Performance Approach in the Recorded History of Alban Berg's

Home , Alfred Brendel, Murray Perahia, Piano Sonata (Berg)

Performance Approach in the Recorded History of Alban Berg’s Piano Sonata, Op. 1

Michael Anthony Thibodeau

A thesis submitted in conformity with the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Musical Arts

Faculty of Music University of Toronto

Michael Anthony Thibodeau

Doctor of Musical Arts

Faculty of Music University of Toronto

2018

Abstract

Growing discomfort with musicology’s ease in viewing the score as synonymous with act has propelled recent work in performance studies. Preoccupation with urtexts has encouraged the singularity of composer’s intent while discouraging inquiry into the mosaic of interpretative approach where performance practice and musicality can be essayed. Research into recordings that reveals performers’ agencies allows problematic assignment of composer’s intent to be eroded, demystifies artists’ aesthetics, underscores the plurality of musical approach, and details the systems used to bring the score into sound. My thesis considers the recording history of

Alban Berg’s Piano Sonata, Op. 1. Chapter 1 examines fifteen performers’ approach to the first twelve measures, enabling their categorization according to temporal shape, structural articulation, and score fidelity. Descriptive analysis was joined with empirical data on rubato, facilitated by the application Sonic Visualiser. The resulting classifications reveal performance practice, tradition, and aesthetic. Chapter 2 investigates Glenn Gould’s longtime relationship with the work. Timing, manual asynchrony, and temporal shape are discussed in his eight performances encapsulated on various media; and Gould’s changing aesthetic through three separate decades is analyzed. Chapter 3 explores the intersection of music theory and performance. Music theorists’ motivic, harmonic, and formal analyses are reviewed and ii juxtaposed against performers’ articulation of motivic and formal structure. The results demonstrate that performers’ and theorists’ segmentation of themes and form often align, with divergences encouraging further points of discussion. My thesis reveals that performing is itself a practice, in constant flux and governed by interpretative methodologies resulting in deviation from the literal execution of the score. If practice evolves, so too must the pieces these systems realize. That works are not fixed entities emphasizes the social construction of musical taste.

Ultimately, it is hoped that this research will undermine problematic assignment of composer’s intent and assist in the ontology of practice and musicality.

iii Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Professor Ryan McClelland for his support of this paper, the product of research in a burgeoning field of inquiry. My gratitude also extends to Professors Donald McLean, James Parker, and Caryl Clark for their guidance in its submission.

To my wife Alina, thank you for your love and encouragement. To my son Hudson, you were the most beautiful gift during this degree. To my parents and grandparents, thank you for your longtime support of my musical and academic endeavours.

iv Table of Contents

Acknowledgements ...... iv Table of Contents ...... v List of Tables ...... vii List of Figures ...... viii List of Appendices ...... x - Introduction ...... 1

Chapter 1: Performance Methodology Demonstrated in Fifteen Recordings of Alban Berg’s Piano Sonata

1.1 Literature Review: Performance Studies ...... 5 1.2 Recording Analysis ...... 12

Chapter 2: Changing Aesthetic in Glenn Gould’s Recordings of Alban Berg’s Piano Sonata between 1952 and 1974

2.1 Literature Review: Glenn Gould ...... 32 2.2 Recording Analysis ...... 35 2.2.1 Timing ...... 39 2.2.2 Manual Asynchrony ...... 43 2.2.3 Temporal Shape ...... 48

Chapter 3: The Intersection of Performance and Analysis as Evidenced in Alban Berg’s Piano Sonata

3.1 Literature Review: The Intersection of Music Theory and Performance ...... 54 3.2 Literature Review: Music Theorists' Interpretations of Alban Berg’s Piano Sonata ...... 59

v 3.3 On the Potential for Analysis to Inform Performance Approach ...... 68 3.4 Recording Analyses ...... 70 3.4.1 Performers’ Tempo at the Exposition’s Formal Sections ...... 70 3.4.2 Performers’ Articulation of Motivic Structure ...... 78

Chapter 4: Anticipating Further Research and Conclusion

4.1 Anticipating Further Research ...... 87 4.2 Conclusion ...... 93 - Appendix ...... 95 Bibliography ...... 108 Discography ...... 112

vi List of Tables

Table 1.1: Table of Recordings ...... 14 Table 2.1: Gould’s performances of Alban Berg’s sonata preserved on media ...... 36 Table 2.2: Duration of theme, in seconds, across Gould’s recordings ...... 41 Table 3.1: Analyses of the sonata’s exposition ...... 67 Table 3.2: Additional recordings used in recording analysis ...... 72 Table 3.3: Berg’s tempo indications during the exposition, ranked fast to slow ...... 72 Table 3.4: Recordings included for Grundgestalt analysis ...... 79 Table 3.5: Data collected from the fifteen recordings, listed in beats per minute ...... 80

vii List of Figures

Figure 1.1: The first phrase of Alban Berg’s piano sonata, mm. 1-4 ...... 13 Figure 1.2: Daniel Barenboim’s approach between mm. 1-12 ...... 17 Figure 1.3: Alfred Brendel’s approach between mm. 1-12 ...... 18 Figure 1.4: Allison Brewster Franzetti’s approach between mm. 1-12 ...... 19 Figure 1.5: Murray Perahia’s approach between mm. 1-12 ...... 20 Figure 1.6: Maurizio Pollini’s approach between mm. 1-12 ...... 20 Figure 1.7: Jörg Demus’ approach between mm. 1-12 ...... 21 Figure 1.8: Adam Fellegi’s approach between mm. 1-12 ...... 23 Figure 1.9: Stephen Hough’s approach between mm. 1-12 ...... 24 Figure 1.10: Anton Kuerti’s approach between mm. 1-12 ...... 25 Figure 1.11: İdil Biret’s approach between mm. 1-12 ...... 26 Figure 1.12: Carol Colburn’s approach between mm. 1-12 ...... 26 Figure 1.13: Franzpeters Goebels’ approach between mm. 1-12 ...... 27 Figure 1.14: Claude Helffer’s approach between mm. 1-12 ...... 28 Figure 1.15: Karl Steiner’s approach between mm. 1-12 ...... 29 Figure 1.16: Liselotte Weiss’s approach between mm. 1-12 ...... 30 Figure 2.1: Comparison of the theme’s length across Gould’s eight recordings ...... 42 Figure 2.2: Gould’s lengths for the first phrase as a logarithmic trend ...... 42 Figure 2.3: 1952 CBC radio, mm. 57-58 ...... 46 Figure 2.4: 1952 CBC radio, mm. 40-42 ...... 47 Figure 2.5: 1957 Moscow, mm. 1-3 ...... 47 Figure 2.6: 1974 Monsaingeon, mm. 96-98 ...... 47 Figure 2.7: 1974 Monsaingeon, mm. 100-102 ...... 48 Figure 2.8: Glenn Gould’s approach in his 1953 Hallmark recording ...... 51 Figure 2.9: Glenn Gould’s approach at the Moscow Conservatory ...... 51 Figure 2.10: Glenn Gould’s approach in his 1958 Stockholm recording ...... 52 Figure 2.11: Glenn Gould’s approach in his 1969 CBC radio recording ...... 52 Figure 2.12: Glenn Gould’s approach in his 1974 CBC television performance ...... 52 Figure 3.1: Motivic analyses of the Grundgestalt, mm. 1-4 ...... 60 viii Figure 3.2: An objective model ...... 72 Figure 3.3: Ning An’s tempo ...... 74 Figure 3.4: Allison Brewster Franzetti’s tempo ...... 74 Figure 3.5: Adam Fellegi’s tempo ...... 74 Figure 3.6: Liselotte Weiss’s tempo ...... 75 Figure 3.7: Carol Colburn’s tempo ...... 76 Figure 3.8: Mitsuko Uchida’s tempo ...... 76 Figure 3.9: Peter Miyamoto’s tempo ...... 77 Figure 3.10: Daniel Barenboim’s tempo ...... 77 Figure 3.11: Adam Fellegi’s tempo ...... 77 Figure 3.12: Data points in mm. 1-4 ...... 79 Figure 3.13: Alfred Brendel’s approach between mm. 1-4 ...... 83 Figure 3.14: Glenn Gould’s approach between mm. 1-4 in his 1969 recording ...... 84 Figure 3.15: Shura Cherkassky’s approach between mm. 1-4 ...... 84 Figure 3.16: Massimiliano Damerini’s approach between mm. 1-4 ...... 84 Figure 3.17: Allison Brewster Franzetti’s approach between mm. 1-4 ...... 85 Figure 3.18: Elaine Keillor’s approach between mm. 1-4 ...... 85 Figure 3.19: Liselotte Weiss’s approach between mm. 1-4 ...... 85

ix List of Appendices

Performers’ Tempo at the Exposition’s Formal Sections ...... 95

x Introduction

Increased validity for performance studies, alongside discomfort with musicology’s ease in viewing the score as synonymous with act, has facilitated its recent growth. Performance scholars argue that meaning is best communicated through expert performers’ ability to stir listeners’ feelings. Inquiry regarding their agency demystifies clandestine—and oftentimes problematic—assumptions regarding composer’s intent, musicality, and performance practice. My research reveals that expert performers use interpretative practices resulting in deviation from the literal realization of the score. Discussing these approaches disambiguates artists’ aesthetics and details the systems used to bring the score into sound.

Performance scholarship reacts to a number of paradigms present in mainstream thought. Musicologist Nicholas Cook encourages the dethronement of museum piece musicology: the belief that the physical embodiment of the work is the focal point for revealing its meaning.1 He argues that musicology was built on the assumption that music exists as writing before sound. Performance was viewed as supplementary, an added appendage to a finished entity known as the musical object.2 Cook also targets the unequal footing between music theory and performance, writing that theorists’ aim has been to prescribe, rather than describe, performers’ interpretative choices.3 He explains that theorists would arrive at new understandings of structure by studying the more expressive points of performance, as revealed by performers.4

To collect data on performance, scholars use recordings. This medium allows for careful reconsideration and is compatible with programs that provide useful data on phrasing, tempo, and timbre. Although recordings are not live performances, scholars argue that we listen to them as such. Methods for performing recording analysis are detailed in the publications of the AHRC Research Centre for the History and Analysis of Recorded Music (CHARM) at King’s College in London. Their mandate was to promote a new musicology more informed with music’s

1 Nicholas Cook, “Introduction: Refocusing Theory,” Music Theory Online 18/1 (2012), [8]. 2 Nicholas Cook, Beyond the Score: Music as Performance (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 1. 3 Nicholas Cook, “Analysing Performance and Performing Analysis,” in Rethinking Music, ed. Nicholas Cook and Mark Everist (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 251. 4 Ibid., 257. 1 2 reception. An important output of CHARM was the sonic spectrum analyzer Sonic Visualiser.5 The program facilitates the mapping of musical time, producing data on phrasing, tempo, and rubato. When this information is graphed on a x/y axis, musical shape is visualized. Joined with detailed description of performers’ interpretations, a vivid portrait of each performer’s aesthetic emerges.

My dissertation examines the recorded history of Alban Berg’s Piano Sonata, Op. 1. Saturated with chromaticism and expressive instruction, the work is characteristic of early twentieth-century composition. Considered alongside its potential for emotive performance, the detailed score makes the work ideal for studying interpretative choice. My analyses will reveal that expert performers apply their own systems in dialogue with Berg’s instructions.

Chapter 1 begins with a review of performance scholarship. The field’s raison d’être is introduced, a response to problematic beliefs held in mainstream musicology and music theory. Recordings are foregrounded as a primary source material, and scholars’ varying perspectives on composer’s intent, musicality, and performance practice are presented. A recording analysis of Alban Berg’s piano sonata is then undertaken, examining fifteen performers’ approach to the opening twelve measures. Descriptive analysis is joined with empirical data on temporal shape, facilitated by the application Sonic Visualiser. The results recommend the performers’ division into four categories featuring diverging methodology and aesthetic. My research yields significant verdicts. If realizing the composer’s intensions is the result of score fidelity, no performers achieve it and few approach. Even these minority performances, though, employ interpretative systems which result in deviation. The most important conclusion is that performers use methodology to realize scores.

A pilot study preceding this dissertation examined five recordings of the sonata by Glenn Gould between 1952 and 1958. Further research revealed three additional performances between 1969 and 1974. Gould’s unique relationship with this work has been largely neglected, with commentary on his changing aesthetic usually reserved for his two recordings of Bach’s Goldberg Variations. The performances are held on various media; including studio, video,

5 Chris Cannam, Christian Landone, and Mark Sandler, “Sonic Visualiser: An Open Source Application for Viewing, Analysing, and Annotating Music Audio Files,” in Proceedings of the 18th ACM International Conference on Multimedia (NY: ACM, 2010), 1467-68. 3 radio, and live concert. Chapter 2 undertakes an analysis to elucidate the aesthetic evolution and creativity demonstrated in these performances. A literature review of Gould scholarship was completed to clarify opinion regarding his performance style and world view. An analysis of his performances is then conducted where timing, manual asynchrony, and temporal shape are essayed. The research provides compelling evidence of the pianist’s creative process and artistic evolution. Discussing Gould’s changing approach will reinforce the viability of multiple performance methodologies and the plurality of the musical work, while weakening belief in a predetermined score.

Chapter 3 compares theorists’ analyses of the sonata with sixteen additional recordings. Viewing the circumstances where theorists’ and performers’ analyses align or disjoin provides a frame of reference for their relationship. Two literature reviews were completed. The first presents scholarship regarding the intersection of analysis and performance. The second collects theorists’ motivic, harmonic, and formal analyses of the sonata. Two recording analyses are then undertaken to discover the extent to which theorists’ conclusions are reflected in performers’ articulation of formal and motivic structures. The first analysis of formal structure will reveal performance practice and tradition, whose influence separates the work’s locale from its notation. The second will demonstrate performers’ use of analytical methods, resulting in motivic segmentations both similar and different than those of theorists. These results will indicate again the presence of performance practice, recommending their categorization.

The potential for further research is discussed in Chapter 4, and conclusions on approach, practice, and performance are presented. My analyses will show that performing is itself a practice, governed by interpretative methodology. This practice, as scholarship will reveal, is heavily influenced by the tastes of generations. If performance practice changes, so too must the pieces these methods realize. That works are not singular, fixed entities emphasizes the social construction of musical tastes and should lead to a celebration of many interpretations. Ultimately, it is hoped that this research will celebrate the plurality of approach natural to performance while undermining assignment of composer’s intent. As Leech-Wilkinson eloquently concludes: 4 Fundamentally, musicality is the ability to make a convincing relationship… between notes and performance. But exactly how that relationship is made is subject to an enormous amount of variation. And so what is musical changes over time… to understand what music is we have to understand something of that variety and of the ways in which styles of musicality change. That’s why studying performances on record is so important.6

6 Leech-Wilkinson, The Changing Sound of Music, [2.1]. Chapter 1 Performance Methodology in Fifteen Recordings of Alban Berg’s Piano Sonata

1.1 Literature Review: Performance Studies

Useful knowledge is acquired from scholarship on performance, including important insights on phrasing, tempo, vibrato, and the practices of generations. Nicholas Cook writes that boundless dissection of the score has left performance analysis unattended, a consequence which “cuts academic studies off from precisely the dimension of music that touches most people's lives.”7 He calls for the growth of a scholarship based on performance: “To think of music as something that has its primary existence on the written page denies the creative potential of performance… The establishment of a theory of music as performance accordingly depends on overcoming the scriptist approach that was for so long taken for granted.”8

Cook targets the unequal footing between music theory and performance, writing that theorists’ aim has been to prescribe performers appropriate interpretative choices: “it is not a description, but a prescription.”9 Music theorist Joel Lester articulates that performance analysis could evolve theorists’ narrowing analytical systems into a practice where many successful strategies could be defined and celebrated: “Performers could enter analytical dialogue… as artistic/intellectual equals, not as intellectual inferiors who needed to learn from theorists.”10 He adds that theorists’ tendencies have been to highlight certain interpretations as correct, rather than allowing expert performance to validate their analyses: “Performers and performances are largely irrelevant to both the analytical process and the analysis itself. If a given performance articulated the points made in an analysis, that would not validate the analysis; rather, the analysis would validate the performance… If a given performance failed to articulate the points made in the analysis, the performance, not the analysis, would be deemed somehow inadequate.”11 Cook argues that analysis must instead concern itself with the disambiguation of musical poetics: “The primary significance, or truth value, of analysis must lie in its potential for

7 Cook, Beyond the Score: Music as Performance, 9-10. 8 Cook, “Introduction: Refocusing Theory,” [8]. 9 Cook, “Analysing Performance and Performing Analysis,” 251. 10 Joel Lester, “Performance and Analysis: Interaction and Interpretation,” in The Practice of Performance: Studies in Musical Interpretation, ed. John Rink (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 214. 11 Ibid., 197. 5 6 realization in the perceptual or imaginative terms of… poetic deeds.”12 He ultimately calls for a rise in performance scholarship built on an increased interest in discographies, which act as invaluable windows into the history of performance reception, practice, and tradition.

Performance scholar John Rink articulates that it is absurd to expect performers to create convincing performances by communicating analytical specifics: “Just because a given motif is found throughout a work or set of pieces does not mean that the performer should necessarily do anything about it: trying to project motivic unity in sound by ‘bringing out’ all the motivic connections that inhere in a ‘unified’ work would result in an absurd distortion of the music.”13 In a separate article by Rink, performers are defended as actively engaged in analyses, although these processes may be different than those practiced in academia. The key difference is that their analyses play a key part in the performing process. Rink notes the importance of shape in this method: “I noted the importance of musical ‘shape,’ rather than structure, in the performer’s conceptualization of music - an elusive but elucidatory notion more temporally conceived than that of structure.”14 Rink concludes by writing that analysis should be seen as a vessel towards achieving expressive performance: “It is important not to elevate it above the performance it gives rise to, or to use it as a means of subjugating and shackling musicians… Projecting the music is what matter most, and all the rest is but a meaning to that end.”15

Nicholas Cook was the founding director of the AHRC Research Centre for the History and Analysis of Recorded Music (CHARM) at King’s College in London. The centre was a standard-bearer for performance scholarship; hosting symposia, research projects, and an online discography database for the advancement of scholarship on recorded music. Their mandate was to promote a new musicology better in touch with music’s reception: “CHARM was established to promote a musicology that better reflects the nature of music as experienced in the twentieth century and beyond.”16 An important output of CHARM is the electronic publication The

12 Cook, “Analysing Performance and Performing Analysis,” 257. 13 John Rink, “Playing in Time: Rhythm, Metre, and Tempo in Brahms’s Fantasien Op. 116,” in The Practice of Performance: Studies in Musical Interpretation, ed. John Rink (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 256. 14 John Rink, “Analysis and (or?) Performance,” in Musical Performance: A Guide to Understanding, ed. John Rink (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 36. 15 Ibid., 56. 16 Centre for the History and Analysis of Recorded Music, , accessed 31 December 2014. 7 Changing Sound of Music: Approaches to Studying Recorded Musical Performances, written by performance scholar Daniel Leech-Wilkinson.17 The book adopts a rhetoric placing it as the movement’s manifesto. Broad points are argued for the movement’s validity alongside an introduction to the tools of this field, most notably the sonic spectrum analyzer Sonic Visualiser. Leech-Wilkinson’s writing on performance reveals a different lens than Cook’s. Leech- Wilkinson believes the communication of musical meaning belongs more to performers than the composers themselves, leaving aside the prescriptions of theorists or musicologists.18 He argues that musical meaning belongs to the local moment; namely, to minute changes (whether volume, pitch, vibrato) that occur from one instant to the next, manipulating the feelings of the listener. Leech-Wilkinson explains that these responses belong entirely to how performers shape the score's material.19

In writing about why certain performances are more meaningful or convincing than others, scholars must debunk the notion of composer's intent. Leech-Wilkinson argues that this term has been misused by scholars, critics, and pedagogues to disguise the agreeability of a particular performance with one’s vision. Composer’s intent, as Leech-Wilkinson describes it, is a construction of previously heard performances and contemporary performance practice: “What feels right comes to seem as if it must be what the composer intended; and the more right it feels the more inclined one is to believe that one has reached the heart of the work. This is all unproblematic and to be expected, we simply have to accept that there is an element of well- meant self-delusion in reading from one’s performance back to the composer’s wishes.”20 He continues, in a separate article, to explain that critical praise is more likely to be bestowed upon a performer when crediting the composer for their convincing performance: “One might expect [performers] to be only too happy to take more credit for their own creative contribution. But in fact the psychological advantages of being able to justify their choices by attributing them to the composer—treating the score as divine law—seem far to outweigh the uncertain likelihood of critical praise that might or might not accrue to them were there no higher authority to whom

17 Daniel Leech-Wilkinson, The Changing Sound of Music: Approaches to Studying Recorded Musical Performances (London: Centre for the History and Analysis of Recorded Music, 2009), , accessed 1 January 2015. 18 Ibid., preface. 19 Ibid., [1.1]. 20 Ibid., [2.1]. 8 they could look for support.”21 Leech-Wilkinson argues that it would be wise to leave behind the tendency of thanking the composer and their score, evolving to a practice where the performer is recognized for their convincing interpretation.22 To reach this level of understanding, more scholarship is needed on their work: “How… communication works, how character is represented in or suggested by sound, what performers do with notes to generate meaning, are the most pertinent questions for those who wish to understand music.”23 Reflecting on Leech- Wilkinson’s arguments, Cook comments: “It is the idea that performers create not only structure but also expressive meaning that lies at the heart of Daniel Leech-Wilkinson’s [vision]… There is a longstanding and deeply entrenched tendency in performers’ and theorists’ discourse to ascribe all their interpretive achievements to the composer, as if all possible performances and meanings were somehow latent in the score.”24

By eroding popular belief in composer’s intent, scholars can begin writing on the musicality of convincing performances; namely, the reason why some performances are more expressive than others. The study of recordings disambiguates the notion of musicality; indeed, scholars have noted its evolution through the last century alongside changing tastes in performance. As Leech-Wilkinson writes, studying past recordings quickly reveals changes in score to performance relationships: “Exactly how [musicality] is made is subject to an enormous amount of variation. And so what is musical changes over time… To understand what music is we have to understand something of that variety and of the ways in which styles of musicality change. That’s why studying performances on record is so important.”25 Most scholars will agree that musicality involves a degree of deviation from the score. For Eric Clarke, expressiveness is achieved through departure from the regular: “Artistic expression of feeling in music consists in aesthetic deviation from the regular - from pure tone, true pitch, even dynamics, metronomic time, rigid rhythms, etc… deliberate departures from the indications.”26 This deviation, when rendered convincingly, brings increased persuasiveness to the performance.

