WEAK FOURTH FINGER? AND WHAT ABOUT THE FOURTH FINGER IN OCTAVES?

     A student writes: "I have a general question about use of the 4th finger. I find myself often considering avoiding the 4th finger on both chords and running passages because I feel mine is too weak. But this avoidance can come with other problems or compromises."

     My response: Unless you've had an injury to your fourth finger or have some other ailment, there is nothing wrong with it; it is not weak. It can seem weak if we try to lift it away from the hand, something that it wasn't designed to do. As you probably know, there is tissue that connects the fourth to the third on the top of the hand. The fourth finger can, however, be made to feel strong by making sure that the arm is behind it and that it plays as a part of the hand, not separated from it. There's really more here to discuss, but I don't want to pummel you to death with words.

     The student continues: "I am presently learning Gershwin's own arrangement of 'Fascinatin' Rhythm' from the Gershwin Song Book.  In measure 12, the first RH chord (A-flat triad in 2nd inversion) must be played with 2-3-5 or 2-4-5. Although 2-4-5 is more comfortable in terms of less stretching, I use 2-3-5 because it feels more solid using the 3rd finger. The compromise is the extra stretching involved. Neither fingering is ideal."

          My response: Since we select fingering in order to avoid stretching, it isn't reasonable to stretch in order to avoid the fourth finger. In the  example, measure three above, fourth finger on A-flat works very nicely if you angle your hand slightly to the right. I call this scissors. This puts more arm weight on the outside of the hand. Incidentally, the last beat of the previous measure can be played with 1, 2, 5 on the C-seven chord, repeating the thumb on the B-flat. This puts your hand in a perfect position to play the triad on the downbeat in measure 12. There are other possibilities involving other technical concepts, but you really don't need to avoid four.

     He continues: "In the very last measure of the piece the fast RH run (G, B-flat, C, E-flat, G) is probably meant to be played using RH 1-2-3-4-5 but this also feels weak to me."

  

     My response: In the final measure, don't feel locked into any fingering or hand division. If you don't like the division as printed, play the first E-flat a little bit by itself, giving the hand time to open for 3, 2, 1 in succession to G. Start the right hand on B-flat with 1, 2, 3, 5 and cross with left for the top note. In this sense we are seeming to avoid the fourth finger, but not because it's weak or wouldn't work in this passage, but rather to toss off a flourish easily. The division of hands as printed also works using the fourth on E-flat if you tilt your hand slightly to the right (scissors) as in the previous example. Be sure to take your thumb with you; don't leave it on the G.

     There's no shame in looking for facile fingerings. But if we learn how to use the fourth finger to its best advantage, with the arm providing the weight it needs rather than trying to lift it away from the hand, it can serve us very well.

     On a related issue, another pianist asks if he should practice octaves fingered, that is, using the fourth and fifth fingers. In this case, I encourage avoidance of the fourth finger.

     If the hand is large enough to use the fourth finger without reaching to an extreme, one might get away with fingering octaves. But the possibilities for injury are great. Think for a moment about all of the repetitions necessary for working up a showy octave passage. If in any of these iterations the hand tenses, there could be a build up of unnecessary strain.

     I recommend that all octave passages be played with five. The method I use is a combination of staccato and rotation, feeling hinged at five, which is difficult to explain without demonstrating. Fast octaves cannot succeed with just an up and down arm movement. Some will advocate that octaves originate from the wrist, which is not true, although the wrist remains flexible.

     For speed, try staying in line with the black keys in order to avoid extra in and out movements. In smaller hands this can be more difficult, as octaves feel smaller at the outer edges of the keys. In this case, when there are two or more white octaves in succession, it is possible to shape out, toward the torso. Also, group them according to the musical direction and/or leaps vs steps, as in the second-page octaves in the Liszt sonata or the opening of the E-flat concerto. Octaves can also be shaped over and under, as in the left hand passages in the A-flat polonaise of Chopin. (For a glimpse of this shaping, listen to Rubinstein in the Listen tab above.) Make sure to keep track of a pulse in extended passages like those in the Tchaikovsky concerto. The hands need milestones in order to stay organized. Fast, even legato-sounding octave passages can be achieved using all fives.

On Voicing in the Moonlight Sonata

    A student asks about showing the melody notes in the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata. Sometimes this involves an interval exceeding an octave. We are talking here, of course, about voicing. 

    Voicing chords is the way we give color to our performances. Imagine combining colors of the white and black keys. Gray. Nothing but gray. I once saw a New Yorker cartoon that brilliantly illustrates what we are after as pianists. There was an enormous black grand piano on a stage with black curtains at the sides and upstage. The pianist wore black tails. Such a dreary image. But from inside the raised piano lid came a staff, a musical rainbow with notes of red, blue yellow, you name it.

     If we attack the all keys under our hands with the same weight we get sameness, gray. But if we listen well for relationships, we can begin to feel a difference in weight relationships. This can be applied to any part of a chord, not just the melody. Perhaps there is an inner voice. Or maybe there is one note, or two, that might be shown in the way that a French horn in the orchestra might sound—just for a moment of fleeting color.

