducting his Folk Songs at the University of Toronto in 2018. Rainier is a completely new composer for me – and what a discovery. Her work is profoundly sensual, and evokes awe in the visible and invisible powers of nature.
Time away from the podium gives us the opportunity to catch up on some reading. These days, I am engrossed in biographies on the great composers, including this one on Beethoven: Anguish and Triumph by Jan Swafford. These biographies serve as wonderful complement to score study. Whether I am working on a symphony or a piano sonata, I can’t help but be filled with questions. The musical notes themselves have their limitations. What lies behind these notes: What was Beethoven’s state of mind, what inspired him, who were his influences?
We tend to put these great composers on pedestals. In actuality, their day to day lives, their personal and professional struggles were much like ours. I am both comforted and inspired by this notion.
Through a lifelong dedication to their art, composers like Beethoven offer the world unique and inspired insights into the universality of our experience on earth. It is our goal as performing musicians to act as vehicles for these great works, to decode messages veiled in musical language.
For further details regarding my teaching activities please visit www.heltzelmusicstudio.com. My studio is officially open for piano, conducting, theory and vocal coaching. Lessons are available online and at my private studio in downtown Toronto.
In February 2017, I had the privilege to musically direct and conduct the Canadian premier of Salvatore Sciarrino’s opera The Killing Flower (Luci Mie Traditrici) with Toronto New Music Projects. This opera was premiered at the Schwetzingen Festival in 1998 and was an immediate success. To date, it has been performed over a 100 times around the world in some of the most prestigious opera houses.
It has been a little over three years since the premier, however, I recently had the opportunity to revisit this memorable experience in a virtual presentation at the 2020 Cortona New Music Sessions where I discussed the opera and my collaboration with the composer. It is hard to articulate the power of his music without seeming to contradict oneself. Sciarrino once described his music as, “An eruption of a volcano viewed from afar.” This is kind of it in a nutshell. The power of his music is undeniable, however, it doesn’t bull you over in the sonorous ways we are usually accustomed to. Sciarrino’s musical landscape is dominated by his unique approach to integrating silence into his compositions. It challenges the listener in new ways, forcing us to confront an uncomfortable human fragility. But it is through this confrontation we reach new understandings about music and ourselves.
A striking example of Sciarrino’s use of silence in his musical landscape comes in the Prelude to Act II of The Killing Flower. I’ve attached the first page of the full score to the Prelude to Act II to give an idea of what Sciarrino’s music looks like on the page: Prelude to Act II – The Killing Flower Upon first glance it can be intimidating. In addition to managing soft dynamics and elements of silence, other challenges for the conductor to hear and anticipate include unpitched notes, precise syncopated rhythms, harmonics in extreme registers, and multiphonics. In the foreground of this music we find a duet played by the viola and cello. Although a pitch, this duet is also scored in highly intricate manner. Below, an excerpt of my performance of the Prelude to Act II with Toronto New Music Projects.
It was nearly a decade ago I first came across a film of Herbert von Karajan rehearsing the Schumann Fourth Symphony with the Vienna Symphony. Little did I know at the time, this film would become the kernel of inspiration for two years of research on the conductor, his Central European Tradition, and the art of conducting on film.
Embarking on a thesis is a daunting task to say the least. I was overwhelmed by what lay before me. However, this kernel of inspiration, along with the continued guidance of my committee, helped me navigate the open waters of potential research subjects and materials. “Inspiration gets you started, habit keeps you going,” as the saying goes. Over the course of two years, every part of my day involved some aspect of reading, analyzing film, reflection, and writing on conductors and conducting.
I am happy to share that this research has come to fruition. My doctoral thesis “The Art of Conviction: A Film-based Study of the Rehearsal Techniques of Herbert von Karajan” is now published and available online through the University of Toronto: https://tspace.library.utoronto.ca/handle/1807/101221. I am deeply indebted to my supervisor Dr. Jeff Packman, and conducting faculty Uri Mayer and Dr. Gillian MacKay for their continued guidance and support throughout the project.
What is the nature of performance? This question kept popping into my head both before and after I gave my first live-stream recital of the “Goldberg” Variations. Although I prepared for this performance as I would for any other, I distinctly remember being more nervous than I anticipated. The concert, streamed through Facebook-live, was to be played in the comfort and privacy of home, where a pianist practices and feels most at ease with their instrument. That all changed as soon as I began the live-stream, where salutations and comments began trailing in one-by-one in real time. My feelings of comfort and privacy were immediately replaced by a nervous energy and the thrill of human presence. I may have well been on any concert stage in the world.
Facebook-live provides this opportunity to communicate with an audience through the comment section. But it pretty much ends at that. Throughout the performance of the Goldberg’s, however much I knew there were people tuning in, I could not feel them – and I could not engage the very real dialogue that takes place between performer and listener during performance. I remember having to deal with my nervous energy in a new way. Rather than channel it through a line of communication with an audience, which can enhance the intensity of the musical experience, I felt as though I had to recycle the energy – to deal with it on my own. My ears and mind kept desperately looking for my audience, to sense what they were feeling and thinking. I had never wished so badly for a cough during a performance as I did then!