21 Daniel Leech-Wilkinson, “Compositions, Scores, Performances, Meanings,” Music Theory Online 18/1 (2012): [1-2]. 22 Ibid., [10]. 23 Ibid., [9]. 24 Cook, “Introduction: Refocusing Theory,” [12]. 25 Leech-Wilkinson, The Changing Sound of Music, [2.1]. 26 Eric Clarke, “Understanding the Psychology of Performance,” in Musical Performance: A Guide to Understanding, ed. John Rink (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 63. 9 Leech-Wilkinson concludes: “Performing musically… involves modifying those aspects of the sound that our instrument allows us to modify… in a way that brings to the performance a sense that the score is more than just a sequence of pitches and durations.”27 That performances are more than the notation is suggested by theorist Edward Cone’s phrase that compositions are “at least the score,”28 and elsewhere by Leech-Wilkinson when he writes that works are “open-fields of possibilities, underdetermined by notation.”29 Cone adds that score fidelity is not enough to achieve expert performance: “Although the performer’s fidelity to the score is necessary, it is never sufficient. It must always be put to the service of what I call the convincing, as opposed to the merely correct, performance: the projection of a conception or interpretation reflecting a deeply felt personal involvement with the musical thought of the composition.”30 Musicologist José Bowen gives more credit to the composer than Leech-Wilkinson, writing that scores contain certain aspects of the music: “The score is a spatial representation of only some of the elements of the temporal phenomena we call music. Music is a sequence of sounds, each of which appears only in the present, and which, therefore, has no persistent physical existence.”31 Musicologist Peter Hill labels the relationship between performer and composer as a collaboration: “The music itself is something imagined, first by the composer, then in partnership with the performer, and ultimately communicated in sound.”32 Ultimately, considering the manner in which performers achieve musical interpretation will enrich our understanding of why musicians make us feel good, and shed light on interpretative possibilities for other performers.

Studying recordings from the last century reveals that performance practice fluctuates. Performance practice is created by groups of expert performers that share similar interpretative

27 Leech-Wilkinson, The Changing Sound of Music, [8]. 28 Edward Cone, “The Pianist as Critic,” in The Practice of Performance: Studies in Musical Interpretation, ed. John Rink. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 244. 29 Leech-Wilkinson, The Changing Sound of Music, [1.3]. 30 Cone, “The Pianist as Critic,” 244-45. 31 José A. Bowen, “Finding the Music in Musicology: Performance History and Musical Works,” in Rethinking Music, ed. Nicholas Cook and Mark Everist. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 425. 32 Peter Hill, “From Score to Sound,” in Musical Performance: A Guide to Understanding, ed. John Rink (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 129. 10 paradigms. Daniel Leech-Wilkinson defines these as habits in score to performance realization.33 He articulates that performance practice has multiple levels of construction:

All performers have a slightly different collection of habits, which we can call their ‘personal style.’ Yet each of these collections is inevitably going to be highly characteristic of its time. It would be impossible for performers to please audiences, promoters and critics, or even as students to have pleased examiners and teachers, if their way of making music were as different from the current norm as we hear on earlier recordings. Consequently, current taste selects performers who conform, and in so doing it creates a ‘period style’ which may be defined by habits that many of them have in common.34

Bowen writes that performance practice is a mixture of innovation and tradition, using a correct mixture of both to produce acceptable interpretations. He mentions the ease through which accidental qualities of performances can be adopted in later recordings by different performers. Bowen’s argument is a postmodern one: that interpretations are not highly original, but the product of their predecessors: “While each performance attempts to mediate between tradition and innovation, it in turn becomes part of the remembered tradition… Tradition is, therefore, the history of remembered innovation, and it defines a set of normative assumptions or essential qualities about the work which can change over time.”35

When comparing recordings pre-dating World War II to those following it, a distinct change in style is witnessed. Pre-war recordings, represented by performers like Alfred Cortot, favour local shape and liberal use of rubato. In post-war recordings longer phrases containing less local rubato emerge, and my research reveals that this continues to the present day. As Leech-Wilkinson describes, focus has evolved from momentary gestures to structural performance: “All these pre-war performances belong to a similar stylistic world in which rubato is placed so as to point up details of voice-leading that seem to have expressive potential…. [Vlado] Perlemuter uses this rubato to shape whole phrases rather than momentary gestures.

And that tends to be the way it is used by most players in the second half of the century.”36 Leech-Wilkinson credits the proliferation of recordings for the quickened evolution of

33 Daniel Leech-Wilkinson, “Recordings and Histories of Performance Style,” in The Cambridge Companion to Recorded Music, ed. Nicholas Cook, Eric Clarke, Daniel Leech-Wilkinson, and John Rink (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 255. 34 Ibid., 248-9. 35 Bowen, “Finding the Music in Musicology,” 427. 36 Leech-Wilkinson, The Changing Sound of Music, [5]. 11 performance practice following the war. For pre-war recordings, change in performance style occurred at a slower pace. Leech-Wilkinson leverages this against historically-informed performance: “If styles were still changing slowly in the second half of the 19th century we shall have to consider the possibility that Beethoven and Mozart sounded more like Paderewski and Patti than Levin and Kirkby, and I’m not sure that that is what historically informed performers at the moment really want to hear.”37 Bowen contributes to these sentiments, underlining that awareness of other performance styles should deepen our understanding that contemporary performance practice is simply that: temporary.38 He concludes that performance studies should broaden the interpretative possibilities of performance: “Increasing the range of possibilities makes it easier to say something new, and performances are one of the ways in which we learn new things about old pieces… We should use recordings to open parameters, not to close them.”39

A case study using recording analysis, to be presented next, considers Alban Berg’s Piano Sonata, Op. 1. It foregrounds an analysis of fifteen post-war recordings, all of which are holdings at the University of Toronto Music Library. Eight are situated on compact disc and were found through the university’s online catalogue. Seven were converted into digital files from long-playing records (LP) currently indexed in the library’s card catalogue. No performances predating World War II were located. The study examines the first twelve measures of each recording. The program Sonic Visualiser facilitated the collection of data regarding rubato, which was then graphed. This methodology posits a solution towards presenting data on performers’ temporal shape. In Bowen’s article, the relationship between empirical data and descriptive analysis was articulated as a key issue in recording research.40 Descriptive analysis is used to explain performers’ relationship with the score. The study identifies contemporary performance practice and reveals that most performers conform to its principles. There are, however, artists demonstrating approaches which evade its constraints. These performances will be detailed in the next section.

37 Ibid., [7]. 38 Bowen, “Finding the Music in Musicology,” 442. 39 Ibid. 40 Ibid., 451. 12 1.2 Recording Analysis

Saturated with chromaticism and expressive instruction, Alban Berg’s piano sonata is representative of growing tastes in early twentieth-century composition. Owing to its detailed score and potential for emotive performance, the work’s recording history provides ample opportunity to study the nature of performers’ interpretative choices. Berg’s instructions regarding tempo, dynamics, and articulation mark a path for traversing and communicating important content within the work’s phrases. My analysis reveals that expert performers apply their own paradigms in dialogue with these indications. Writing about recordings illuminates artists’ devices towards soliciting emotional response from listeners and helps erode perceptions of synonymity between expert performance and composer’s intent.

The analysis provided below acts as an initial orientation to the work’s opening measures, introducing primary motives and gestures. Having thematic material and structures defined facilitates the discussion of performers’ choices. The subsequent analysis does not prescribe to the performers, as the interest of this study remains the performances themselves. Indeed, the performers’ choices may dictate how this analysis could be further developed.

Berg’s piano sonata opens with two phrases. The iconic first phrase, a trim four measures, introduces three motives from which the piece germinates (see Figure 1.1, listed below). The second phrase is more extended. Rich with chromaticism, whole-tone influences, and numerous expressive indications, it lasts more than seven measures and establishes the work’s generous emotive character. The theme’s initial three pitches, motive A, outline the recurrent major seventh interval. This interval is created by a perfect and augmented fourth, [016], commonly referred to as the Viennese trichord, signalling the work’s atonal influences. Motive B begins with G in m. 2 and anticipates the affect of the whole-tone scale. The dotted rhythm in m. 3 is motive C. It brings the melody to a close, foreshadows the presence of tonality, and witnesses development by diminution in the lower voices. 13 Figure 1.1: The first phrase of Alban Berg’s piano sonata, mm. 1-4.41

The harmonic construction of the first four measures is idiomatic. The bass and upper middle voice form a minor seventh in the opening half-diminished seventh chord, descending consecutively by semitone until the dominant function chord ending m. 3. The preceding chords, however, are not typical predominant harmonies. These are neighbouring seventh chords, delaying the cadence’s arrival from the supertonic seventh of m. 1. The caesura markings in m. 4 demarcate the phrase’s autonomy.

A blend of motives B and C begin the next phrase. The whole-tone construction of the first three pitches (D, B-flat, and F-sharp) recreates motive B in m. 4. Motive C then appears in diminution after a seventh leap. In m. 5, a reordering of the opening trichord continues the phrase. Although these two gestures appear separately (the first is separated from the second by an eighth rest), they form part of a larger gesture. This gesture is reinforced by Berg's acceleration and diminution instructions from mm. 5-12 that outline the phrase’s contour. The harmonic construction consists mostly of augmented triads and parallel major thirds, subsets of the whole-tone scale. These triads—[048]—occur first in m. 5, reappearing arpeggiated in mm. 6-8 as the melody. In m. 8, a whole-tone scale descends to reiterations of the augmented triad between mm. 9-12. Amidst these whole-tone sonorities, the bass begins approaching a cadence to D7 harmonies. The doubled E in m. 9 suggests a secondary dominant, the repeated A in mm. 10-11 the dominant, and the arrival in m. 12 on D7 an incomplete resolution.

41 The edition used for illustrations in this thesis is: Alban Berg, Sonate für Klavier, Op. 1 (Vienna: Universal Edition, 2006). 14 The following analysis is a categorization of fifteen recordings representing a varied approach to the work’s opening measures. The recordings considered are listed in the table below. Where two release years appear, the bracketed number indicates the initial release year on LP while the other represents the second on compact disc. Recordings listed as LP were converted to digital files for this study.

Table 1.1: Table of Recordings.

Performer Date Label Origin Daniel Barenboim 1988 (1978) DG CD (LP) İdil Biret 2010 (1974) Finnadar Records CD (LP) Alfred Brendel 1990 (1982) Philips CD (LP) Allison Brewster Franzetti 2004 Naxos CD Carol Colburn [n.d.] Orion LP Jörg Demus 1961 The Music Guild LP Adam Fellegi 1975 Hungaraton LP Franzpeter Goebels [n.d.] Barenreiter Musicaphon LP Claude Helffer [n.d.] DG LP Stephen Hough 2007 Hyperion Records CD Anton Kuerti [n.d.] Monitor LP Murray Perahia 1987 Sony CD Maurizio Pollini 1993 DG CD Karl Steiner 1993 (1964) Centaur CD (LP) Liselotte Weiss 1975 BIS LP

At a local level the recordings differ, with few performers producing similar results. At a larger, more structural level, performers’ choices suggest the presence of paradigms. The identification of these systems illuminates characteristics belonging to expert performance. The collected data demonstrates that textual fidelity is not a condition of mastery. Expert performance is often achieved in dialogue, and in some cases opposition, to the composer’s instructions. The information gathered in this study ultimately allows for performers to be categorized according to their decisions. Four categories with distinct aesthetic accommodate the musicians encountered in this analysis. The recordings are listed alphabetically in each category. 15 The largest category belongs to performers who prioritize the articulation of phrases. This category is best described as performance practice, as it represents current and mainstream tastes in musicianship. These individuals often produce performances demonstrating higher textual fidelity, although priority is given to phrasal construction. Performers incorporate many of the composer’s markings while maintaining the rise and decline of phrases. In Berg’s sonata, instructions regarding tempo and dynamics are written for the navigation of each phrase. As a result, two distinguishable phrases emerge from these performances. This category is populated by artists maintaining active performance careers. Correctness, unassailability, and objectivity are characteristics often assigned to these artists’ performances.

Other artists construct their performances around moments that are perceived as expressive. Here, the performer will communicate a characteristic not indicated by the composer’s instructions. This interpretation is often achieved in dialogue with the composer’s instructions, adjusting indicated dynamic and tempo markings to create phrases which serve the articulation of the moment. Additional expressive opportunities beyond the events prescribed by the composer may also be produced. Artistic vision transcends the objective and subjective; a result of pursuing epicurean, rather than mainstream or cerebral, ambitions. The performer’s vision is more aligned with the emotive and obtaining aural satisfaction. An acoustic palette beyond that prescribed by the composer is characteristic of this aesthetic and these performers demonstrate a superior technical command of the instrument to produce their vision of the work. These artists make musicality a priority and I categorize them as poetic musicians.

The recordings given to the category I have classified as intellectual bring fresh perspective on tempo and dynamics. They are obvious in their departure from performance practice, and display characteristics not assignable to poetic performance. These recordings instead probe interpretative possibilities within an aesthetic where there remains some dialogue with the composer’s markings. The maintenance of this dialogue will separate these recordings from those given to the final category.

Some artists bring a significant degree of individualism to their performances, where their inclinations are demonstrated as more important than the score. Characteristics may include rearrangement of rhythm, consistent departure from the composer’s instructions, or a 16 construction of phrase structure considerably different than that indicated in the score or represented by the work’s performance tradition. A favour for local, micro-level expression is sometimes found; often a result of sudden decisions which draw attention away from larger structures. Performance of longer phrases—a characteristic demonstrated by artists in the performance practice, poetic, and intellectual categories—is generally absent from these recordings. I’ve categorized these performances as maverick, as they are associated with increased levels of textual infidelity.

There remains a certain degree of subjectivity in this labelling. While the data reveals differing paradigms, the denomination of performance practice, poetic, intellectual, and maverick is subject to my own perception. As well, this study only considers the first twelve measures of Berg’s piano sonata, representing a fragment of each performance. Each performers’ aesthetic could shift by the work’s close. As these measures contain two iconic phrases from the pianistic canon, this study takes faith that each performer approaches them with considered and conscious intent. More, perhaps, than material encountered later in the work. A larger, more exhaustive study would yield more conclusive data and allow for a greater breadth of perspective into individual performances.

The phrasing graphs following each entry encapsulate the performers’ progress through the excerpt. Phrase arcs, temporal shape, and structure can be witnessed. To capture this data, I have processed each recording through the audio visualizing program Sonic Visualiser where performers’ temporal approach can be mapped by placing beat marks against visual sonic events. Tempo is deduced by measuring time between successive beats, or ‘instances,’ and this data can be graphed to display each performer’s approach. 17 Performance Practice

Daniel Barenboim

Barenboim’s performance demonstrates a prioritization of communicating phrase. Although each phrase’s contour is articulated with shape, his approach is not always a literal representation of Berg’s indications. In some cases, local expressivity is achieved by choices made in opposition with the score.

Barenboim chooses a brisk tempo through most of the opening phrase, observing the accel. marked in m. 2. The F-sharp of motive A is not held for the full value indicated. Instead, it becomes subject to an early execution of the accelerando. Barenboim gives value to the first note of motive C by beginning the marked rit. one measure early and accommodating an agogic accent. The repositioning of Berg’s tempo instruction allows structural importance to be given to the D beginning m. 3. At the opening of the second phrase, Barenboim retreats from the indicated crescendo outlining motives B and C, choosing instead a delicate placement of the seventh interval. This melodic device is pleasant and is achieved in contrast with the score’s instructions. Barenboim balances the most evident melodic material with increased volume. Other textures are not similarly ranked. For example, the crescendo markings in mm. 5-6 pertaining to the supporting material are not included. Barenboim does incorporate the markings Berg inscribed for the larger structures, however.

Barenboim’s performance constructs these twelve measures as two phrases. A visual representation is provided by the graph below, outlining Barenboim’s temporal shape through the two phrases. The early decrease in tempo between mm. 2 and 3 can be noted.

Figure 1.2: Daniel Barenboim’s approach between mm. 1-12.

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Seconds Since Last Instance Last Seconds Since 0 1.1 1.2 2.1 2.2 2.3 3.1 3.2 3.3 4.1 4.2 4.3 5.1 5.2 5.3 6.1 6.2 6.3 7.1 7.2 7.3 8.1 8.2 8.3 9.1 9.2 9.3 11.1 11.2 11.3 10.1 10.2 10.3 12.1 Measure/Beat 18 Alfred Brendel

Alfred Brendel’s recording resides comfortably within the sonata’s performance tradition. Brendel’s interpretation is one of fidelity, with little deviation from Berg’s instructions. At moments where his style becomes apparent, time is usually the device employed.

In m. 1 Brendel performs motive A within a triplet rhythm, departing from the dotted rhythm inscribed. Given the accuracy demonstrated elsewhere, this could be attributed to a desire towards accentuating the opening motive. Brendel follows the score in his construction of phrase. The first three measures are executed with the accel. and rit. occurring at their indicated locations, avoiding the agogic articulation of the D in m. 3 seemingly engrained in the work’s recording history.

During the second phrase, a lilting rubato is heard that is specific to Brendel’s performance. In m. 6, Brendel decreases tempo into the melody’s A. The left hand then accelerates with the motive’s echo. This forward motion slows on the highest pitch of the phrase, C-sharp in m. 7, before continuing with the marked stringendo to the D-sharp beginning m. 8. This construction shares similarities with Adam Fellegi’s recording, which I’ve categorized later as poetic. Fellegi performs the C-sharp as the phrase’s crux while excluding the lilting mannerism present in Brendel’s recording. In m. 9, Brendel retreats from performing the indicated sforzando for the two E pitches in the bass. The quieter execution of these pitches, described earlier as cadential movement towards D7, is a decision shared only with Stephen Hough’s approach. It anticipates the pianissimo marked in m. 12. Similar to Barenboim’s recording, Brendel’s approach outlines two phrases.