     A contributor to the discussion wrote: Dorothy Taubman had a very interesting way of teaching voicing to her students. One of the things she used to say in master class was to play the top note with your finger, and the other notes with your arm. She also used to have her students play the top note separately, producing a full, ringing sound. Then she would have the student play the other notes separately with a quieter, more transparent sound. Once the two sounds could be produced consistently and successfully with their separate fingers, then she had the student play all the fingers together trying to produce their respective colors. If it didn't work right away, she would have the student alternate "separate" and "together" until the voicing was very pronounced.

     How refreshing it was to hear someone quote Taubman. I thought I was the only one who heard her lectures—all of them many times—and participated in her master classes. (My teacher, after I finished my MS, was Golandsky.) I like the idea of finger vs arm when voicing to the outside of the hand. I've noticed a problem over the years, though, with students falling into the trap of disconnecting the melody note from the supporting chord, a sort of rolled effect. I like to use the imagery of the melody finger digging slightly deeper than the other fingers as if making indentations in wet sand. This, of course, is just another way of talking about distributing the weight. This concept can be applied to any part of a group of notes. Try practicing it on a triad, feeling the weight shift on each note in succession with each iteration of the triad.

Don't Interpret My Music!

     A pianist writes: Both Beethoven and Chopin expressed a wish, that players would not attempt to "interpret" their works, but just play them. What does this really mean?

     I  take this comment to mean "please observe what's in the score." Stravinsky, too, made such a comment about his music, preaching "against interpretation." And yet, when you hear him play his own piano music, there is at the very least, breathing, rubato even, not to mention inflection. He famously said, "I haven't understood a bar of music in my life, but I have felt it." Is feeling not "interpreting?"

      We have contemporary accounts of Beethoven's own performances of his pieces, which he apparently played differently every time, including varying tempos. He opposed publishers' notions of giving programmatic titles to his music, yet he made comments like "music should strike fire from the heart of man, and bring tears form the eyes of woman." 

     Chopin: "Sometimes I can only groan, and suffer, and pour out my despair at the piano!" With a comment like this, it's no wonder that pianists moon over his music, perhaps to excess. But how much is too much? What we are really talking about is taste, for which there is no accounting.

     Composers of yore were expressing a lack of faith in future performers of their works, a lack of faith that the score would be adhered to. This lack of faith was justified in the casual approach many virtuosos of the day took to music in performance, which could be subject to the whims of any passing ego. Bach, too, famously wrote out much of his ornamentation in order to thwart the incompetent improvisor. 

     So, as re-creators it is our duty to play what's in the score. But in so doing, we are making decisions as to relationships, how much of what is appropriate. These are personal choices, matters of taste, our taste. CPE Bach wrote all those years ago in his "On the True Art of Keyboard Playing" that, after listing all the rules of performance practice, "If it doesn't sound good, don't do it."

     Some in the discussion commented on authenticity in performance. It is perhaps possible to build instruments as they might have been constructed during a given period and it is possible to study written accounts of performance practices. In so doing, we might gain some insight into how these instruments would have sounded in certain repertoire. But it is impossible to have an authentic period musical experience because we are encumbered of all of the musical styles and performance practices that stand between us and the period in question. We are, so to speak, too jaded to have a pure authentic musical experience. J.S. Bach, by the way, did finally accept the foretpiano shortly before his death, if only half-heartedly.

On Retraining While Actively Performing

     A professional jazz pianist came to me complaining of discomfort in his right arm. The problem apparently stems from an injury unrelated to the piano, though playing exacerbates the discomfort. Imagine how disheartening it would be to have to suffer while doing the thing that you love. He even considered giving up playing, but finally concluded that wouldn't be an option. This pianist is highly sought after and performs regularly for many hours at a time. It is his livelihood. What to do? How do we treat that part of his underlying technique that is not functioning while he continues to perform in public? 

     Normally when there is pain or discomfort I suggest a piano vacation until the pain subsides. This is because in order to monitor new physical movements, it is easier to work with a fresh playing apparatus. Much of what we consider while training is how the new movement feels; we evaluate the sensations. If the new movement is somehow encumbered with the leftovers from old movements, physical confusion can ensue. Muscle memory is very powerful. After all, we rely on it in speed.

     Since a pianistic vacation was out of the question, we decided to proceed by examining the obvious: What was his relationship of fingers to the key. We found that much of the time—but not always—he hovered above the keys. By this I mean that he wasn't completing each note before moving onto the next. He wasn't allowing his fingers to walk from key to key, transferring weight as he went. Instead, much of the time he held his arm rather rigidly above the keys and depressed the key by isolating individual fingers. This is something like trying to walk down the road without really making a footprint. In order to feel really at home while playing, the sensation should be one of balance, of being at rest at the bottom of each key before moving on to the next. Try this: Stand at ease on both feet. Now, take a step forward, but instead of putting all of your weight on that step, favor it as if it had a sprain. This is a hobble, and at the keyboard the sensation is very similar. I call this a bump in the action. Trust me, these bumps can add up to considerable discomfort over a period of hours.