The live-stream was a fantastic opportunity to promote live music during our current lockdown. It is a noble attempt to keep music alive for a listening audience and for performers to exercise their work and talent. But such an experience has also led me realize how much we have taken for granted the raw pleasure of connecting through music in-person. This rawness is foundational to communication, whether it be in a music making environment or in everyday human interaction. It binds us, it focuses us, and there is so much unsaid that can still be heard.
With the conducting world on an indefinite hiatus, I have been able to spend more time at the piano and return to an unfinished project. For the past month and a half, I’ve been immersed in Bach’s “Goldberg” Variations, a set of 30 variations based on the bass line and harmonic progression of an original aria. The work was commissioned and composed in 1741. I was recently asked by a student which variation was my favorite, and began my response with, “it must be how a mother feels about her children…” Each variation takes on a life of its own, unique in its musical, technical, and emotional content, and yet is part of the whole and crucial to the overall narrative of the work.
It is important to consider the sacred connotations in all of Bach’s works, even those that were conceived within a secular context. Without any sacred text, it becomes hard to justify this empirically. However, there are other ways in which we can deduce the sacred connotations inherent to Bach’s music. Certainly, it is evident in the pathos of the music, a pathos that Bach felt he could use interchangeably, whether it be for the concert hall or a church service. For example, the first two movements of the Cantata, BWV 146 “Wir Müssen durch viel Trübsel” are direct quotations from the keyboard concerto no. 1 in d minor, BWV 1052. Bach’s use of numerology throughout his works is another salient example. There are often references to the numbers 1, 2, and 3, a representation of the Holy Trinity. These are numbers that can be found in abundance throughout the structural framework of the “Goldberg” Variations.
Ironically, perhaps the most profound spiritual statement of the Goldberg’s comes in its most “secular” variation. The Quodlibet concludes the set of 30 variations by quoting the tunes of two folk songs of Bach’s day. Ralph Kirkpatrick referred to this variation as a prime example of the composer’s “pious humility.” The variation sums up the work in its unification of both of its human and divine elements. The Aria da Capo is also something to behold. It is both familiar and new, subtly reminding us of the person we were and the person we have become after traversing such a magnificent spiritual journey.
Creativity always finds a way to manifest itself. Sure, the coronavirus has put most musicians temporarily out of work and cleared our schedules for the foreseeable future, but it is not all doom and gloom. Life quickly adapts. The survival and creative instinct, which is connected to our love instinct, emerges triumphant, even as the threatening coronavirus looms large. As my own instinct to create has found other outlets, including practicing new piano repertoire, studying languages, and the opportunity to observe conductors and to broaden my repertoire through the Berlin Philharmonic’s Digital Concert Hall, I am curious as to how my colleagues and the rest of the music world are navigating these challenging times. A paradigm shift could be ahead. Perhaps the music world will come out ahead and re-brand itself; new projects could emerge, there could be a shake-up in the job market.
I am reminded of Bartok’s orchestral masterpiece The Miraculous Mandarin in which he courageously explores the dark side of humanity. Bartok’s message and credo are clear, and ultimately optimistic, but only after he has taken his listeners through the brutal and horrifying journey of the unfortunate Mandarin. I will not go into the subject matter, a story which initially caused scandal and was banned on moral grounds – but for those who do not know the work, I cannot recommend it highly enough. It is a profound testament to the creative power that dwells within us all.
Today marked the culmination of 18 months of research performed at the University of Toronto and the official last day of my DMA in orchestral conducting. I formally submitted my dissertation to the School of Graduate Studies for publication. “The Art of Conviction: A Film-based Study of the Rehearsal Techniques of Herbert von Karajan” will be published online this coming June 2020.
Under the guidance of my advisory committee Dr. Jeff Packman, Prof. Uri Mayer, and Dr. Gillian MacKay, I devised a research project that centered around a famous 1965 filmed rehearsal of the Schumann Fourth Symphony, Op. 120 with the Vienna Symphony led by Herbert von Karajan. Throughout this project, I had the chance to perform detailed video analysis of the film and to evaluate and reflect upon video analysis’ utility in our age. It was also an opportunity to further discover and trace Karajan’s Central European Conducting lineage. The thesis examines the literary works and recordings of famous German conductors including Richard Wagner, Felix Weingartner, Bruno Walter, Otto Klemperer, and Wilhelm Furtwängler. I also came across a hidden gem: Karajan’s “Die Probe,” an essay discussing a few of his philosophies and attitudes towards the rehearsal process.
Did you know Schumann’s Fourth Symphony exists in two versions, the 1841 and 1851 versions, and that there is a debate dating back to Brahms as to which one is the superior? Karajan navigates this issue with great sophistication. As I argue throughout the video analysis, his interpretation attempts to blend the two versions.
