GUITAR
F O RU M
2
Lorenzo Micheli
Mauro Giulianis Guitar Technique
& Early Nineteenth-Century Pedagogy
Julian Bream
How to Write for the Guitar
Luis Zea
On Teaching the Unteachable
Sarn Dyer
:A Lesson with Ida:
an imaginary interview with Ida Presti
Fabio Zanon
:Mignone, Fernandez, Guarnieri:
Brazilian guitar music after Villa-Lobos
issn 14754789
g u i ta r f o ru m 2
WINTER 2003
issn 1 4 7 5 4 7 8 9
Reviews
Editor
Jonathan Leathwood
Editorial board
Stephen Dodgson, Angelo Gilardino, Stephen Goss,
Ricardo Iznaola, Stanley Yates, Fabio Zanon
Cover design by Philip Atkins
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Mead, Oxford, ox2 0ef
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Acknowledgements
We are very grateful to Heidi Brende and Rebekah
Billings for their meticulous proofreading; to Sarn Dyer
for providing some of the illustrations; to Luis Zea and
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contents
Contributors, page 99
h o w t o w r i t e f o r t h e g u i ta r
the most important thing to bear in mind when writing for an instrument
is the texture and character of its sound. The guitar is more suggestive and intimate than almost any other instrument, and therefore demands from the composer great imagination and feeling for colour especially since it is nearly always solo, and succeeds or falls purely on its own merits of musical expression.
My advice to composers trying to write suitable music for the guitar is: refer
to Bach. A detailed study of the unaccompanied violin sonatas would serve admirably as a guide to the application of harmony and counterpoint to the guitar, as well as to the suggestiveness that I mentioned just now; better still, compare Bachs own lute arrangements of the G minor Fugue from the First Violin
Sonata or of the whole C minor Cello Suite, and one will notice that with the
added advantage of more strings (and a closer tuning in fourths and thirds as on
the guitar), he has slightly elaborated the harmony and in some cases developed
the counterpoint. It is an interesting fact that whilst all the unaccompanied violin and cello music (not forgetting the lute suites) can be played on the guitar,
the same can hardly be said of a single keyboard work.
the tuning of the guitar is a curiosity in itself.
y
&
Example 1
The tuning remains constant, with the possible exception of the sixth string,
which is occasionally lowered a tone in pieces where the prevailing tonality is D.
Occasionally the fifth string is also retuned a tone lower for special eects in the
key of G, but this should only be done on the advice of a guitarist.
Although guitar music is written in the treble clef, it actually sounds an octave lower than written; thus the range of the guitar is similar to that of the cello,
though quite often the ear is deceived into thinking that it is considerably higher.
This can probably be attributed to the fact that the sound-chamber is somewhat
smaller than that of the cello, and therefore the overtones and natural resonances
are of a higher pitch.
The guitar fingerboard, unlike that of the violin, is divisioned o by thin
strips of metal (frets) placed a semitone apart. Since the notes are predetermined, the instrument is obviously tempered, though enharmonic dierences
can be achieved by the finger pushing into or pulling away from the fret.
The Spanish Guitar (as opposed to the Plectrum Guitar) is always plucked
with the fingers of the right hand and never with a plectrum or quill. Danceband players have developed the plectrum technique over the last thirty years
or so in order to obtain more power and drive in their rhythmic chord-playing,
but this method is artistically very limited since it cannot manage counterpoint,
and every chord is, and must be, slightly arpeggiated. With the thumb and three
fingers, the classical (Spanish) guitarist has in fact four plectra and can therefore
play four notes simultaneously.
julian bream
&
Example 2
As with most stringed instruments, the very high notes of the guitar tend to have
less quality, and complicated passagework in the highest register sometimes
sounds thin and unconvincing; nevertheless, I am all in favour of mountaineering, if a composition really demands it. The chief thing to remember is that while
the top two strings generally sound well in extreme high positions if the instrument is a good one the bottom four, on the whole, tend to sound rather
boxy and dead above the twelfth fret, i.e. above the octave, and I would generally advise composers against writing six-note chords right up in the dust if
they really desire a musical sound!
By no means the least important point to bear in mind when writing for the
guitar is the span which the left hand is capable of stretching. For instance, it is
obviously impossible to play a chord in a high position, and also expect to play
a low F (first fret) on the sixth string; the composer must either bring the chord
down to the low F or else the low F up to the chord whichever is more vital to
the musical logic.
Example 3 should give some idea of the limits which the average left hand
can stretch. Although five or six frets is the average stretch between the first and
&
y 1 (1st fret)
q 4 (16th fret)
q 4 (10th fret)
q 4 (5th fret)
y 1 (5th fret)
y 1 (10th fret)
Example 3
fourth finger, this does not rule out the possibility of playing chords in the high
positions of the treble strings, and plucking open bass strings at the same time.
Many a good pedal is built up in this way, especially if the bass note is given a
little rhythmical interest.
j
j
j
j
n n n
###
&
.
.
.
J
J
J
J
Example 4
most instruments have their natural keys and resonances, the guitar being no
exception. It is, indeed, essentially a keybound instrument. This being so, atonal
works may present certain problems, though they can be entirely successful if
the composer has acquainted himself thoroughly with the fingerboard, and realised the importance of keeping the texture compact.
When using the conventional tonal system, the composer must select his
key or overall key feeling according to the natural resonances of the instrument.
Since most of the natural harmonics and resonances are built up, as it were,
from the open strings, it is important to use the unstopped strings as much as
possible, particularly the lower three, which add a considerable lustre to the timbre when harmonically employed in conjunction with a phrase or figuration in
high positions on the treble strings. Often an open string may be harmonically
incorrect (academically speaking), but in a great many cases the unstopped bass
strings are so rich in natural harmonics that they often sound more convincing
in the harmony they suggest than a more harmonically conventional stopped
note that might hinder the fluency of a phrase simultaneously played above it.
Nevertheless, the first necessity is to choose a key that will give aesthetic satisfaction to the composer and that will also take into account the instruments
technical attributes and limitations. The natural keys of the guitar are A, E, D, G,
C, F and the tonic minors.
As can be observed, the three best keys have an open bass note, particularly
if in the key of D the sixth string is tuned a tone lower, thereby giving the composer two open D strings, a dominant A and a subdominant G all to ease the
performers burden!
the guitar has always been admired for its harmonic resources and it is in this
respect that the contemporary composer can use his imagination to the full, unfettered by the technical limitations of the instrument where counterpoint or
melody and accompaniment are concerned.
Although the guitar has six strings and can therefore play chords of up to six
notes, the technique of the right hand, as already observed, limits the number of
notes simultaneously playable to four (i.e. thumb and three fingers). Hence fiveand six-note chords are always slightly arpeggiated. If the composer requires
fast repeated chords, say at a moderate semiquaver speed, it would be advisable
to condense all the harmonic interest into four-note chords, or better still, if fluent fingerboard facility is also needed, into chords of three notes. However, a
composition may sometimes demand fast reiterated six-string thrumming, perhaps to give a sustained tremolando eect; here it is imperative that all six strings
be employed, as it is impossible, say, to miss out the third or any other inside
string for that matter when the performer is thrumming backwards and forwards across the six strings with the forefinger of the right hand.
The layout of harmony on the guitar is a comparatively simple thing, if a few
rules are observed. For instance, in common chords of four notes, the conventional rule of keeping the bottom note of the chord relatively far away from the
triad above it works particularly well, since the major third between the second
and third strings facilitates the close grouping of a triad, whilst a largish interval
between the tenor and bass parts gives a certain size and richness to a chord, because of the sympathetic harmonics arising from the bass as would happen in
example 5.
j
j
.
..
. n
# # # 6 .. #
#
& 8
.
. #.
.
Example 5
It is of prime importance to remember this rule, when employing the guitar for
accompaniments or in chamber ensembles. Triads in the extreme low positions
julian bream
sound extremely sonorous, but somehow lack brilliance and definition and get
lost in the general ensemble.
As I have explained earlier, I cannot suciently stress the importance of using
the open strings. This applies particularly to the writing of the more progressive
kind of harmony on the guitar. Villa-Lobos, for example, has achieved a brilliant
harmonic system, using stopped notes high up on the inside strings, in conjunction with open (unstopped) notes. Here is a typical example:
a)
0
& 00 b n # # #
b)
b # n b
0 #
n # #
0
Example 6
One might argue that artistically this is rather a nave system of chordal construction, but I can assure the reader that while three notes of every chord (a)
remain constant, each chord has its own harmonic character and bears little or
no resemblance to the preceding one.
The technical device known as the grand barr has great importance in the
construction of fingerboard harmony. This is achieved by placing the forefinger of the left hand over all six strings, and so producing, as it were, an adjustable nut. Most common six-note chords are stopped in this manner, and
when a phrase or chord moves up, say, a major third, all the player has to do is
to shift the grand barr four frets higher, which can be done with the minimum
of thought and eort. Incidentally, whilst the forefinger might be engaged in
performing the grand barr it is worth while to remember that the other three
fingers can articulate and stop notes at the same time, providing that they are
not required to stretch more than four frets higher than the point at which the
barr is fixed; and never, never expect a guitarist to perform the barr above the
tenth fret he probably would never physically recover if he tried!
although the lute (forerunner of the modern guitar with exactly the same
technique and similar tuning) reached the height of its development during a
great period of contrapuntal writing, it is interesting to note that the lute and
the guitar have considerable limitations in playing this kind of music. Neither
Dowland nor Bach, in their three- and four-part fugal expositions, ever required the lute to perform counterpoint at more than moderate quaver speed,
and they were both very careful to choose diatonic outlines, so as to eliminate
unnecessary movement on the fingerboard. By the very nature of the instrument, two-part counterpoint at moderate semiquaver speed, with the parts in
contrary motion, is never wholly successful, nor in parallel motion, which is just
as dicult to perform unless at a moderate quaver tempo. Once again, as in so
many cases when writing for the guitar, the composer must simplify the counterpoint, which the instrument finds dicult to project. For instance, if the top
part is the more important of the two, the secondary, or lower, part must undergo slight adjustment; losing some of its contrapuntal significance it takes on
a somewhat harmonic character, at the same time giving the performer more facility to shape and phrase the figuration above it. This system, which one might
term harmonic counterpoint, also applies in reverse, i.e. with the top part in a
simplified form supporting the figuration of the lower part.
Some composers may argue that since there are so many limitations in twopart writing, how on earth are they to compose in three or four parts if the musical conception of a composition requires it? To this I would answer that two
parts played on the guitar have an eect of peculiar fullness and completion.
However, a discreet and fragmentary use of a third and fourth part, in the form
of harmonic punctuation, is often playable, as well as being suitable to the instrument. This technique is exploited to perfection in the fugues and other compositions of J.S. Bach.
trills and ornamentation are all embodied in a technique peculiar to the
guitar, known as the slur or legato. For instance, in example 7 the right hand
&
# #
Example 7
plucks no fewer than three times, the other unplucked notes being either hammered (ascending) or plucked (descending) by the left hand alone. This technique obviously gives shape to a phrase as well as giving considerable ease to
articulation, as the notes sounded by the right hand have slightly more rhythmical impetus and sonority than those plucked or hammered on the fingerboard. All the same, a guitarist cannot go on plucking with his left hand for ever,
unless the string is given a new lease of vibration from the right hand; hence
elongated trills are to be avoided at all costs in favour of shorter figuration. The
mordent, double-mordent, and the elaborated turn can serve adequately the
composer who indulges in baroque niceties.
of all the musical techniques most suited to the instrument, the arpeggio is
probably the most beautiful and evocative. There are many varieties of arpeggi;
in fact, as many permutations between six strings and four plucking fingers as
you would like to use. Here, as examples, are a few basic ones on the open strings.
a)
&
b)
##
c)
d)
Example 8
Arpeggi as a general rule must sound fluent and facile. The guitarist would be
more than delighted if the core of the arpeggio fell on adjacent strings, thus enabling him to throw it o and concentrate on other things, particularly if
melodic interest is also involved, as in example 9.
a)
###
n
&
Example 9
6
julian bream
b)
nnn
In determining the form of an arpeggio, it is worth while to note that the righthand thumb generally controls the fourth, fifth and sixth strings, and the remaining three fingers the third, second and first strings respectively. This explains why there is often a gap of one or two strings between the tenor and bass
notes of a guitar arpeggio, because the thumb has greater manuvrability than
the fingers and is physically more independent. Occasionally, however, it is necessary for the fingers to work in conjunction with the thumb on the bass strings,
as, for example, in these arpeggio figures which require such rapidity over all six
strings that the thumb would fail to cope over its bass territory.
a)
b)
&
Example 10
Another delightful technique on the guitar is the tremolo. This eect should be
used very sparingly, and I would advise composers to limit their use of it to extended compositions such as a sonata, suite, or concerto, where it can eectively
be used to give textural variety, when all the other stops have been pulled! Here
are two examples:
a)
b)
# # n
& #
n
#
n
J
Example 11
In the first example, the melodic interest is in the tremolo itself while the thumb
plucks a simple accompaniment underneath it. When played at a reasonably fast
speed, it can achieve a highly sustained musical line. The second example, with
the tune in the bass register, is rather unusual in guitar composition, but can
nevertheless be most eective.
harmonics on the guitar never cease to intrigue both composer and performer. They can be either natural or artificial. The most successful sounds are
the open natural harmonics playable on every string at the octave (12th fret),
the fifth above (7th fret), the octave above (5th fret), and the tenth above (4th
fret). (This last harmonic can also be found on the 9th fret.) Other harmonics
of higher partials do exist, but fail to resonate suciently to cover the actual percussive noise made when plucking the string. A very exciting sound is obtained
by the chordal treatment of harmonics. This, of course, can be successful only if
the left hand can stretch to the harmonics desired. Care and taste should be exercised when constructing chords in this manner, as fussiness can often occur,
easily disrupting the flow of a composition.
Artificial harmonics can be sounded on any required note and a whole phrase
can sometimes be played with this type of harmonic. Personally, I find the sound
rather thin in comparison with the natural kind, but of course this can vary with
the characteristics of dierent guitars. When indicating harmonics, it is advisable to write the open string with the fret position above it, thus:
how to write for the guitar
&
# # # XII
Example 12
Another interesting tone colour is the pizzicato note, plucked by the thumb whilst
the palm of the right hand is clamped down on the strings so as to produce a
mued eect not unlike the sound made by the harp stop on the harpsichord.
This is particularly eective in phrases of single notes in the bass register, or in
two- and three-note chords in the upper register of the instrument. The sound
is curiously pathetic and humorous! but nevertheless quite wholesome.
In concluding, I would like to mention one other characteristic of guitar playing, known as the slide or portamento. Although this technique is often abused
by instrumentalists, it can, when performed for sincere artistic ends, create a feeling of pathos and emotional intensity.
I sincerely hope that this short essay on writing for the guitar has not given
the impression that the diculties are insuperable. Falla wrote:Parmi les instruments corde avec manche, la guitare est le plus complet et le plus riche daprs
ses possibilits harmoniques et polyphoniques. May this encourage composers
to create a literature for an instrument that has been unduly neglected.
note
The following are well worth studying:
Bach: Lute works (Zimmerman)
Villa-Lobos: Douze tudes pour guitare (Max Eschig), Cinq prludes pour
guitare (Max Eschig)
Falla: Homenaje le tombeau de Claude Debussy (Chester)
Castelnuovo-Tedesco: Sonata (Schott)
Fernando Sor: 25 Studies (Chester)
julian bream
Mignone,Fernandez,Guarnieri:
Brazilian guitar music aer Via-Lobos
fa b i o z a n o n
The overwhelming presence of a composer of Villa-Loboss standard in Brazilian musical life might lead one to assume that younger generations of classical composers, inspired by the international acceptance of his guitar works,
would also embrace, during the last fifty years or so, the cause of the guitar
repertoire and provide the instrument with a large and meritorious body of
works for the instrument. The assumption is right to a certain extent. The generation of nationalist composers which succeeded Villa-Lobos has endowed the
instrument with works of lasting importance and is the subject of this article.
Younger composers have also frequently visited the guitar, and a list of compositions can be found at the end of this article.
Nevertheless, a superficial examination of guitar recital programmes around
the world is discouraging. In the orchestral and chamber fields, none of these
composers has so far enjoyed the international exposure of Villa-Lobos. The absence of Brazilian classical composers of any standing in the repertoire of established and amateur players alike is almost total. Brazilian guitarists of international prominence tend either to create a repertoire of their own, consisting of
commissioned new music, or to rearrange and dress up some of the best items
of the popular tradition for wider consumption as a cross-over. Symphonic,
opera, chamber and piano series around the world also rarely bring any Brazilian music at all into their programmes, with the exception of a few works of
Villa-Lobos.
One might conclude, then, that either Villa-Loboss legacy was not sucient
to let a culture of serious guitar composition flourish, or that his was an exceptional case, an isolated surge of creative power in an otherwise non-existent culture for classical music. A superficial evaluation might lead one to conclude that
the focus of composition and of guitar composition moved north to other
countries, and that Villa-Loboss example is to be seen at its best in the works of
composers like the Venezuelan Lauro or the Cuban Brouwer.
None of this is quite the case. International criticism and musicology has
granted little attention to the production of Brazilian classical music after VillaLobos. There are many reasons for that, some of them of an artistic, some of a
sociological, historical and geo-political nature.
In fact, the three most important Brazilian composers of the generation following Villa-Lobos Francisco Mignone (18971986), Oscar Lorenzo Fernandez
(18971948) and Camargo Guarnieri (19071993), all of them established composers with a large catalogue of symphonic and chamber music have left guitar works of great quality. In the case of Mignone, this production rivals VillaLoboss own in number of works and standard of craftsmanship. If one prefers
to accept the often-repeated motto about the guitar having a precarious repertoire, an explanation for the disappointing international career of Mignone and
Guarnieri as guitar composers is even more elusive. The purpose of this article
is to bring attention to the guitar output of the second generation of Brazilian
nationalist composers and to investigate the reasons for their restricted dissemination among guitar students and professionals. It will also include a shortlist
of the major Brazilian compositions of the last fifty years or so which I consider
worthy of wider dissemination.
In such a relatively young country as Brazil, questions of national identity
have always been at the core of artistic creation. Thus, an overview of the history
of nationalism in Brazilian music is our point of departure.
10
fabio zanon
br azilian nationalism
Chopin and Liszt, eastern European composers, were probably the first to bring
to their work a consistent exploration of specifically national features in early
Romanticism, but, after the revolution year of 1848, rapid political changes and
the ensuing need to define national values put intense pressure on composers
of the second Romantic generation. Classical music, which is in essence an international style, can trace its origins back to the ecclesiastical and courtly music
of a handful of Central European countries. Slavonic, Scandinavian and Iberian
composers, following the example of their literary forerunners, brought to the
centre of their creative methods the search for a vernacular that would ideally
express both the consecrated classical forms and the specificity of their respective national characters.