Figure 1.3: Alfred Brendel’s approach between mm. 1-12.

Seconds Since Last Intance Last Seconds Since 0 1.1 1.2 2.1 2.2 2.3 3.1 3.2 3.3 4.1 4.2 4.3 5.1 5.2 5.3 6.1 6.2 6.3 7.1 7.2 7.3 8.1 8.2 8.3 9.1 9.2 9.3 11.1 11.2 11.3 10.1 10.2 10.3 12.1 Measure/Beat 19 Allison Brewster Franzetti

Allison Brewster Franzetti’s performance differs from others in this category. Her performance demonstrates an aggressive approach to the tempo markings. Between mm. 4-8, Franzetti’s embrace of the accel. and stringendo is stronger than other performers. It limits, however, her capacity to highlight the chromaticism often enjoyed during this passage. Additionally, her volume range reveals a preference for the louder dynamics indicated.

Figure 1.4: Allison Brewster Franzetti’s approach between mm. 1-12.

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Murray Perahia

Murray Perahia’s performance is archetypal for this category. Melodic devices deviating from the score are absent and Berg’s directions are carefully followed. Perahia’s portrayal of the volume and tempo markings is audible, but not overbearing. His performance approaches a literal realization of the score and exhibits a character of objectivity.

In the opening, Perahia performs a small accelerando within the first half of the phrase. The tradition of slowing into m. 3 reappears in this recording. In the second phrase, Perahia avoids the expressive melodic devices often used by other performers. Berg’s indications are followed, which indicate a crescendo and decrescendo surrounding both melodic peaks in mm. 5-6. His inclusion of the accel. and stringendo between mm. 5-8 assists the larger phrase, rather than local gestures. Two distinguishable phrases emerge from his performance. 20 Figure 1.5: Murray Perahia’s approach between mm. 1-12.

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Maurizio Pollini

Maurizio Pollini’s aesthetic is similar to Perahia’s. A conservative relationship with the text is demonstrated. Local deviations from the score are not present. As a result, a highly faithful performance is witnessed. In the recording, Pollini’s observation of the opening accel. is reflected by an early entry of the G beginning m. 2. A hint of acceleration leads the phrase to the D beginning motive C. The tempo and volume markings of the second phrase are observed. Pollini’s approach to the opening measures is highly representative for this category.

Figure 1.6: Maurizio Pollini’s approach between mm. 1-12.

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Jörg Demus

Jörg Demus’ performance is a fresh approach. Demus energetically embraces Berg’s instructions, choosing a vivacious tempo and displaying a wide palette of sound. New possibilities are demonstrated within a comparatively close observation of Berg’s instructions.

In the opening phrase Demus follows Berg’s tempo markings, avoiding the tradition of an early ritardando in m. 3. The marked accel. is performed instead. Additionally, the practice of increasing volume in m. 2 is not present. Within the accel. a decrescendo is performed, allowing a poetic placement of the D beginning motive C. In the second phrase two melodic devices appear. First, Demus performs the popular retreat in volume and tempo from the F beginning m. 5. Secondly, manual asynchrony is employed at the melody’s peak in m. 6 by delaying the right hand until the left’s motive has begun. Demus performs a particularly energetic stringendo in m. 7. Following the climax in m. 9, Demus shapes the material towards the D-sharp beginning m. 10, a reappearance of motive C. The result is an approach which constructs a third phrase within these twelve measures. This choice is specific to Demus’s performance and is demonstrated by the inverted arc between mm. 10-12 in the figure below.

Figure 1.7: Jörg Demus’ approach between mm. 1-12.

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Adam Fellegi’s recording displays an approach to phrasing ranked higher than the composer’s indications. Fellegi performs the second phrase as reaching its apex in m. 7 with the highest pitch, C-sharp. Momentum subsides afterwards and a new phrase emerges in m. 9 with the appearance of motive B. Fellegi’s arrangement of Berg’s indications suggests a belief that a phrase’s apex is its structurally essential point.

In Fellegi’s recording, the downbeat of m. 3 is placed with an agogic accent. Its importance is reinforced with a preceding crescendo. Fellegi finds a unique balance between the opening of the second phrase in m. 4 and its continuation with motive A in mm. 5-6. Beginning the phrase somewhat tentatively, Fellegi presses forward with an accelerando in mm. 5-6. In m. 7 the aforementioned C-sharp is highlighted. Fellegi brings our attention to this pitch by decreasing tempo beforehand, thereby discarding the relevant stringendo instruction. His decision to follow with a decrescendo, rather than the marked crescendo, reinforces his interpretation but hampers progress to the inscribed forte in m. 7. As a result the volume requested is not produced until the fortissimo in m. 9. The loss of momentum resulting from the early peak in m. 7 compels Fellegi to perform the thematic material from m. 9 as a new phrase. Fellegi’s attention to line is reflected in his appreciation of the left hand’s voice leading between mm. 10-11. Berg writes a tenuto for the F and F-sharp pitches ending m. 10, and Fellegi is one of the few pianists who carry the line convincingly to its close in m. 11.

Fellegi delivers a persuasive performance, despite his arrangement of Berg’s indications. The performance ultimately succeeds due to his structural approach: a construction of phrase whose shape serves the passage of poetic moments. Fellegi’s three phrases can be seen in the figure below. The peaks in mm. 4, 9, and 12 demonstrate their decline. 23 Figure 1.8: Adam Fellegi’s approach between mm. 1-12.

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Stephen Hough

Stephen Hough’s performance demonstrates a superior command of pianistic technique.

Of the fifteen recordings, his performance reveals the largest range in sound palette.42 His phrasing paradigms match those of Demus, Kuerti, and Fellegi as Berg’s markings are adjusted to accommodate expressive choices. His performance is a masterful blending of colour and phrase.

In the opening measure, motive A is performed with a slight decrescendo. Hough is the sole performer to make this choice and the effect is poetic. He performs the accel. in the next measure, avoiding the tradition of halting before D in m. 3. Hough continues retreating from melodic peaks with his entrance to m. 5, but then fully embraces the stringendo marking in m. 7. Instead of including the crescendo from the forte in m. 8 to the fortissimo in m. 9, Hough performs a decrescendo, tiered by melodic descent from the high pitches in m. 8. Likewise, the left hand—instead of performing the marked crescendo—decreases volume during its descent to E. With the preceding loss of volume, Hough’s choice to quietly place the doubled E appears more logical and satisfying than Alfred Brendel’s approach. The subsequent melodic G-sharp regains the volume lost in the dissipating G. The result is an understated, original, and compellingly poetic rendering of the second phrase.

42 There may be differing levels of dynamic fidelity in these recordings, due to the range in release dates and developments in recording technology. 24 Figure 1.9: Stephen Hough’s approach between mm. 1-12.

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Anton Kuerti

Kuerti’s recording reveals a care for structural shape. It shares characteristics with Adam Fellegi’s approach, where priority is given towards articulating poetic moments within phrases. This poeticism is achieved in dialogue with the performance of phrase.

Kuerti includes the indicated accelerando and ritardando in the opening phrase, but their placement is adjusted to serve a resolution considered significant. A phrasing paradigm identical to Fellegi’s is therefore adopted. In Kuerti’s performance, the first G in m. 2 is performed with a pleasantly soft colouring. He begins the accel. marked in m. 2 at the work’s beginning, shaping towards the G in m. 2. As a result, the C connecting the seventh in m. 1 sounds shorter than other recordings. Kuerti maintains a steady tempo for the rest of m. 2. Tradition leads the downbeat of m. 3 to be articulated with an agogic accent. Kuerti performs mm. 4-12 as one phrase, and his approach is more apparent than other performances. The acceleration markings between mm. 5-7 are embraced and the subsequent decrease in tempo is cumulative, despite the tiered molto rit. and rit. inscribed in mm. 8-9. This leaves no question that Kuerti views the phrase’s close as occurring in m. 12, rather than 9. 25 Figure 1.10: Anton Kuerti’s approach between mm. 1-12.

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Intellectual Musicians

A pilot study preceding this dissertation considered the approach of twenty recordings. The presentation of fifteen in this chapter reflects the impetus for the second. The five diverted recordings belong to Glenn Gould, whose approach to the work is examined in Chapter 2. Of those recordings, two were assigned to the intellectual category. Only one recording remains in this category as a result.

İdil Biret

İdil Biret’s recording showcases a slow tempo. Merged with her care for louder dynamics, a performance is produced with substantial weight. This breadth is due in part to Biret’s indifference regarding the accel. and stringendo markings between mm. 4-8. Biret incorporates, however, the molto rit. in m. 8. Disproportionally large, it is assisted by a liberal interpretation of the crescendo guiding the left hand’s descent. The slowing continues until the decline of the phrase in m. 12. These decisions assist the grandiose character throughout the phrase, which finds its peak at the doubled E in m. 9. İdil Biret’s performance of the first twelve measures spans 47.94 seconds, fifteen more than the average of 32.70. Despite her uncommon approach, the recording begins with a comparatively standard interpretation of the first phrase. 26 Figure 1.11: İdil Biret’s approach between mm. 1-12.

Maverick Musicians

Carol Colburn

Carol Colburn’s recording is an energetic approach displaying impulse and interpretative freedom. Dramatic increases in tempo and generous use of local rubato is heard. Many of Colburn’s noteworthy decisions occur during the second phrase. Colburn’s a tempo in m. 4 regains a pace quicker than her opening. In m. 6, Colburn decreases tempo to coincide with the left hand’s motive, which is changed to a dotted rhythm. Volume is decreased throughout mm. 8-9 (which include forte, crescendo, and fortissimo markings), and the left hand’s sfz is slightly observed. Colburn makes two arrangements to the melody in m. 10. Both tied pitches, C and C- sharp, are performed twice. In m. 12, Più animato - Rascher also Tempo I, Colburn chooses a tempo slower than the beginning. Carol Colburn’s electric style is exhibited by turbulent rubato shown in the figure below.

Figure 1.12: Carol Colburn’s approach between mm. 1-12.

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Franzpeters Goebels’ recording demonstrates a unique relationship with rhythm and the score’s tempo markings. Specific to this recording is Goebels’ use of a stuttering effect. This mannerism includes sudden halts and increases in tempo.

In m. 2, the melody’s G enters early. The first rit. is comparatively unobserved, except for an agogic accent on the C-sharp ending m. 3. The tempo then returns to that of the accel. in m. 2. An inconsistent pulse is the result of these tempo variances. The tempo remains comparatively steady between mm. 6-8, despite accel. and stringendo markings. Goebels accents each beat, a decision detracting from the perception of the larger phrase. Goebels places the second phrase’s crux on D-sharp in m. 8. From there a decrease in tempo is heard until m. 12. Goebels’ inconsistent tempo can be seen in the figure below. Including the steady pulse through the beginning of the second phrase, an individual relationship with phrasing is witnessed: one with less care for shape that outlines formal structure.

Figure 1.13: Franzpeters Goebels’ approach between mm. 1-12.

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Claude Helffer

A distant relationship with the score is demonstrated in Claude Helffer’s recording. Between mm. 1-2 Helffer avoids the accel., maintaining a brisk but steady tempo. The beginning of motive C is performed using an agogic accent and Helffer finishes with the rit. indicated. Despite the a tempo following the first phrase in m. 4, the pace of the second phrase remains the same as the first’s conclusion. The accel. in m. 5 is not incorporated, and tempo 28 isn’t increased until m. 7’s stringendo. In m. 6 a decrescendo is performed, despite crescendo markings for the larger phrasal structure and motives appearing in each hand. New energy in m. 7 suggests a phrase beginning with the B-flat ending m. 6. In m. 9, the sfz indicated for the double E is not performed. It is difficult not incorporating a value judgement when considering Helffer’s performance. His choices reflect a relaxed relationship with the page. Many pianists would consider this average musicianship.

Figure 1.14: Claude Helffer’s approach between mm. 1-12.

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Karl Steiner

Included in the liner notes of Karl Steiner’s recording is its raison d’être: “These recordings are being presented because of their historical significance.”43 It continues, reading: “Steiner’s performance is of particular historical value for he remembers his teacher Novakovic recommending interpretative changes after her own sessions with Berg.” The explanation, then, advertises Steiner’s performance as having lineage to the composer’s intentions. In comparison with other recordings, however, Steiner’s approach is not one of high fidelity.

In the opening measures, Steiner observes the accel. marking as a direct change in tempo. He performs the caesura listed in m. 4. The tempo is relatively steady between mm. 4-8, despite accel. and stringendo markings. At the melodic G-sharp in m. 9 there is a sudden increase in tempo, and the marked rit. is not observed until m. 11. Steiner therefore constructs the first twelve measures as three phrases, with the third beginning at G-sharp in m. 9. Steiner’s

43 Karl Steiner, Centaur CRC 2241/42, CD, 1993. 29 performance is the least accurate of the recordings included in this study, with two incorrect pitches occurring in m. 8.

Figure 1.15: Karl Steiner’s approach between mm. 1-12.

Liselotte Weiss

Liselotte Weiss’s recording is highly individual. Weiss uses tempo devices separate from Berg’s indications and the work’s tradition. Many are sudden, lacking the preceding shape found near artists’ decisions in the performance practice, poetic, and intellectual categories. Despite evident control over her performance, Liselotte’s recording suggests an impulsive approach.

Weiss begins by changing motive A’s rhythm to equal eighth notes. This decision would garner surprise from listeners familiar with the piece. In m. 2, the accel. is interpreted as an immediate and significant tempo change. Between mm. 3-4, no ritardando is performed to mark the phrase’s end. Instead, Weiss accelerates into the beginning of m. 5. Moments deemed important are often communicated by a halting effect. The downbeats of mm. 3, 5, and 12 are articulated in this manner. I hesitate to label these as agogic accents because their use seems more rhythmic than melodic. This characteristic, aided by other unprecedented decisions, gives Weiss’s recording its impulsive character. The lengths of Weiss’s phrases are shorter than other performers, as the following figure demonstrates. 30 Figure 1.16: Liselotte Weiss’s approach between mm. 1-12.

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Summary

If composer’s intent is directly related to score fidelity, no performances achieve it and few approach. Those which do—for this study, the recordings of Murray Perahia and Maurizio Pollini—are comparatively uninteresting. Even these faithful performances, though, employ paradigms or are influenced by performance traditions that result in deviation.

What is more evident, and important, is that performers use their own systems to realize scores. Most often these principles surround the construction of phrase. For those in the performance practice category, longer phrases are desired; producing performances displaying varying degrees of higher textual fidelity. Deviation from the text is often the result of melodic effects used for local expression. For the poetic category, the phrase continues to be integral. Their construction, however, surround moments deemed poetically integral by the performer, often beyond the markings of the composer. For intellectuals, phrasing remains necessary, but is executed with novel interpretation in tempo and dynamics. Priority towards phrases lessens with the recordings assigned to the maverick category. If value criteria is brought to this study, the most interesting information, and expressive performance, is encapsulated within the poetic category. Here we witness a phrasing paradigm where expressivity is the essential element of structure, or phrase, construction.

Because performers use systems to realize scores, increased scholarship needs to be dedicated towards analyzing and demystifying their methods. This work will erode problematic 31 usage of composer’s intent and literal performance of the score, while clarifying our understanding of musicality and performance practice. As Leech-Wilkinson concludes, performance studies’ work is integral in the search for musical meaning: “Nothing comes across more clearly from this work in musical science than that the performer is the source of all the most specific musical meaning. What the composer writes matters very much, but it’s what the performer does with that that shapes our responses, indeed that allows us to have responses at all.”44 By studying these performances, we come closer to the illusive particle after which artists chase: meaning.

44 Leech-Wilkinson, The Changing Sound of Music, preface. Chapter 2 Changing Aesthetic in Glenn Gould’s Recordings of Alban Berg’s Piano Sonata between 1952 and 1974

2.1 Literature Review: Glenn Gould

Glenn Gould discussed his aesthetic frequently, clarifying his interpretative approach and disposition towards certain repertoire. A large amount of scholarship on Gould has been completed by musicologist Kevin Bazzana, whose studies of the pianist’s style are foremost.45 Other scholarship by Edward Said, Geoffrey Payzant, and Elizabeth Wood has contributed to this conversation.46 Authenticity, interpretative freedom, rationality, and the identity of the musical work are tropes in their framing of Gould’s world view.

Bazzana argues that the foundation of Gould’s aesthetic is music’s existence as idea before sound: the perception of the work as distinct from performance. Bazzana observes, “To think about music in abstract terms is not to ignore music as sound; it is merely to make the physical aspect of music subservient to the conceptual. The hands serve the mind, not the reverse.”47 Geoffrey Payzant was first among the aforementioned scholars to essay Gould’s approach, which he classified as idealism: “Gould is an idealist when he admires Schnabel for his indifference to the piano, when he prefers certain composers because they write music in disregard of musical instruments.”48 Payzant also defines Gould’s framing of musical ecstasy: that music is first cognitive and secondly sensory.49 Bazzana repositions Payzant’s application of idealism, however, and assigns platonism.50 This recognizes the duality of the metaphysical and physical object in Gould’s vision. That performances should be distinguished from their written

45 Kevin Bazzana, Glenn Gould: The Performer in the Work - A Study in Performance Practice (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997); and Wondrous Strange - The Life and Art of Glenn Gould (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart Ltd., 2003). 46 Edward Said, “The Virtuoso as Intellectual,” Raritan 20:1 (2000): 1-16; Geoffrey Payzant, Glenn Gould: Music and Mind (Toronto: Van Nostrand Reinhold Ltd., 1978); and Elizabeth Wood, “The Composer-Performer Relationship, The Musical Score, and Performance: Nelson Goodman’s Account of Music as Applied to the Thought and Work of Glenn Gould” (PhD diss., McGill University, 1997). 47 Bazzana, Glenn Gould: The Performer in the Work, 11. 48 Payzant, Glenn Gould: Music and Mind, 80. 49 Ibid., 76. 50 Bazzana, Glenn Gould: The Performer in the Work, 12. 32 33 counterparts was a pillar of Gould’s aesthetic. In fact, Gould displayed contempt towards beliefs arguing the inseparability of idea and sound.51

Gould favoured works whose construction avoided instrument-specific expressivity. He claimed to be indifferent on matters of instrumentation, and believed works easily transcribed to be superior.52 As such, the early Romantic era is largely absent from his repertoire. Gould’s position enabled a deep admiration of Bach, but held him from the beauty found in Chopin, Liszt, or Rachmaninov’s compositions. He accused these composers of “falling into the trap of the instrument and forgetting the abstract world outside of it.”53 Gould’s performances of this repertoire are often undistinguished, as he was compelled to control what he viewed as their excess. These performances are characterized by “sobriety and restraint in terms of expressive nuance, tone colours, and virtuosity.”54 Gould believed that transcriptions maintaining structural integrity were successful reiterations of the original.55 Gould's notion that Bach’s keyboard music was instrumentally unspecific started early in his career, with the Art of Fugue being used as a definitive example. This view put Gould at odds with the rising historically-informed practice movement, which he frequently dismissed.56

For Gould, structure was the primary measure of a work’s value.57 He favoured works where expressivity could be constructed as subservient to structure. He preferred dense music displaying contrapuntal, harmonic, and motivic sophistication. Gould was also inclined towards works whose motivic growth assisted in creating an overall unity. This bought him a close relationship with the works of Arnold Schoenberg and the Second Viennese School.58 Bazzana writes that Gould considered “instrumental sonorities and effects, considerations of physical technique, emotional qualities, allegorical or programmatic associations” to be inferior forms of expression.59 To place these expressive realms aside, and to be inspired by structure, was to

