Beethoven's Reach
or why I am studying “The
Moonlight Sonata” at last
Many years ago, when I was the darling
of my piano teacher and a senior in high school, she suggested to me
that my next piece might be Beethoven's Pathetique Sonata. Around
that same time, I received a flyer in the mail for a set of piano
literature designed for students and published at a student-friendly
price—or so the advertisement said. Not having the best head for
finance, I purchased the set. I remember unpacking it on my mother's
pedestal oak table. Out came two volumes of Bach's Well-Tempered
Clavier, Mozart Sonatas, and Chopin preludes. The two volumes that
caught my first attention, though, were those of the Beethoven piano
sonatas. I went to the piano with them immediately.
Since then, whenever my mind and soul
are frayed from too much sociability, work, or too many children's
needs, my solace has been to spend an evening reading through
Beethoven sonatas. I joked that I just wanted to read them the way
one reads a novel—to see how it comes out. Since Beethoven's music
is anything but predictable, this made some sense, but that's not
really what drew me back to Beethoven again and again.
For years I attributed my fondness for
the Beethoven sonatas to what I call “the church measures” in
every one of them—those measures of inimitable harmonic perfection.
As lovely as they were, though, I don't think that was why I kept
returning to Beethoven. Sometimes I blamed the “inevitability” of
each of Beethoven's runs. The notes in this descending figure or that
ascending set of triplets are always exactly the right notes, though
they don't follow predictable harmonic patterns.
Sometime after I started composing
seriously, I came across an online course on composition that used
the Beethoven Sonatas as examples. I would read a chapter of the
course, look at the sonata score, and wind myself back to the piano
to try out the truth of the author's rules of composition derived
from Beethoven. I remember finding the course useful as I began the
long process of gaining some small amount of control over the
direction and form my compositions took.
Along the way, some of the slower bits
crept their way into my repertoire. I could play the slow movement of
the Pathetique, and of course, I learned the Adagio Sostenuto of Opus
27, number 2—the so-called “Moonlight” Sonata. My friend David
Emerson, who was a welcoming voice on the other end of the phone and
a willing collaborator when I first started making the way safe for
music here in Conway, told me that he loved that piece. I don't know
if I ever got to play it in his hearing, but I had the privilege of
playing it at his funeral—and it will always afterward remind me of
his bright soul.
So I supposed it was inevitable that I
would finally decide to study all of “The Moonlight Sonata.” I
dove in after my big summer projects were finished and found that I
could at least play the notes at a slow pace. Now many months of
study have gone by and I find that I can play the whole sonata, and
communicate at least some of the interpretations I've gleaned from
the dots and lines on the page.
When I got to the first A major piano
section in the third movement I wondered what in the world Beethoven
was doing throwing in that tinkly little theme. But as I studied the
music of this movement from the tumultous opening to this cute
figure I began to appreciate the power of such stark contrasts. These
contrasts constitute what I think is important about the whole
sonata. The dark night of first movement, with it's funeral march
figure, gives way to the innocent optimism of the second movement,
with its lightness and ease. That ease in turn reverts to more tumult
made from rising arpeggios wringing with anticipation and seasoned
with a pining melody.
Every note is in the right place, and
is held the right amount of time. Each chord resolves in precisely
the right way to the one that follows. I admire that thoroughgoing
musical logic, the perfect harmony, and the poignant melody. The
perfection of the whole does not explain the power of the music,
however. That is the mystery of Beethoven's gifts to us.
For many years now, I've spent a large
part of the time I have at the piano on composition. The allure of
this activity is for me as mysterious as my affinity for Beethoven's
music. Even though piano is my first and most beloved instrument, one
of the paradoxes of my composing journey is that I've always been
intimidated by writing solo piano music. I wrote a few pieces some
years ago and think of them as student pieces, although one is more
complicated than that, actually. I put piano parts in much of my
chamber music. But the complexity engendered by 10 fingers times 88
notes, played in so many articulations and combinations, put me off
the idea of writing piano music for a long time, not to mention the
difficulty of writing all that on only two staves. Somehow, though,
while I was engaged in the study of Beethoven's most famous sonata, I
found myself composing piano music.
With trepidation, I began to structure
the music I was improvising into my Sonata in the Old Style. While
I was never consciously quoting Beethoven's music, my sonata looks
backward to the music I've been swimming through for years. I spent
several months with two movements of this sonata, coaxing it into a
classical form as much as it would go. On Christmas Eve, I
played my sonata—the two movements of it that existed that day—and
let my fingers wander over the keys in a conscious attempt to listen
to what might come next. Out spilled a pastorale filled with
overlapped resonances. It is quite different from the other
movements, and it is comes from them in some way, but takes into
account other voices, I hope.
Beethoven did not spring into existence
from nothing. He made his way to Parnassus in the usual fashion with
teachers and textbooks. One of his teachers was Joseph Haydn—and
that should surprise no one who has played Beethoven's more
accessible piano works. Maisie Brown shares the gem that is Fur
Elise. The middle section of that piece reads a great deal like many
Haydn sonatas—but it includes a fiery section that is all
Beethoven.
Haydn's D major piano sonata shows off
the roots of Beethoven's beginnings very well. There are vibrant
passages that resolve to satisfyingly incomplete minor chords. There
is a lovely poignant melody worked out in ever-increasing complexity.
In the final movement there is a coda that begins with a dramatic
chord. It's easy to see that Beethoven wasn't inventing from
nothing—he was innovating from a great height.
Beethoven's music seems to resonate for
everyone. It has held the attention of musicians and listeners for
centuries including Dmitri Shostakovich. The last piece Shostakovich
wrote before he died was his Viola Sonata. This piece clearly quotes
“The Moonlight Sonata.” It makes new music of it, and ends with a
profound return to the simplest of musical relationships. Julia
Howell helps me share the final movement of this sonata. As Julia
put it “the ghost of Beethoven appears, and then you die.”
I will perform this music at several
upcoming concerts. I'll play a Music as Meditation that includes this
music on Tuesday, January 30th at the Unitarian
Universalist Fellowship of the Eastern Slope in Tamworth, New
Hampshire at 6:30 PM. Admission to that concert is free. Donations to
offset the Fellowship's expenses for heating and piano upkeep will be
collected.
Another performance will take place on
Saturday, February 3 at Tin Mountain Conservation Center in Albany.
The concert is titled “Beethoven's Reach” and is presented by
Mountain Top Music Center. Tickets cost $25 and proceeds go toward
furthering Mountain Top's mission of enriching lives through music.
The Concert starts at 7:30 PM. Tickets may be purchased online at
mountaintopmusic.org or by calling 603-447-4737.