It follows naturally that the Americas and other ex-colonies which were large
and rich enough to have a classical music culture would tread, after a considerable gap, the same path. But that is not necessarily the case, because the mechanism of the creative mind in a colonised environment is not the same. Whereas
countries such as Russia, Poland or Bohemia have had a continuous tradition of
folk and religious music for centuries a tradition which is concomitant with
the formation of the international style in classical music the process of colonisation has left the scar of a split identity. The artist of a colonised mentality is
forever trying to come to terms with the fact that most tools of the trade are imported, and that the sense of collective identity is not so clear cut: the societies
that once populated that particular environment either have been displaced or
have disappeared. These scars are still present today, not only in artistic realms
but also in the very constitution of society: the questionable attitude towards
technological and global issues and the several levels of ethnic and social conflict all bear witness to this fact. It is also important to remark that there is a
strong discrepancy between the ways this process of colonisation took in North
and South America.
The commonly encountered definition of Brazilian society as a confluence of
European, black African and native Indian cultures seems to imply that these
three branches had all the same relative cultural weight; in fact, native Indian
elements played a very modest role in the forging of a characteristically Brazilian artistic idiom. From the very beginning of the sixteenth century, Jesuit missionaries explored their musical inclinations as a strong tool for conversion. If
at the beginning some of the elements of plainchant may have been ignored and
Christian texts adapted to Indian melodies, by the end of that century Indian
culture had already capsized under the powerful apparatus of catechism, a process often called deculturation: Indian children were already performing Christian plays, playing the flute, violin and even harpsichord, and being graduated as
Masters of Arts in the first capital, Salvador in Bahia, where they were entitled
to play several instruments and organise choral singing. Cultural (and physical)
survival was a hard task for those Indian groups who refused to submit to the
Portuguese; they tended to run away, deeper and deeper into the hinterland, and
lose much of their vitality as the groups became smaller and less powerful. Two
and a half centuries later, the Rousseau-tinged myth of the savage as an icon of
purity and virtue impregnated the imagination of Romantic writers, and the
11
12
first steps in the armation of a Brazilian national cultural identity adopted the
good savage as the symbolic Brazilian individual, notwithstanding the smallness of the Indians actual share in their own cultural profile. Although there is
no music surviving from the first decades of colonisation, one can safely assume
that it was not of the same outstanding level as that being performed in Mexico
or Lima: conversion of such sophisticated civilisations as the Aztecs and Incas
required superior eorts of artistic persuasion.
Brazilian music in the Colonial period (which ended with the flight of the
Royal family from Portugal to Rio de Janeiro in 1808) was essentially Portuguese, in spite of the fact that it was composed and performed almost exclusively
by black and mulato (mixed white and black race) people. To this day, this interaction is one of the decisive factors in the establishment of a specifically
Brazilian idiom. Poet, writer and musicologist Mrio de Andrade said that the
Portuguese crystallised our harmonic tonality, gave us the strophic squareness
probably the syncopation as well, which we have taken charge of developing, in
contact with the rhythmic fidgetry of the African.
It must be added that this symbiosis between elements of African music and
the overwhelming power of European culture was very slow and almost imperceptible at the beginning. It was taken for granted that the status quo could only
be maintained if the culture of enslaved black people was treated with contempt. The progressive social ascent of mulatos did nothing to benefit the acceptance of African cultural elements. Quite the contrary: in their anxiety to belong to the mainstream of society, free people of mixed race tried to negate any
feature that could betray their origins. This behaviour is quite understandable
and still present not only in Brazil but also in the Andinian countries, where
mestizos from the town tend to reject the rural traditions.
There are records of Portuguese sacred music and Italian opera being performed in the major towns of Rio de Janeiro, So Paulo and Paran in the south
and Pernambuco, Bahia, Maranho and Par in the north of the country already
in the sixteenth century. What is so far the first important manuscript by a Brazilian composer is a Recitativo e aria by Caetano Mello Jesus, dated 1759, from
Salvador, but the first consistent movement of Brazilian musicians and composers happened in the state of Minas Gerais in the last decades of the eighteenth
century. Minas Gerais had quickly become one of the wealthiest and most enlightened parts of the country, thanks to its seemingly never-ending sources of
gold and precious stones. Splendid Baroque churches were erected in its major
towns, and at one time over a thousand musicians were working in a handful
of neighbouring towns. At first these composers were imported from Bahia or
Pernambuco, but local talent quickly flourished and the first Brazilian composers who can boast a corpus of works are Emerico Lobo de Mesquita (1746
1805), Francisco Gomes da Rocha (?1808) and Manuel Dias de Oliveira (1745
1813), among others whose surviving work is not so extended. All these composers, like most players and choir and orchestra directors of the period, were
probably of black or mulato origin. Practically the totality of this music is composed for the church, and characteristically Brazilian traces are non-existent.
The individual features that can be perceived are of an utterly practical nature
harmonic complexity is usually proportional to the category of musicians available at a certain church; the choices of instruments for certain scores might
seem unusual, but probably owed as much to the current availability of instruments and capable players. So strongly attached was this music to the Baroque
fabio zanon
13
14
The abolition of slavery finally came in 1888 and the fall of the monarchic system could only follow suit in 1889, when the Republic was proclaimed and
Pedro II and his family were sent to exile in France. These are two very important events which exposed an undercurrent that had been present already in the
1870s. The presence of European musicians in Rio de Janeiro had encouraged
the wealthy society to adopt European dances waltzes, schottisches, polkas, etc
as their favourite light entertainment. Professional musicians, the majority of
whom, as has already been said, were of black origin, had the benefit of an insiders knowledge of the formal requirements of European dance music. With
the sudden freedom of expression allowed by the Abolition of 1888, these musicians were legally allowed to gather for their own pleasure and to adopt musical
elements of African origin for their interpretation a distinctive way of avoiding the strong part of the beat, an incorporation of choreographic elements, the
use of melodic repetition to achieve a certain periodic recurrence of rhythmic
features in the melody. This is the first real division between the activity of a
classical composer and the birth of a popular musical expression. It marked
the gradual replacement of the old-fashioned vocal style of the modinha with
the more expansive seresta, and the birth of the choro as the dominant urban instrumental dance form.
This new kind of expression was solemnly ignored by a few composers of an
exclusively European education some of them quite extraordinary composers
like Henrique Oswald (18521931) or Leopoldo Miguz (18501902) but started
to attract the attention of a few others, composers of a very high calibre such
as Alexandre Levy (18641892) and Alberto Nepomuceno (18641920). Perhaps
Nepomuceno will be best remembered for his splendid, if rather Germanic,
Symphony, but following the example of other minor composers he wrote in
1891 his Srie brasileira, a work that suers from the composers lack of experience but is the first symphonic piece whose main thematic material is derived
from Brazilian folklore. He was also a leader in the maintenance of musical education of high quality and a champion of the use of Portuguese as the language
for national song. Nepomuceno is a transitional composer in many ways: between the internationalism of his education and the strong impulse towards
a music of national character (probably prompted by his close relationship with
Edvard Grieg); between the conventionally scholastic and the innovative and
personal; between the symphonism of the nineteenth century and the new necessities of the twentieth; between the old monarchic order and the Republic.
fabio zanon
Villa-Lobos
15
whole world after the Second War (most notably in the usa), did the most for
the acknowledgement of the cultural role of aboriginal and black African elements. For the obtuse, once-aristocratic, coee and industrial elites of Rio de
Janeiro and So Paulo, the niche that this music gained in Paris was testimony
to its artistic value; the enormous curiosity for the way the lower classes lived
and entertained themselves overtook any aristocratic prurience.
Another important contribution made by Villa-Loboss astonishing intuition and creative power (and also by Mrio de Andrades thoroughness as a
musicologist) was a second discovery of Brazil, one that extended beyond the
urban realms of the major southern towns like Rio de Janeiro and So Paulo.
Precarious transport and means of communication meant that the vast extensions of land of the northern coast, Amazon and far south were a closed book.
Folklore in these regions was and is extraordinarily complex and unexpected,
but the artistic circles in the capital could only suspect that. Villa-Lobos and
Andrade mapped out, the former with his vast production, the latter in his musicological and literary writings, the vehement presence of Indian, Hispanic and
African elements in these local cultures, many of which could be traced back almost intact to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. This proved to be a tremendous encouragement for the creation of not only a national literary culture,
but a regional one as well.
Curiously the generation of composers who most benefited from this wider
common ground came from immigrant families who had only recently arrived
in Brazil: Mignone, Guarnieri, Gnatalli and Santoro came from an Italian background, and Fernandez from a Spanish one.
Reception
Mrio de Andrade,
Ensaio sobre a msica brasileira
(So Paulo: Livraria Martins, 1928), p 19.
Critical and academic reception has undergone dramatic swings in the last
eighty years or so. A first reactionary generation of critics would simply dismiss
Villa-Lobos as savage and incompetent: Oscar Guanabarino, the implacable
critic in Rio de Janeiro, would go so far as to classify all folkloric culture as a corruption and simplification of classical models and unworthy of serious attention. Andrade, an active critic himself, and scores of other writers schooled
under his wing, would develop a school of criticism informed by a Marxist view
which would exclude any aesthetic possibilities outside the sphere of nationalism. Andrades own assessment synthesises this line of aesthetic thought:
If a Brazilian artist feels within himself the strength of a genius
like Beethoven or Dante, it is obvious he must write national music.
Because as a genius he will certainly know how to find the essential
elements of nationality. He will have, therefore, an enormous social
valueAnd if the artist belongs to the ninety-nine per cent recognised not to be a genius, then this is an even stronger reason to make
national art. Because attaching himself to the Italian or French
school he will be only another one in the oven, where in the beginners school he will be meritorious and necessaryThe one who
makes international or foreign art, if he is not a genius, is useless, nil.
This premise leads to the logical conclusion that composers like Nunes Garcia
or Carlos Gomes had prompted little repercussion at international level for the
simple reason that they had not imprinted national values in their music and
16
fabio zanon
This statement, obviously aimed at the various nationalisms still in vogue in the
sixties, takes into account neither the abject lack of institutional interest and
technological and factual support, nor the precarious state of general and musical education in the continent as a whole, which latter also prevents the appearance of a consistent production of an avant-garde which is synchronically
attached to European and North American production.
The ensuing development of composition and of musical institutions in
Brazil has followed, in very general lines, that of other countries, especially the
United States. Nationalists and internationalists feuded for government subsidy
along with command of concert societies and newly created music departments
at major universities. General lack of public and critical interest in the more forbidding experiments, and failure to achieve any degree of international recognition, impelled younger composers towards a purely academic path, where they
could work under the protective shield of research grants and a monthly wage,
and remain oblivious to the reality of a professional composer who has to get
his works published and performed.
Political contingencies have also played an important part in the present configuration of musical life in Brazil and its perception abroad. The military coup
of 1964, followed by a considerable repression of public expression from 1968 to
1980, required a definite political position from all sectors of society, and classical composers were no exception. Composers of a governmentalist inclination
failed to persuade the military commanders of the need for a sustained development of classical music and were later punished by the opinion of the cultural
17
establishment for their opportunistic attachment, while composers in the opposition tended to retreat to the relative security of university posts which are, in
eect, public servant jobs. Their participation in this turbulent period of struggle for the right of expression and a breach in the prevailing political attitude
was insignificant.
This dicult phase coincided with the gradual but ultimately all-powerful
ascension of pop music as the sole subject of interest for the mass media. From
a purely technical and aesthetic point of view, Brazilian popular music is of
a generally higher musical and literary interest than, say, rock-and-roll. Bossanova represented the current aspirations to a modern society, and the huge festivals in the sixties and seventies brought to the fore a generation of educated
upper-middle-class singer-songwriters, who could envelop their protest songs
in a subtle involocrum of contemporary poetry and eclectic nationalist music.
This led many of them to temporary exile, and their status as manipulators of
public opinion grew exponentially after their irrefutable role in the gradual political opening in the late seventies and early eighties. A whole generation of new
journalists, but also of academic researchers, displaced their focus of interest
from a classical music that was being composed just for itself to a cultural experience of major sociological relevance. mpb (Msica popular brasileira) became
an emblem of a puissant cultural and social movement with the capacity to engage vast numbers of people in social causes a role that had been fulfilled by
Villa-Lobos and his vast patriotic concerts fifty years earlier. In a short period
of twenty years, classical composers were excluded from the major cultural decisions and mpb, frequently marketed as Brazilian jazz, became the favoured
cultural export. It is no accident that singer-songwriter Gilberto Gil was chosen
for the Ministry of Culture at the beginning of 2003 even long established literary intellectuals were neglected in the choice of this important position.
Political events since 1964 have been of incalculable importance for the current development of Brazilian musical aairs and for its lack of inception in musical circles abroad. Composers of earlier nationalist schools, such as Mignone,
Guarnieri and Villa-Lobos himself, have been forgotten by major institutions
like symphony orchestras and opera houses for their excess of local colour and
assumed lack of relevance within an international cultural network. Progressive
composers who came to the fore from the 1960s onwards lack the logistic support to develop a language and to produce a corpus of works that might win
them entry into the international circuit of contemporary music. And possibly
above all, interest in the major composers of Latin America is generally perceived to be so tightly bound to sociological and political circumstances that the
European audiences would probably not be as sympathetic to a conflict of cultural identity that does not belong to them.
Future Prospects
18
Aesthetic judgement of music of a national character has its own problems. The
first wave of romantic nationalism was easily digested by the philharmonic public because the classical essence of its construction was never doubted: Dvork,
Grieg, Rimsky-Korsakov, Sibelius and many others were still composing coherent symphonic and operatic designs and national features acted almost exclusively as local colour. Whenever folkloric elements became determinant in the
elaboration of a musical language, as in Mussorgsky and Jancek, the acceptance
was much slower it requires a leap of faith on the listeners part, and a keenness to educate oneself to a culture that is not as central to the understanding
fabio zanon
of a continuous line of classical development as, say, Bruckner and Mahler are.
Colonised cultures, moreover, as has already been explained, keep the search for
a sharper musical fingerprint at the core of their psychological configuration, a
type of personal conflict that is not shared by most developed nations.
Nevertheless, a recent upsurge of international interest in the music of composers such as Villa-Lobos and Ginastera might mean that this state of aairs is
walking towards a turning point. International recording companies have kept
in their catalogues complete recordings of all the major cycles by Villa-Lobos,
and critical reception has been surprisingly good. Recent developments in the
musical life in Brazil stabilisation of several concert series in all major capitals,
renovation and general improvement of technical standards of the major symphonic orchestras, solidification of the international careers of performers on
various instruments, renewed interest in the research of three hundred years of
music history as a consequence of a general rise in academic standards at the
universities these have all made a contribution in prompting the public to take
pains to investigate the unknown heritage of national classical music.
An unbiased assessment of this heritage is bound, in my opinion, to lead to
a progressive increase in international standing for the operas of Carlos Gomes
and for the composers belonging to the second nationalist generation. Composers of such superlative interest as Guarnieri, Mignone and Fernandez cannot
remain forgotten when the ground is so favourable for a gradual enlargement
of the classical music canon in cultural centres which are now supposed to encourage multiculturalism.
19
stage, he increased contact with Mrio de Andrade, and that led to a succession
of major orchestral works of Afro-Brazilian inspiration: Maracatu de chico rei,
Batucaj, Babalox, Quadros amaznicos, Iara and Festa das igrejas (of which
only the first and last have so far been recorded) consolidated his reputation and
won him regular invitations to conduct his works in Europe and North America. Arturo Toscanini conducted Festa das igrejas quite frequently and recorded
it with his nbc orchestra.
In the late forties Mignone underwent a long period of infirmity and of aesthetic crisis, vividly discussed in the book A parte do anjo. Very few composers
have managed to face criticism so lucidly and justify their aesthetic choices with
such honesty: Mignone admitted to a certain artificiality in his first nationalist
phase and the irresistible pull of Italian traces in his cultural upbringing, which
led him to study, practise and later discard atonality and twelve-tone technique.
He came out of this crisis with renewed vigour, and to his late period belong a
series of large works for piano, several concertos, three string quartets and most
of his guitar works, not to mention another three operas.
He had already made some attempts at writing for the guitar in the forties
and fifties some of them belonging to the realm of popular music and written
under a pseudonym but Mignones meeting with the young guitarist Carlos
Barbosa Lima in 1970 (when the composer was already seventy-three) seems to
have been the catalysing factor for his interest in the instrument. In that year he
composed two large series of solo works, the Twelve Waltzes in all minor keys,
dedicated to Isaas Savio, and the Twelve Studies, dedicated to Barbosa Lima. Six
years later he would write his Guitar Concerto, which was premiered in the usa
but has remained unpublished and little performed. In this essay we shall concentrate on the two major sets of solo works.
Any approach to Mignone has to come to terms with the fact that he is a tonal
composer living in a decidedly non-tonal period of the twentieth century. In a
letter written in 1980, he says that
at my respectable age I can assert that I am the master, by right and
fact, of all the processes of composition and decomposition in use
today and tomorrowI feel capable of writing without any trouble
a piece in C major, as well as of elaborating concepts of traditional,
impressionistic, expressionistic, dodecaphonic, serial, chromatic,
atonal, bitonal, polytonal music, and who knows? if it crosses my
mind, avant-garde with concrete and electronic touches. Anything
can be done in art, as long as the work can bring a message of beauty
and leave in the listener a desire to hear the work again.
Of course the tone of this letter is jocose, but it testifies to the fact that he had
come to terms with his strengths and limitations. Mignones work is strong in
craftsmanship, harmonic invention and instrumental colour; it is not music of
concept, it is music made by a professional craftsman. Many times I have compared him to Rimsky-Korsakov, a comparison which many people might find
derogatory in fact, it is an acknowledgement that a composer who nurtures
preoccupations of national identity, local colour and instrumental realisation is
also entitled to create work of real permanence, even though other aspects of
musical language might at first seem more crucial. In other words, if the work is
not profound or innovative that doesnt necessarily mean it is empty. In the case
20
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12 Waltzes
Francisco Mignone, 12 valsas [1970]
(Irmos Vitale, 1970).
21
22
The Twelve Studies are also a late product of Mignones evident inclination for
a national language based on classic forms. Written in the space of a couple of
months, in the same year as the Valsas, they immediately entered the repertoire
of their dedicatee Carlos Barbosa Lima, who was by then already living in the
United States. They were published in 1973 (by the Columbia Music Company,
usa) and recorded on lp by the same guitarist a couple of years later. A complete public performance had to wait until 2003 (at the Purcell Room, London;
myself as the guitarist). Some of these studies have graced guitar programmes
over the years (nos 2, 3, 5, 6 and 8 are the most popular), but they cannot remotely
be compared with Villa-Loboss set in terms of international penetration.