51 Ibid., 15. 52 Ibid. 53 Ibid., 34. 54 Ibid. 55 Ibid., 15. 56 Said, “The Virtuoso as Intellectual,” 9. 57 Bazzana, Glenn Gould: The Performer in the Work, 13. 58 Ibid., 33. 59 Ibid., 13. 34 submit emotion to reason. The control of instinct, impulse, and emotion was not only a cornerstone of Gould’s aesthetic, but also his personality.60

Gould’s discussion of his tastes was not without criticism. He was inclined towards verbose rhetoric, and his perception of history was prone to binaries. Bazzana is critical of Gould when he writes, “He [used] music history where it helped to rationalize his aesthetic positions, but conspicuously ignored or distorted it where it did not.”61 Bazzana even asserts that Gould’s binaries—his most common being the divisions German/Italian and North/South—may have been willful ignorance.62 Gould approached works as autonomous from their époque: their historical context was interesting but inconsequential for performance.63

It should come without surprise that Gould’s fidelity to the score is not considered paramount. Bazzana writes that Gould often arranged scores to emphasize unity, consistency, and clarity. If a composer were to present a figure varyingly, Gould would choose one instance to perform.64 Elizabeth Wood takes a similar position on Gould’s interpretative liberties: “When he does impose his own musical ideas, in terms of expression, his foremost concern is that such changes be integrated into the musical work’s overall structure, and not remain unrelated to the total conception.”65 Wood writes that Gould’s frequent failure to adhere to the score displays circular logic. If the characteristics expounded in his arrangements are inherent to the work, as he argues, other performers would produce similar results.66 She also argues that Gould’s performances are inclined to “building, enhancing, producing, and developing the music as it is suggested through the score,”67 and are “less concerned with accessing the composer’s intention than with enhancing and expressing through music his own understanding of what the composer provided as a point of departure.”68 Bazzana argues that Gould treated all works as if composed

60 Ibid. 61 Ibid., 14. 62 Ibid., 33. 63 Ibid., 14. 64 Ibid., 28. 65 Wood, “The Composer-Performer Relationship, The Musical Score, and Performance,” 210. 66 Ibid., 211. 67 Ibid., 213. 68 Ibid. 35 by Bach. They were “collections of pitches and rhythms with no firm guidelines as to how they were to be realized in performance.”69

Leaving aside his exhaustive commentaries on art, the truth of Gould’s viewpoints applied in performance is more clandestine. In his copy of Theodor Adorno’s Prisms, Gould underlined an excerpt that likely mirrored his interpretative aims: “True interpretation is an x-ray of the work; its task is to illuminate in the sensuous phenomenon the totality of all the characteristics and inter-relations which have been recognized through intensive study of the score.”70 On Gould’s analytical method, Bazzana comments that “in spite of the detail into which his analyses sometimes delved, he seems to have worked them out in his head.”71 Gould felt that these analyses should inform the performance practices that emerge from their realization, regardless of their unusualness.72 In an interview, Gould stated it was paradoxical for a performer to undertake their own analysis and then attempt to reconcile the results with current paradigms: “new points of view demand new performance practices, even if it means departing from the score.”73

2.2 Recording Analysis

The following study considers Glenn Gould’s relationship with Alban Berg’s piano sonata. Gould made eight recordings of the work between 1952 and 1974. These include studio, television, radio, and live concert performances (see Table 2.1, listed below). The recordings were located through Bazzana’s bibliographic records tabled in Glenn Gould: The Performer in the Work.74 Spanning two decades of Gould’s career, they provide valuable insight into his evolving style and interpretative method. Three areas will be examined. First, Gould displays his penchant for unusual tempi, with the later recordings demonstrating uncommonly slow approach. Considering the timings found throughout these recordings may reveal conclusive data behind Gould’s tendency to embrace slower speeds later in his career. Scholarship in this

69 Bazzana, Glenn Gould: The Performer in the Work, 37. 70 Ibid., 90. 71 Ibid., 87. 72 Ibid. 73 Ibid., 44. 74 Ibid., 273. Of the eight recordings, the rarest is the 1969 performance for CBC Radio. A digital copy was obtained through the kind assistance of Mark Bailey at the Yale Collection of Historical Sound Recordings. 36 area is limited to music theorist Peter Martens’ study of Gould’s proportional tempo relationships heard in his 1981 recording of Bach's Goldberg Variations.75 Secondly, Gould’s tendency to stagger vertical harmonies is displayed throughout these recordings. The technique is used primarily to outline inner counterpoint. Detailed examination of these instances will reveal Gould’s method. Musicologist Neal Peres da Costa’s monograph, which discusses the tradition of breaking chords as both performance practice and expressive device, will aid in this area of study.76 Thirdly, this dissertation's first chapter demonstrated that performers can be classified according to their interpretative choices. Evaluating Gould’s eight performances by the same method will provide insight into his artistic evolution between 1952 and 1974.

Table 2.1: Gould’s performances of Alban Berg’s sonata preserved on media.

Recording Location/Date

1952 CBC Radio (radio) October 14, 1952: Toronto

Hallmark (studio) November 3, 1953: Toronto

Moscow Concert (live concert) May 12, 1957: Moscow

Columbia (studio) 1958: New York City

Stockholm (studio) October 6, 1958: Stockholm

1969 CBC Radio (radio) March 13, 1969: Toronto

CBC Musicamera (television) February 20, 1974: Toronto

ORTF Chemins de la musique (television) January/February 1974: Toronto

Gould’s earliest recording of the sonata occurred on October 14th, 1952 for broadcast by CBC radio. Schoenberg’s Drei Klavierstücke, op. 11 and Suite for Klavier, op. 25 were recorded the same day.77 His first commercial recording is the 1953 Hallmark record shared with violinist Albert Pratz.78 Having heard about Gould from his father Ernest MacMillan, producer Keith MacMillan followed Pratz’s suggestion to create a duo recording featuring the two.79 Gould’s

75 Peter A. Martens, “Glenn Gould’s ‘Constant Rhythmic Reference Point’: Communicating Pulse in Bach’s Goldberg Variations, 1955 and 1981,” Music Theory Online 13:4 (2007). 76 Neal Peres da Costa, Off the Record: Performing Practices in Romantic Piano Playing (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). 77 Glenn Gould, Original CBC Broadcasts - Schoenberg, Berg, Webern, CBC Records, PSCD 2008, 1995. CD. Liner notes. 78 Glenn Gould, Glenn Gould, Piano; Albert Pratz, Violin, Hallmark Recital Series RS3, 1953. LP. 79 Bazzana, Wondrous Strange - The Life and Art of Glenn Gould, 126-27. 37 solo recording of Berg’s sonata is given one side, and his collaboration with Pratz the other. Together, they performed works by Shostakovich, Taneiev, and Prokofiev. The Berg was recorded on November 3rd, 1953 at Bloor Street United Church.80

The album gave Gould the first opportunity to publish his own writing, which appeared as liner notes on the album case. Gould’s notes, while revealing his enthusiasm for the Second Viennese School, display his tendency towards affected language: “The sonata’s one movement is strictly organized on classical lines, exposition, development, and recapitulation. It maintains throughout vestiges of its key-signature, B minor. But the episodes which can be analysed according to the triad principle, are interspersed with passages which can only be deduced by purely chromatic laws of tension and relaxation.”81 Gould’s analysis is less detailed than his one for the Columbia label in 1958.

In May 1957, Gould became the first North American musician to tour the Soviet Union following the death of Joseph Stalin. The sonata was performed on May 12th as part of a lecture- recital at the Moscow Conservatory, entitled “Music in the West.” It is that performance, with its subsequent commentary, that is preserved on recording.82 Gould would go on to repeat his concert programs in Leningrad where, on May 16th, the Berg received two performances as an encore.

The 1958 Columbia recording was produced at the company’s 30th street studio in New York. Like the 1953 Hallmark recording, Gould was permitted to author the record’s liner notes. His explanation of the work is now more detailed. Regarding the work’s cohesiveness, Gould argues that Berg “[constructs] within the melodic complexes a unity of motivic intension so firm, so interdependent as to lend a complete coherence of linear flow.”83 He labels the opening three- note motive as the “central generative cell,” and details its frequent influence through the exposition including short excerpts as visual aid.84

80 Ibid., 127. 81 Gould, Glenn Gould, Piano; Albert Pratz, Violin, LP rear cover. 82 Glenn Gould, Concert de Moscou, Harmonia Mundi France/Le Chant du monde LDC 278 799, 1983. LP. 83 Glenn Gould, Berg, Schoenberg, and Krenek, Columbia ML 5336, 1959. LP. 84 Ibid. 38 Gould’s Stockholm recording was captured in studio at the Musical Academy on October 10th, 1958.85 It was one of three solo sessions, in addition to a performance with orchestra, that were recorded for Swedish radio.86 He would not record the sonata again until March 13th, 1969 as part of a CBC recital broadcast, marking the end of a decade-long absence from it.87

Gould’s 1974 televised performance of Alban Berg’s piano sonata was for the CBC series Musicamera.88 The performance formed part of the series Music in Our Time, which was envisioned as seven programs, each detailing a decade from the twentieth century. Only four programs were finished (until 1940), with the sonata forming part of the program “The Age of Ecstasy, 1900-1910.”89 The visual setting of the Berg performance was inspired. The floor is bright red and the backdrop evokes foliage. Bazzana remarks: “Technically the series was adventurous - swirling ‘light sculptures’ formed a backdrop to music by Scriabin, for instance - and Gould was closely involved with the production at every stage.”90

The last recording was a product of Gould’s developing friendship with the Parisian violinist Bruno Monsaingeon during the late 1960s and 1970s. Monsaingeon was in a Moscow record shop in 1965 when he discovered a record by Glenn Gould. Afterwards, he contacted Gould and sought his participation in a French television program featuring music’s most prominent personalities. They met in Toronto during July 1972 and Gould agreed to the project.91 The project became a group of four films entitled Glenn Gould: l’alchimiste broadcasted by the ‘Office de radiodiffusion-télévision français,’ (ORTF) as part of the series Chemins de la musique.92 Bazzana writes that Gould was given leadership over content: “an uncritical portrait; discussion of serious musical issues in addition to filmed performances; high technical and artistic standards; filming in Toronto, on a generous schedule; and a satisfactory financial deal.”93 The production schedule lasted six weeks during January and February 1974.

85 Glenn Gould, Glenn Gould in Stockholm, BIS CD-323, 1986. CD. 86 Bazzana, Wondrous Strange - The Life and Art of Glenn Gould, 184. 87 Glenn Gould, Unreleased Broadcast Performances, Music & Arts CD-674, 1991. CD. 88 Glenn Gould, Musicamera - Music in Our Time - The Age of Ecstasy: 1900-1910 (Canadian Broadcasting Company, 1974). http://www.cbc.ca/player/play/2191277761 (accessed March 3, 2016). Online video. 89 Bazzana, Wondrous Strange - The Life and Art of Glenn Gould, 415. 90 Ibid., 416. 91 Ibid., 417-18. 92 Glenn Gould, Glenn Gould, l’alchimiste, directed by Bruno Monsaingeon (1974; London: EMI Classics, 2002). DVD. 93 Bazzana, Wondrous Strange - The Life and Art of Glenn Gould, 418. 39 The recording locations were the Eaton Auditorium, the Canadian Broadcasting Company, and the studio of Robert Lawrence Productions. It aired in France during November and December 1974, and its wide viewership there was assisted by the television strike in France which presented limited viewing options.94 Bazzana writes that these films offer a compelling perspective on Gould’s aesthetic. The conversations are carried out in an improvisatory manner, and were pieced together with editing afterwards. During one of these, Gould offers a unique theory regarding the success of Berg’s sonata: “I have a strange theory, which is very perverse. It ties to my notion that the mix of styles, through the intermediation of technology, that one never mixes one’s styles so convincingly as in an opus one… I don’t think Berg ever really wrote a better work than his piano sonata.”95 The film’s performances offer highly individual readings of

Gould’s standard repertoire.96

2.2.1 Timing

Glenn Gould’s renown for reconsidering tempo is often recognized through his 1955 and 1981 recordings of the Goldberg Variations. Gould’s approach with the latter has been studied by Peter Martens.97 Similar to his belief that superior composition would be unified through its motivic framework, a larger temporal cohesiveness is Gould’s aim in the second recording. Martens references Gould’s aspirations verbatim: “I’ve come to feel over the years that a musical work, however long it may be, ought to have basically—I was going to say one tempo but that’s the wrong word—one pulse rate, one constant rhythmic reference point.”98 Martens disambiguates this term, using tactus to describe Gould’s framing of pulse. He argues that Gould’s term allows a flexibility to change the tactus between variations, provided the new pulse retains a proportional relation to the original.99 Monsaingeon, whose 1974 documentary forms part of this study, would return to film Gould’s recording of the variations. He requested Gould’s explanation regarding the return to the piece. Gould replied: “I wasn’t motivated to do it until rather recently, when it occurred to me, on one of my rare re-listenings to that early recording,

94 Ibid. 95 Gould, Glenn Gould, l’alchimiste. 96 Bazzana, Wondrous Strange - The Life and Art of Glenn Gould, 418. 97 Martens, “Glenn Gould’s ‘Constant Rhythmic Reference Point’.” 98 Ibid., [6]. 99 Ibid., [7]. 40 that it was very nice, but that it was perhaps a little bit like thirty very interesting but somewhat independent-minded pieces going their own way.”100

A significant increase in length occurs across Gould’s recordings of Berg’s sonata. Due to the score’s frequent tempo instructions, and its situation in the late Romantic German repertoire, it would be unprofitable to form conclusions from an analysis assigning relative metronome markings to consecutive measures. Flexible tactus rate between variations, as argued by Martens in Gould’s second recording of the Goldberg Variations, applies less to a work with slippery pulse in sonata-allegro form. A consideration of the performances’ varying lengths will prove most productive. The analysis will account for the inconsistency of the exposition’s repeat. As such, the recordings’ total lengths will not be admitted, accommodating instead a consideration of the work’s theme and larger formal sections. Sonic Visualiser was used to capture precise data.

The work’s opening theme (mm. 1-4) witnesses the greatest change. On CBC radio in 1952 it is performed in 12.36 seconds, and during the exposition’s repeat it is quicker at 10.34. The Hallmark recording, over a year later, is similar at 12.30 seconds and 11.75 for the repeat. A notable increase occurs with Gould’s 1957 lecture-recital in Moscow, where the timing is 15.00 seconds. For his studio recording at Columbia a year later, an increase of 29.73 percent is witnessed with a duration of 19.46 seconds. In Stockholm the first phrase is completed much slower at 25.10 seconds. More than a decade passes before the next recording. The 1969 CBC radio performance is timed at 26.98 seconds and 18.45 during the repeat. In Gould’s two last recordings the repeat is omitted, but the length continues to rise. His performance for CBC television in 1974 is timed at 27.23 seconds, and Monsaingeon’s documentary the same year is 28.57.

Remarking on the three later performances, Bazzana writes: “one observes much slower tempos, a growing tendency to linger over the intense chromatic harmony, an increasing number of liberties with the score, a greater feeling of improvisation, and a tempering of the nervous energy that characterized the earlier performances.”101 That Gould’s aesthetic transformed

100 Ibid., [5]. 101 Bazzana, Glenn Gould: The Performer in the Work, 102. 41 between the early and later recordings is without question. Between the 1952 CBC radio and Monsaingeon’s 1974 documentary performances, the theme’s length more than doubles at an increase of 131.14 percent. In 1952 and 1953, Gould’s nervous energy can be represented by his choice to exaggerate motive C into a double-dotted eighth and thirty-second rhythm. This mannerism saturates both recordings and remains unadjusted until 1957. In his Moscow and Columbia records, the impulse is largely absent. A lyricism emerges with a greater investment in the poles of volume requested by the score. In the four final recordings Gould’s tempo has decreased considerably and the earlier lyricism has become strained: his regard for temporal shape has migrated to a care for the chromatic voice leading within notably slower tempi. Bazzana, after an extensive survey of Gould’s recording output, remarks that slow tempi were often used to expose counterpoint.102 Bazzana also writes that Gould’s frequent decision to stagger vertical harmonies was for the benefit of voice leading. Gould’s choices here will be discussed in the next section.

Table 2.2: Duration of theme, in seconds, across Gould’s recordings.

Recording 1st Exposition 2nd Exposition CBC 1952 12.36 10.34 Hallmark 1953 12.30 11.75 Moscow 1957 15.00 Columbia 1958 19.46 16.97 Stockholm 1958 25.10 20.34 CBC 1969 26.98 18.45 CBC TV 1974 27.23 Monsaingeon 1974 28.57

102 Ibid. 42 Figure 2.1: Comparison of the theme’s length across Gould’s eight recordings.

30s

20s

10s

0s CBC 1952 Hallmark 1953 Moscow 1957 Columbia 1958 Stockholm 1958 CBC 1969 CBC TV 1974 Monsaingeon 1974

As with the exposition, the development and recapitulation demonstrate significant increase by Gould’s last recording. The mapping of their growth is less elegant than the first phrase and exposition, due to inconsistency. The regularity of the first phrase’s growth, though, displays Gould searching for the limit of possibility. Indeed, Gould’s increases are non- linear and display a logarithmic trend, meaning they are inversely exponential. If Gould were to have made additional recordings of the sonata before his death, it would have been very interesting to see if his tempo choices would plateau.

Figure 2.2: Gould’s lengths for the first phrase displayed as a logarithmic trend.

30s y = 9.1665ln(x) + 8.7237 R² = 0.8627

20s

10s

0s 1952 1953 1957 1958 1958 1969 1974 1974

43 Gould’s multi-decade, interpretative reassessment of this work displays a real determination to locate meaning. While this attests to Gould’s superior artistry, it also argues the nature of the musical work. Interpretive multiplicity is inherent to the musical act, with each performance a shard of a greater interpretative picture.

2.2.2 Manual Asynchrony

Gould’s performances frequently include misaligned vertical harmonies. Those encountered in this study suggest a creativity extending further than the pre-war fashion of disjunct hands. Considering these occurrences may clarify Gould’s intent and reveal compelling options towards highlighting counterpoint. Writing about these devices engenders difficulty regarding their classification. ‘Broken chords’ and ‘breaking’ are heard in the vernacular but inelegant in prose. Neal Peres da Costa’s monograph on Romantic performance practice posits ‘manual asynchrony’ as a solution.103 The term will be employed here as a general classification for the applicable devices appearing in Gould’s performances.

In his monograph, Peres da Costa positions himself as a performance scholar in the stream of Leech-Wilkinson and Cook. Musicologist Clive Brown, in the book’s introduction, recommends a reading to every pianist aspiring to perform nineteenth-century music in an informed manner. He excuses pianists inclined to textual literalism, writing: “The only pianists who may perhaps be excused from reading it are those who, for whatever philosophical or pragmatic reason, have made a deliberate and informed choice to take the notation at face value, knowing that by doing so they ignore much that the composer may have expected it to convey to the performer.”104 Brown argues that the device’s scarcity in contemporary practice is symptomatic of modern misintent: “an extreme example of the ways in which the implicit meaning of the notation fell victim to an unhistorical conviction that fidelity to the composer’s intentions required the most scrupulous literal observance of the text.”105 He adds that rhythmic nuance, rubato, and manual asynchrony were left to expert pianists capable of transcending merely correct performance.106 Peres da Costa notes a comparable situation in violin literature:

103 Peres da Costa, Off the Record: Performing Practices in Romantic Piano Playing. 104 Ibid., ix. 105 Ibid., xi. 106 Ibid., xiii. 44 “musical notation simply did not preserve many such practices like arpeggiation as were considered intrinsic to musical expression, any more than composers normally indicated, say, vibrato or portamento in violin music.”107 He is also critical of modern literalism, writing: “I am so seduced by the beauty of expression… that in its absence, the music often sounds strangely naked and/or straightjacketed.”108 Amongst numerous historical examples, Peres da Costa offers the 1889 wax cylinder recording of Brahms’ Hungarian Dance No. 2, where the composer is frequently heard dislocating the melody.109

Following a survey of recordings from the first half of the last century, Peres da Costa concludes that asynchrony is not idiosyncratic, but a widespread practice extending well into the previous century.110 With recording evidence provided by Reinecke, Brahms, Saint-Saens, Leschetizky and his student Paderewski, he cites musical lineage to argue that asynchrony extends far into the nineteenth century: “The frequency of dislocation preserved in Leschetizky’s piano rolls corresponds closely with that of his student Paderewski at his most extreme… if Paderewski used dislocation as much as his teacher Leschetizky, then it is very likely that Leschetizky’s teacher (Czerny) and his teacher’s teacher (Beethoven), used it just as much, or perhaps even more.”111

Peres da Costa outlines different manifestations of manual asynchrony. Of these, arpeggiation is frequently used by Gould. Peres da Costa writes that the arpeggio should be rendered quickly and occur primarily in the left hand, with the notes in the right played simultaneously. Its application adds energy without consequent percussiveness. Arpeggiation may also be used to clarify voice leading in polyphonic textures.112 Use of the device for both dramatic and voicing purposes is witnessed in Gould’s performances.