     In the process of getting him established in the key, by getting his forearm behind the finger playing and developing the sensation of walking note to note through a forearm rotation, we discovered, quite by accident, that some of the riffs he uses regularly in his jazz interpolations contained built-in bumps. These bumps occurred regularly in semi-arpeggiated figures at points where the thumb needed to throw the hand into a new position. By retraining the thumb in these passages, we were able to make considerable progress in a rather short time. He reports that already he is beginning to feel a more agreeable relationship with the keyboard, although there is considerably more work to do.

     So it is possible to retrain while maintaining a performing schedule, though it is not my preferred way to work. When I was much younger and accidentally stumbled upon this way of playing, I, too, was in the midst of a performing career but decided to retrain anyway. Fortunately, though, I wasn't coming from injury but instead was interested in learning how to be in charge of my technique. I write more about these issues in my new book, Piano Technique Demystified: Insights into Problem Solving.

     

Mozart Sonata, K. 330: Controlling the Left Hand

     A former student writes: "I heard versions of movement one with detached bass measure 26-29 . (A version I preferred opted for pedaling measures 27 & 29.) But trying the 4 measures detached was difficult, as I found myself unable to keep the detached passage QUIET and even.  Any hints?"

Mozart Sonata, K. 330

     My response: Without seeing what you are doing, it's hard to say exactly what might be bothering you. But generically, for detached L.H. in measure [2 above], try starting with 5-4-1, then 5-3-1, 4-2-1. Start a little out with 5 and move in the direction of the fall board (in) for thumb. So, shape from out to in. The finger plucks from the key, as if trying to flick an ash off, but this is tiny, tiny, tiny. You will remain very close to the keys, even riding the key. I wouldn't pedal measure [3 above] but might rather over-hold the L.H. C to give more sonority. 

     The shaping in and out is a more general way to get the forearm behind the finger that is playing. The way we apply the weight of the forearm is how we control the dynamic. The slight plucking motion of the fingers gives the hint of detachment he is looking for.

     The student indicated he had problems with the trill at the opening of the movement. Like all ornaments indicated with only a symbol, it is necessary to assign to it a specific number of notes, a rhythm and determine its relationship to the left-hand figure.

     He'll let us know if this helps.

On Perfectionism in Piano Performance

     We pianists tend to be compulsive types. If we aren't at the piano, we feel we should be. If we aren't practicing for that next big event, something gnaws at our unconscious. This drive is both an asset and a liability. On the one hand it compels us to achieve great things and on the other it compels us to attempt to over-achieve. Striving for perfection is a good thing as long as we realize how elusive it is.

     There was a time, yes, even in my lifetime—that's how old I am—when a performance was ephemeral. It happened in time. Floated for a magic moment in one's consciousness and then was gone forever, leaving only shards of impression in the listener's mind. Preparing for such a performance was not so different from preparing today, except that today our performances come in the wake of umpteen recordings, shaved to perfection in the studio. How do we compete, live, with such perfection? Well, we can't, not really. Though I would venture a guess that this particular pressure has contributed to the ever-increasing technical prowess of young pianists—and, regrettably, to the homogenization of many of the resulting interpretations. The anxiety level, too, has without doubt risen correspondingly.  And YouTube looms as a burgeoning threat, perhaps to come back and haunt the performer long after the fact. When performances are captured surreptitiously, unauthorized, it is theft and diminishes all of us.

     Standards of accuracy in performance are much higher now than they were even when I was young. It was possible to make an impression with musical effects, though imperfect in technical execution. The Brahms B-flat concerto and the Rachmaninoff third were benchmarks, thought impossible to play technically reliably. I grew up on Rudolf Serkin's technical imperfections and insightful interpretations, thinking that was the standard. Then along came Garrick Ohlsson, who played the Brahms note perfectly one summer at Tanglewood.  I was shocked. Van Cliburn won the Tchaikovsky with a stunning performance of the Rachmaninoff third that was sprinkled with inaccuracies; it's still my favorite recorded performance. Today, every young pianist can play it without event. 

     Just because we now know these spectacularly accurate performances are possible, does not necessarily mean that they are the norm. I've heard many a great artist fail to meet his/her own benchmarks on many an occasion, which is not to say that the performances were at all disappointing. So let us prepare as best we can, setting our goals high, but let the idea of the music carry us along so that, just in case a note or two falls by the wayside, the music will survive.

     Take a look at this video of assorted greats in not so great moments, starting with a spoof by Victor Borge. I was present in the audience for that fateful return to Carnegie Hall by Horowitz. The concert was electric. About halfway through the video, which I assume is authorized, there is a wonderfully insightful interview with the immortal Arthur Rubinstein: Great Pianists, Great Imperfections.