Barbosa Lima has told how he mentioned to Mignone that, apart from VillaLobos, he didnt have any portentous works by Brazilian composers (there was,
in fact, Guerra-Peixes Sonata, another work in serious need of a revival, and one
certainly not well known at the time). Mignones response, in the form of another set of twelve studies, makes a clear allusion, a tip of the hat, so to speak, to
the older composer whom he admired unconditionally. In compositional terms,
though, they are utterly dierent works, and in many ways Mignones are complementary to Villa-Loboss set. Where Villa-Lobos wrote a set of concert studies following Chopins model, in which the deployment of patterns, textures and
technical figurations is paramount and, with a few exceptions, thematic development tends to be relegated to a secondary level, Mignones collection is one of
transcendental studies in a Lisztian vein, better described as character pieces in
which a dramatic discourse is informed by a more complex motivic fabric and
only occasionally coloured by specific technical problems. Their harmonic language is also markedly diatonic in contrast to that of Villa-Lobos, who uses elements of chromaticism and bitonality according to the spirit of the time, techniques which can be placed alongside similar experiments of his contemporary
Prokofiev.
If innovation was certainly not one of Mignones preoccupations in the composition of these works, precise craft was at the core of his approach. Study n 1,
cantando, is emblematic of the procedures that are used in the following pieces.
It takes Allards Estudio brillante in the guitar version by Trrega as its closest
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23
inflection, in an otherwise plain texture, serves this dance style admirably well.
Study n 3, tempo de chorinho, is technically and psychologically the simplest of
all, but the inherently mischievous, playful character of the choro genre is conveyed through continuous and minute changes of tempo, inflection, articulation and expression that can be quite hard to control in performance. Studies
6 and 9 employ typical rhythmic figurations of the xaxado and embolada, two
dance forms of African origin, most popular in the northeast of Brazil. In this
type of music, the choreographic element is a determining factor, dicult to understand from the classical standpoint: our notation, strongly based on the alternation of strong and weak beats, tends to consider rests as absences of movement; in African music, an absence of sound very often signifies the presence of
a preparatory movement (for instance the raising of the arm of a drum player).
This tends to displace the centre of interest to the upbeats. Mignone manages to
convey such a feeling of displaced accent by highlighting staccato chords or by
accenting single bass notes within a basically continuous sequence of crisp and
convoluted semiquavers. In this way the natural swing comes out in performance quite eortlessly, creating a careless and engaging atmosphere. Study n 8,
allegro, is more of a farce, where the binary, rapid march rhythm of the northeastern frevo is crossed with a fast gigue in 12/8 to create a mutating metre and
an atmosphere at times childish and fidgety or aggressive and threatening.
Studies 4 and 12 belong to the traditional toccata-like style and derive most
of their interest from the technical juggling required, and Studies 10, lento e con
muito sentimento, with its desolate chromaticism and stark style of wide, sobbing leaps and 11, Spleen andante, with its dark, Amazonian severity of expression, form a dramatic interlude near the end of the set.
24
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Lima, Maria Lvia So Marcos and the Abreu brothers), and his lack of direct
contact with the guitar prevented him from writing much for the instrument.
He has left only two pieces of a couple of pages each.
Prelude was published in 1942 by Irmos Vitale in Brazil (and later republished
by Peer in the United States) with a dedication to the Uruguayan guitarist Julio
Oyanguren. It is a modest piece, a simple and wistful melody whose notes alternate with a counterpoint on the bass. Its metrical ambiguity and pensive atmosphere are of some interest, and it certainly shows it has been composed by a professional hand, but it is hardly a candidate for a secure place in the repertoire.
Velha modinha (Old Song, published by Peer) on the other hand, in spite of
being also a piece of little ambition, is such a charming melody of nostalgic and
sweet eect that one would not be without it. It was extracted from a piano suite
and the arrangement was dedicated to Andrs Segovia, but the guitar version has
proved to be more popular than the original, and also more eective. Credit has
to be given to Fernandez for marrying so successfully a strict counterpoint to an
outpouring of lyrical expression, and guitarists have frequently used this piece
as a quiet and intimate encore.
25
Vasco Mariz,
Histria da msica no Brasil, p 249.
26
works can truly be called paulistas. Not for him the easy success of some of VillaLoboss more extroverted pieces, Mignones Congada or Fernandezs Batuque,
and that has limited the appeal of his work for foreign players and orchestras.
There is a dierence in the nationalistic schooling of Guarnieri in relation to
that of Mignone. Whereas Mignone was already a fully formed composer when
Mrio de Andrade converted him into fully embracing nationalism, Guarnieri
had this inclination from the very beginning and, as a younger man, absorbed
from Andrade the strong intellectual background that his childhood in the
countryside lacked. He would often say that he had been educated at the Lopez
Chaves University, a reference to the weekly intellectual gatherings held at Andrades residence. When he was already thirty-five he was awarded a scholarship
to study in Paris with Charles Koechlin, Nadia Boulanger and Charles Munch,
studies which refined his technique and improved his command of orchestral
writing. Returning to Brazil in 1939, he embarked on a career as a teacher and
conductor, writing music every day as a matter of course, regardless of performance opportunities. His catalogue is immense, and includes large series of piano
and violin concertos, string quartets, symphonies and other orchestral works,
operas and a voluminous vocal and pianistic production. He enjoyed the profound admiration of his colleagues: Mignone said in 1972 that from the point
of view of balance and craftsmanship, Guarnieri is the greatest musician of the
Americas today. Andrade held him in the greatest esteem, in spite of their enormous political divergences: there is at least one Brazilian composer who knows
how to develop. Musicologist Luiz Heitor Corra de Azevedo praised his use of
an extreme chromaticism where each sound is freely employed, and said that
he wrote the most tender pages of Brazilian music, and those most profoundly
marked by loves disease. Recent recordings of his piano works by Caio Pagano
and of his Symphonies 2 and 3 by John Neschling and the So Paulo Symphony
Orchestra can only hint at the exceptional qualities of his work, and it is hoped
they will herald a well-deserved revival at international level.
Unfortunately he had little inclination towards the guitar. When asked for
more pieces for the guitar, he replied: I dont dislike its sound, but it is a very
awkward instrument to handle; it always feels like I am composing for piano left
hand alone. Perhaps this is not the best point of departure, however: all six short
pieces he composed for the guitar suggest a piano left-hand approach in their
thick textures and laboured eect.
His first work is called Ponteio (1944, published by Ricordi Brasileira in 1978),
dedicated to Abel Carlevaro. Ponteio, strictly speaking, is a performance feature
of street-market minstrels in the Brazilian countryside: when the voice is halted
between improvised strophes, there is usually a purely instrumental interlude
ponteio means plucking to give the singer some time in order to collect his
thoughts before singing the next verses. The term was borrowed by Guarnieri to
designate his own Preludes; he composed a series of fifty of them for the piano,
possibly his magnum opus for the instrument, standing right at the centre of
Brazilian repertoire. His single Ponteio for guitar is an abstract piece, in which
motivic relations of ascending fourths are treated in the faux-counterpoint style
of Bachs solo cello pieces. The harmonic plan relies heavily on relations of thirds
and chromatic alterations, and the work is divided into two halves, coming to a
climax in a tremolo passage. Carlevaro recorded this piece.
fabio zanon
27
s e l e c te d b r a z i l i a n mu s i c
Works by Mignone,
Guarnieri & Fernandez,
Composers of Nationalist
or Post-Nationalist Inclination
*
The following is a very personal selection of Brazilian classical music composed
after 1950. In a country where the practice of popular music sometimes is not
so clearly separated from the classical sphere, especially when the guitar is the
subject, it might seem dicult to draw a line, but excellent guitarist-composers
such as Baden Powell, Paulo Bellinati or Marco Pereira, whose career is based on
the show-business circuit rather than the classical concert or academic circles,
are not included. Most of the composers listed were or are active in the fields of
chamber, symphonic or experimental music, and it must be said that the list of
younger composers is the most incomplete of all.
Srgio Assad (b. 1952)
Aquarelle (Henri Lemoine)
Crculo mgico for flute & guitar (Henri Lemoine)
Jobiniana n 1 for 2 guitars (Henri Lemoine)
Pinote for 2 guitars (Henri Lemoine)
Recife dos Corais for 2 guitars (Henri Lemoine)
Sonata (Gendai Guitar)
Vitria Rgia for 2 guitars (Henri Lemoine)
Jos Vieira Brando (19112002)
Mosaico (Editora Zahar)
Walter Burle-Marx (19021991)
Bach-Rex (n.p.)
Saudade do nosso amigo (Homenagem a Villa-Lobos) (n.p.)
Radams Gnatalli (19061988)
10 Studies (Chanterelle)
Brasiliana n 13 (Max Eschig)
Dana brasileira (Chanterelle)
Alma brasileira (Mel Bay)
3 Concert Studies (Chanterelle)
Suite (n.p.)
Csar Guerra-Peixe (19141993)
Sonata (Irmos Vitale)
5 Preludes (Irmos Vitale)
28
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29
*
Jorge Antunes (b. 1942)
Sighs (Salabert)
Rodolfo Coelho de Souza (b. 1952)
Study n 1 for guitar & narrator (Novas Metas)
Willy Correia de Oliveira (b. 1938)
Que trata de Espaa (n.p.)
Mikhail Malt (b. 1957)
[Lambda] 3.99 for guitar & computer-generated sounds (n.p.)
30
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31
biblio g r aphy
Almeida, Renato. Histria da msica brasileira, Rio de Janeiro, F. Briguiet, 2nd
edn, 1942
Andrade, Mrio de. Msica, doce msica, So Paulo, Livraria Martins, 1963
. Ensaio sobre a msica brasileira, So Paulo, Livraria Martins, 1928
Azevedo, Luiz Heitor Corra de. 150 anos de msica no Brasil, Rio de Janeiro,
Jos Olympio, 1956
Bhague, Grard. Music in Latin America: an introduction, Englewoods Clis
(nj), Prentice Hall, 1979
Corra, Srgio Nepomuceno Alvim. Catlogo geral de Lorenzo Fernandez, Rio
de Janeiro, Rio-Arte, 1992
Duprat, Rgis. A msica no Brasil colonial, So Paulo, edusp, 1999
Enciclopdia da msica brasileira, So Paulo, Art Editora, 2nd edn, 1998
Franca, Eurico Nogueira. Lorenzo Fernandez, compositor brasileiro, Rio de
Janeiro, 1950
Kiefer, Bruno. Histria da msica no Brasil, vol. 1, Porto Alegre, Editora
Movimento/sec-rs/mec, 1976
. Villa-Lobos e o modernismo na msica brasileira, So Paulo, Editora
Movimento, 1981
. Francisco Mignone, vida e obra, Porto Alegre, Editora Movimento, 1983
Mariz, Vasco. Histria da msica no Brasil, Rio de Janeiro, Nova Fronteira, 5th
edn, 2000
(coord.). Francisco Mignone, o homem e a obra, Rio de Janeiro, funarteeduerj, 1997
Mignone, Francisco. A parte do anjo: autocrtica de um cinqentenrio, So
Paulo, Editora Mangione, 1947
Neves, Jos Maria. Msica brasileira contempornea, So Paulo, Editora
Ricordi, 1981
Nbrega, Ademar. As bachianas brasileiras, Rio de Janeiro, Museu Villa-Lobos,
1971
Paz, Juan Carlos. Introduccin a la msica de nuestro tiempo, Buenos Aires,
Editorial Sudamericana, 1971; translated into Portuguese by Diva Ribeiro de
Toledo Piza as Introduco msica de nosso tempo, So Paulo, Livraria Duas
Cidades, 1977
Penalva, Jos. Carlos Gomes, o compositor, Campinas, Editora Papirus, 1986
Peppercorn, Lisa. Villa-Lobos: the music, London, Khan & Averill, 1990
Santos, Turbio. Heitor Villa-Lobos e o violo, Rio de Janeiro, Museu VillaLobos, 1975
Schic, Anna Stella. Villa-Lobos: souvenirs de lindien blanc, Paris, Actes du Sud,
1987
Siqueira, Jos Baptista. Ernesto Nazareth na msica brasileira, Rio de Janeiro,
Editora Aurora, 1966
Tarasti, Eero. Heitor Villa-Lobos: the life and works, London, McFarland, 1995
Toni, Flvia. Mrio de Andrade e Villa-Lobos, So Paulo, Centro Cultural So
Paulo, 1987
Verhaalen, Marion. Camargo Guarnieri: expresses de uma vida, So Paulo,
edusp, 2001
Wright, Simon. Villa-Lobos, New York, Oxford University Press, 1991
32
fabio zanon
The legacy of Ida Presti (19231967) presents a strange dichotomy. On the one hand,
Presti is regarded by many as the greatest guitarist of the twentieth century; on the
other, her approach to the guitar is often regarded by teachers as sui generis, a model
dicult and even dangerous to follow. But Prestis example continues to hold up a
mirror to the limitations of our present pedagogy and the limitations of some present expectations of the guitar. In this imaginary and largely speculative encounter,
Ida Presti explains the development of her unique approach to the guitar.
33
Alexandre, on the other hand, is very interested in this subject and is always looking for new ideas, so really it would be much better if you were to ask him
sd Lagoya certainly understands the technical aspect very well, but, in
spite of the balance you achieve in performance, arent your techniques rather
dierent in certain important aspects?
ip Yes, they are not quite the same, but the dierences are not so great. As
you know, we both play on the right side of the nail.
sd But do you both do so in the same way and for the same reasons? In both
your cases, the nail does not grip the string at the point of contact and is always
mobile, but your nail crosses the string from right to left, releasing at the centre.
Lagoya also releases the string at the centre, but because he uses his nails with a
longer right-hand side, there is less movement along the length of the string, although the nail travels approximately the same distance. What do you think?
pat
ho
Presti
Lagoya
(rh: index)
(rh: index)
irection
of of
free
stroke
direction
free
stroke
f st
ring
pa
th
of
st
rin
path of string
greater angle
release point
path of string
release point
34
sd The positioning and set of the fingers also seems to play a part. For example, it appears that, in free stroke, you move the string primarily with the
middle joint of the finger, whereas Lagoya uses both the knuckle and the middle joint. His fingers are also a little straighter than yours. In playing position,
your middle finger is at an approximate right angle to the strings, the index
leans leftwards and the ring finger leans rightwards. In Lagoyas case, it is the
index that is approximately at a right angle, while the middle and ring finger
both lean towards the right. Did you begin playing on the right side of the nail
to improve tone?
sarn dyer
ip Not exactly probably the position came first and then I tried many different ways to make a strong sonority.
sd How did your position come about? Was it as a result of playing a fullsize guitar from a very early age?
ip Yes, that is almost certainly the reason. Because of this, it was necessary
to place my arm halfway between the bridge and the waist of the guitar, and
therefore my fingers attacked the strings parallel to the bridge. I used mostly the
middle joint in pinc (free stroke) because otherwise, in this position, my childs
hand would not have been able to span the strings
sd so, by not flexing the fingers at the knuckle joints, in fact slightly extending them, you were able to increase the span between the thumb and fingers. How is the guitar positioned to use the right hand in your way?
ip I try to position the guitar well to my right, separating the right leg by
turning my right foot a little to the right. I like to feel that I am in the centre of
the activity of my arms and hands...
sd and that position also allows you to place the right arm as you did as
a child. This also causes the right hand to be presented perpendicular to the
strings without any rightwards (ulnar) deviation of the wrist, but you also sometimes slightly deviate the hand in two dierent ways: first, by a small articulation of the wrist as you play the string, and second, by actually maintaining the
hand in a more ulnar-deviated position. Why is this necessary?
ip There is more than one reason, but mainly it is to reduce the resistance
of the nails and to allow the arm and wrist to respond to the movements of the
fingers. I began to do this as a child, before I used my nails, to reduce the resistance of the fingertip and to add strength. My nails were never strong and their
exposed parts begin quite low on the finger. If they broke, they took a long time
to grow back. Consequently I had to find a way of using them when they were
short. I would use the wrist with the action of the finger to turn the finger on the
string in a little clockwise movement. Later, I found that some of this deliberate
movement could also happen by itself, in sympathy with the movements of the
fingers and thumb. But in but (rest stroke) I maintain the hand in a more
turned position. This happens naturally when I use my fingers vigorously, and
also reduces the resistance of the nail, adding to the sonority. I like to feel that I
am using the nail like a violinists bow.
sd It appears fundamental to your technique that the side of the nail
doesnt grip the string but is always in movement. Any gripping by the side of
the nail would be likely to damage it. Could you be more specific about these
sympathetic movements? The freedom of your right hand is a striking aspect of
your technique.
ip Well, for example, particularly when the thumb plays, the forearm makes
a small anti-clockwise rotation. Sometimes I add strength to this rotation to
play louder. If the movements of the fingers are small, this rotation is also small
and sometimes quite dicult to see. If I play an arpeggio in this direction [Presti
plays some very fast p a m i arpeggios], there is also a slight sideways movement
in the hand at the wrist. In this direction [now p i m a], the rotation of the forearm is more marked. Every sequence of fingers has a dierent result in the arm
and wrist.
a lesson with ida
35
ip The fingertip touches the string but only incidentally: the work of moving the string is done with the nail. As a child, my fingers used to perspire so
much that playing with the fingertips was dicult. Later, I used a little fine
grease on my fingertips. Also, I found that if the fingertip is used with the nail,
there are two resistances to be overcome, making it more dicult to control the
loudness and softness. I often had problems with my nails and had to adapt my
playing accordingly.
sd So your technique changed when you began using artificial nails?
ip I was able to be consistent in the length and use of my nails so that they
could find the strings more easily. In general, artificial nails simply made life
simpler. I bless the man who invented this product!
sd With your primary use of the middle joints in free stroke, you are able to
play at astonishing speed. Your cross-string trills, played, I believe, i a i m, are
sometimes ten to a metronome beat of eighty!
ip Im thankful that I never counted!
sd How crucial is the positioning of the hand to achieve such rapidity? For
example, if I adjust your hand by rotating your forearm a little one way or the
other, are you still able to achieve this speed?
ip [trying] Well, that surprises me it is much more dicult, in fact impossible for me. My fingers seem blocked and I am unable to use the same energy.
sd Perhaps we should look at your position more carefully. If you extend
your fingers in playing position and lower your hand directly down onto the
strings without turning your forearm, does the whole palm make contact with
the strings?
ip [pressing her palm to the strings and then looking at the marks on her
palm] No, I think the strings only touch the palm below the index and almost to
the palm below the middle finger. The right side of the palm is raised a little
above the strings.
sd So it would appear that the exact amount of rotation of the forearm is
significant: it is neither pronated nor supinated but as it would be if the arm
hung loosely to the side.
ip I think this position and use of my forearm and hand is quite similar to
that of a pianist. As you know, the piano was the instrument I played first.
sd Do you use any ballistic or throwing force in the action of your fingers? That is to say, do you fully expend the energy of a stroke before making another stroke?