Ultimately, Peres da Costa warns against a system of knowledge where the score is the solitary source: “We cannot, therefore, assume that written texts convey clearly or meaningfully

107 Ibid., 128. 108 Ibid., 100. 109 Ibid., 76. 110 Ibid., 90. 111 Ibid., 99. 112 Ibid., 103. 45 the practices that in previous eras were considered essential to artistic performance.”113 Avoiding their use, while claiming knowledge of the composer’s intentions, suggests ignorance of the soundscape into which these works were written. Peres da Costa concludes by reminding us that historical recordings demand a performance style divorced from literal realization of the score: “it requires a great deal of imagination and reading between the lines.”114

In Gould’s first two recordings his use of asynchrony is comparatively mainstream. The melody is heard dislocated from the left hand, and in climactic passages the harmonic structure is often arpeggiated. Figures 2.3 and 2.4, presented after this discussion, annotate instances from the 1952 CBC radio broadcast. In Figure 2.3, taken from the beginning of the development, Gould separates the melody’s entry from the left hand. This demonstrates a motivation for structural clarity as the device assists in outlining the section’s polyphonic texture. To apply an expressive classification the left hand would need a more harmonic role (consider, for example, asynchrony in a nocturne by Chopin). In Figure 2.4, from the exposition’s Veloce section, Gould arpeggiates the left hand at the apex of each phrase. This supplies additional energy to these exciting moments.

Gould’s lecture-recital at the Moscow Conservatory captures an approach (detailed by Figure 2.5) to the sonata’s theme not demonstrated in the other recordings. To highlight the left hand’s chromaticism at the outset, the chord in m. 1 is arpeggiated downwards, allowing the final C-sharp to be sounded last and loudest. From there, the bass voice’s descent towards A-sharp in m. 3 is enhanced. Although the melody continues to be the primary voice, Gould’s choice highlights the C-sharp and its subsequent chromaticism as being significant. His reverse arpeggiation demonstrates novel creative ability: departing from practice for expressive intent and structural clarity.

The 1974 television productions demonstrate Gould’s most creative usage. In the development, three inventive uses of manual asynchrony warrant discussion. The first, demonstrated by Figure 2.6, occurs during the bridge that follows the climax in m. 92 and precedes Tempo più lento at m. 101. The traditional approach to this passage is decidedly right-

113 Ibid., 309. 114 Ibid. 300. 46 handed: a habitual neglect of the left hand without consideration of its motivic value. In m. 95, Gould voices the left hand’s augmented fourth (F/B) and the answering perfect fourth and diminished third (C-sharp/F-sharp/A-flat) louder than the right’s material. This balancing continues as the motives descend through mm. 96-97. Asynchrony is used to clarify this voice from the chromatic B-flat/A/A-flat motive also in the left hand. The use of disjunct melody for clarity of structure is again witnessed.

The most original use of manual asynchrony, displayed in Figure 2.7, occurs during the aforementioned Tempo più lento at m. 101. Here, Gould sounds the melody’s opening pitch twice: first with the bass and then as the final note of the arpeggiated ninth chord. Gould’s motivation likely stems from the dominant function harmonies and voice leading one beat earlier in m. 100. Despite the caesura preceding m. 101, Gould is compelled to continue the melody upwards and join with the left hand’s tonic. Gould is consistent with this decision in mm. 103, 105, and 106 where variations of the same material occur. Of the examples listed in this study, only here does Gould arrange the score for interpretative purposes.

Finally, in m. 102 (also demonstrated in Figure 2.7) Gould again arpeggiates the harmonic support unconventionally. Of the three pitches notated with arpeggiation (C/A/D- sharp), the middle is sounded last (Gould’s performance order: C/D-sharp/A). The purpose of this choice is to highlight the inner voice which begins on A, repeats, and then continues upwards to F-sharp and F-natural. Similar to the material discussed in Figures 2.3 and 2.6, Gould reveals that his motivation with this device is often the clarification of structure, not just expressivity.

Figure 2.3: 1952 CBC radio, mm. 57-58. Numbers indicate sounding order. 47 Figure 2.4: 1952 CBC radio, mm. 40-42. Arrows indicate direction of asynchrony.

Figure 2.5: 1957 Moscow, mm. 1-3. Blue arrow indicates direction of asynchrony, and green arrows indicate priority in voicing.

Figure 2.6: 1974 Monsaingeon, mm. 96-98. 48 Figure 2.7: 1974 Monsaingeon, mm. 100-102.

Gould’s use of manual asynchrony displays a flexibility of approach in articulating polyphony and densely textured motivic material. His performances demonstrate, in practice, the score as being underdetermined by performance. His novel applications of manual asynchrony should be referenced by pianists searching for compelling solutions towards highlighting counterpoint. Most importantly, the plurality of the musical work is underlined by the flexibility of choice displayed through Gould’s multiple recordings of this single work.

2.2.3 Temporal Shape

This dissertation’s first chapter examined the recorded history of Berg’s sonata. The resulting analysis enabled the recordings’ assignment into four categories of interpretative approach. These classifications were largely delineated according to artists’ systems in phrase construction. Gould’s relationship with the sonata is exceptional. While other artists’ entries into its recorded history are largely singular, Gould’s revisitation of the work through three decades provides an opportunity to study an evolving aesthetic visiting three of these interpretative categories. Using the first chapter’s method, Gould’s changing approach to the work’s opening two phrases will be considered. Sonic Visualiser was again used to capture accurate data.

The 1952 CBC radio and 1953 Hallmark performances situate a younger Gould within the performance practice category. The two recordings are interpretively similar and include noticeable phrase arcs and a strong sense of high-level shaping. Although Gould’s interpretation 49 is strongly aligned with performance tradition, the exaggerated treatment of the work’s dotted rhythms displays his potential for individuality. In the later Hallmark recording, Gould’s performance of the first four measures is comparatively objective. The score’s tempo indications are closely observed, including a precise placement of the rit. in m. 3. In the second phrase, Gould’s relationship with the score becomes more individual. At the close of m. 6, Gould slows with the ceasing of the left hand’s motif. The stringendo of the next measure is followed, and Gould shapes towards the D-sharp which begins m. 8. Rather than performing the marked molto rit. in the same measure, Gould maintains the tempo towards the next melodic note, G-sharp, beginning m. 9. Two phrases emerge as a result. The first is performed with relative fidelity, and the second presents an original construction with a tiered arc in rubato surrounding an under- appreciated pitch in the piece’s tradition. Gould’s phrasing here is visualized through data regarding temporal shape in Figure 2.8, listed below. The first phrase’s arc between mm. 1 and 5 is clear, and the second phrase’s shape is more extended.

Evidence of a shifting aesthetic appears during Gould’s 1957 lecture-recital at the Moscow Conservatory (detailed by Figure 2.9). Gould’s earlier use of exaggerated dotted rhythms has decreased, and expressivity is pursued through an increased dynamic palette. An appreciation for the decay of pitches is heard, including a heightened sensitivity to chromatic resolutions. Phrasing remains a priority, but Gould’s colourful performance indicates a deeper relationship with the piece, recommending placement in the poetic category. In the opening phrase Gould bypasses the accel. in m. 2, maintaining tempo and decreasing volume into m. 3. The result is a compelling execution of the opening measures. The reverse arpeggiation of the first chord, discussed in the previous section, assists in this expressivity. The two motifs beginning the second phrase are shaped separately, with a retreat in volume and tempo ending the second. At the beginning of m. 7 Gould embraces the marked stringendo. Gould increases volume towards the melody’s G in m. 8, which he articulates as the apex. The sfz indicated for the doubled E in m. 9 isn’t followed, but foreshadows the softer resolution on G-sharp. The result is a highly expressive construction of the second phrase. Gould’s voicing of the left hand’s theme between mm. 10-12 is new in this performance. 50 Following his Moscow recording, Gould’s performances slow dramatically. The varied palette is retained, but the interpretations deviate from tradition to the extent that they cannot be labelled as performance practice or poetic. This is not to claim that direction or expressivity are impalpable in these performances; in fact, shape never entirely disappears and colour remains present. The graphs outlining Gould’s shape in these recordings are noticeably flat, however, during the second phrase; while the Y axis’s range (seconds between beats) increases substantially. Gould’s tempo has made larger phrase arcs less practical. As Gould’s novel approach to tempo is foregrounded in these recordings, they are best suited to the intellectual category.

In his Columbia studio recording from 1958, Gould maintains a consistent tempo through both phrases. The first twelve measures are measured at forty-three seconds. Due to its slower tempo, the interpretation evokes a pensive character. Gould gives careful attention to the resolution of chromatic voice-leading, and expressivity is often achieved by choices in opposition to Berg’s markings. In m. 5, Gould performs the inner voices with a decrescendo, and in m. 6 renders an opposite shaping for the left hand’s material. Gould doesn’t incorporate the molto rit. written in m. 8, likely due to the slow tempo. Instead, an accelerando is performed where m. 9’s G-sharp is the destination. The result is a cohesive, yet extended, construction of the second phrase.

The Stockholm recording (shown in Figure 2.10) witnesses another decrease in tempo, with the opening phrases timed at forty-nine seconds. The interpretation retains its earlier character where the lengths of pitches are appreciated. Gould’s care for the notes’ decay keeps horizontal direction, or phrasing, palpable. Gould’s performance of the opening phrase is noticeably slower than the second. My inclination is that Gould intends a heavier narrative weight for the opening phrase. A slight acceleration in the second measure is heard before a delicate placement of D in m. 3. Gould begins the second phrase faster than the first, but the tempo is slow enough that the molto rit. in m. 8 is not feasible. With consistent tempo, Gould maintains the integrity of the longer phrase through mm. 8 and 9. The result is a remarkably novel rendering of the opening twelve measures. 51 Gould’s approach to tempo in his 1969 CBC radio recording remains slow. Aside from a large ritardando at the end of the first phrase, his progress through the opening twelve measures is comparatively steady. To achieve this, the marked accel. (m. 5), stringendo (m. 7), and molto rit. (m. 8) are not realized to their previous extent. Gould’s consistent tempo, particularly for the second phrase, can be observed in Figure 2.11, listed below. The televised performances from 1974 are similar. In the 1974 CBC performance (demonstrated by Figure 2.12) Gould performs the second phrase with observation of the accel. and stringendo between mm. 5-8, despite his slow approach to the first phrase. They present polished and expressive performances of the opening measures, demonstrably performance practice if their irregular tempo choice is ignored.

Figure 2.8: Glenn Gould’s approach in his 1953 Hallmark recording.

1 Seconds Since Last Instance Last Seconds Since 0 1.1 1.2 2.1 2.2 2.3 3.1 3.2 3.3 4.1 4.2 4.3 5.1 5.2 5.3 6.1 6.2 6.3 7.1 7.2 7.3 8.1 8.2 8.3 9.1 9.2 9.3 11.1 11.2 11.3 10.1 10.2 10.3 12.1 Measure/Beat

Figure 2.9: Glenn Gould’s approach at the Moscow Conservatory.

5.25

3.5

1.75 Seconds Since Last Instance Last Seconds Since 0 1.1 1.2 2.1 2.2 2.3 3.1 3.2 3.3 4.1 4.2 4.3 5.1 5.2 5.3 6.1 6.2 6.3 7.1 7.2 7.3 8.1 8.2 8.3 9.1 9.2 9.3 11.1 11.2 11.3 10.1 10.2 10.3 12.1 Measure/Beat

Figure 2.11: Glenn Gould’s approach in his 1969 CBC radio recording.

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Figure 2.12: Glenn Gould’s approach in his 1974 CBC television performance.

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The data collected for this study demonstrates a number of truths, the most pertinent being the plurality of the musical work. Gould’s performances demonstrate a variety of systems and aesthetic aims. The results are varied, yet remain compelling. The history of recording, which spans more than a century, demonstrates that artists generally keep their systems as they age. This service to habit reinforces old stock rigidity towards the singularity of composer’s intent and decays the essential component of choice in performance. Gould’s continuous reassessment of the work demonstrates an evolving search for meaning and a Proustian restlessness with the habitual; confirming, in the process, performance scholars’ belief that works are underdetermined by their notation. That habit is a hamartia for artists is clear after any authentic consideration of choice, and Gould’s performances display for us the compelling result of rethought in performance. Chapter 3 The Intersection of Performance and Analysis as Evidenced in Alban Berg’s Piano Sonata

3.1 Literature Review: The Intersection of Music Theory and Performance

Scholarship on the relationship between analysis and performance has grown steadily for the past three decades, a testament to increased interest in discourse concerning either discipline’s potential to inform the other’s processes. Recent writing has sought to even the intellectual field, which has traditionally sloped in favour of music theory. Scholars concede that although their systems of examination are dissimilar, performers and music theorists engage in analyses whose objective is the disambiguation of musical meaning. Increased understanding between the disciplines regarding their shared objective would produce more opportunities for collaboration and shared scholarship.

A catalyzing inquiry concerning the relationship between theory and performance is the

1985 article on two of Beethoven’s bagatelles by music theorist Janet Schmalfeldt.115 Adopting the personae of both music theorist and performer, Schmalfeldt constructs a dialogue between the two regarding their respective analytical methods. A number of fallacies are addressed, one of which is the discourse method. Schmalfeldt writes that the theorist need only verbalize their analysis, while the performer’s analysis, technique, and musicality are at stake.116 That the performer must leave the concert sphere and enter the scholastic forum remains oddly unmentioned. Joel Lester would later rebut the notion of performers entering academic journals, as “the verbal format of so many, if not all our theoretical forums demands that communication be primarily on the theorists’ turf.”117 The debate of method in Schmalfeldt’s article leads her to argue the plurality of the musical work: “there is no single, one-and-only performance decision that can be dictated by an analytic observation.”118 Schmalfeldt indicates that this contrasts with music theory’s practice of committing to a final argument.119 She concludes by writing that there

115 Janet Schmalfeldt, "On the Relation of Analysis to Performance: Beethoven's Bagatelles Op. 126, Nos. 2 and 5,” Journal of Music Theory 29:1 (1985): 1-31. 116 Ibid., 1. 117 Joel Lester, “How Theorists Relate to Musicians,” Music Theory Online 4:2 (1998), [15]. 118 Schmalfeldt, "On the Relation of Analysis to Performance," 28. 119 Ibid. 54 55 will always be differing analyses, but performers and music theorists can work in tandem towards “an increased understanding of shared and separate tasks.”120

Despite this proposition, polarizing opinion is published a few years later by music theorists Eugene Narmour, Jonathan Dunsby, and Wallace Berry.121 Comparing his analysis of Brahms’ Intermezzo op. 118 no. 1 to selected recordings, Narmour is critical of contrasting interpretations. Julius Katchen, a revered Brahms interpreter, receives the criticism of “[lacking] analytical insight and therefore perceptual consistency.”122 Glenn Gould’s recording, however, mirrors Narmour’s analysis. Unfortunately for Gould, Narmour considers the form ruined by the pianist’s decision to ignore the phrase’s repeat.123 Narmour writes that performers must consider analytical theory “indispensable,”124 as performing an incorrect representation of motivic structure “is like making a mistake in a mathematical equation; the syntactic errors multiply.”125 Fluency in analysis is requested of performers, as the “aesthetic depth of a great work” cannot be obtained “without an intense scrutiny of its parametric elements.”126 Jonathan Dunsby recommends analysis towards solving questions of interpretation that arise in performance. If the analysis is unproductive, Dunsby considers it “equally possible that the performer is asking ill-considered questions.”127 Regarding usage of sophisticated analytical methods, Dunsby acknowledges the difficulty for the untrained, but repudiates with the conclusion that “it is the non-specialist who has greatest need of the analysis.”128 Finally, Wallace Berry is critical of performers’ intuition, labelling it unsatisfactory as both a pedagogical and performance method. A revealing performance would serve a predetermined analysis, as “the musical experience is richest when functional elements of shape, continuity, vitality, and direction have been sharply

120 Ibid. 121 Eugene Narmour, "On the Relationship of Analytical Theory to Performance and Interpretation," in Explorations in Music, the Arts, and Ideas: Essays in Honor of Leonard B. Meyer, ed. Eugene Narmour and Ruth Solie, 317-40 (Stuyvesant, NY: Pendragon Press, 1988); Wallace Berry, Musical Structure and Performance (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989); and Jonathan Dunsby, "Guest Editorial: Performance and Analysis of Music,” Music Analysis 8:1/2 (1989): 5-20. 122 Narmour, "On the Relationship of Analytical Theory to Performance and Interpretation," 319. 123 Ibid., 321. 124 Ibid., 340. 125 Ibid., 321. 126 Ibid., 340. 127 Dunsby, "Guest Editorial: Performance and Analysis of Music,” 9. 128 Ibid. 56 discerned in analysis, and construed as a basis for the intellectual awareness which must underlie truly illuminating interpretation.”129

Lester would later respond to Berry’s verdict, casting doubt on music theory’s supposition that “an intentional act of analysis must precede any interaction between analysis and performance.”130 He would also question Berry’s assumption that performance is cognitively impoverished, as performers labour thousands of hours at their instruments.131 Lester argues that theorists miss opportunities to relate with performers by addressing shared questions solely within their own theoretical traditions.132 It would be fruitful to consider the systems artists use to solve similar issues, and to explore methods of communicating with musicians within their vernacular. Expert performances project performers’ positions on a work’s structure, and Lester writes that theorists too rarely check recordings alongside theoretical scholarship for workable solutions to their queries.133 If performances could be considered a valid source, music theory might shift focus from finding a single structural entity to clarifying the multiple systems involved in a work’s interpretation.134

A challenge inhibiting stronger dialogue between performance and music theory is their differing approach to language. Musicologist Benjamin Binder and theorist Daphne Leong have both discussed the semiotics standard to western music.135 Binder writes that performers often use metaphors to suggest the meaning of passages, while theorists present their analyses definitively. Although their scientific rhetoric may suggest absolute truth, theorists’ viewpoints remain interpretations, or even metaphorical representations, of the musical act.136 He allows that performers miss interpretative opportunities by overlooking theory’s analytical practices, but argues that theorists forget performers’ poetic performances utter truths to which their language falls short.137 Binder requests that both fields renounce any predisposition to authority by

129 Berry, Musical Structure and Performance, 6. 130 Lester, “How Theorists Relate to Musicians,” [9]. 131 Lester, “Performance and Analysis: Interaction and Interpretation,” 197. 132 Lester, “How Theorists Relate to Musicians,” [8]. 133 Ibid., [24]. 134 Lester, “Performance and Analysis: Interaction and Interpretation,” 214. 135 Benjamin Binder, “Art and Science, Beauty and Truth, Performance and Analysis?,” Music Theory Online 22:2 (2016); and Daphne Leong, “Analysis and Performance, or wissen, können, kennen,” Music Theory Online 22:2 (2016). 136 Binder, “Art and Science, Beauty and Truth, Performance and Analysis?,” [8]. 137 Ibid. 57 recognizing the shared “contingent metaphorical foundations of their respective interpretive languages.”138 Leong articulates that language hinders accurate description of music’s transformations.139 Music exists not only in performance, but also manifests in the mind, through media, and on the score. Alongside this plurality Leong asserts the existence of differing cognitions surrounding the musical act. She suggests the German “Wissen (knowing that), Können (knowing how), and Kennen (knowing, as in knowing a person),” as appropriate labels.140 In her case study, Wissen is defined as the ability to recognize intervals, motives, and other fruits of analysis; Können as the ability to reproduce the score in performance, and Kennen as performing with meaning, or musicality.141 Leong argues that combining analysis and performance can make use of all three vantage points, enabling “an understanding that goes beyond intuition, that can inform it, and that can be overruled by it.”142