The film, directed by Henri-Georges Clouzot, is a fascinating portrayal of Karajan and his pedagogical approach to rehearsal, and stands as the only full-length rehearsal of the conductor available on film. It also serves as a window into the Central European Conducting Tradition led by one of its most celebrated members.
Recently I had the opportunity to conduct Mozart’s Divertimento in D Major, K. 136 with the University of Toronto Symphony Orchestra in Walter Hall at the Faculty of Music. This is a work I have had my eyes on since my student days as a pianist. It is a delightfully inspired work and I am fascinated by how remarkably prodigious it is. Mozart wrote the work as a 16-year old, yet it doesn’t have any of the hallmarks of teenager both in its mastery of technique and the maturity of its musical content. I am reminded of an interview by Austrian conductor Karl Böhm who said, and I paraphrase, that you can already tell Mozart was spiritually perfect by the time he wrote his First Symphony at the age of eight.
This work is for strings alone and is sometimes referred to as one of his “Salzburg Symphonies.” It can also be performed by string quartet, however, there a glorious glow and presence to the sound when performed by a larger ensemble. Such an ensemble can heighten some of the musical genius of the work and give it greater expressive qualities, especially when performed in a larger hall.
I recently had the opportunity to give a public masterclass at the Steinway Piano Gallery in Mississauga on a beautiful Steinway D where I worked with three piano students, two of whom were my own. My student Grace Hu played the Rachmaninoff Prelude in Gb Major, Op. 23 No. 10 and the first movement of the Beethoven “Pastoral Sonata”. I have to thank Grace for introducing me to the Rachmaninoff. It could possibly be one of my favorite works for the piano by the composer. Most striking is its unusual climax which comes towards the end. Although the last statement of the theme is expressed in a lush accompaniment, it is marked under a piano dynamic. The effect is an overwhelming tenderness. The Beethoven is challenging work in its attention to detail. What a great sonata though. I sometimes wonder why it is not programmed more often.
The second student Otto Popescu, who currently studies with Dr. Asher Ian Armstrong, played Liszt’s Vallée d’Obermann. My favorite thing about this piece are the penetrating harmonies which move me to the quick. I am not the biggest fan of Liszt’s compositions per se and I have always tended to stay away from them in my own programming, but I have always admired his ability to explore new worlds of harmony. Vallée d’Obermann is an effective concert piece: it is virtuosic and full of great melodies. The music depicts the tortured pathos of the troubled Romantic artist who searches for the why in his life. Otto is only 15. I look forward to hearing him play the work in another 20 years (about the same age as when Liszt wrote the work.)
Catherine Cheun, also my student, played Mozart’s Sonata in C major, K. 545. This is often considered a work for children, although it is important to remember Mozart was in his 30’s when he wrote the work. There is a maturity to the music that is both attractive and challenging to pianists of any age. Musically, too, it poses great challenges to find the character of each melody and to sing at the instrument.
The evening ended in a fun Q & A with the audience about many aspects related to piano performance and teaching. I was asked to play something, too, and I turned to an old war horse: Debussy’s La Cathédrale Engloutie.
Over the past couple weeks, I have been rehearsing Aaron Copland’s Appalachian Spring Suite for 13 instruments with members of the University of Toronto Symphony Orchestra. Last night we performed it together in Walter Hall at the Faculty of Music. This work is a cornerstone of the American symphonic repertoire and resonates with me deeply. It’s hard for me to say whether this is simply because of the music itself or whether it evokes my own subjective feelings for my native land. Perhaps it’s both. The Suite is an arrangement by the composer following the immense success of its premier as a ballet in 1944. I look forward to programming this work as much as I can, whether it be in the pit or on the stage. It is quintessential Americana, and above all, great music.
This was an opportunity to conduct that came up somewhat unexpectedly. Originally, I was asked to fill in for a rehearsal of Gary’s new work, which ultimately led to the concert engagement. Gary Kulesha has established quite a reputation as one of Canada’s leading classical composers and has held positions as composer-in-residence with the Toronto Symphony Orchestra and the Canadian Opera Company, to name only a few. His works are known for their high level of complexity: harmonically, contrapuntally, as well as the technical demands placed on the instrumentalists and ensemble. Although composed especially for the University of Toronto Symphony Orchestra, the composer didn’t hold back any of his penchant for musical or technical virtuosity.
Studying a new work is always fun as it challenges my inner ear to conceive and interpret the score from scratch. One generally eases into their relationship with a new work following each rehearsal. Running about 12 minutes, it was an uninterrupted 3-movement work that explored the potentialities of the 11th chord, historically the most challenging chord for composers to incorporate into their music. Part of my challenge as conductor was not only to familiarize the orchestra with the score but to get them to believe in the work. This could be one of the reasons I enjoy conducting new music so much: the fact that the music hangs in the balance. How will it be received? Will it survive in the repertoire? The conductor therefore is imbued with great responsibility. Sometimes new works don’t always get a second performance.