36
sarn dyer
(a m i a | m i a m | i a m i | a m i a, etc.
(4 / mm = c. 168)
sd I have heard that you recommend to your students that they hold matchsticks between their fingers to achieve the right action, but surely if the fingers
are held together in this way, it will create tension in the hand?
ip No, no, the fingers must never be held together! This purpose of this little exercise is to remind the student not to separate the fingers.
sd Lagoya allows the fingertip to relax before flexing it to play the string. Do
you do the same?
ip Im not aware of doing this at all.
sd There are many aspects to your use of the right hand that might not find
favour with the teachers of today: the rightwards deviation of the wrist in rest
stroke, for example, and the degree of its arch or flexion. Surely this would tend
to restrict the movement of the fingers in any hand less flexible than yours?
ip [laughing] You make me sound so naughty! A pianist could not play
without turning or, as you say, deviating the hand sometimes, as in the case of
large intervals, to an extreme degree. As you will have noticed, my right hand is
quite mobile and it doesnt stay in any position for very long. The wrist is always
relaxed unless I am using it with the action of the fingers as I have described. As
for restriction of movement, I find none.
[Presti flexes, extends and deviates her wrist while moving her fingers & thumb]
sd [imitating her movements] I see. Because the action of the fingers is primarily from the middle joint and there is so little flexing at the knuckle or proximal joint, there is no restriction. But surely the movement from the middle joints
is harder to control than a movement from the knuckle joints? [I demonstrate]
ip [now imitating my movements] Well of course, but only if you make such
big movements! Try again with small movements of the middle joints and then
try to make the same small movements moving mostly from the knuckle joints.
sd I see what you mean: small movements are very dicult when the finger
moves primarily from the knuckle joint. Lagoya changes the fingernails angle of
attack to make a clearer sound on the wound strings. Do you achieve your remarkable clarity and sonority on those strings in the same way?
ip No, I dont find this necessary; my way of sounding the string is usually
the same for both bass and treble strings. I also try to give as much character or
resonance to the bass strings as possible to compensate for the closeness of the
bass and upper parts when Alexandre is playing an accompaniment to my
a lesson with ida
37
melody on the bass strings, I might play, for example, with a very deep rest
stroke, or just with the flesh, and so on.
Examples are to be found in the duos
playing of Domenico Scarlattis Sonata
in D minor (orig. B minor) k 173.
[she plays the Allemande from Bachs Suite bwv 996 using ingenious campanella fingerings in the scalic passages]
sd I know that you and Alexandre have always put great emphasis on relaxation and, in particular, on the importance of playing with a relaxed right wrist.
ip That is true. My own intention is that all movement begins, as much as
possible, from a state of rest, or my hands will not respond well to me. I am also
very conscious of the weight of the hand and of any eort of the wrist to hold it
in position. Tension in the wrist obstructs the fingers when they are more energetic, but that is something you should ask Alexan
sd But does a little tension in the wrist matter so greatly?
ip For me, yes. I am uncomfortable if my wrist and forearm are unable to
respond sympathetically to the movements of my fingers and thumb. And, of
course, if there is tension in the arm or wrist, it will not feel natural to let the
hand fall slightly from the wrist, or, as you say, to flex. I have always found it uncomfortable to hold my hand and arm in position by anything other than the
smallest exertion; and, of course, the more my forearm is pointing towards the
floor, the less eort is needed by the elbow to hold it in place.
sd I would guess that very small flexions of your wrist play a part in the actions of your fingers and that this element does have a ballistic quality, like tiny
flicks. We havent spoken about the left hand, but yours is extraordinarily flexible. I remember seeing you playing a chord, in some Beethoven Variations, with
E b on the sixth string (tuned in D), G on the fourth, B b on the third and D b on
the second!
ip I remember.
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[Idas left-hand fingers appear to open eortlessly on the frets as she plays the
seemingly impossible chord]
Yes, I am lucky to have been born with supple hands [she separates the tips of
her second and third fingers against the edge of a table to make a right angle], but
not, I think, so much for my right hand. Alexandre says that he would like to
have my curly thumb but, really, its not essential!
sd Ida, since 1967, guitarists have made enormous progress in their technical development. What are your thoughts about this?
ip It has been extraordinary, and now there are many players who play
beautifully with wonderful sonority; but I do not, for example, hear a control of
dynamic and articulation from legato to staccato very often: for me, these are the
lifeblood of music. If expression is not sought from the beginning of study, it
may be very hard to develop later.
sd And how much less can we excuse ourselves in the light of the example
you set for us. One last question. On some of your recordings with Lagoya, your
usual seating protocol is changed, is that not so?
ip [smiling] Are you quite sure?
sd Quite sure. For example, on your second recording of Sors Lencouragement?
ip Well, you are right, Monsieur le Dtective! In fact, our seating positions
are reversed for the whole of the recording that included Lencouragement.
When we realised this, we decided to leave it like that. It was as if to say that the
duo mattered more to us than our individual identities. Alexandre was Ida and
Ida was Alexandre. We hoped that those who listened not only with their ears,
but with their hearts also, would hear that in our playing.
additional remar ks
1 The accurate observation of another player requires the observer first to know
the limits of that observation. In a great technique, an exceptional element is
often contained in the invisible and can only be confirmed by its close duplication. However, there is often one particular factor on which an entire approach
is, consciously or unconsciously, predicated and, once this is defined, observation becomes easier. In Ida Prestis case, this factor was almost certainly that of
relaxation combined with strategies to compensate for her lesser strength as a
woman. On this subject, Alexandre Lagoya once remarked that it is precisely
this lack of strength that might lead a woman player to discover certain secrets
of playing more easily than in the case of a man. The male tendency, he felt, was
often to pit his strength against the instrument.
2 Although it is not the intention of this article either to recommend following
Prestis example particularly to the letter or to advise against it, the author
nevertheless believes that there are lessons of great value in her approach.
39
a
b
c
d
Alternative
(rh: index)
path of string
path of string
release point
4 Following his book celebrating Segovias playing style, Vladimir Bobri had
planned a similar profile of Ida Presti. She died very shortly before the date of
the photographic session for the book.
5 Under the editorship of Angelo Gilardino, Edizioni Brben will publish both
the works composed by Ida Presti for solo guitar and the transcriptions for two
guitars by Alexandre Lagoya. A solo guitar work, Segovia, will appear in the series The Andrs Segovia Archive.
6 Edizioni Brben will also publish a biography of Ida Presti, written by Anne
Marillia with the cooperation of Prestis daughter, Elizabeth. The text will be in
both French and English.
7 Paul Balmers film about Ida Presti, Ma devise (Music on Earth, London; see
www.musiconearth.co.uk) a true labour of love is currently due for release
within a year or two as a dvd. The film tells the story of Prestis life and will include all known archive film of PrestiLagoya, personal memoirs from those
who knew her and performances from Alice Artzt, Evangelos & Lisa, and Duo
ItoDorigny. The commentary will be spoken by Ms Artzt.
40
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Presti & Lagoya: 1956 solos. ge 13 (Fine Fretted String Instruments, 16455
South Bascom Avenue, 1-b Campbell, ca 95008-0631, www.finefretted.com)
Ida Presti
Fernando Sor: Andante largo op. 5/5 [1]
Emilio Pujol: Evocation cubaine (Guajira) from 3 morceaux espagnoles [2]
Alexandre Lagoya: Rverie [3]
Alexandre Lagoya: Caprice [4]
Johann Sebastian Bach: Andante from Violin Sonata n 2, bwv 1003 [5]
Ida Presti & Alexandre Lagoya (includes solos by Presti and Lagoya)
(rca Victor 74321258662; deleted)
Ida Presti
Emilio Pujol: Evocation Cubaine (Guajira) from 3 morceaux espagnoles [1]
Fernando Sor: Andante largo, op. 5/5 [3]
Johann Sebastian Bach: Andante from Violin Sonata n 2, bwv 1003 [5]
Alexandre Lagoya: Rverie & Caprice [7]
PrestiLagoya
Manuel de Falla: Spanish Dance n 1 from La vida breve [10]
Johann Sebastian Bach: Musette & Gavotte from English Suite n 3,
bwv 808 [1112]
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42
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cd 2 (446 215-2)
Recorded 6/1963
Joseph Haydn: Concerto in G, Hob. viih: 2 (Vivace assai Adagio ma non
troppo Rondo presto) [13]
Antonio Vivaldi: Concerto in C, rv 425 (Allegro Largo Allegro) [46]
Antonio Vivaldi: Concerto in G, rv 532 (Allegro Andante Allegro) [79]
Alessandro Marcello: Concerto in D minor (Allegro moderato Adagio
Allegro) [1012]
Recorded 6/1965
George Frederick Handel: Chaconne in G [13]
George Frederick Handel: Fugue in G [14]
George Frederick Handel: Allegro in D minor [15]
cd 3 (446 216-2)
Recorded 2/1966
Domenico Scarlatti: Sonata in D minor, k 173 (orig. B minor) [1]
Tomaso Albinoni/Remo Giazotto: Adagio in G minor [2]
Bernardo Pasquini: Canzone in E minor [3]
Alessandro Marcello: Andante from Concerto in D minor [4]
Recorded 6/1962
Claude Debussy: Clair de lune from Suite bergamasque [5]
Pierre Petit: Toccata [6]
Francis Poulenc: Improvisation n 12 [7]
Recorded 2 /1966
Manuel de Falla: Ritual Fire Dance from El amor brujo [8]
Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco: Prelude & Fugue in E from Les guitares bien
temperes, op. 199 [9]
Ida Presti: tude fantasque [10]
Pierre Petit: Tarantella [11]
Ferdinando Carulli: Serenade in G, op. 96/3 (LargoAllegro moderato
Andante sostenuto con variazioni Finale: PrestoLarghettoPresto) [1214]
Niccol Paganini: Sonata concertata (ms2) (Allegro spiritoso Adagio assai
ed espressivo Rondo) [1517]
Missing from the above collection (Duo extraordinaire) and included on Nonesuch h-71161 duplication (deleted):
Domenico Scarlatti: Sonata, k 87 (l 33)
43
45
use of musical examples and theoretical sections. The explanatory excursus are
limited to a few interventions in Part iii and in the key to fingering indications:
it is the author himself who explains in the Preface that the following examples
are, then, intended for those who, already possessing the first elements, wish to
perfect themselves without the assistance of a teacher.
Rather than a systematic treatment, therefore, Giuliani prefers to present in
juxtaposition, without any claims to completeness, four sections:
1 the right hand (Part i, containing the famous 120 arpeggios)
2 the left hand (Part ii, focusing in sixteen lessons on thirds, sixths, octaves and
tenths, laid out in four major keys)
3 other important aspects of technique (Part iii: articulation, ornaments,
slurs, slides)
4 an overview of everything covered in the previous parts (the twelve lessons
of Part iv)
The economy of means which allowed Giuliani to realise one of the most eectively idiomatic writings and styles in the history of the guitar seems aptly reflected in the terse and succinct manual of exercises ( prontuario di esercizi ) of
opus 1. Pauses for reflection, in which the teacher methodically retraces the steps
that led him to mastery of the instrument, are reduced to a minimum, giving
way to snapshots of some of the authors most notable attainments. In essence,
then, the Studio per la chitarra, op. 1 despite its opus number it was preceded
by dozens of other published works is not so dierent from the many other
collections of studi and lezioni in which, little by little, Giuliani presents and singles out some key stages in his discovery of the six strings.
A quite dierent discussion emerges if we look to the methods of the three
other great guitarists of the early nineteenth century: the Italian Ferdinando
Carulli and the Spaniards Dionisio Aguado and Fernando Sor.
ii ferdinand o carul li
46
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A brief look at the list of topics covered by the Mthode complte, op. 27, allows
us to readily confirm the more traditional, more systematic nature of Carullis
teaching. Divided into three parts, the Method opens with some preliminary instructions on how to hold the instrument, the positioning of the hands and tuning. One is struck by Carullis immediate stance in favour of using the left thumb
for fretting notes, a technique roundly discouraged by other pedagogues:
In some Methods, the Authors explicitly prohibit their pupils from
using the left-hand thumb to stop the sixth string, and sometimes
the fifth, on the opposite side of the neck to the fingers. The richer
music is in harmony, the more pleasing it is; and since four fingers
are not enough to realise, at the same time, a melody along with basses in various keys, one must necessarily use the thumb; thus I invite
all those who want to play with greater ease to avail themselves of it.
The first step in learning the guitar, according to Carulli, is scale practice: on the
basis of this principle, Part i of the Method is presented as a succession of scales
in first position, around which are built little exercises and easy pieces to help
the student gain confidence in the most common keys. As far as the right hand
is concerned, the beginner is recommended to observe a strict partitioning of
the strings: the thumb plucks the three bass strings (except when the accompaniment ventures into the low register, when one may resort to the index as far as
the fifth string), the index plucks the second and third strings and the middle
the first, while the ring finger comes into play only in arpeggios. Although, as we
shall see, his three great contemporaries thought it indispensable to practise alternation of the fingers from the very start, Carulli considers it the domain of
the advanced student, and so reserves it for Part ii.
A few more aspects of harmony playing round out the first part: a succinct
description of the barr ( petit barr, in cases where the index stops two or three
strings, and grand barr, when five or six strings are stopped); a paragraph on
chords and arpeggios, in which the player is enjoined to play chords together,
taking care not to break them (for chords of five notes this is made possible by a
rapid sweep of the thumb on the two lowest strings); and an interesting passage
on how to obtain fluency in performance while letting fretted bass notes ring as
long as possible:
To play a piece of music well on the guitar, one must ensure that on
encountering bass notes that are not open strings, one leaves the finger on the string until it must be lifted for another note: good care is
needed to sustain the sound of this note and to avoid sounding the
open string at the moment that the finger stops pressing down.
Part ii turns around the fundamental question of articulation. Carulli now addresses himself to the practice of staccato (Manire de dtacher avec facilit,How
to play detached notes with ease, pp 31) by which is meant no more than separate notes; that is to say, sequences of notes without left-hand slurs. To this end,
he invites the pupil to abandon the transitional phase in which a single finger
is assigned to each string, inadequate in rapid passagework or when the dynamics approach forte:
47
48
lorenzo micheli
whole tone, and one could not do otherwise, because all the notes
are subject to sharps or flats, and to move the hand up or down by
a semitone owing to the eect of sharps or flats is not to change
position, since the notes themselves are not changed.
In fact, Carulli is not alone in his dissatisfaction with the practice of indicating
positions simply by the fret number: the sophisticated system of equsonos devised by Dionisio Aguado addresses a similar issue.
A brief nod at scales in double notes, chords and natural harmonics, together with a good number of studies and musical examples, closes Part ii; as
for Part iii, it consists of twenty-four lessons for two guitars and the long
Grande tude dans tous les tons et dans toutes les positions (Grand study in all the
keys and all the positions).
Carullis work comprises all the elements to be expected of a didactic instrumental method. The manual-like layout, ecient and rational, is aimed at exact
results and immediate need. Only rarely, though, does it venture to deal with
topics of greater scope (sound, timbre, parts and variations of the instrument)
still less to debate the whys and wherefores of the authors own solutions.
Este tratado contiene dos partes principalesLa primera est destinada para la
descripcion de la Guitarra y sus particulares propiedades. Describo sucintamente
el instrumento con el nico objeto de fijar
los trminos del lenguage, para que pueda
entenderse con exactitud toda la doctrina
que sucesivamente establezco. La segunda
division es solo relativa la prctica de los
estudios contenidos en esa coleccion.
Aguado, Coleccin de estudios (Madrid,
1820), p 1 [33].
49
50
lorenzo micheli
that the hand does not move. The index and middle fingers must in
turn play the same way. It is on this condition that the fingers
plucking do so, if possible, without moving anything more than the
last joints that a secure and energetic stroke depends.
If in the initial lecciones (lessons) Aguado seems to favour, for the right hand, the
training of three fingers (p, i, m), without scorning repetitions of the same finger on consecutive notes, then it is not long before the ejercicios (exercises) and
still more the estudios (studies) start to involve the ring finger, which seems to
be developing towards a complete freedom of use, above all where it is used to
sing a melody. Some bold right-hand patterns (for example, the groups of four
repeated notes a a m a, m a m a in Estudio n 23) leave one with the feeling that
the ring finger has achieved the same mobility as the other fingers, for all that it
sets out at a definite disadvantage:
This [ring] finger is weak by nature, and for this very reason one
must pay special attention to it, though not so much that the strings
played by the other fingers cease to be clearly heard.
The right-hand thumb is just as highly developed. Specific exercises are given to
it, and it plays the leading role in virtuosic passages of great instrumental eect.
Exercise 89, for example, presents a tone colour often encountered in Aguado:
This exercise is to be performed only on the bass strings, and played with the
thumb alone. The same eect is found in variation 4 of Le menuet aandangado,
op. 15 (This variation on the wound strings).
On the subject of left-hand fingering, it is worth recalling the invention of
equsonos (equivalent sounds). Setting out from the principle that sounds of
identical pitch can be obtained on the guitar from dierent strings, Aguado suggests a type of notation in which the number indicated designates not the
string, but, indeed, the equsono. Thus,
These particular places at which the same pitch can be obtained,
I call equsonosFor example, high F has four equsonos on the
guitar: (1) on the first string on the first fret; (2) on the second string
on the 6th fret(3) on the third at the 10th fretand (4) on the
fourth at the 15th
The notation of the equsonos, or rather the discovery of the possibilities oered
by the lower strings for sounds which until then would have been played on the
highest available string, with the consequent increase in variety of timbre, represents in embryo an intuition which will find rich application in the music of
Francisco Trrega and Miguel Llobet.
Also notable is the propensity for unusual stretches of the left hand; indeed,
Aguado devotes some ninety exercises to the left hand and its associated technical diculties: from simple and double slurs (illustrated by a lavish selection of
patterns) to shifts; from scales in thirds to octaves. In particular, the discussion
of slurs (ascending and descending, of two, three or four notes) is allotted much
space in the text, above all in the section of exercises; as in Carullis method, the
treatment of ornaments is incorporated into this section. Aguados music makes
a good deal of use of the glissando, or arrastre, indicated by a horizontal line or
51
with an acciaccatura (this last type of notation for glissando survives into the era
of Trrega and Llobet).
Two brief chapters Wealth of the Guitar and Imitations bring out yet more
valuable details for the assessment of Aguados contribution. The harmonics described in Lesson 43, like those described by Carulli in his opus 27, are natural:
Unas de las gracias de la guitarra
consiste en los sonidos armnicos. Estos
se producen pisando armnicamente una
cuerda, es decir, tocndola con la yema
de un dedo (sin apretarla) encima de las
divisiones de su longitud, que algunas corresponden con las de los trastes (del 7,
por ejemplo); en este estado se pulsa,
inmediatamente despus de concluido el
acto de pulsar, se levanta el dedo de la
izquierda dejando de estar en contacto
con la cuerda, y sta queda sonando
armnicamente. Ibid. p 47 [67].