Music theorists Fred Everett Maus and Carl Schachter have opined on musicians’ ability to communicate theoretical analysis.143 Maus’s studies reveal that successful performances require the audience to be cognisant of the requisite analytical framework.144 Maus points to theory seminars and conferences, where the movement from presentation to performance is commonplace. He argues, “what they actually show is that a group of musicians who adopt a shared analytical understanding of a passage can then understand and enjoy a performance that responds to that analysis,” even if the interpretations are “quite idiosyncratic.”145 Referring to performers’ inability to directly articulate structures illuminated by Schenkerian analysis, Schachter writes that performers’ ability to render the surface of the music, presumably in terms of shape and colour, can demonstrate understanding: “But just as painters can suggest muscles, bones, and movement by the way they depict skin tones and light on the surface of a body or

138 Ibid., [9]. 139 Leong, “Analysis and Performance, or wissen, können, kennen,” [5]. 140 Ibid., [17]. 141 Ibid. 142 Ibid., [18]. 143 Fred Everett Maus, “Musical Performance as Analytical Communication,” in Performance and Authenticity in the Arts, ed. Salim Kemal and Ivan Gaskell, 129-53 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999); and Carl Schachter, “Playing What the Composer Didn’t Write: Analysis and Rhythmic Aspects of Performance,” in Pianist, Scholar, Connoisseur: Essays in Honor of Jacob Lateiner, ed. Bruce Brubaker and Jane Gottlieb, 47-68 (Stuyvesant, NY: Pendragon Press, 2000). 144 Everett Maus, “Musical Performance as Analytical Communication,” 143. 145 Ibid. 58 face, so too performers can evoke deeper structures and forces by the way they told the surface of the music.”146

Despite Schmalfeldt’s earlier pronouncement that analyses allowing ambiguity exist outside the tradition of music theory,147 scholarship by music theorists Janet Levy and Ryan McClelland suggests it as beneficial to performance.148 Levy writes that areas of structural uncertainty can be underlined as such, with the dubiety being pleasurable for both performer and audience: “They need not — indeed should not — be resolved. The choice of the performer to let ambiguity ‘live’ releases the power to shape and enrich musical experience.”149 In her exposition, which includes the first number from Beethoven’s op. 126 bagatelles, Levy compares recordings by Artur Schnabel and Jörg Demus. Schnabel’s recording is favoured for articulating the highlighted ambiguity with clarity, while Demus’s approach is criticized for remaining ambiguous.150 That structural ambiguity must be articulated clearly demonstrates an irony in language and practice between performance and theory. In his analysis of the Capriccio from Brahms’ Klavierstücke op. 76, McClelland calls attention to the uncertain metre and uncommon harmonic structure at the work’s opening. Rather than choosing a metric accent that articulates either 3/2 or 6/4, McClelland suggests that the performer maintain neutrality until m. 9 where the 6/4 metre is prominent.151 Metric and harmonic ambiguity is resolved upon the theme’s recapitulation, and an interpretation that highlights this change is recommended.152

Original and compelling analyses have recently emerged in this area, two of which are noteworthy. The first is musicologist Fabio Morabito’s analysis of nineteenth-century score markings penned by their performers.153 He writes that studying these “traces of the act of performance” can illuminate the performers’ view of the text, paradigms, and sociological

146 Schachter, “Playing What the Composer Didn’t Write,” 48. 147 Schmalfeldt, "On the Relation of Analysis to Performance," 28. 148 Janet M. Levy, "Beginning-Ending Ambiguity: Consequences of Performance Choices,” in The Practice of Performance: Studies in Musical Interpretation, ed. John Rink, 150-69 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995); and Ryan McClelland, "Brahms's Capriccio Op. 76, No. 8: Ambiguity, Conflict, Musical Meaning, and Performance,” Theory and Practice 29 (2004). 149 Levy, "Beginning-Ending Ambiguity: Consequences of Performance Choices,” 168. 150 Ibid., 167. Levy articulates that the disguised return of the opening theme should regain the tempo of its original statement. 151 McClelland, "Brahms's Capriccio Op. 76, No. 8,” 91. 152 Ibid., 92. 153 Fabio Morabito, “The Score in the Performer’s Hands: Reading Traces of the Act of Performance as a Form of Analysis?,” Music Theory Online 22:2 (2016). 59 beliefs. He continues, writing “such an approach to analyzing performances can complicate and enrich our perspectives on what music is (or was) for people within their social context.”154 The second study is music theorist David Kopp’s analysis of Chopin’s Barcarolle, which considers program at the work’s opening.155 Articulating his belief that Venetian fireworks are suggested (rather than water), Kopp constructs a method to trace performers’ responses. Those following a “hydrocentric” narrative would ‘ground’ their interpretation by including metric accents within the compound triple meter, while an “aerocentric" approach would proceed evenly.156 Following a survey of historical recordings, Kopp writes, “two of the recordings I knew best, the legendary Dinu Lipatti recording from 1948, and an Arthur Rubinstein recording from about 1962, were exemplary: Lippati is clearly hydro, and Rubinstein is definitely aero.”157

3.2 Literature Review: Music Theorists' Interpretations of Alban Berg’s Piano Sonata

A number of theorists have published their analytical approach towards Alban Berg’s sonata. Their positions on its motivic, harmonic, and formal structure will be presented next, revealing points of agreement and disagreement. A breadth of perspective will be obtained from their intersection. With regard to the work’s motivic structure, Hans Redlich, Theodor Adorno, Douglas Jarman, Janet Schmalfeldt, Dave Headlam, and Anthony Pople have posited either binary or tripartite motivic constructions for the first phrase.158 Their views, and the importance of this structure in germinating the work’s motivic content, will be detailed first. The perspectives of Mosco Carner, Mark DeVoto, Vasili Byros, and Benjamin Wadsworth enter

154 Ibid., [7]. 155 David Kopp, “On Performing Chopin’s Barcarolle,” Music Theory Online 20:4 (2014). 156 Ibid., [9]. 157 Ibid. 158 Hans F. Redlich, Alban Berg: The Man and his Music (London: John Calder Ltd., 1957); Theodor W. Adorno, Alban Berg: Master of the Smallest Link, trans. Juliane Brand and Christopher Hailey (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968); Douglas Jarman, The Music of Alban Berg (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1979); Janet Schmalfeldt, “Berg’s Path to Atonality: the Piano Sonata, Op. 1,” in Alban Berg: Historical and Analytical Perspectives, ed. David Gable and Robert P. Morgan, 79-109 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991); Dave Headlam, The Music of Alban Berg, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996); and Anthony Pople, “Early Works: Tonality and Beyond,” in The Cambridge Companion to Berg, ed. Anthony Pople, 51-82 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). 60 during the second section’s examination of harmonic language.159 Carner and DeVoto underline the prominence of the semitone, while two recent papers by Byros and Wadsworth advance positions on Berg’s retention of direction within a new harmonic system. Schmalfeldt, Pople, and Headlam will maintain the importance of a tonal approach to the work’s analysis. In the final section, German theorist Klaus Schweizer joins Redlich, Adorno, Jarman, Schmalfeldt, and Headlam in a consideration of the exposition’s structure.160 Following this survey of the work’s scholarship, the analyses’ potential to inform performance will be discussed.

In addition to the wealth of opinion surrounding the sonata, it should be noted that Berg was himself well-disposed to analysis. Adorno praises his teacher’s skill, referencing published analyses of Schoenberg’s Gurre-Lieder, Pelleas und Melisande, and the First Chamber

Symphony.161 He adds that musical and serious students would recognize that analysis is the sole approach towards faithfully describing a work's “texture, economy, stratification, and coherence.”162

Figure 3.1: Motivic analyses of the Grundgestalt, mm. 1-4.

159 Mosco Carner, Alban Berg: The Man and The Work (London: Duckworth, 1975); Mark DeVoto, “Alban Berg and Creeping Chromaticism,” in Alban Berg: Historical and Analytical Perspectives ed. David Gable and Robert P. Morgan, 57-78 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991); Vasili Byros, “Competing “Windows of Order”: The Dialectics of System-Construction and -Withdrawal in Berg’s Sonata for Piano, Op. 1,” Theory and Practice 33 (2008): 273-327; and Benjamin Wadsworth, “A Model of Dialectical Process in Berg’s Opus 1 Piano Sonata,” Theory and Practice 33 (2008): 329-56. 160 Klaus Schweizer, Die Sonatensatzform im Schaffen Alban Bergs (Stuttgart: Musikwissenschaftliche Verlags- Gesellschaft, 1970). 161 Adorno, Alban Berg: Master of the Smallest Link, 35. 162 Ibid. 61 An often referenced analysis has been Adorno’s monographic ode to Berg’s motivic fluency. A variety of structures and processes natural to the Second Viennese School's aesthetic are defined, including the Schoenbergian Grundgestalt: a piece's "basic idea."163 Adorno finds this entity within the sonata's opening two intervals. The motive's influence is underlined by its frequent variation through axis rotation, which Adorno identifies as anticipating later serial methods.164 Three motives are located within the work's opening phrase. The opening fourths are motive A, the eighths in m. 2 are motive B, and the dotted rhythm of m. 3 is motive C. The right hand's closing material is labelled a diminution of motive C. Adorno argues the motives’ mutual referentiality. Motive B is an inverted, nearly retrograde instance of motive A, and motive C is taken from the inversion of the segue between motives A and B.165 The phrase's tripartite construction is supported by the analyses of Schmalfeldt and Anthony Pople, although Schmalfeldt departs from Adorno in arguing the entire phrase as Berg's Grundgestalt. She writes that Schoenberg's notion of the concept was never finalized. When speaking as a composer, he emphasized the Einfall, or idea: "an initial flash of inspiration whereby the composer conceives the totality of a work but not necessarily all of its specific musical details."166 As an analyst, however, Schoenberg would use Grundgestalt as "a concrete musical manifestation of the Einfall.”167 Schmalfeldt also indicates that in 1919 Schoenberg was distinguishing between Motif and Grundgestalt, with the former representing at least one interval and rhythm, and the later being the larger structure of at least two measures.168 Music theorists Dave Headlam and Douglas Jarman identify only two motives within the opening phrase. Both amalgamate Adorno’s motive B and C, and Headlam classifies the whole-tone melody in mm. 23-25 as the work’s third motive. Musicologist Hans Redlich, whose analysis is the earliest for this study, also argues a binary fragmentation of the melody, but finds a third motive in the bass’s chromatic descent from mm. 1-3.169 The importance of this third motive is not mentioned in his brief analysis, but likely extends to the semitone's importance throughout the work. A detailed representation of the thought surrounding the first phrase’s motivic content is detailed above in

163 Ibid., 42. 164 Ibid. 165 Ibid. 166 Schmalfeldt, “Berg’s Path to Atonality: the Piano Sonata, Op. 1,” 84. 167 Ibid. 168 Ibid., 85. 169 Redlich, Alban Berg: The Man and his Music, 48. 62 Figure 3.1. Schmalfeldt’s classification of the Grundgestalt and its motives will be the opinion adopted in this thesis, as the tripartite division retraces the work’s atonal, whole-tone, and diatonic languages to the three structures from which they stem. The harmonic implication of each motive will be detailed following the present discussion on motivic structure.

Schmalfeldt calls attention to Berg’s primary use of the compositional technique ‘developing variation,’ considering it evidence of Schoenberg’s influence.170 She articulates that use of developing variation necessitates the Grundgestalt, as “neither of these two concepts can be examined without reference to the other.”171 Countering Adorno’s claim that the work’s motivic material predominantly germinates from motive A, Schmalfeldt writes “it is from the three [motives], rather than just the first motive, that virtually all the melodic materials of this work will be generated by means of developing variation.”172 Each motive’s potential to undergo development is found in its respective harmonic implication, and Schmalfeldt writes that the work’s harmonic vocabulary can be located inside the Grundgestalt’s material.173 Finally, the use of developing variation enables an organicism to which Adorno gives laud: “within the smallest possible space an expansive profusion of the thematic characters is derived from a minimum of motivic material; at the same time, the work is strictly unified in such a way that, despite its brevity, the abundance of shapes does not become confusing.”174

The harmonic structure of the opening phrase anticipates the work’s larger compositional language and its eventual close in B minor. The opening fourths foresee the quartile (five cycle) harmonies later in the exposition, and form the emblematic Viennese trichord [016]. Schmalfeldt writes that the initial chord, a half-diminished seventh, suggests an embellished supertonic and prepares a tonal language with the cadential dominant’s approach.175 Here, the bass and upper middle voice form a minor seventh, descending chromatically until the whole-tone seventh chord ending m. 2. Their descent into the first sonority of m. 2 creates another minor seventh, leading in turn to a whole-tone seventh structure on beat 3. The whole-tone hexachord written here is

170 Schmalfeldt, “Berg’s Path to Atonality: the Piano Sonata, Op. 1,” 79. 171 Ibid., 84. 172 Ibid., 85-90. 173 Ibid., 90. 174 Adorno, Alban Berg: Master of the Smallest Link, 42. 175 Schmalfeldt, “Berg’s Path to Atonality: the Piano Sonata, Op. 1,” 91. 63 first captured by motive B, and is separate from the one beginning m. 3, whose pitches imply the dominant, F-sharp major. Motive C’s semitone descent suggests cadential voice leading, and the relevant dominant will appear most convincingly as a ninth chord at the measure’s end. Schmalfeldt writes that Berg’s choice to open the work with a closing gesture in the home key is significant.176 Instead of penning a tonic prolongation, the cadence’s finality and subsequent caesura separate the four measures from the work’s main body. Despite Adorno’s classification of the phrase as antecedent, its function is more akin to a consequent, with later scholars referring to the ensuing material as a continuation.177 One of these scholars, Vasili Byros, writes that m. 4’s rest is symbolic of “the imminent absence of tonality writ large.”178 Schmalfeldt labels this phrase as epigraphic, and Adorno adopts ‘motto.’179

Berg’s harmonic language in this work has generated much discussion. Musicologist Mosco Carner underlines the semitone’s importance in bass movement and chord linkage. He remarks that this contrasts with Schoenberg’s style, where root position chords are often located.180 Following a brief analysis, Carner writes: “the work may be described as a study in the use of chromatically altered suspensions and passing-note chords.”181 Music theorist Mark DeVoto carries this discussion further with the classification ‘creeping chromaticism.’ The approach is explained as: “a principle of generalized contrapuntal behaviour, a habit of stepwise linear motion of textural voices, by whole step or semitone, either simultaneously or not simultaneously with each other, without specificity of direction.”182 DeVoto states that this style enables harmony but also “subverts harmonic progression,” allowing “more possibilities than might be implied by normal root contiguities.”183 Examples of symmetrical chromatic creeping are identified that generate a colourful tonality of sevenths, ninths, altered triads, and quartile chords. DeVoto explains that Berg often harmonizes whole-tone sonorities to the lower voices’ chromaticism. The opening phrase, with its aforementioned descending minor sevenths and

176 Ibid., 90. 177 See Schmalfeldt, “Berg’s Path to Atonality: the Piano Sonata, Op. 1;” Byros, “Competing “Windows of Order”;” and Wadsworth, “A Model of Dialectical Process in Berg’s Opus 1 Piano Sonata.” 178 Byros, “Competing “Windows of Order”,” 309. 179 Schmalfeldt, “Berg’s Path to Atonality: the Piano Sonata, Op. 1,” 90. 180 Carner, Alban Berg: The Man and The Work, 101. 181 Ibid. 182 DeVoto, “Alban Berg and Creeping Chromaticism,” 57. 183 Ibid. 64 whole-tone motive, is an example. Also referenced is the climax between mm. 6-8. The melody’s broken augmented fifths, themselves a whole-tone structure, are paired with a chromatic line of rising thirds. Pople employs DeVoto’s observations against the rigid demarcation of tonality and atonality frequently suggested in historical discourse.184 He retraces Berg’s method to Schoenberg’s harmony text, Harmonielehre, which developed students’ ability in connecting altered, vagrant, and seventh chords. Pople then argues that Berg contextualizes these entities towards “a richly expanded dialect of tonality.”185 He adds that Berg’s ability as a Lied composer assists in rendering Schoenberg’s harmonic material within melodic gestures, or “the expressive turn of phrase.”186 Schmalfeldt writes that the work’s compelling Grundgestalt promises the listener a tonal framework, calling “our prior experience of tonal music into play.”187 Berg will solicit those expectations while withholding tonality’s complete materialization. On the interplay between atonal, tonal, and whole-tone elements, Schmalfeldt writes: “at this stage within his path towards atonality, Berg finds a harmonic language whose distinctive quality… has everything to do with the tensions that result when whole-tone and atonal materials are placed in opposition to the large-scale tonal framework.”188 Headlam takes the most conservative approach, labelling the work as tonal with extensive use of whole-tone, five-, and one-cycle (quartile and chromatic) structures.189

In 2008, two papers brought new perspective to the sonata’s harmonic vocabulary. The first, by Vasili Byros, argues the work’s irony. Byros writes that “an atonal listening grammar” surfaces despite a hierarchical organization of the chromatic scale, resulting in “attractive relations, but without impairing [the work’s] expressive potency.”190 Byros argues that this directional atonality undercuts modernist labelling of the work, as it undergoes the “construction of another system analogous to the one it consciously razes.”191 The second, by Benjamin Wadsworth, explores the work’s various dialectical approaches—whole-tone, tonal, atonal, and

184 Pople, “Early Works: Tonality and Beyond,” 63. 185 Ibid., 64. 186 Ibid., 66. 187 Schmalfeldt, “Berg’s Path to Atonality: the Piano Sonata, Op. 1,” 103. 188 Ibid., 104. 189 Headlam, The Music of Alban Berg, 22. 190 Byros, “Competing “Windows of Order”,” 282. 191 Ibid., 305. 65 interval-cycle analyses—adopting one as structurally normative and exploring the others’ influence as instances of harmonic tension and imbalance.192

Byros begins with the argument that Berg’s blending of harmonic styles is highly calculated.193 A new harmonic vocabulary emerges using tonality’s “listening grammar,” yet the sonata retreats from embracing either tonality or its “unique hierarchization of the chromatic scale” fully.194 This irony is labeled as ‘competing windows of order,’ with Byros writing that the work reads as a “genuine essay on modernism,” in which “the paradoxes of the modernist work of art, the endless circle of negations, contradictions, and cracks and fissures” are exhibited.195 Byros alludes to whole-tone structures that include non-scale degrees at a deviation of one semitone, such as (0348) beginning m. 5. These asymmetrical entities create dissonances that find resolution in symmetrical whole-tone structures, as (0348) resolves to (0248) ending m. 6. Byros writes that the interplay of semi-whole-tone (sWT) and whole-tone structures “simulate the oscillation of tonic-dominant polarity.”196 By casting asymmetry as dissonant and symmetry as consonant, Berg has effectively turned tonality’s principle of consonant asymmetry and dissonant symmetry on its head, while still retaining its essential tension-release paradigm. Byros claims that a whole-tone tonality is created, through “a specific harmonic and interval- cyclic fusing of the whole-tone and chromatic scales.”197 The work’s sentence form is argued as assisting this new grammar, germinating phrases which, through “familiar gesture,” allow the illusion of the old tonality.198 While retaining the consonance/dissonance binary, the new system erodes the “tonal gravitation,” “rootedness,” and “chordal inversion” pillars synonymous with traditional tonality.199

In Wadsworth’s article, the sonata is problematized for its movement between different dialectical traditions. This heterogeneous language creates instances of tension requiring subsequent resolution. Wadsworth uses Schoenberg’s position on Der musikalische Gedanke, or