52
lorenzo micheli
53
54
I have never been able to understand how one could write a Method
with a much greater quantity of examples than textMusical examples will certainly tell me what I must do; but the text shall tell me
how I must do itI have assumed that anyone who buys a method
wishes to learn; I thought it my duty to acquaint the reader with all
my reasons for establishing these fundamental principles of mine.
Hard to miss, too, are the frequent asides, allusions and personal anecdotes,
vividly rendered with all the necessary dialogue and drama; a far cry, certainly,
from the expected objectivity real or apparent usually thought proper to this
genre of writing. The heavy-handed interjections of Sor the performer and pedagogue,victim of the reign of the free market, often give the impression of a certain rigidity, polemical and defensive of an obtrusively self-regarding attitude
marked by a tendency to present his own ideas in opposition to those of others.
None of this can fail to make the reader the modern reader, at least smile.
Yet a third trait stands out: the almost complete absence of a graded approach. There is little sense of the guided course that we normally expect from
a musical method. To borrow a term from literary studies, Sor begins his description of the learning process in medias res to such an extent that, where a
traditional method might spell out the simple but indispensable mechanical
principles, to be assimilated through constant repetition until they become automatic, Sor instead launches into subtle disquisitions on harmony. I shall
never say to the reader, This is what is necessary to be done, but This is what I
found it necessary to do, he hastens to write in the first lines, almost as though he
were anxious to account for the peculiarity of what he is about to publish.
How to characterise this work, then? A possible, provocative key to its reading was suggested twenty years ago by Matanya Ophee:
lorenzo micheli
The true nature of Sors Method has not been understood by many
scholars. The reason lies in the fact that it is simply not a method
from which one can learn to play the guitar. The book does not, in
the last analysis, turn out to be an accurate description of the
authors actual ideas on technique. The attempt to institute an
orderly and analytical discussion of technical and musical questions
is often obstructed by obvious shows of temper and outbursts of
bitter feelingI am convinced of the impossibility of undertaking
any analysis at all of Fernando Sors didactic conceptions without
taking into account the artists psychology, his paranoia and the
defensive arguments which abound in his writings.
A method from which one cannot learn to play almost an oxymoron. One way
out of the theoretical impasse caused by the anomalies of the Mthode is to contradict Sor and go so far as to rethink the genre to which it belongs; or perhaps
we might invoke the semantically broader term treatise that is, a theoretical
work which systematically unfolds a definite line of argument.
Having said so much, it remains true that in the main, Sor expounds his
ideas, born of years of experience in performing and teaching, with clarity. In
Part i there are chapters dedicated in turn to the instrument, posture, and placement and use of the hands. The right hand is to rely almost exclusively on thumb,
index and middle; the ring finger is brought into use to perform chords with
four notes, in the event that the two lowest voices do not lie on adjacent strings
and cannot be struck together with the thumb. As for the left hand, Sor takes
harsh exception to the widespread practice of bringing the thumb from behind
the neck to fret the sixth string as needed (a polemic already advanced by many
pedagogues, not least Francesco Molino in his Grande mthode, Paris 1824): on
the contrary, being the shortest digit, the thumb can more usefully confine itself
to oering a point of support and balancing the force exercised by the fingers
(which fall at a right angle to the fingerboard), acting as a pivot around which
the whole hand can easily change position. Two centuries on, Sors conviction
has carried the day.
Next to be discussed, among other topics, are the attack of the fingers on the
strings, timbre (and the imitation of other instruments) and use of the nails:
Never in my life have I heard a guitarist whose playing was endurable if he played with nailsit is necessary that Mr Aguados
playing should have so many excellent qualities as it has, that he
should be excused his use of the nails.
Sors position towards the damping of notes is of great interest. Damped sounds
are divided into sons tous and son secs. tou (mued) and sec (dry)
corresponding respectively to pizzicato and staccato are distinguished on the
basis of the moment at which the sound is damped: staccato is a sound interrupted after the vibration of the string has been set in motion, while in pizzicato
the sound is mued in the very act of sounding the string:
These [staccato] sounds are stopped only in their sustain, while the
former [tou] are stopped in the act of plucking the strings.
55
The pizzicato, on account of its weak sonority, is rarely employed in Sors music
I have always been too unhappy that there is no way of giving the instrument
more sound to busy myself with ways of taking it away, he says: his most famous
example is perhaps the fifth variation of the Fantaisie, op. 7. Its realisation is entrusted entirely to the left hand, which presses the strings with less energy than
usual (but not so little as to make a harmonic). In staccato, too, the right hand
plays no role; this time the left hand presses the strings with customary power,
but then the pressure of the thumb on the neck is relaxed:
I merely stop pressing onto the fingerboard with my left hand, without leaving the strings as soon as the note has been plucked; I do not
even impose this task on the whole hand, the thumb alone answering
the purpose by a small, almost imperceptible eort.
In the performance of damped sounds, Aguado opts for various combinations
of the left and right hand; Sor on the other hand, in an utterly coherent way, recommends a clear-cut exclusion of right-hand resources in favour of the left (just
as evident, as we shall shortly see, in the realisation of scales and harmonics).
Part ii, apart from a section dedicated to practical knowledge of the fingerboard, oers valuable evidence on the subject of scales:
56
As for the right hand, I have never aimed to play scales with separate
notes, or with great speed, because I thought that the guitar would
never be able to render satisfactorily the characteristics of the violin,
while by profiting from the ease which it [the guitar] oers for
slurring notes, I could somewhat better imitate the characteristics of
the voice. For this reason I only pluck the note beginning each one of
the groups of which the passage is composed.
The performance of scales slurred, plucking only the first note on each string
with the immediately adjacent finger, allows Sor to avoid the fatiguing alternation of index and middle, and not to disturb the stability of the hand by plucking every note and shifting from string to string:
Using the fingering of guitarists [to play scales detached]my
hand would find itself quite out of the usual range of the strings
I could only take up this position by displacing the arm (and in so
doing making it more dicult to return reliably to my preferred
position), or by bending the wristIf the reader desires to learn to
play the notes of a passage fast and detached, I can do no better than
to refer him to the Method of Mr Aguado.
On occasion, quick repeated notes are integral to the music, as with the triplets
in the first movement of the Grande sonata, op. 22, the triplets in the last variation of the Fantaisie, op. 16, or the repeated notes in the Allegro non troppo of the
Deuxime grande sonata, op. 25. In these cases, Sor always keeps to a minimum
the number of repetitions of i and m on a single string never going beyond the
second string, in any event. In the examples just cited, the accented notes are always played with the thumb, which then has often to play chords of three or four
notes with a rapid sweep:
lorenzo micheli
# . . # .
.
.
.
V .
141
. .
..
# ..
..
bb .. # # #
.
Part iii contains an explanation of the theory of thirds and sixths: chains of
these intervals, which in other methods are presented as one resource among
many, are in Sor elevated into the founding principle of his own technique. The
entire key to mastery of the guitar (as a harmony instrument) lies in the knowledge of thirds and sixths, he states without equivocation; and again, I have no
doubt that this exercise will fully convince the reader that, with knowledge of
thirds and sixths, it is possible to finger all the most dicult guitar music.
In essence, the entire gamut of possibilities for left-hand fingering (including shifts) can be assimilated automatically through study of the fixed models
of scales in double notes fixed because the intervals are fixed. Sors conception, even when he gives us some extra detail on the use of the left hand in a
melody, is always inspired by the criterion of utmost economy of movement. It
is this same criterion which inspires one of the twelve general maxims listed in
the conclusion: not to lift right away the finger just used (in the performance of
notes ascending on the same string), and to prepare on the same string as many
fingers as possible (in the case of descending notes). It is a rule as simple as it is
fundamental, and even today many players do not pay it sucient attention:
When two or three notes fall consecutively on the same string of
the guitar, then if they lie in an ascending direction the second note
will damp and stop the sound of the first, and the third that of the
second. If, while lowering a finger to press down the second note, I
at the same lift the finger holding down the first, I make two movements instead of one, and I even run the risk of lifting the finger a
moment too soon and sounding the open string making my playing less clean rather than more. If the notes descend, then rather
than waiting for the moment when the note is to be stopped, I put
the finger down in advance, so that I have no movement to make
other than to lift the finger which was holding down the upper note.
This procedure spares me another movement, and in particular a
display which I have never liked.
A considerable space, within Part iii, is allotted to the treatment of harmonics,
or flute-notes (harmonics, which in Spain are called flute-notes). Sor recounts
his investigations into the best way to produce clean and strong harmonics, and
gives the rules he finally established:
1 not to press the string at the required place too lightly, but in such a
way that I could feel it securely under my finger;
2 that the action of plucking the string with the right hand should be
followed right away by that of letting it ring freely by lifting the lefthand finger;
3 that in so far as the sounds to be produced required a position closer
to the nut, the act of plucking the string should be more forceful, and
the pressure of the left-hand finger stronger without, however, compelling the string to come close to the fret.
57
Sor explicitly declares his aversion to artificial harmonics, for which this time
suering from a lack of prescience he sees little future, on account of the excessive expenditure of energy involved; if it is true, indeed, that octave harmonics allow the entire gamut of notes, it is also true that in playing them,
Outre la double tche qui mtait impose
en mobligeant de mesurer des distances
bien exactes pour les deux mains, jy
trouvai linconvnient (pour moi) dtre
forc demployer toute la main droite pour
attaquer une seule note, et que
chacune de celles que je voulais produire,
non seulement me cotait un mouvement
du poignet, mais de tout le bras, et que,
nayant pas un point dappui, il mtait
presque impossible de diriger avec assurance le doigt pour dterminer exactement
la moiti de chaque distance. Ibid. p 58.
58
lorenzo micheli
Sor
###
r
# n
. 3
..
c R
Giuliani
##
V # c
###
..
# n #
# n
# n
# n # #
#
##
# n n
V #
1
2
### .
.
V
j
j
n
###
.
n
..
V
# n
r 3 U # n
###
#
j
V
12
###
###
16
r
### n
19
###
# n
##
#
V #
59
v mauro g iuliani
Giulianis slurs have been restored in our
example on the previous page.
60
Glancing at this notorious example, one sees that not only does it show two arpeggio formulas used by practically all guitarist-composers of the 1800s, it even
corresponds exactly to arpeggios 31 and 83 of Giulianis opus 1:
p imam i pi m a mi
p i ma mi p i mam i
..
V ..
3
2
0
010
i m i
0 41
i m i
i m i
0
1
0
2
3
ww
ww
w
i m i
0w
0
0 1
0 4 1
V .. .. 01 www
2w
2
3
3
2
0
3
p
Ibid. p 9.
Now, having pointed out some of Sors idiosyncrasies, we shall try to establish
whether Giulianis playing is equally defined in principle, or perhaps more empirical in its basis. As we have seen, the Studio per la chitarra oers a catalogue,
so to speak, of technical solutions presented by Giuliani in their finished form;
it may be that a concise examination of various other works might provide further useful indications.
The Right Hand
Like Carulli in the Mthode complte, Giulianis opus 1 notates right-hand fingering with a sort of caret ( ) for the thumb, and one, two or three dots for i, m
and a (index, middle and ring fingers). The ring finger comes into use in arpeggios on four strings and sometimes, apart from arpeggio formulas, on the first
string, as demanded by the texture or just by common sense. Scales and unslurred notes in general are played by alternating index and middle; we shall
soon see how, in order to articulate scales of a certain length, Giuliani makes use
of an adroit mixture of plucked notes and technical slurs.
Much of Giulianis music can be played with just three fingers (p, i, m). Nevertheless, it is clear that Giulianis assured use of the ring finger looks ahead to
its total emancipation, foreshadowing the important advances that were to be
made by Aguado and, later, Coste. On this view, the 120 arpeggio formulas of
opus 1 stand squarely at the forefront of the development of four-finger technique (p, i, m and a). As far as the thumb is concerned, Giuliani often indicates
its use by turning the stem of the note towards the bass; this is made clear in
opus 1 at the beginning of Part ii:
In all these examples in Part ii the bass, that is the notes with downward stems, are played with the thumb, and the others above with
the index of the right hand.
Scales and passages in broken thirds, sixths, octaves and tenths are performed by
alternating thumb and index.
Like most of his contemporaries, Giuliani seems to have taken the use of the
right hand rather for granted: throughout his work one is hard put to find relevant markings, even where the performer might be expected to need them. Such
mauro giulianis guitar technique
61
is the case with the sforzato chords in the third movement of the Sonata, op. 15,
possibly to be played with the thumb, or with the triplets that appear with such
striking orchestral eect in the sextet Siete voi? in Rossiniana n 5: here, even
though exceptional agility of the thumb is required in many places in Giulianis
work, one cannot help wondering if in fact strings six and five are to be plucked
with p and i, while m and a play the sixths and thirds of the tune:
217
V #
n
n
n
n
# # # # # #
62
As to the extremely widespread practice of resting the little finger on the top of
the guitar, we have no way of knowing if Giuliani counted himself as one of its
supporters surely the majority of writers of the first guitar methods or its detractors. Jean-Baptiste Phillis, in his Nouvelle mthode pour la lyre ou guitarre
six cordes (undated) recommends resting the right hand on the soundboard,
supported by the little finger five centimetres from the bridge. Carulli, too, declares himself in favour of giving the right hand a point of support (the right
hand should rest lightly on the little finger, which must be placed almost immediately next to the first string, and exactly halfway between the bridge and
the rosette). Sor takes up an intermediate position, assigning the decision to the
needs of the moment, and describing the advantages that resting the little finger
might bring in many situations. But new currents in pedagogy were flowing in
the opposite direction: already, in his Coleccin de estudios (1820), Aguado, setting the trend for nearly all guitarists after him, adopts a stance in favour of (real
or supposed) freedom of movement for the hand:
The right hand should fall close to the soundhole in line with the
arm, not resting any finger on the soundboard in any way, so that
its movements may be freer.
Giuliani is never explicit on the matter. Certainly, many of his most virtuosic
pages, with their frequent shifts of register, preclude the resting of the little finger on the soundboard. But there are just as many examples in which one cannot help wondering if in fact he might have resorted to this expedient. One hypothesis might be of a flexible attitude not unlike Sors in which, whenever
the fingers have to play consistently on the three highest strings, the right hand
profits from the control which only an external point of rest can give. It seems
natural to imagine a position of this kind in many of Giulianis variation sets, or
to cite a well-known passage in the triplets of the Grande ouverture, op. 61;
here, for a time, Giulianis writing for guitar corresponds perfectly with the advice of Sor:
Sometimes I make use of the little finger by resting it at a right
angle to the soundboard beneath the top string, but I take great care
to take it o whenever it is not necessary. The need for this support
arises in those passages which require great rapidity from the thumb
in passing from bass notes to intermediate ones, while the first and
lorenzo micheli
second fingers are busy with making up the remainder of the bar in
tripletsin this case the little finger keeps my entire hand in position, and I have to attend only to the use of the thumb; but as soon
as my hand can comfortably keep its position without this support,
I stop using it.
# # n # # #
V #
n #
66
We have no evidence, either, regarding the use of nails. As has frequently been
pointed out, at the beginning of the nineteenth century (but already in the Baroque era) there are many attestations of musicians who played with them, and
of others who censured them. Yet chamber practice and a vast output of ensemble music not to mention concertos! formed a considerable part of Giulianis
activity, and the guitar parts would surely have been dicult to hear if played
with flesh alone. From this underestimated but, until it can be refuted, relevant observation, one may reasonably infer that his technique may well have
relied on the use of nails.
The Left Hand & Shifts
If for the right hand we must be content with a general paucity of indications,
the sources yield a little more material on the left. In general (with exceptions
that we shall see), in printed editions of Giulianis works, the richness of performance markings grows smaller with the increase in opus number and with
each advance in the year of composition. The odd case of editorial carelessness
aside, no doubt owing to haste in selling the manuscript (on Giulianis part) or
in bringing the new publication on to the market (on the part of the publisher),
we may assume that with the passing of time the composer no longer felt himself bound to provide technical data that by now must have been well known: in
this regard we need only examine the early sets of themes and variations, such
as opp. 2, 4 and 6 (published between 1807 and 1810) and compare them with
later publications of analogous works, in order to remark how fingering, dynamics and agogic indications become ever fewer and farther between.
A particularly striking feature is Giulianis conservative use of the left-hand
thumb to fret the sixth string. In the second part of opus 1 this occurs in any
number of instances (indicated in the music by an asterisk), and it is possible to
find traces of it in other works for example, in variation 8 of opus 6, where a
B on the sixth string is accompanied by the direction 7th fret with the thumb,
and in the first of the four Variations, op. 128, which are preceded by a legend explaining: The roman numerals indicate the positions or frets. The arabic numerals indicate the fingers of the left hand. p refers to the left-hand thumb.
# # # #
V #
J 7mo tasto
S col pollice
137
J
S
63
In fact, the Variations, op. 128, represent a fascinating source for the study of
Giulianis conception of the left hand: a surprising and perhaps unique example
not counting the collections of studies of a work fingered by Giuliani in its
entirety. (I assume that the fingering is indeed his.) Dealing as we are with an
easy work, we may suppose that it was the editor, hoping to attract the greatest
number of potential buyers, who expressly commissioned the meticulous fingering. Two interesting points emerge (apart from the use of the left thumb already mentioned): the first, in variation 4, is perhaps the only case in Giulianis
work in which the composer appears to demand with a specific fingering a socalled echo slur (legatura a eco). The second observation concerns two atypical barrs (apparent from the finger numbers; Giuliani never notates barrs in
his scores, although he often presupposes them, mostly partial and limited to
the upper strings): one is made by the middle finger on two strings in the second variation, and the other on three strings, made by the little finger towards
the end of the first variation (this latter case might lead us, a posteriori, to refinger the identical arpeggiated chord at the end of Rossiniana n 1, op. 119).
. .
3 2 0 3 1 0 3 1 0. 2.
#
n
#
V
3 2 0
92
41
3
4 1 4 3 1
2 1 4 2 1 0
58
# 4 4 4
1
1
J
#
#
V #
10
64
lorenzo micheli
key of A major). When the leaps of position are especially wide, the shifting of
the hand usually takes place over an open string, which takes on the function
of a pivot, allowing one to negotiate the whole passage thanks to its resonance.
Prominent examples among hundreds can be found in Exercises 8 and 18 in
opus 48; or, again, in the third movement of the Concerto, op. 30, and at the end
of the Variations, op. 128. This last example has a shift from the seventh to the
first fret, resolved by the composer through a pivotal open B. In short, the use
of an open string for leaps of eight or nine frets applies to the great majority of
cases, to the point of being raised to a real rule (to be used, like all rules, with
discretion) for the fingering of Giulianis music.
VIII
0
a V
31
I
0
Con brio
.
.
I XIV II
###
b V C
f S
IX
.
.
IX
#. # n #
9
j
##
n.
c V #
n.
f
[VII]
# 211
d V
111
4 1 1
I
2 2 1 2 1 3 1 0 0
4 0 0
2
1
3
65
Within the more balanced sonorities of two guitars in the Variazioni Concertanti, op. 130, on the other hand, the harmonics are artificial (variation 5: With
harmonics, or flute-notes). Both types of harmonics occur in the Rossiniane (a
well-known instance is the recitative in artificial harmonics in the Introduction
to Rossiniana n 1).
Intermittent, too, is the use of glissando, called strisciato (sliding) by Giuliani: in opus 1, Part iii, it is the subject of a study and a specific chapter. In his
brief instruction Giuliani describes how the eect is achieved, and invokes its
vocal origin in the portamento della voce:
With the same finger of the left-hand that stopped the small
note, which has just been sounded, one slides up to the melody
note, sounding all the intervals on the way, in the same way as
in the portamento in singing.
Examples of strisciato occur in the minor-mode variation of opus 4, and also in
the Rossiniane.
In the last resort, the attempt to unearth in Giulianis work as often one is
tempted to do the traces of a thoroughgoing research into colour and timbre
turns out to be a rather forced aair. His fingering, always attentive to musical
coherence, does not seem to be adapted to this kind of application (excepting a
few brush-strokes of instrumental colour, found above all in the early works).
Episodes such as the imitation of horns in opus 6 (with the right hand close to
the bridge so as to imitate the sound of horns) are not so much rare as unique.
However this may be, there is no denying Giulianis uncommon sensibility and
his extraordinary capacity to recreate on six strings the breadth and impact of
great operatic and symphonic frescoes, as can be seen both in the Ouvertures for
two guitars and in the Rossiniane.
Articulation, Slurs, Phrasing
Right-hand articulation depends above all on the distinction between notes that
are joined by a technical slur (a hammer-on or pull-o) and notes that are articulated (plucked) separately. This distinction is notated with direct clarity and
coherence in all of Giulianis works. The graphic sign indicating that the note is
to be plucked with the right hand is, for the vast majority of nineteenth-century
guitarists, a dot placed above or below the notehead. (This has often brought
about a certain confusion between a true staccato and, as in this repertoire, the
mere absence of a slur.) Such a meticulous and fine distinction between slurred
and unslurred notes provokes a fundamental question: do there exist basic criteria governing the way in which Giuliani assigns his slurs?
In light of some of his more significant works, two chief points emerge. The
first is that often and this is deliberately emphasised for didactic purposes in
many of the Exercises, op. 48 Giuliani adopts the principle of a single slur for
all the notes lying on a single string. The right hand, in this case, limits itself to
plucking the first note of each group of slurred notes:
j
# # # j
V
J
J
49
66
lorenzo micheli
#
V
The consequence of these two principles, which together go to explain the great
variety of slurring patterns in Giuliani, is a striking asymmetry of articulation:
groups of two, three, or four slurred notes may fall at almost any point in the bar,
and not necessarily on the accented beat. In this way the metre of the music and
the internal metre of the groups frequently come into conflict.
By disallowing echo slurs, Giuliani adopts a position diametrically opposed
to Carulli, who, by contrast, makes liberal use of them to achieve where possible a completely regular accentuation, aided by the avoidance of multiple slurs
(i.e. groups of more than two slurred notes). The former principle, on the other
hand, recalls the practice of Sor and indeed of lutenists and Baroque guitarists:
Giuliani sometimes performs scales of a certain length by plucking the first note
of each group of notes lying on a single string (like a stroke of the bow) and slurring the remaining ones. The eect is rather like a diatonic glissando. Perhaps
the most celebrated case is that of the first movement of the Sonata, op. 15:
. . .
176
When performing passages of this kind, one must avoid marking the plucked
notes with too much emphasis: in this way the scale will sound fluent, but without losing that restless dynamic quality (achievable only on plucked-string instruments) conferred upon it by the unequal sonority of slurred and unslurred
notes. Of course, irregularity and naturalness cannot coexist unless the tempo
chosen by the performer is fast enough: how often is an eective performance of
this Sonata compromised by being noticeably under tempo!
Phrase markings in Giuliani are, in the end, more or less non-existent. True
musical staccato is left to the judgement of the interpreter, and, saving exceptional cases such as that of variation 6 in opus 9 (in which a semiquaver scale
with points underneath, and therefore articulated, is accompanied by the indication staccato) or cases in which long articulated passages are marked with a
point (as, again, in the first movement of the Sonata, op. 15), must be construed
from the shape of the musical discourse. Phrasing slurs, following the expected
practice of guitar music of the period, are not written, an absence which makes
indispensable once again the recourse to the practice, stylistic knowledge and
taste of the player. The precision with which Giuliani indicates articulation and
left-hand slurs can often be of great help:
. .
. .
. .
. .
.
n
n . . . .
#
###
It is of course possible that these indications still refer only to notes plucked with
the right hand rather than slurred with
the left. But I am strongly convinced that
in both op. 9 and op. 15 Giuliani may well
intend a pianistic staccato to create a
strong contrast with nearby slurred
groups of notes. Quick passages where
legato and staccato are alternated, as here,
abound in the sonatas of Mozart (see, for
instance, k 279/i, bars 3335, or k 281/i,
bars 8285); in Giuliani, then, the eect to
aim for is a pianistic with pedal /without
pedal contrast.
Giuliani, Concerto, op. 30, 3rd movement,
bars 34.
67
. .
. .
.
.
.
# # # j
#
n
V #
21
# # n n
f
S
?
b n J
20
&b
p.
. . .
f
dol:
176
68
lorenzo micheli
biblio g r aphy
Aguado, Dionisio. The Complete Works for Guitar: in reprints of the original
editions with prefaces by Brian Jeery, Heidelberg, Chanterelle, 1994. Four
volumes: vol. 1 includes the Coleccin de estudios (1820) and the Nuevo
mtodo de guitarra, op. 6; vol. 2 comprises the Nuevo mtodo para guitarra
(Madrid, 1843) and the Apndice al nuevo mtodo para guitarra (1849/50);
the Escuela de guitarra (Madrid, 1825) is not included
. New Guitar Method, ed. Brian Jeery, London, Tecla, 1981; translated by
Louise Bigwood from Nuevo mtodo para guitarra (Madrid, 1843)
Allorto, E., R. Chiesa, M. DellAra & A. Gilardino. La chitarra, Turin, edt, 1990
Carulli, Ferdinando. Mthode complte pour parvenir pincer de la guitare par
les moyens les plus simples et les plus faciles, op. 241 (Paris, 5th edn, 1825),
modern facsimile edition, Geneva, Minko, 1987
. Mthode complte pour guitare, op. 27 (Paris, c. 1809), modern facsimile
edition, Florence, Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1981
. Mthode pour apprendre accompagner le chant, op. 61 (Paris, c. 1810),
modern facsimile edition, Florence, Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1981
. Seconde suite la mthode de guitare ou lyre, op. 71 (Paris, c. 1810), modern
facsimile edition, Florence, Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1981
. Supplment la mthode ou La premire anne dtude de guitare, op. 192
(Paris, c. 1822), modern facsimile edition, Florence, Studio per Edizioni
Scelte, 1981
Giuliani, Mauro. The Complete Works in Facsimiles of the Original Editions,
edited by Brian Jeery [39 volumes], London, Tecla, 1984
Heck, Thomas. Mauro Giuliani: virtuoso guitarist and composer, Columbus
(oh), Editions Orphe, 1995
Sor, Fernando. Mthode pour la guitare (Paris, 1830), modern facsimile edition,
Geneva, Minko, 1981
. Method for the Spanish Guitar (London, R. Cocks & Co, 1832), modern
facsimile edition, London, Tecla, 1995; translated by A. Merrick from
Mthode pour la guitare.
69
real teaching begins when the student has a problem all else is
simply instruction.
Certainly, genuine teaching involves a lot more than providing unequivocal explanations and instructions. It may reasonably be argued that objective knowledge is teachable and subjective knowledge is not. This notion, however, is
simplistic and deceptive, for while it is evident that music-making skills dier
widely in nature and degree of complexity, they often straddle an elusive borderline between what seems and doesnt seem discernible to the intellect or perceptible to the senses and hence between what seems and doesnt seem teachable. In other words, teaching and instruction cannot so easily be separated.
Besides, eective teaching obviously depends on the recipients cognitive capacity, too, quite apart from what is being taught. Added to this that the more taxing problems are usually the most interesting and stimulating ones (even if coping with them is not always as rewarding as it is challenging), I would prefer a
slightly more focused yet less radical formulation of Dalcrozes principle:
71
and I endeavour to do this mostly by invoking ideas derived from the pianist
and teacher Artur Schnabel (18821951), the thinker Karl Popper (19021994),
and in particular from various age-old Eastern teaching traditions. My emphasis on the expression hint at stems from the premise (inherited from these
traditions) that the role of the teacher can be no more than to point the way.
For in music as in every art the more unteachable the knowledge appears to
be, the less likely it is that it can be encapsulated in discursive language and
consequently, the less likely that the student will find it in an outside source.
To pretend otherwise is perniciously misleading and amounts to ending up like
Rowan Atkinsons blind man, in the dark room, looking for the black catthat
isnt there!
I would thus reformulate Dalcrozes principle again by saying that
real teaching is inducing the student to learn from within himself
rarely can mere instruction be expected to accomplish that.
72
Teachers have a big responsibility if they are willing to take up this task (particularly with younger beginners), all the more so if we realise, as Aaron Shearer
points out, that habits of thought and movement are unavoidably being formed
during every moment we play our instrument making it easier or more difficult to learn. Shearers idea reminds me of an insightful lecture by Eli Kassner
in which he stated that you learn best with whom you first learn, clearly implying that habits good and bad are more easily acquired at the beginning of
study than at any other time along the learning path. While much of what follows will seem relevant to so-called remedial teaching at advanced levels (especially on an individual basis), I like to think that the essential concepts are pertinent to learners at all levels and ages even children, who, after all, are not as
trouble-free as we might like or expect them to be.
A healthy optimism is always welcome, but regardless of how challenging
a teaching situation appears to be, the success of our eorts remains unpredictable and at times even indiscernible. Of course, we cannot teach without
departing from certain aims and assumptions. In other words, all teaching
involves empirical predictions within a horizon of expectations: we want to
achieve x, so we should do y; if we do a, b will follow. The reality is, though, that
any teaching approach is likely to produce unintended results, some of which
might turn out be undesirable, too. It is in this way that new problems as well
as new aims emerge and we find ourselves in need of making successive adjustments by trial and error. Such a process should be a good reminder of the
fallible nature of our attempts. And yet, it also indicates that we can gradually
approach a solution by way of approximations, even if we are never certain that
we will actually reach it. Thus, the teachers role has meaning and purpose and
the students knowledge can grow for the plain reason that we can learn from
our mistakes. Far from being static, then, as if following rigid rules, the best kind
of teaching and learning is dynamic and creative.
I would kindly ask those readers who might expect a comprehensive method for Teaching the Unteachable to bear in mind that my main aim is far less
formidable though more realistic than that; namely, to encourage teachers
and learners, regardless of their outlook, to trust that inborn childlike curiosity
which instinctively compels us to explore the world around us in quest of ever
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Its dicult to think of a musician who would dissent from Stravinsky as he distinguishes between the letter and the spirit of notated music. Surely, the score
can tell the truth but not all the truth, and we shouldnt indeed we cannot
limit our questions to merely those having unequivocal correct answers. So it is
only natural that the teaching of musical interpretation should aim at an appreciation of all those elusive, yet vividly present, elements which lie somewhere
beyond the written score and appear to exist outside the realm of discursive language. That they are related to theoretical concepts such as musical characterisation, musical structure and proportions, phrasing and articulation, timing,
texture, colour and dynamics is undeniable. Not as evident, perhaps, is that the
grasping of such complex and interconnected concepts cannot be the outcome
of intellectual inquiry alone. Moreover, whatever we may find in them that is in
fact susceptible to rational explanation is likely to be only a fraction or even
a misrepresentation of their full significance, which ultimately derives from a
direct experience of the music. But assuming that a teacher has grasped those
hidden elements, and that he realises that such knowledge is not amenable to
unambiguous verbal description, what can he reply when a student asks him an
admittedly unanswerable question like
How exactly can I play this phrase marked ironic in the score so that it
conveys a musical identity of its own?
Often, the student doesnt formulate the question in the way he actually means
it, or simply doesnt ask anything at all. All the same, the perceptive teacher
might detect a tacitly expressed concern and he would then ask himself:
How can I help this student so that he understands and conveys the
musical character of that phrase?
The same situation can arise with many other questions:
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Without their magic we feel lost. We look at the stars at night and
ask their names. Why? If the night enchants, what dierence does it
make? And yet we tend to ask. The reason is, I think, that from earliest childhood we learn to understand and manipulate the world with
words. To know the name is to exercise some control, however small
to be a bit less insecure.
It would be most reassuring to begin our quest for truth by asking the right
question, but that is unlikely to be the first question we ask. In any case, the
world is like a river in constant flux, and eventually students can ask and teachers can answer what they will sometimes it will work, sometimes it wont. But
we may still ponder: is there a wiser way? A mere endorsement of Stravinskys
remarks, for instance (that it is just a matter of experience and intuition) is
likely to prove insucient for the student, even though he might intellectually
appreciate the point behind the advice, and realise too that he must be patient
and persevere before he can find a solution to such problems.
In the meantime, the issue stands that when dealing with unanswerable
questions the teacher is supposed to do something or more precisely, the student expects him to say something, the snag being that if and when the enlightening click finally happens, whatever did the clicking doesnt arrive nor can it
be understood like the typically didactic, unambiguous instructions given by,
say, a primary-school teacher (the guitar has six strings, for example). Instead, it
appears to behave like a metaphor which by its very nature can only connote,
that is, stand for something beyond what it literally says. In this sense, whatever
the student needs to ascertain seems far distant from the realm of logical reasoning and much closer to the world of poetry, emotion, myth or even magic.
What is more, the notion of connotation itself implies that the teacher is merely
acting as a catalyst. In other words, teaching the unteachable seems to depend
on the ability to activate the students awareness so that, instead of an actual
transmission of discernible knowledge, the understanding emerges from within
himself given certain conditions. Considering that teaching involves a perplexing mixture of verbal and non-verbal language a realisation which only
succeeds in making the challenge even more challenging how, then, can the
teacher handle the elusive task of connoting musical truth?
Its time to turn to Artur Schnabel, the pianist who was a master of the unteachable, both as teacher and performing artist, and I should point to the remarkable book Schnabels Interpretation of Piano Music by Konrad Wol (1907
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1989), who was an outstanding pupil of the legendary Viennese master. This
book, still regrettably unknown to many musicians (and apparently out of
print), is the finest writing I have come across on the subject of musical interpretation in general and about an artist whose legacy cannot be overestimated. Many broad areas of music making are illumined by Schnabels teachings, and I have chosen to discuss musical characterisation for the first section
of the article.
V .
.
# -
# # #
# -
Nor could I tell why I find the arrival of the dotted rhythms in the Passacaglia
premonitory:
r
b
b
naturale
b
R
r
b b
r
n n ...
marc.
nat.
In fact, I cant help associating this whole section of the Nocturnal with a mans
murky dream, in which he gradually ascertains a sign of approaching danger,
and with it comes his sombre realisation that someone is about to be tortured
and killed. As the dream unfolds, the man suddenly realises that in fact everything in it is real even though he is still dreaming and that the victim is himself. Then the climax of the Passacaglia arrives:
Britten, Nocturnal, Passacaglia, bars 3436.
with force (con forza)
r
n r
# # n #
V
n #
R
R
( )
V ( )
w
34
S
j
n
>
>
>
b
# n n b b # # # n # b
n # #
ff
# b
n
n b b
# # #
n
>
>
>
sempre
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Judging by the enlightening eect on the students, I was left in no doubt about
the miraculous power of these images to communicate those musical truths to
which I referred earlier. Of course, such images have a contextual significance,
and they are intended to connote, rather than denote, musical meaning in
other words, they are expedient method and little else. No wonder Schnabel
used to call out to his students: What I say here ought to be remembered not as
words, but as music. That the teaching of these musicians shares a common
ground is evident, but both were probably unaware that the notion of language
as a pointer rather than a repository of knowledge is essentially an age-old
idea, for it has been widely used for teaching purposes by Eastern masters since
ancient times. The following lines are most revealing:
The fishing net is used to catch fish; let us have the fish and forget the
net. The snare is used to catch rabbits; let us have the rabbit and
forget the snare. Words are used to convey ideas; let us have the ideas
and forget the words.
Indeed, let us have the music and forget the words! Equally illuminating is one
of my favourite Chinese stories, which tells about a seeker who approached the
Sixth Zen Patriarch Huineng for advice:
Ive been studying the Nirvana Sutra for years and years, and there
are still some passages that I dont quite understand. Do you think
you could explain them to me?
Im sorry, but I cant read replied Huineng; If you can read the
passages out for me, Ill see if I can help you understand them.
But if you cant even read the words, how can you understand the
truth behind them?
The Zen Patriarch replied: The truth and words are unrelated. The
truth can be compared to the moon, and words can be compared to a
finger. I can use my finger to point out the moon, but my finger is not
the moon, and you dont need my finger to see the moon. Do you?
Whether in the mouth of Schnabel, Helmerson or a Zen Patriarch, what impresses me about such images is not only their power but their simplicity. Far from
encouraging us to fish in a sea of verbose explanations (as a great deal of teaching does), imagery then has an eminently practical purpose; namely, to awaken
us from an alienated perception of ourselves and the world a goal, as I see
it, akin to that of all great art. What matters is not the teachers actual words,
but the fact that relative truth (whatever he says) becomes a metaphor for absolute truth (unteachable knowledge). This idea does not mean that an informed
awareness of conventional teachings (literature on music history, theory, analysis, technique, etc) can be dispensed with, for the eectiveness of a metaphor
depends on a close familiarity with such knowledge left tacit, just as the laugh
or jolt in a joke is triggered when the punch line collides with that unstated, but
nevertheless common, knowledge.
Along these lines, it is through what might be called the metaphorical path
that the more creative musician moves outside the immediate, jaded context of
his own medium (vocal or instrumental) into that of another (and away from
what at first he might have thought to be the range of all possible solutions to a
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given problem), so that a wider and fresher scope of alternatives emerges. I cannot think of a more lucid explanation of the general meaning of this idea than
Karl Poppers:
What characterises creative thinkingseems to me often the
ability to break through the limits of the range or to vary the
range from which a less creative thinker selects his trials. This
ability, which clearly is a critical ability, may be described as critical
imagination. It is often the result of culture clash, that is, a clash
between ideas, or frameworks of ideas. Such a clash may help us to
break through the ordinary bounds of our imagination.