192 Wadsworth, “A Model of Dialectical Process in Berg’s Opus 1 Piano Sonata,” 329-56. 193 Byros, “Competing “Windows of Order”,” 275. 194 Ibid., 280. 195 Ibid. 196 Ibid., 291. 197 Ibid., 292. 198 Ibid. 199 Ibid., 306. 66 ‘musical idea,’ as a procedural model, “as it distinguishes between normative and contrasting states.”200 These states are interpreted as representing balance and imbalance. Wadsworth combines this position with Hegel’s dialectical model, which includes three stages of development: thesis, antithesis, and synthesis. Hegel’s argument allows the coexistence of competing ideas within the synthesis stage. Wadsworth will use this philosophy to allow the coexistence of balance and imbalance in the sonata’s harmonic and motivic structures, whose interplay allow one “to trace a goal-directed motion towards a final state of reconciliation.”201 As an example, Wadsworth considers the work’s opening phrase. Harmonic imbalance is suggested through tonal and cyclic obscurity in m. 1, but is resolved through cadential movement in mm. 3-4. The three motives’ statement brings general motivic balance, although local imbalance is witnessed by motive C’s development in m. 4. Wadsworth concludes that the phrase asserts harmonic and thematic balance globally, while allowing local imbalance in mm. 1 and 4.202 In keeping with its sentence—or continuation—form, the second phrase brings imbalance on both harmonic and motivic levels. Wadsworth claims that his analysis facilitates structure as "a succession of formal stages."203 These stages require a directional approach, or as Wadsworth writes, “gradual shifts from balance to imbalance, back to balance, thereby creating a large arch-shaped form."204 Wadsworth’s position on formal stages leaves aside any discussion of harmonic dissonance as directional. His argument ends by welcoming varying analyses, provided they include "techniques that create a sense of goal-directed logical motion."205

The formal structure of the sonata has been essayed extensively. Headlam indicates that Berg’s approach to the weighting of the sonata’s tripartite divisions is conventional, with the combined bar-length of the development and recapitulation being roughly equivalent to the repeated exposition.206 Pople also writes that the work adopts a “Brahmsian” approach to sonata form, by investing in “stable, contrasting thematic areas.”207 There is consensus amongst scholars that Berg uses tempo to delineate thematic areas and their subsections. This usage

200 Wadsworth, “A Model of Dialectical Process in Berg’s Opus 1 Piano Sonata,” 330. 201 Ibid., 331. 202 Ibid., 333-4. 203 Ibid., 330. 204 Ibid. 205 Ibid., 349. 206 Headlam, The Music of Alban Berg, 23. 207 Pople, “Early Works: Tonality and Beyond,” 59. 67 evidences the work's casting in sonata form, and Headlam writes that it will play an important role in supporting structure within the composer's later compositions.208 Schmalfeldt adds that tempo is used as a structural device "to compensate for his tremendous expansion of the tonal language and to counterbalance his motivic economy."209 Jarman recommends a close reading of Berg’s tempo markings for the purpose of clarifying changing thematic areas: “since the individuality of the different themes depends primarily on the characteristic tempo associated with each, the whole sonata form becomes very fluid and ambiguous.”210 As a consideration of the entire work would be too extensive, only the exposition's structure will be considered.211

Table 3.1: Analyses of the sonata’s exposition. The tripartite construction of the main theme group is highlighted by emboldened gridlines for Schweizer's, Schmalfeldt's, and Headlam's interpretations.

Redlich Adorno Schweizer Jarman Schmalfeldt Headlam

m. Tempo 1957 1968 1970 1979 1991 1996 1 Màßig bewegt Gr. A: I PT: ante. MT: A SG I: i MT: A T1: A 4 PT: cons. variant 12 Rascher als T. I Gr. A: II Trans Trans: B SG I: ii False Trans: (B) T1: B 17 Tempo I MT: A1 MT: A1, auth. Trans: A1 trans.

30 Langsamer als T. I Gr. B: I ST ST1 SG II:i ST: A T2:1 39 Rasch Gr. B: II CT ST2 SG II:ii ST: B T2: 2 50 Viel langsamer Gr. C Abgesang CT Codetta CT CT/Retrans

Amongst this study’s theorists, Redlich was the earliest to examine the work. His 1957 analysis divides the exposition into three parts: expository groups A, B (marked cantabile), and

C.212 Group A extends from the beginning until Langsamer als Tempo I at m. 30, and group C begins with Viel langsamer at m. 50. Groups A and B are presented as consisting of two parts, and the binary construction of B is supported by the analyses of Jarman, Schmalfeldt, Headlam, and German theorist Klaus Schweizer. Schweizer was first to propose the tripartite construction

208 Headlam, The Music of Alban Berg, 23. 209 Schmalfeldt, “Berg’s Path to Atonality: the Piano Sonata, Op. 1,” 79. 210 Jarman, The Music of Alban Berg, 32. 211 Ibid., 99. 212 Redlich, Alban Berg: The Man and his Music, 48. 68 of the main theme group in 1970. The Grundgestalt is labelled as A, Rascher als Tempo I at m. 12 as B, and the brief return of the principal theme at m. 17 (Tempo I) as A1.213 This interpretation would be reiterated by Schmalfeldt in 1991, and Headlam in 1996. The most original analysis is argued by Adorno. For his approach, the principal theme extends to Rascher als Tempo I at m. 12, from where the structure is transitory until the second theme at m. 30. Rather than considering Rasch at m. 39 as the second theme’s B section, Adorno names this the closing theme, leaving the exposition’s final melody to be labelled the Abgesang, or ‘aftersong.’ Adorno writes that the closing theme is the only section lacking a motivic relationship to the principal theme, likely encouraging his classification which borrows from bar form’s AAB scheme where B is the contrasting Abgesang.214 Byros and Wadsworth adopt a tripartite view of the entire exposition matching all but Adorno. As their arguments focus on harmonic language, structural opinion is limited to simple reference points. It is helpful to consider these varying analyses alongside each other, as their discrepancies and congruence provide depth in considering the work’s structure. Table 3.1, above, details the viewpoints of these six scholars’ opinions. It completes, clarifies, and renders chronologically a similar chart tabled by Pople which is missing Schweizer’s and Headlam’s analyses.215

3.3 On the Potential for Analysis to Inform Performance Approach

Having collected music theorists’ views on the sonata’s motivic, harmonic, and structural language, this section will consider the extent to which these analyses may inform—or be reflected in—performance. Brief writing regarding this question has been offered by Dunsby, who in 1989 reflected on theorists’ incapability in capturing performance timing, whether “rubato, structural articulation, [or] expressive emphasis.”216 These elements are considered “a powerful element in the presentation of almost any composition.”217 Dunsby advances the sonata’s opening phrase as a characteristic example. Here, the initial G in m. 2 is problematized for its position as a “subsidiary rhythmic member of a dotted-note figure,” which “must be heard

213 Schweizer, Die Sonatensatzform im Schaffen Alban Bergs, 50. 214 Adorno, Alban Berg: Master of the Smallest Link, 45. 215 Pople, “Early Works: Tonality and Beyond,” 61. 216 Dunsby, "Guest Editorial: Performance and Analysis of Music,” 14. 217 Ibid. 69 as an upbeat to the following note.”218 As an important pitch in the Grundgestalt—the resolution of motive A and the first note of B—the G is “a note overburdened with meanings.”219 Dunsby suggests that most of these can be solved by placing a fermata over the preceding F-sharp. In doing so, however, Dunsby believes the “larger establishment of a perception of metrical order” is “destroyed” in the first phrase.220 He concludes that performers’ approach to this problematic passage will need to be pragmatic, as the “magisterial clarity” of intent and execution displayed by more mature composers is missing.221

Although Dunsby’s viewpoint stems from a metrical survey of the first phrase, his problem concerns the connectivity of motives A and B. The nature of motives’ articulation in a performance is a query deserving attention: how will—or should—the fruits of analysis inform performance approach? In Berg’s sonata, the three motives bind together the Grundgestalt. Together, they act as the gesture’s head, torso, and legs. A preference for any may subtract from the larger phrase’s perception. As noted by Rink and the research in this paper’s first chapter, temporal shape is forefront in performers’ conceptualization of formal structure, and most musicians prioritize the construction of phrase.222 If the choice to articulate phrases is accepted as frequently taking priority over local motivic content, do there remain opportunities to communicate the later? The potential for differing inflection certainly persists, and some performers will abandon their customary approach to achieve it. Gould may have proposed his own solution through manual asynchrony. His early placement of the left hand’s C-sharp in m. 1 during his 1957 Moscow recording is a characteristic example.223 This attention to the bass’s chromaticism articulates Redlich’s designation of motive C in his analysis from the same year. In the 1974 Monsaingeon documentary, Gould separates the quartal slurs from the chromatic descent in the left hand between mm. 96-98.224 This choice draws attention to an essential interval and harmonic structure, as argued by Headlam and Schmalfeldt.225

218 Ibid. 219 Ibid. 220 Ibid. 221 Ibid., 15. 222 Rink, “Analysis and (or?) Performance,” 36. 223 Please reference Figure 2.5 in Chapter 2. 224 Please reference Figure 2.6 in Chapter 2. 225 Headlam, The Music of Alban Berg, 22; and Schmalfeldt, “Berg’s Path to Atonality: the Piano Sonata, Op. 1,” 96. 70 A performer searching for perspective on the work’s harmonic construction could find inspiration from the opinion of Mark DeVoto, Benjamin Wadsworth, and Vasili Byros. DeVoto’s writing on chromaticism underlines the grammar’s importance and should encourage a colourful performance. Wadsworth’s work on competing dialects suggests a directional approach supported by fluctuating stages of balance and imbalance. Wadsworth’s argument that this will enable a “large arch-shaped form” is congruent with other opinions regarding Berg’s care for vocal contour.226 These include Pople’s reference to Berg’s skill with the “expressive turn of phrase,” and Byros’s “familiar gesture.”227 Byros’s writing recommends the retention of a tonal operating grammar despite deviation from traditional harmonic processes. His opinion regarding the interplay of dissonance and consonance should engender expressivity from the work’s harmonic successions, in addition to encouraging care for directional elements such as gesture and phrase construction.

The most compelling possibility concerns the intertwinement of form and tempo, on which there is wide consensus. Given Berg’s elusive approach to sonata form’s tonal areas, and motivic development unconfined to the development section, tempo becomes imperative in articulating the work’s changing sections. A productive study would consider performers’ fidelity to the exposition’s fluctuating tempo markings. To what extent are they followed, and do trends of similar interpretative behaviour exist among performers? The next section will first undertake this project. Following this analysis of structural articulation, performers’ approach to the Grundgestalt will be examined. The recordings will undoubtably reveal their varying viewpoints on the phrase’s structure. These interpretations and their intersection with scholars’ analyses will close this chapter.

3.4 Recording Analyses

3.4.1 Performers’ Tempo at the Exposition’s Formal Sections

The following study endeavours to interpret the data collected regarding performers’ tempo at the exposition’s six formal regions. These areas are Mäßig bewegt (m. 1), Rascher als Tempo I (m. 12), Tempo I (m. 17), Langsamer als Tempo I (m. 30), Rasch (m. 39), and Viel

226 Wadsworth, “A Model of Dialectical Process in Berg’s Opus 1 Piano Sonata,” 330. 227 Pople, “Early Works: Tonality and Beyond,” 66; and Byros, “Competing “Windows of Order”,” 292. 71 langsamer (m. 50). The method employed to retrieve data involved less precision than the use of Sonic Visualiser in Chapter 1. A metronome application by Steinway Musical Instruments was used, where readings are generated through realtime entry of pulse.228 To decrease the influence of human error and ensure consistency of result, it was necessary to ‘perform’ with the recordings more than once. As most approaches include a high degree of rubato, data was often sampled from the first consistent pace past each section’s beginning. In some recordings, readings from the opening phrase were the product of motive B. For these instances the tempo of motive A was too slow to generate a reading, or differed greatly with motive B and the phrase's conclusion. The variety of tempi within the Grundgestalt will spur further discussion regarding performers’ perception of its motivic structure.

This recording analysis includes the fifteen recordings studied in the first chapter and the eight Gould performances from the second. It adds an additional sixteen recordings, listed below in Table 3.2, for additional breadth.229 The results from the thirty-nine recordings were collected and graphed, with tempo assigned to the y axis and time to x. Time was marked not as a clocked reading but as the corresponding region within the exposition’s structure. Although Berg's tempo indications are not explicit metronome markings, they can be ranked in relationship to the initial Mäßig bewegt. Table 3.3, below, ranks the six tempi from fastest (Rasch) to slowest (Viel langsamer). From this ordering an objective model was graphed. Its shape anticipates a performer whose approach to tempo follows Berg’s instructions without deviation. This graph is listed below as Figure 3.2. Its corkscrew shape—the changing tempi increase in range with the exposition’s progress—is noteworthy. Noting the congruence of Mäßig bewegt and Tempo I may seem trivial, but the study reveals that most performances do not demonstrate this relationship. The ranking and subsequent graphing of the tempo regions is not intended to prescribe an ideal interpretation. Instead, it serves as an artificial model assisting the classification and discussion of actual performance. Characteristic examples will be discussed below, but a complete listing of the study’s results can be found in the Appendix.

228 Steinway Musical Instruments, “Steinway Metronome,” Apple App Store, V. 1.1.4. 229 The addition of these recordings exhausted the relevant holdings of the Music Library at the University of Toronto. Additional recordings were located online through the iTunes Store and YouTube. 72 Table 3.2: Additional recordings used in recording analysis.

Performer Date Label Origin Pierre-Laurent Aimard 2011 Deutsche Grammophon CD Ning An 2005 Van Cliburn Competition CD Joachim Carr 2014 Claves Records CD Shura Cherkassky 1993 (1963) Ermitage CD (LP) Massimiliano Damerini 1987 Arts Music CD Nikolai Demidenko 1993 Hyperion CD Hélène Grimaud 2009 Live Video Recording YouTube Marc-André Hamelin 2013 Live Video Recording YouTube Eliane Keillor 1997 Carleton Sound CD Bruno Mezzena 1973 Electrola LP Peter Miyamoto 2014 Albany Music CD Lucia Negro 1971 Caprice LP Steffen Schleiermacher 2008 MDG Scene CD Benjamin Tupas [n.d.] Lyrichord Long Playing Records LP Mitsuko Uchida 2001 Philips CD Beveridge Webster 1968 Dover LP

Table 3.3: Berg’s tempo indications during the exposition, ranked fast to slow.

Faster Rasch Rascher als Tempo I Mäßig bewegt/Tempo I Langsamer als Tempo I Slower Viel langsamer

Figure 3.2: An objective model. 73 The first task located performances reflecting the sameness of Mäßig bewegt and Tempo I. Deviations greater than four metronome marks (i.e., five beats per minute or greater) were deemed incongruent. This small aperture is reflective of the increased perceptibility of changes at slower tempi (bpm deviations represent a higher percentage of change). At 60 bpm, a typical reading for the opening, a deviation of 5 bpm would represent a change of 8.33 percent. This position is supported by the work of psychologist Kim Thomas, whose application of Weber’s law and just noticeable difference to tempo reveals that change is perceivable at least 50 percent of the time when a bpm fluctuation of at least 8 percent has occurred.230

Of the thirty-nine pianists, six (15 percent) achieved congruence. These were Ning An (60 for Mäßig bewegt and 62 for Tempo I), İdil Biret (62/66), Jörg Demus (71/74), Allison Brewster Franzetti (75/73), Marc-André Hamelin (57/60), and Peter Miyamoto (61/63). Ning An and Allison Brewster Franzetti’s approaches are detailed below in Figures 3.3 and 3.4. An’s interpretation bears remarkable resemblance to the objective model. His recording is from the semifinal round of the 2005 Van Cliburn competition, where accuracy may have held objective value. Twenty-six (two-thirds) or the recordings interpreted Tempo I as being significantly quicker than the opening. That a majority of performances posit this approach indicates the existence of a performance tradition. The practice of choosing a quicker tempo for Tempo I is likely influenced by the preceding Rascher als Tempo I as well.231 Seven pianists approached Tempo I as being equivalent or faster than the preceding Rascher als Tempo I. These performers were Daniel Barenboim (74/76), Shura Cherkassky (91/98), Adam Fellegi (74/88), Glenn Gould’s performance for Bruno Monsaingeon’s documentary (74/78), Benjamin Tupas (62/64), and Liselotte Weiss (108/116). Adam Fellegi and Liselotte Weiss’s approaches are detailed in Figures 3.5 and 3.6.

230 Kim Thomas, “Just Noticeable Difference and Tempo Change,” Journal of Scientiﬁc Psychology (May 2007), 18. 231 As the opening phrase contains both an accelerando and ritardando, some performers could view the consequent phrase in m. 4 as the true Tempo I. Of the fifteen recordings, only two performers displayed the same tempo at m. 4 and 17 (Tempo I). These were Gould’s 1952 and 1969 performances, and Murray Perahia’s recording. 74 Figure 3.3: Ning An’s tempo.

95 100 75 75 60 62 54 45 50 Metronome Marking Metronome 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer

Figure 3.4: Allison Brewster Franzetti’s tempo.

125 97 98 100 75 73 75 56 49 50 Metronome Marking Metronome 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer

Figure 3.5: Adam Fellegi’s tempo.

95 100 88 74 75 62 56 50 44 Metronome Marking Metronome 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer 75 Figure 3.6: Liselotte Weiss’s tempo.

116 125 108 100 82 68 75 65 46 50 25 Metronome Marking Metronome 0 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer

Berg’s tempo markings become increasingly dichotomous as the exposition progresses, requesting increasingly greater shifts in pace. The second theme group’s Rasch (m. 39) is quicker than the first’s Rascher als Tempo I (m. 12), and the closing Viel langsamer (m. 50) is undoubtably slower than the second theme’s Langsamer als Tempo I (m. 30). This relationship is not reflected in the work’s recorded history, however. Twenty-four (62 percent) of this study’s recordings exhibit quicker tempi for Rascher als Tempo I than Rasch. The presumed causation for this tradition remains hypothetical, but could include the former’s lower note saturation and proximity to the work’s beginning. Rasch is rich with shorter value notes, making a quicker pace difficult to achieve. Although almost all the performance displayed their slowest tempo at Viel langsamer, the frequency of a dramatic increase in tempo at Rascher als Tempo I being paired with a slower approach at Rasch demonstrates yet again a performance tradition in opposition to the score. Carol Colburn and Mitsuko Uchida’s performances exemplify this trend, and their graphs display the expected reverse-corkscrew shape. They are listed below as Figures 3.7 and 3.8. 76 Figure 3.7: Carol Colburn’s tempo.

150 127 125 100 85 67 75 62 45 47 50 Metronome Marking Metronome 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer

Figure 3.8: Mitsuko Uchida’s tempo.

150 130 125 100 82 72 75 50 54 50 34 Metronome Marking Metronome 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer

The objective model detailed in Figure 3.2 was reproduced by only two (5 percent) of the study’s pianists: Ning An and Peter Miyamoto. An’s approach was detailed earlier in Figure 3.3, and Miyamoto’s performance is listed below as Figure 3.9. Four others approached the model but fell short by one deviation. These were the recordings of Daniel Barenboim, Adam Fellegi, Lucia Negro, and Benjamin Tupas. Barenboim and Fellegi’s performances are listed below as Figure 3.10 and 3.11. Both pianists approached Tempo I as faster than Rascher als Tempo I, but nevertheless produced increasingly polar results as the exposition progressed. The nominal number of performances producing a result matching the objective model demonstrates that literal representation of the work’s tempo regions is not prioritized in its performance practice. 77 Figure 3.9: Peter Miyamoto’s tempo.

125 113

100 85

75 61 63 42 50 32 Metronome Marking Metronome 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer

Figure 3.10: Daniel Barenboim’s tempo.

100 94 74 76 75 60 51 50 44 Metronome Marking Metronome 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer

Figure 3.11: Adam Fellegi’s tempo.