Thus what is comfortable or idiomatic in one medium can stand as a metaphor
for what was originally arduous or unnatural in another, and our imagination is
roused by the magical click that results from the clash between dierent musical mediums. The classic example is the idea of singing an instrumental line
as opposed to literally playing it. We guitarists sometimes like to imagine the
sound of the cello when dealing with a melody in the lower register of the instrument (as in Regino Sainz de la Mazas Petenera or Villa-Loboss Prelude n 1,
for example). Indeed, musicians in general establish all sorts of conceivable associations. Violinist Emmanuel Hurwitz, for instance, is reported as saying that
string players should phrase more like pianists with awareness of notes having
a decay, [instead of trying] to produce a constantly big sound, as if to bore into
a line and every part of the texture. And pianist Alfred Brendel asserted that he
has learnt more from conductors, singers, string players and wind players than
from the mere pianiston the whole a good flexible conductor with a good orchestra will be the model for what the pianist should also do. Exactly how, when
or why the right metaphor performs the miracle is likely to remain a mystery
but we dont need all the answers. Regardless of which metaphor works for
whom, the point stands: metaphors are powerful, and as Schnabel taught us, it
is within ourselves that we find the fertile soil in which our musical understanding can grow, and our intuition can grasp the spirit behind the letter of a work:
Nothing in the world has ever grown from the exterior to the
interior. The interior is the basis for understanding. There is the
desire, the force, the giftLove has to be the starting point love of
music. It is one of my firmest convictions that love always produces
some knowledge, while knowledge only rarely produces something
similar to love.
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to the fact that music and technique are to a large degree separately
trained and developedTheir balance and coordination therefore
remains a principal pedagogical problem.
Even though Artur Schnabels prime concern to integrate music and technique,
summed up by his pupil Konrad Wol, may still resonate in the consciousness
of todays music-teaching establishment, I nevertheless feel that the guitar world
has reason to be optimistic, for there are a growing number of teachers willing
to face this challenge from the onset of learning. It is fair to say that optimum
eciency with minimum eort is the venerable maxim which has guided many
a sensible musician in pursuit of technical mastery. Anchored in it, there has
emerged the familiar conception of technical training as the gradual refinement
of physical motion in terms of certain parameters like speed, volume, accuracy,
stamina, versatility of tone colour, etc. Since this process is experienced through
the most concrete means imaginable namely, our body and instrument (as
opposed to musical knowledge, whose nature seems far less tangible) it has
understandably been argued that technical and musical skills can and should
be developed separately (and in this respect it is assumed, I think rightly, that
valuable knowledge can be borrowed from disciplines such as physiology or kinesiology). I believe here we have that peculiar case of a useful and creditable
idea (i.e. optimum eciency with minimum eort) being interpreted in a way
that turns it into a dangerous one. That music making involves a highly developed technique is self-evident; one must even admit that this whole conception
of physical training is quite persuasive. It breaks down, however, as soon as it is
alleged that such a process of refinement is susceptible to definitive rational
analysis and conscious control as also when, sooner or later, we find ourselves
facing questions which indicate that the borderline between the technical and
musical sides of playing may not be as distinct as is commonly believed. And I
am not referring to clichd, though valid, concerns such as how can I play fast
and even scales or arpeggios? how can I get a good, big sound? etc; I am thinking
of questions more like the following:
How can I achieve coordination of both hands so that the phrasing and
tempo of this long scale passage stand unaected?
What can I do to produce the sound that will match the mystical character
of this sarabande?
How can I play the slurs in that phrase without distorting its rhythmic and
melodic identity?
What is a good fingering for this intensely lyrical melody?
How can I clarify the voicings that connect these accented staccato chords?
How can I handle such a dicult shift in the middle of this phrase?
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It seems to me that these are more profitable questions to ask, for they might
lead us to realise that any technical problem worth considering is at the same
time a musical problem, to the extent of it being possible to solve the one if
and when you solve the other. I use the word solve quite literally, for the feeling
of certainty is final and unmistakable (rather like Eliots sudden relief from an
intolerable burden), though admittedly not the kind that you can reconstruct,
prove or plan in advance. True, we might find that we had solved the one and
not the other, but, at least in my experience, this tends to happen if I was still
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seeing them as separate problems. Even though understandable, such separation is deceitful, for what allows you to kill two birds with one stone is precisely
the simple realisation that there werent two problems to begin with but one.
A good technique can of course stimulate the imagination of a creative musician, but by and large, what he wants to say dictates how he says it. So when we
do find ourselves isolating the technical problem it is ideally because were
trying to solve the musical problem which gave birth to it. It is in this light that
the relevance of Alfred Brendels dictum comes forth: Technique can never
reach a point where problems cease to exist, precisely because the real problems
are not technical but musical. And yet I would go even further and say that it is
irrelevant whether you start from one end or the other; for if we agree that both
are like the two sides of the same coin, then either route is legitimate in so far as
it leads to a solution of the one and only problem.
Training the body to perform abstract physical motions no matter how
perfect and beautiful they may seem to afterwards press the music-making
button is in fact a delusive notion. For such an approach is often more successful in forging a gymnast rather than a musician and in creating an apparent
borderline where in reality there is none. I admit that some highly talented and
motivated people may succeed in integrating their physical and musical faculties in spite of the artificial divide, but to me they represent the exception rather
than the rule. Doesnt the true musician discern a more direct route and envision technique as the capacity to connect the music inwardly heard with its materialisation on the instrument? I suspect that Bach gave his keyboard students
all the technical advice they needed, but I find it hard to think that the solutions
he oered (say, when teaching his Inventions, the Anna Magdalena pieces or the
Well-Tempered Clavier) were devoid of any relation to musical goals and merely
intended to aid manual dexterity. Indeed, far from being an isolated process of
training the fingers according to abstract rules about physical motion, both our
teaching and learning of technique become a more worthwhile and rewarding
experience inasmuch as we aim to establish fluent channels that connect muscular movement and a myriad of sensory perceptions at one end, with intuitions, emotions and musical meaning at the other. And I mean two-way channels, for the solution to the questions I posed above can be triggered o by
travelling along multiple routes, as I try to illustrate below:
world of
sounds
HEARING
M USI C A L
MEANING
world of intuitions
and emotions
touch
sight
world of
visual images
world of tactile
sensations
and bodily
movement
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This diagram is intended to represent how the realms of hearing, sight, touch
and musical meaning can become a source of metaphor for each other. For example, the more refined our inner hearing gets, the more spontaneously and
eciently our fingers tend to materialise what we hear. This explains the common experience of being able to find an appropriate fingering for a certain passage as well as the manual dexterity it requires at the same time as you discover a natural phrasing for it, or capture its musical character. Thus, refined
hearing induces refined physical motion. Another example is the notation of,
say, a familiar chord progression which evokes the mental image of the corresponding chord shapes on the fingerboard, as well as the tactile sensations associated with them, or the actual sound and musical meaning of that progression.
In this way, channels are established whereby a visual image (score) can stand
as a metaphor for another visual image (chord shapes described on the fingerboard), a tactile image (fingers sensing those shapes on the fingerboard), an
aural image (the sound of the chord progression) and even its emotional content (musical meaning). Likewise, our awareness of certain bodily sensations
can easily evoke visual images of the notation in the score or our fingers on the
fingerboard, just as it might suddenly spur our imagination to unveil unsuspected ways of phrasing a melody, or to create a new instrumental colour for a
certain passage. There are, for example, the tactile perceptions associated with
the swiftness, accuracy or flexibility of the left hand as it measures distances,
senses string pressure or discerns finger patterns on the fingerboard; or with the
texture, thickness and resistance of the strings as the right hand produces a
sound. Such associations might even establish a link with our emotions and the
meaning of the music were playing. This is how refined physical motion and refined tactile perceptions can trigger o distinct visual and aural images, as well
as creative musical responses.
When we realise that these channels can in fact be established from any end
and in any direction, the above examples will suce to suggest the vast though
certainly elusive universe of possibilities waiting to be activated. I guess a good
starting point for establishing these channels is quite simply to become more
sensitive to ones own body and mind. As we develop visualisation, whatever
images we operate with can be extremely powerful because as J. Bronowski
elucidates they are manipulated in ways which are indistinguishable from
those we would require if the images were real objects or experiences. Just as an
example, I always felt that a squirrels movements were a fantastic metaphor for
a good left-hand technique, which is why I am fond of using the visual image
of this friendly little fellow as a means of inducing a students left hand (or my
own) to move with the same naturalness, precision, swiftness and lightness of
such a wondrous creatureso why not leave the practice room and go out to
watch squirrels? Along these lines, some of my favourite visualisations for refining certain aspects of right-hand technique are borrowed from Master Awas
teaching tips in Eugen Herrigels classic book, Zen in the Art of Archery. To induce freedom of thumb action, for example, one can suggest to a student that he
is an expert archer about to shoot an arrow, and remind him that
The shot will only go smoothly when it takes the archer himself by
surprise. It must be as if the bowstring suddenly cut through the
thumb that held it.
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Or to bring about openness and presence of sound, along with ease of physical
motion, the student can imagine that the rapport between a string and the finger preparing to pluck it, as well as the quality of the ensuing movement at the
moment of release, will be similar to that of
a little child holding the proered finger. It grips it so firmly that
one marvels at the strength of the tiny fist. And when it lets the
finger go, there is not the slightest jerk. Do you know why? Because
the child doesnt think: It will now let go of the finger in order to
grasp this other thing. Completely unselfconsciously, without
purpose, it turns from one to the other, and we would say that it
was playing with the things, were it not equally true that the things
are playing with the child.
Ibid. p 45.
When in fact metaphors seem appropriate, I may use my own words to convey
these (or similar) images, or suggest reading something like Herrigels book. I
believe that a technical training which aims at developing visualisation acquires
a refreshing perspective, for the creative teacher can easily lead the student to a
much broader dimension, one in which he can grow with ears that see (both the
page and fingerboard) and eyes that hear; ears that touch and fingers that hear;
and eyes that touch and fingers that see. Pursued as an end it itself, though, visualisation can become a mere utilitarian tool or trick of the trade, unnourished
by any spiritual rapport with the music. Indeed, we need fingers which not only
can touch, hear and see, but also feel the music; and we want our other senses to
act accordingly. It was this idea that prompted me to place musical meaning and
the world of our intuitions and emotions at the centre of the diagram above.
After all, we want to make music, and this only happens for myself, certainly
when the music, the musician and the instrument dissolve into one.
To elucidate this idea a little, I would like to turn our attention to one of the
oldest and most formidable of the Chinese martial arts: hsing-i, which evolved,
in fact, by creating human metaphors for the movements of certain animals.
Even though removed from the immediate context of my discussion, perhaps
there is a thing or two we can learn from martial artists, especially in the light of
their astonishing feats of bodymind coordination. Hsing denotes form, meaning the external being or manifestation of a person or an action, and i means intention or mind that is, the immaterial driving force behind that external
form. So students of hsing-i seek to capture the fundamental meaning of an animals movements, rather than merely trying to imitate them literally. Thus,
they learn to grasp by observing a bear, to swoop swiftly down from above by
watching a swallow, to strike with the hand by focusing on the pecking motion
of a chicken, and so on. An untrained student has neither hsing nor i; that is, no
knowledge of form or of meaning. But even after he attains mastery of both,
there remain the highest stages of development still to be conquered. For hes
expected to come back full circle to a condition of possessing no hsing and no i,
only that now both blend as a natural part of the martial artists being. In this
way he can move and react with supreme confidence and freedom according to
the demands of each moment, instead of following rigid rules. The paradox is
that at such advanced levels the fighter bears a surprising resemblance to a totally untrained person, and yet is inconspicuously in complete harmony with
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nature: he is nature and nature is him. I believe it is precisely the same kind of
freedom and egolessness which allows martial artists to react spontaneously and
eectively to the here-and-now of a combat situation that every creative musician hopes to capture while engaged in music making. Such freedom lies beyond the faculty of visualisation itself and the mere adherence to fixed patterns.
This idea leads me to take a closer look at the positivist conception of technique
as the strictly rational compliance with rules and natural laws.
Pseudoscience & the Myth of Scientific Truth
That technique cannot be reduced to the observance of set rules about physical
motion is argued by Busoni, among others:
Busonis remarks found in Brendel,
Musical Thoughts and Afterthoughts, p 111.
In ordinary conservatory training certain ways of playing are sometimes considered illegal tricks. In reality, there is no such thing.
Musical masterpieces are distinguished from academic compositions
by not adhering to all the rules all the time. It is impossible to
anticipate and solve all the problems including all the technical
ones arising in the interpretation of these great works in advance by
following technical school rules. There is no fingering which a pianist
must regard as taboo; no hand or finger position which must never
be assumed; no method of touch that may not be used. There are
only fingerings which are less usual; hand and finger positions which
are seldom necessary; methods of touch only exceptionally called for
in music. If they are unusual, the reason is that in the great majority
of cases they do not serve the musical purpose.
As I reflect on Busonis and Schnabels ideas I ask myself: can we really talk
about rules? Are there universal criteria to establish what kind of movements,
fingerings, methods of tone production, etc, do or do not qualify as grammatically correct? A common answer is that the criteria result from ones lifelong
experience as well as from the rational understanding of natural laws for
example, the laws that regulate the motion of physical objects, including our
hands, fingers, and so on. This is convincing enough but to whose experience
are we referring? What about Django Reinhardts? Was his technique in fact
questionable, just because it didnt follow the rules? It may be argued that hes
really an exception to the rules, because of his handicap and unusual talent. And
after all, he played jazz, not classical. As opposed to this, Id say that hes the rule
to follow inasmuch as he evinced a phenomenal capacity to connect his inner
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It then seems reasonable to think that in any learning process, a critical phase is
necessarily preceded by an intuitive or irrational one, in which an expectation
or a regularity of some kind emerges, inviting us to create our dogmas. These
on teaching the unteachable
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very dogmas, though, can in some cases be critically put to the test by looking
out creatively for circumstances in which they might let us down. Actually, the
tendency to stick to our beliefs and dogmas is quite legitimate and even necessary, to some extent, for these beliefs allow us to learn in gradual stages, by way
of approximations (the typical case being the search for a solution to a problem); and surely, without them we cannot even begin to grope into the unknown
by at least having a good guess. Moreover, we should not give up too easily in
our attempts to test them, because, as Popper points out, we may prevent ourselves from finding that we were very nearly right.
What may not at first be evident is that once a rule or regularity is seen to operate no matter how many times it cannot thereby be regarded as a natural
law. Bryan Magee explains the so-called problem of induction or Humes problem,
after David Hume (17111776), who first posed it:
The whole of science assumes that the future will be like the past
in all those respects in which natural laws are seen to operate yet
there is no way in which this assumption can be secured. It cannot be
established by observation, since we cannot observe future events.
And it cannot be established by logical argument, since from the fact
that all past futures have resembled past pasts it does not follow that
all future futures will resemble future pasts.
To put it another way, induction at best succeeds in making our conjectures
probable, rather than certain, and the scientific knowledge we possess at any
one time about the world is nothing but our tentative interpretation of the facts
we observe hence it stems primarily from hypotheses that we create.
I would now invite the reader to do a little exercise of rationalism: let us place
ourselves in a musical context and see how far we can get in a specific area of
performance, say, fingering. If we wanted to be soberly rational about our fingerings (especially when dealing with complex works), wed have to admit that
it is always we who ask nature is this a good fingering? and again it is we (coloured by all our concepts and prejudices) who answer by interpreting the deeds
of an unyielding nature who is ever ready to meet our trials with an unequivocal no or with an imperceptible yes. So it is unreasonable to expect to find irrefutable solutions just because we believe were following some rules or natural laws that presumably predict and account for everything that could possibly
happen (that is how we end up practising pseudoscience while claiming to be
scientific). On the contrary (and just as Magee said about genuine scientific theories), our logical fingerings are based on conjectures that rule out most of what
could possibly happen, and are themselves ruled out if what they rule out happens. Thus, the usefulness of being rational is to be able to restrict the choice
among logically possible solutions, and this is as far as our critical faculty alone
can take us. But even though we cannot rationally establish that a fingering is
irrefutable, we can assert that it is unserviceable until by trial and error we
might perhaps find otherwise. Our rules, then, are hypotheses which tentatively
forbid certain fingerings and thereby become merely provisional predictions of
the seemingly impossible. The beauty of it all, however, is that we can learn that
there are bold solutions utterly dierent from what we ever suspected, and that
our imagination is fired whenever we find that what we thought to be impossible was in fact possible. An example from personal experience is the opening of
the fourth variation in Brittens Nocturnal:
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IV Uneasy (slow q )
4
b b
V
4
cresc.
b b
V
3
Even after trying many ideas (including imagery), I still found the first burst of
fast notes (and the ensuing analogous one) next to impossible with the printed
fingering (upper stave), until a somewhat unusual option (the delayed action
of a left-hand slur along the fourth string, with 3 on the C slurring down to produce the B b) crossed my mind and surprisingly turned out to be a highly effective and reliable alternative (lower stave).
In the light of such experiences, in which we find ourselves refuting our own
conjectures or breaking the rules (by using an atypical slur, for example), Poppers path-breaking idea of falsifiability instead of verifiability clearly sets itself as the only logical criterion of demarcation between science and non-science:
Once we realise that all scientific statements areconjectures, and
that the vast majority of these conjectures (including Bacons own)
have turned out to be false, the Baconian myth becomes irrelevantwe question natureand try to elicit from her negative answers concerning the truth of our theories: we do not try to prove or
verify them, but we test them by trying to disprove or to falsify them,
to refute themNature very often resists quite successfully, forcing
us to discard our laws as refuted; but if we live we may try again.
Now while natures unequivocal no is discernible to the intellect, only our intuition can hear its imperceptible yes. Indeed, as creative musicians we sometimes
reach a point where it is no longer possible to say about our fingerings that they
are mere approximations to truth. Nor could anyone claim (as Popper so fittingly did about our positivist beliefs in natural laws) that they cannot have a
safer basis than our unsuccessful critical attempts to refute them. The reason is
that an artists best doings stem from the surest basis imaginable, namely, his poetic wisdom, which allows no room for uncertainty. Popper himself admitted the
possibility of arriving at absolute knowledge, even if he regards such certainty as
metaphysical, hence untestable and non-scientific, but not necessarily untrue,
meaningless or useless, as positivists would contend. So what real musicians are
after is creative (rather than unquestionable) fingerings and by extension, creative hand movements, creative methods of tone production, creative phrasings:
in short, creative musical interpretations.
Ibid. p 57.
87
jority of cases, students will require a minimum of explanation. But can we actually rationalise and elucidate what it is that makes our movements like this
especially if they have taken several decades of playing to become what they are?
Of course, there can be little point in trying to explain more than a problem demands, and the attempt may even end up in a paralysis of analysis. On the other
hand, the reality of how we play is always richer than the ideas we have about
it. What is more, we can so easily mistake what we do for what we think we do,
or falsify by contaminating our hands with the self-conscious look of movements that are being looked at. But lets imagine we are dealing with an eager,
advanced, and highly rational student who demands an unequivocal account of,
say, how left-hand shifting works. Perhaps we could try yet another exercise of
rationalism and see how far we get. In the sequence below, a is a cause that leads
to an eect b, and the arrow represents their physical and tangible connection
in time and space:
A
cause
88
B
eect
For example, if you have a billiard ball and you want it to hit another ball, the
trajectory of the first ball and the eect of hitting a second ball is an observable
and, to a considerable degree, predictable event, because the motion of a can
be accounted for in terms of Newtons mechanical laws and our ordinary sensory experience. And when it comes to shifting, the situation might be seen as
essentially the same: ones left hand is in one place, and it has to move to another. As long as we observe what we believe are natures laws, all that is
needed is a straight command sent from the mind instructing the hand to
move. Heinrich Neuhaus thought that all the technical problems in the piano
repertoire had a common denominator which he described as the fundamental
nucleus. Neuhaus explained it by borrowing concepts from physics (F = force;
m = mass; v = velocity and h = height) in a manner that seems clear and persuasive, yet guarding his back by saying that The mystery of art remains unfathomed, retaining all its force and scopebut one should not see the unfathomable where common sense, against whichall of us sin so much, can perfectly
well understand all there is to understand.
It seems to me that this kind of appeal to common sense epitomises a generalised symptom of pseudoscience, for it implies that our reasonableness should
be capable of arriving at ultimate explanations, that it can unequivocally distinguish the fathomable from the unfathomable, and that everybodys common
sense can grasp and agree about all there is to understand. If that were so,
then further explanation would not only be unnecessary but impossible, and
one would justifiably wonder how is it that everyone else could have failed to realise the simple truth. The fact is, for all we know, that such fathomable knowledge is pretty hard to come by. What is common sense, anyway? I believe it is a
hazy and fleeting thing; namely, the often satisfactory and true, but just as often
inadequate and mistaken, intuitions or opinions of many though never all
men; which is why it seems more sensible to think like Einstein did:
The only justification for our concepts and system of concepts is that
they serve to represent the complex of our experiences; beyond this
they have no legitimacy.
luis zea
Ifteachers are enlightened, their teaching may eectively take any form. If they
are not enlightened, whatever form their
teaching may take, it will actually blind
their students. Muso Kokushi, Dream
Conversations, pp 5051.
physical
This diagram has been borrowed from
Chopras Quantum Healing, p 97.
metaphysical
89
because it takes place in a hidden zone, below the line. The neuro-transmitters
behave like messengers running to and from the brain telling the whole body of
our desires, emotions, memories, concepts, images, etc, and generating a myriad of physiological changes and physical responses:
Part of an explanation given by
neurologist and Nobel Prize winner
Sir John Eccles at a conference of
parapsychologists. See Chopra,
Quantum Healing, p 65.
90
luis zea
Ibid.
91
Ibid. p 70.
92
At face value, in fact, they seem sensible advice, and if at some point thats what
we want to say, by all means let us say it. It appears, however, that when we formulate our ideas in language it is all too easy to assume that their full meaning
has been grasped and conveyed. It is as if the only requisite for understanding
them is that they be encapsulated in words. Once done, we close them as it
were and keep them in artificial compartments of knowledge. Now as Esslin
suggests (and Artaud might have argued), are we not thus turning words into
little more than complacent, pre-fabricated formulas to be used like a chequebook without backing as jaded tokens that have lost all rapport with the reality
they once emerged from and are still deemed to stand for? Be that as it may, the
thought often crosses my mind that when trying to explain, say, how to play a
scale, make a proper shift, or produce a good sound, our awareness tends to
confine itself to the purely discursive use of concepts and to what we can formulate in words, at the cost of disregarding the myriad of bodily sensations
which pervade our consciousness as performing musicians and despite the
luis zea
fact that they must play a primary role in determining, or at least colouring,
much of what is required of our fingers, our hands, indeed our whole being, to
play that scale, make that shift or produce that sound. Think, for instance, of the
tactile sensations induced by or associated with the temperature of the skin
of our fingertips; the presence or absence of oiliness or perspiration (relative
softness or dryness); the temperature and degree of humidity of the place; the
thickness, resistance and texture of the strings; the shape, length and consistency of our nails; the use of flesh and nail in caressing, gliding, piercing or
picking the strings as we play apoyando or tirando, and the corresponding fullness or thinness of the sound; the width and thickness of the fingerboard; the
weight of our hands and arms as we play; the sheer sense of physical displacement
as the hands move along and across the fingerboard or strings, and the corresponding feeling of security or insecurity; the degree of tension or relaxation of
our muscles; the comfort or discomfort as we hold the guitar the list is endless. Surely, hardly ever do we find ourselves able or willing to convert such bodily sensations into verbal form just as the innumerable stimuli that constantly
impinge upon us, drifting through our consciousness as powerful memories,
images, inner wish-fulfilments or daydreams, are rarely put into words or
thought about verbally (for example, the sound of a nearby river or cars passing
by, the movement of the evening breeze, the pressure and weight of the clothes
we wear, and many other external stimuli; as well as those emanating from
within ourselves, such as the taste of the food we eat, the sensation of swallowing it, the fullness or emptiness of our stomachs, the rhythm of our breathing,
the beating of our hearts, the movement of our tongue muscles as we speak, and
so on and on).
Thus, the need to be intuitively aware of, and spontaneously responsive to
such stimuli is hampered, on the one hand, by the proclivity to identify ourselves merely with that part of our consciousness which can be spoken about
that stream of words which tracs our minds as an unending internal monologue. On the other hand, language itself appears inadequate to describe our
bodily sensations, even though we are innate verbal labellers. Not unreasonably,
then, it can be argued that teachers and learners are justified in ignoring that
non-verbal aspect of consciousness. If it only exists outside the rational appeal
of the verbal plane (on which most teaching heavily relies), why bother? After
all, arent those non-verbal elements trivial in the extreme? Yet arent precisely
those body sensations very similar to, and experienced in the same dimension
as the ones aroused by our emotions? And isnt human emotion part and parcel of the very substance of music itself? What is this thing we call emotion,
anyway? As Esslin explains, words can evoke it, our consciousness is often overwhelmed by it, but emotion is not itself verbal. If we really look into their
essence, we shall find that, however intense or sublime, emotions are ultimately
experienced as bodily sensations (an increase or decrease in blood pressure, the
quickening or slowing down of the pulse or heartbeat, the sudden release of
sex hormones or perspiration, etc). The inescapable conclusion seems to be that
the tangible (our bodies and sensory perceptions) and intangible (our thoughts
and emotions) straddle what is merely a delusive divide and interact in ways
impervious to discursive language. I am also tempted to ask: doesnt the challenge of teaching and learning the unteachable involve the ability to re-establish
contact with life itself or should I not say with ourselves? The last section of my
article explores this question.
Ibid. p 69.
93
94
And so, once again we end up in the same corner: how can we teach what is essential and yet appears to be so elusive and neednt, indeed cant, be taught? As
I reflect on all the musical, technical and extra-musical problems posed in this
article it seems clear to me that the common thread which underlies them is our
primeval quest for freedom, something I envision as nothing more but nothing less than the naturalness and spontaneity of things. When we feel nervous
while performing, the fiercest battle takes place within ourselves, that is, between
our temporary identity (the thinking ego) and our essential nature (eortless
being). While the latter simply is, knows and does, the former calculates, longs for
success, shudders at the sight of failure and easily makes us feel as sti as a rock.
Indeed, we might experience a kind of death compelling us to resign to the expression that there is nothing to express, nothing with which to express, nothing
from which to express, no power to express, no desire to express, together with the
obligation to express. Not exactly an exciting prospect, this, so either we kill death,
or else it kills us! Surely, the cherished freedom cannot be captured by intellection;
but once attained, it endows our playing and whole being with an ineable and
overpowering simplicity that disguises its own depth to the eyes of the beholder.
Paradoxically, then, the path to mastery begins when you stop trying to reach it,
and ends with the master ignoring he is one for true mastery passes unnoticed.
In the East, spiritual practices such as meditation are considered essential
for the attainment of freedom. Both teacher and student gravitate around this
all-embracing goal which entails contacting a reality beyond all credos, philosophies, indeed all isms (including Buddhism) and even deeper than our sensory
perceptions, thoughts and emotions. In India masters referred to it as
What cannot be spoken with words, but that whereby words are spoken
What cannot be thought with the mind, but that whereby the mind can think
What cannot be seen with the eye, but that whereby the eye can see
What cannot be heard with the ear, but that whereby the ear can hear.
luis zea
May it not be that hidden zone we talked about earlier? Coloured as it is by the
filters we put on our perceptions, such a reality seems outside our ordinary experience of the world and anything the reasoning mind can conceive of. Kant
argued persuasively that the thing in itself is unknowable. Contrary to this,
though, Eastern masters hold that ascertaining it is possible, if only we are prepared to move from thinking to being, knowing and doing: The sun never
thinks,How can I be luminous? it is! Nor does the squirrel ever wonder, How
can I move freely? it knows!or the wind ever ask, How can I blow? it does!
In Zen circles there is a story about a man who is galloping on a horse and
seems to be going somewhere important. When someone standing along the
pathway asks him, Where are you going? the man replies: I dont know! Ask
the horse! Whether we realise it or not, this is also the story of most of us. For
we are ceaselessly thinking without knowing where our thinking will take us
and on top of that we cant stop. If anything, we take pride in being rational and
worship logic, believing that the knowledge about ourselves and the world can
only be unlocked by thinking.. Or at best we may realise, like Popper did, that
even though our thinking is fallible and can never attain truth, it can nevertheless take us gradually closer to the truth. Yet this is still not good enough for an
artist, since he knows that at the end of his quest there is nothing left to be uncertain about, no more room for approximations to truth. Instead, he becomes
the embodiment of truth itself:
This something will come about which cannot be taught, that
grace of the quiet hour when the spirit of the composer speaks to
us, that unconscious moment of ecstasyof self-detachment, call
it intuition, grace when all fetters, all inhibitions vanish. You feel
yourself floating. One no longer feels: I am playing, but it is playing,
and behold, everything is right.
That science, of all things, is destined to stay within the bounds of uncertainty
while art ends in certainty should be salutary. Contrary to Bacons old-fashioned
doctrine of induction (that true knowledge only results from our rational and
allegedly unprejudiced observation of nature), Einstein once stated that it is the
theory [i.e. our filters] which decides what we can observe. While it then seems
reasonable to assume that you can change your world if you change your filters,
I like to think that by removing your filters you can know yourself and the world.
It is extraordinary that the great physicists idea is already contained in a verse
from the ageless Vedas: What you see you become. This aphorism suggests that
we and the world are metaphors for each other. To put it another way, knowledge
diers according to the knowers state of consciousness. In fact, Vedic masters
hold that the world is to be grasped in terms of what they call samhita, a concept embracing three interconnected elements: the knowing subject (observer
or rishi), the known object (the observed or chandas) and the process of knowing (observation or devata). According to the Vedic tradition, complete knowledge is only possible when these three elements blend together into one. What
I find most revealing here is the indispensability of self-awareness for the attainment of truth, which suggests that Einsteins knowledge was incomplete in so far
as he may have excluded himself from the undertaking. If this is so, it is not unreasonable to conjecture that the laws of nature can be fathomed when, instead
of analysing them, we unite with them. In other words, the essence of things is
perhaps revealed when they no longer have the look of things that are being
on teaching the unteachable
95
knower
(observer)
RISHI
KNOWL EDGE
devata
chandas
process of
knowing
(observation)
known object
(the observed)
looked at, or the meaning of things that are being thought about. For only thus
could our perceptions and our thinking be truly unprejudiced.
On the other hand, the concept of samhita also suggests that the teaching
of knowledge without a knowing subject (i.e. knowledge in the sense described
by Popper as objective and conjectural) is simply instruction. This idea now
takes me back full circle to Dalcrozes principle and prompts me to reformulate
it yet again:
real teaching is inducing the student to know himself rarely can
mere instruction be expected to accomplish that.
Certainly, as our self-awareness grows so does our freedom to speak what cannot
be spoken, think what cannot be thought, see what cannot be seen, hear what
cannot be heardand indeed learn what cannot be learnt and teach what cannot be taught. Have we not paid too high a price by focusing on the object of
knowledge and the process of knowing at the expense of not knowing ourselves?
For it may well be that what we are, what we apprehend and how we teach and
learn the unteachable are but one thing and nobodys choice except ours.
But above and beyond theres still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover
But the cat himself knows, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineable, eable
Eanineable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.
96
luis zea
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Chopra, Deepak. Quantum Healing: exploring the frontiers of mind/body
medicine, New York, Bantam Books, 1989
Chosky, Lois, Robert Abramson, Avon Gillespie & David Woods. Teaching
Music in the Twentieth Century, Englewoods Cliffs (nj), Prentice Hall, 1986
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Degas, Edgard. Notebooks (1856), in Artists on Art, ed. Robert Goldwater &
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Gillen, Ruth, ed. The Writings and Letters of Konrad Wol, Westport (ct),
Greenwood Press, 2000
Hawkes, Terence. Structuralism and Semiotics, London, Methuen, 1977
Kant, Immanuel. Critique of Pure Reason (1787), tr. Norman Kemp Smith,
London, Macmillan, 1929
Kokushi, Muso (12751351). Dream Conversations (On Buddhism and Zen), tr.
& ed. Thomas Cleary, Boston, Shambala, 1994
Lao-Tzu (c. 300 bc). Tao Te Ching
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Meyer, Leonard B. Music, the Arts and Ideas, University of Chicago Press, 1967
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Neuhaus, Heinrich. The Art of Piano Playing, London, Barrie & Jenkins, 1973
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98
luis zea
contributors
julian bream was born in 1933. His many performances, recordings and
commissions have established him as one of the most significant figures in
the guitars history. His 1957 article,How to Write for the Guitar, is reprinted
in Guitar Forum as a tribute to him on his seventieth birthday, with our gratitude and congratulations.
sarn dyer is a composer, arranger and librettist with a special interest in
guitar methodology. He studied the guitar with Alexandre Lagoya and Jos
Toms, and composition with Patric Stanford. His compositions, transcriptions, arrangements, studies and teaching materials will be published at the
end of this year by Guitar Master Editions (www.guitareditions.com). These
include a course for learning the guitar fingerboard from the earliest stages
of study using the folk music of Spain.
lorenzo micheli came to international prominence in 1999 as the winner
of the Guitar Foundation of America competition in the usa, having already
gained several first prizes in Europe. He has since toured throughout the
world and released recordings of Aguado and Castelnuovo-Tedesco, with further recordings of Llobet and de Fossa in preparation. His principal teachers
were Paola Coppi, Frdric Zigante and Oscar Ghiglia.
fabio zanon (MMus, ARAM) was born in Brazil and had his education as
a guitarist, conductor and musicologist at the University of So Paulo and at
the Royal Academy of Music in London. Since winning the first prizes at the
Trrega and Guitar Foundation of America competitions in 1996, he has developed a solid international career both as a performer and as a recording
artist with a vast repertoire, one in which neglected masterworks occupy a
central position.
luis zea is a performing and recording artist who studied with the legendary composer Antonio Lauro. He earned degrees from London (Kings
College) and Reading Universities, and also studied privately with John
Duarte and Leopoldo Igarza. He has toured and given masterclasses worldwide, and served as full-time Visiting Professor at Indiana Universitys
School of Music. He is also a composer, arranger and author. His articles
have been published in Guitar International, Guitar Player, Gitarre und Laute
and Classical Guitar, notably a long series devoted to the music of Lauro. He
teaches in Caracas at iudem (Instituto Universitario de Estudios Musicales).
99
E G T AIU K
I encourage all
guitarists to take an
interest and join.
John Williams, obe
Honorary President
Annual Conference
Masterclasses
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Regional Meetings
nyge
egta Series
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Information
Activities
an annual summer event covering a wide range of musical and educational
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celebrated musicians
past artists have included Paul Galbraith, Sharon Isbin, Ricardo Iznaola, Los
Angeles Guitar Quartet, David Russell, David Starobin, David Tannenbaum,
the late Jos Toms, John Williams, Fabio Zanon, Zagreb Guitar Trio
to promote local interest in the guitar
National Youth Guitar Ensemble, a major new project sponsored and
organised by egta uk (see opposite)
Publications
published by Chanterelle and Mel Bay. The egta Series with its parallel
use of solo and accompanied piecesrepresents a major contribution to the
changing needs of guitar teaching. John Williams
articles on pedagogy, repertory and technique by leading players, teachers and
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Only full membership carries full voting rights. Annual subscription is
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joining after 1 June
John Williams, obe (Honorary President), Stephen Dodgson, Ricardo
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Secretary, Sarah Clarke, 29 Longfield Road, Tring, Herts, hp23 4dg, uk
email: GinetteDiffley@aol.com
N AT I O N A L
youth I G U I T A R IE N S E M B L E I( U K )
T H E N AT I O N A L Y O U T H G U I TA R E N S E M B L E
was formed in 1999 to provide talented young guitarists
from across the country with the opportunity to play
together under the guidance of leading guitar ensemble
specialists. Its first public performance was in July 2000 at
the 3rd International egta Congress at Girton College,
Cambridge, in the presence of Leo Brouwer.
In 2002, under its current musical director Richard Wright,
the nyge played to a capacity audience at the Bath
Guildhall as part of the Bath International Guitar Festival.
The concert included the first performance of Stephen
Dodgsons Watersmeet for solo guitar and guitar ensemble,
in which the soloist was the legendary John Williams (see
picture). In 2003 nyge appeared at the Dundee Guitar
Festival in July.
Interest in the NGYE has grown to the extent that there is
now a second ensemble for younger and less advanced
players known as the nyge Academy. They gave their
debut under the baton of Gerald Garcia, their Musical
Director, at the 2003 egta conference in Cambridge.
John Williams with nyge and musical director Richard Wright at the 2002
International Guitar Festival in Bath.
Contact Chris Susans, Wavertree, 26 Burton Road, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leics, LE65 2LL 01530 416564 chrissusans@euphony.net
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CAPRIOL
Anthony Dodds lram
75 East Street, Bridport, Dorset dt6 3lb
LUIS ZEA
Already published:
www.dobermaneditions.com
www.capriol.com
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