The previous section’s method for data collection struggled with some artists’ approach to the opening phrase. Many produced notably different tempi for motives A, B, and C. In these cases, performers’ view of motivic structure resulted in interpretative decisions where tempo played a primary articulatory role. As a discussion of the thirty-nine recordings referenced thus far would prove lengthy, fifteen recordings were selected that demonstrate a variety of approach. Nine were included in the first chapter and two were taken from Chapter 2. They are listed below in Table 3.4.

The primary difficulty in retrieving data from performers’ approaches stems from the brevity of motives A, B, and C. The previous study’s method of reading average pace from the opening measures of formal regions would not work with the opening phrase. A more exact method was adopted. Sonic Visualiser was used to map and measure time between beats. These readings were divided by sixty to determine beats per minute (bpm), or more colloquially, their relevant metronome marking. Apart from the first beat of m. 2, whose position is subjective, each beat was measured and labelled according to its placement within the phrase’s argued motivic structure. Motive A, for example, generates one reading, as it is two consecutive beats. Motive B generates two readings, B1 and B2. Motive C provides the largest number of data points with four readings possible. These points are listed below in Figure 3.12. Additionally, each performer’s results for this study are listed in Table 3.5.

Much like this paper’s first chapter, trends emerged that encouraged categorization. These classifications separate the performers according to their delineation of motivic structure. Most prioritized the entire phrase’s shape, avoiding more local gestures. A singular construction of the motivic structure is therefore posited: the phrase itself. The similarities shared with the performance practice category from Chapter 1 prompts its reassignment here. Other performances divided the motivic structure into two or three parts, encouraging their designation as binary or tripartite constructions. Performances escaping these parameters were labelled unorthodox. 79 Table 3.4: Recordings included for Grundgestalt analysis.

Performer Date Label Origin Alfred Brendel 1990 Philips CD Shura Cherkassky 1963 Ermitage CD (LP) Massimiliano Damerini 1987 Arts Music CD Jörg Demus 1961 The Music Guild, Inc. LP Allison Brewster Franzetti 2004 Naxos CD Glenn Gould 1952 CBC Records 1995 CD (LP) Glenn Gould 1969 Music & Arts CD (LP) Claude Helffer [n.d.] Deutsche Grammophon LP Stephen Hough 2007 Hyperion Records CD Elaine Keillor 1997 Carleton Sound CD Anton Kuerti [n.d.] Monitor LP Murray Perahia 1987 Sony CD Karl Steiner 1993 Centaur CD Benjamin Tupas [n.d.] Lyrichord Long Playing Records LP Liselotte Weiss 1975 BIS LP

Figure 3.12: Data points in mm. 1-4. 80 Table 3.5: Data collected from the fifteen recordings, listed in beats per minute.

Motivic Construction Artist A B1 B2 C1 C2 C3 C4 Singular: Performance Practice Brendel 51 75 78 63 45 30 41 Demus 70 86 100 76 59 45 54 Gould 1952 49 80 77 56 52 37 38 Helffer 67 91 77 63 57 45 44 Hough 50 66 84 62 51 36 38 Kuerti 55 76 62 47 48 33 36 Perahia 59 74 64 55 53 41 47 Steiner 60 100 97 69 74 45 44 Tupas 47 59 53 53 44 39 38 Singular: Unorthodox Gould 1969 27 31 26 22 22 19 19 Binary Cherkassky 62 112 102 80 59 47 77 Tripartite Damerini 28 71 62 30 27 18 21 Franzetti 64 105 97 60 41 39 41 Keillor 37 105 120 118 73 38 38 Weiss 51 123 89 67 67 61 70

Singular Construction: Performance Practice

A number of artists prioritized phrasal arc. The Grundgestalt complements this approach. Its smallest note values are located midway, with larger values placed at its start and finish. When graphed, these interpretations present an annular rise and fall of phrase where specific articulation of motivic structure—temporally, at least—is absent. As these approaches relate closely to the performance practice category in this paper’s first chapter, I have labelled them the same here. As no apparent interpretation is made in delineating motivic structure, these examples display a singular approach to the phrase’s motivic construction. Objectivity, organicism, and control of impulse are characteristics demonstrated by this category’s performances.

Alfred Brendel

Brendel’s performance presents an organic rise and fall of phrase with no sudden shifts in tempo. Articulation of specific motives is absent and focus remains on global structure. This 81 conclusion is supported by the graphed result, displaying the expected curve. It is listed after this discussion as Figure 3.13.

Jörg Demus, Glenn Gould 1952, Claude Helffer, Stephen Hough, Anton Kuerti, Murray Perahia, Karl Steiner, and Benjamin Tupas.

These artists’ performances also mirror the rise and fall of phrase. Their interpretations are similar to Brendel’s to the extent that they do not require specific comment. Brendel’s performance was chosen as representative as the graphed result displays best the archetypal curve expected from a performer prioritizing global shape. The greatest number of performers fell into this category, underscoring its labelling as performance practice.

Singular Construction: Unorthodox

Glenn Gould’s enigmatic, later recordings of this work are situated outside of common practice. As tempo slows from his 1958 Stockholm recordings onwards, the opening phrase’s pace becomes increasingly consistent. The result is a singular construction of the motivic structure, but the temporal shape native to other recordings is entirely absent. Gould’s 1969 recording of the work was chosen as representative for this subcategory.

Glenn Gould 1969

As one of Gould’s later recordings of this work, a significant slowing of tempo is witnessed. Gould’s pacing of the Grundgestalt is more regular than other recordings in this study, with the readings falling between 19 to 31 bpm. Despite the range of eleven data points, fluctuations in tempo are subtle and the overall effect is one of consistency. As a result, no motivic structure is articulated and a singular motivic construction is argued. Gould’s performance is graphed as Figure 3.14.

Binary Construction

One of the performances demonstrated an increase in tempo for motive B more sudden and subjective than any natural rise of phrase. Due to the contrasting character separating motives A and B, and motive C lacking distinct articulation, this interpretation is labelled binary. 82 It divides the Grundgestalt into motive A and the material which follows. The performance therefore corresponds with the analyses of Headlam and Jarman.

Shura Cherkassky

Cherkassky’s approach presents a significant increase in tempo during mm. 2-4. Motive A is performed at a routine 62 bpm, while B1 surges to 112. This is almost double tempo at an 80.6 percent increase. As a comparison, Brendel’s tempo increased 47 percent between A and B1. Cherkassky’s inclination for quicker tempi is demonstrated in Figure 3.15 by the pronounced peak at B1, and echoed later by the preemptive increase in tempo at C4 in anticipation of m. 4’s a tempo.

Tripartite Construction

A number of performances argued a tripartite division of motivic structure. In these cases, differing tempi occurred for motives A, B, and C. With the exception of one recording, the performers’ delineation is analogous to the analyses of Adorno and Schmalfeldt.

Massimiliano Damerini

Damerini’s interpretation opens with a pensive motive A, at 28 bpm. B1 sees an increase of 153.6 percent to 71, and B2 follows at 62. C1 witnesses a sudden drop in tempo to 30, comparable to the starting tempo. The remainder of motive C is steady with readings of 27, 18, and 21, respectively. The tripartite construction of the opening phrase can be witnessed in the graphing of Damerini’s approach, listed as Figure 3.16.

Allison Brewster Franzetti

Franzetti’s approach resembles Damerini’s. B1 sees a 64 percent increase from A at 64 to 105 bpm, eliminating any perception of organicism. C1 falls to 60, with the subsequent data points reading tempi slower than A: 41, 39, and 41 bpm respectively. Franzetti’s approach is detailed in Figure 3.17. 83 Elaine Keillor

Keillor’s performance, while dividing the phrase into three motives, exhibits notable differences from other recordings in this category. There is an unprecedented increase in tempo between A and B1—from 37 to 105 bpm (an increase of 183.8 percent)—but the first G of m. 2 is performed at a pace closer to motive A. C1 is performed at 118 bpm, the same tempo range as B1 and B2, with a drop in tempo occurring only for the final two notes of the melody and subsequent material (73, 38, and 38 for C2, C3, and C4, respectively). The result is a tripartite construction with an alignment differing from that suggested by Adorno and Schmalfeldt. The logic behind this segmentation is speculative, but compellingly practical. Motive A extends further as the G in m. 2 resolves the seventh chord ending m. 1. Motive B extends two beats into m. 3, a landing point for the previous measure’s descending eighth notes. Keillor’s division of the phrase is detailed in Figure 3.18.

Liselotte Weiss

Weiss’s approach makes the largest effort towards distinguishing the separate motives. Motive A is performed at 51 bpm while B1 dashes forward at 123, a 146 percent increase. Following the last eighth note of motive B, before C1, Weiss includes a brief pause. The pace for motive C then proceeds steadily, with readings of 67, 67, 61, and 70, respectively. Weiss’s unique approach is graphed in Figure 3.19.

Figure 3.13: Alfred Brendel’s approach between mm. 1-4.

125

100 75 78 75 63 51 45 50 41 30 25 Metronome Marking Metronome

0 A - - B1 B2 C1 C2 C3 C4 Motive 84 Figure 3.14: Glenn Gould’s approach between mm. 1-4 in his 1969 recording.

125

100

50 27 31 26 22 22 19 19 25 Metronome Marking Metronome

0 A - - B1 B2 C1 C2 C3 C4 Motive

Figure 3.15: Shura Cherkassky’s approach between mm. 1-4.

125 112 102 100 80 77 75 62 59 47 50

25 Metronome Marking Metronome

0 A - - B1 B2 C1 C2 C3 C4 Motive

Figure 3.16: Massimiliano Damerini’s approach between mm. 1-4.

125

100 71 75 62

50 28 30 27 21 25 18 Metronome Marking Metronome

0 A - - B1 B2 C1 C2 C3 C4 Motive 85 Figure 3.17: Allison Brewster Franzetti’s approach between mm. 1-4.

125 105 97 100

75 64 60

50 41 39 41

25 Metronome Marking Metronome

0 A - - B1 B2 C1 C2 C3 C4 Motive

Figure 3.18: Elaine Keillor’s approach between mm. 1-4.

Figure 3.19: Liselotte Weiss’s approach between mm. 1-4.

123 125

100 89

67 67 70 75 61 51 50

25 Metronome Marking Metronome

0 A - - B1 B2 C1 C2 C3 C4 Motive 86 Summary

The first study demonstrates a performance practice in dialogue with the work’s notation. The metaphysical nature of the work as both notation and practice encourages important questions regarding authenticity and the ontology of music making. It should inspire increased inquiry into the recorded history of works, complementing the work on editions already completed by musicology. The second study reveals that some performers articulate opinion regarding motivic structure diverging from performance practice. Despite its minority population, the results argue that certain performances embody segmentations similar to those produced by music theorists. When a compelling opinion differs from theorists’ propositions (Elaine Keillor’s interpretation, for example), its merits should be weighed in tandem with scholarship.

The foremost conclusion encouraged by the results is the existence of performance traditions. In the first study on formal structure, most approached Tempo I as significantly quicker than Mäßig bewegt. As well, the majority of performers pursued a quicker approach for Rascher als Tempo I than Rasch itself. The consequence was most recordings producing a graphed result different than, or in opposition to, the objective model. Whether performers were cognizant of these dichotomies during the artistic process is a question worthy of another project. In the second study on motivic structure, most performers produced a result lacking articulation of motives smaller than the phrase itself. To reference this paper’s first chapter, the performance practice category was populated by a majority of that study’s recordings. This predisposition towards adopting peers’ paradigms is this paper’s strongest evidence towards revealing the face of common practice in performance. Chapter 4 Anticipating Further Research and Conclusion

4.1 Anticipating Further Research

At the 2009 Performer’s Voice International Symposium held at the National University of Singapore, Richard Taruskin submitted a paper entitled “Where Things Stand Now.”232 Taruskin laments the difficulty in avoiding prescriptive opinion within performance studies. Examination of individual performances is naturally descriptive while the study of performance practice is predisposed to prescription. For Taruskin, the term performance practice has developed “a whiff… [of] ‘ought-ness.’”233 He eventually concedes its necessity, specifically when tracing performance traditions, as “it passes on not only repertoires but also examples of good performance, which is to say it passes on a performance practice.”234 Taruskin’s concern regarding debate of practice, in particular those of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, stems from recommendations claiming authenticity constructed from secondary source material rather than live performance. It is from this position that Taruskin labels the early music movement as quintessentially modern, and “ripe for a postmodernist dismantling.”235

Taruskin’s criticism lacks a recommendation to consider the comparatively unessayed recordings from the first half of the twentieth century. Robert Philip, a musicologist whose work focusses on the musical style demonstrated in these primary sources, advocates their study. These feature bygone performers and composers—many of whom spent the majority of their lives in the nineteenth century—displaying aesthetics “remnant” of older practice.236 Philip has uncovered the existence of musical habits and style unmentioned in secondary sources. This dichotomy between practice and letter prompts the conclusion that recordings “shed light on the limitations of documentary evidence in any period, not just in the early twentieth century.”237 Philip has also noted that artists frequently perform differently than their teachers’ and—even

232 Richard Taruskin, “Where Things Stand Now,” in Performers’ Voices Across Centuries and Culture, ed. Anne Marshman, 1-26 (London: Imperial College Press, 2012). 233 Ibid., 3. 234 Ibid., 4. 235 Ibid., 5. 236 Robert Philip, Early Recordings and Musical Style - Changing Tastes in Instrumental Performance, 1900-1950 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992). 237 Ibid., 1. 87 88 more significantly— own directions.238 He suggests that those interested in researching nineteenth-century performance practice begin with recordings of the early twentieth century. The results will not be “neat and tidy,” but “the whole point about early recordings is that they present us with real history, not history as we would like it to be.”239

A section of Philip’s monograph focusses on the changing usage of rubato during the previous century. This is an important area of study, as “with the oldest generation of players on record, one sometimes gets a hint of a lost language which is no longer understood.”240 On the whole, recordings demonstrate a shift from local to global applications of rubato. Philip’s research into early recordings shows the device being used to highlight expressive moments. Performance since World War II, however, has become increasingly regular; where “points of emphasis are carefully incorporated into the whole, [and] nothing is allowed to sound out of place.”241 If contemporary listeners find older rubato odd, Philip counters: “perhaps a musician from the early twentieth century would find modern playing lacking that life and rhetorical eloquence which rubato was supposed to create.”242 Eric Clarke reminds readers that musical taste is in constant flux, writing: “continuous historical change means that the norms of one age become the idiosyncrasies or anachronisms of another, and it is for this reason that old recordings can strike a contemporary listener as mannered or peculiar.”243 Regarding the possibility of adopting previous styles of rubato, Philip indicates that this would “involve redefining the borderline between competence and style,” and incur the irony natural to historical reconstructions: “On the whole, modern musicians who try to reconstruct the styles of the past adhere quite closely to modern notions of clarity and control, however much they may apply to certain rhythmic rules of particular periods.”244

The inescapability of present fashion is central to Philip’s writing. Regarding the genesis of current practice, Philip points to changes following World War II. In general, there can be

238 Ibid., 2. 239 Ibid. 240 Ibid., 69. 241 Ibid. 242 Ibid. 243 Eric Clarke, “Listening to Performance,” in Musical Performance: A Guide to Understanding, ed. John Rink (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 193. 244 Philip, Early Recordings and Musical Style, 235. 89 witnessed “a trend towards greater power, firmness, clarity, control, literalness, and evenness of expression, and away from informality, looseness, and unpredictability.”245 Philip notes contemporary performers’ increased use of vibrato in tandem with the decline of portamento, owing to increased concern for clarity and exactness. As well, fluctuations in tempo are less frequent and dramatic.246 The tastes and habits of the present day are the initial vantage point of historical reconstructions. Recordings have demonstrated that our modern style is comparatively recent, and should not be used “as a basis for assessing earlier documents.”247 In a more recent monograph, Philip foregrounds a performance by Emanuel Ax of Chopin’s Concerto in F minor on an 1851 Érard. Philip informs us that early twentieth-century pianists who studied with Chopin’s pupils have in common the older style of rubato and manual asynchrony.248 Following the preamble that “no modern pianist plays like that, even when playing on a piano of Chopin’s day,” Philip compliments Ax’s expressive approach, but holds that the performance demonstrates “entirely modern playing, indistinguishable in its essential style from any other recording of the concerto from the last thirty years.”249 The task of historical performance is “impossibly complicated” and authenticity, if attainable, is achieved by performances satisfying contemporary audiences.250 Philip concludes by writing: “no musicians can ever escape the taste and judgement of their own time.”251

Music theorist Peter Johnson has considered the effect a century of recording has had on performance. To the modern listener, most pianists from the first quarter of the last century “seem perverse in the licence they take with the composer’s notation,” but it is “fascinating to hear the multiplicity of ways in which a chord can be arpeggiated, or to observe the improvisatory nature of much of the playing, with middle voices brought out or cadenzas added with no cue from the score.”252 This level of imagination has largely disappeared, and “we accept that the virtuoso passage will always be executed in the same way, and that it probably

245 Ibid., 222. 246 Ibid., 237. 247 Ibid., 239. 248 Robert Philip, Performing Music in the Age of Recording (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004), 234. 249 Ibid. 250 Philip, Early Recordings and Musical Style, 239-40. 251 Ibid., 240. 252 Peter Johnson, “The Legacy of Recordings,” in Musical Performance: A Guide to Understanding, ed. John Rink (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 200-1. 90 took the performer a dozen takes to achieve its level of perfection.”253 This funnelling of approach is a serious complaint for Taruskin. He refers to a video montage of La campanella from one of the Van Cliburn competitions. Taruskin writes that, despite global representation, “the fact that the montage could be successfully produced showed that [the contestants] were all playing the piece at the same tempo, with the same touch and the same volume.” He continues with the protest that “without the visual component one could not have been able to tell that it was a composite rather than a single performance.”254 Referring to Liszt’s interpretative style of “experimenting in every direction,” Taruskin writes: “Liszt, it’s clear, would not have lasted a single round at the Cliburn Competition.”255 Philip comments that this “globalization of styles, standards, and expectations” is due to the international market for recordings.256 Johnson ponders if recordings have led to music’s abstraction, leaving audiences to perceive it as increasingly “disembodied and ideal as a result of the invisibility of its performers on records.”257 He writes that the recording has usurped live performance, and “asserts its authority over the transient, soon-to-be-forgotten concert performance.”258 Of similar mind is British scholar Roger Heaton, who posits: “the skillfully placed microphones… create a depth and richness of balanced parts and voices, a clarity of foreground and background… with the outcome most certainly not a document of a concert performance but something else - an idealized, irreproducible entity.”259 Johnson discourages the assumption that there exist definitive instances of works in individual recordings. Instead, a cross section of the work’s recorded history allows its perception as a “many-faceted object.”260

Philip believes that the persistence of recording culture has slowed the evolution of aesthetic style.261 Change was presumably slow before the advent of recording technology, and the adoption of modern style occurred rapidly alongside a booming recording economy in the

253 Ibid., 197. 254 Taruskin, “Where Things Stand Now,” 5. 255 Ibid., 6. 256 Philip, Performing Music in the Age of Recording, 232. 257 Johnson, “The Legacy of Recordings,” 209. 258 Ibid., 197. 259 Roger Heaton, “Reminder: A Recording is Not a Performance,” in The Cambridge Companion to Recorded Music, ed. Nicholas Cook, Eric Clarke, Daniel Leech-Wilkinson, and John Rink (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 218. 260 Johnson, “The Legacy of Recordings,” 209. 261 Philip, Performing Music in the Age of Recording, 239. 91 first half of the last century. Philip writes that the recent slowing is not due to conditions similar to the pre-recording era, but “because we have had as much [information] as we can take.”262 Exactitude, clarity, and control can develop no further. Philip continues that “since everyone hears everyone else all the time, in the pseudo-perfect guise of their recording personae, these new standards are maintained.”263 In 1963, music critic Harold Schonberg wrote in his famous monograph The Great Pianists: “indications are that a new romanticism may be emerging.”264 These indications were ultimately incorrect. Philip argues that emerging artists searching for success must now adopt the “international standard.”265 The ramifications are twofold, as it “limits the development of individual imagination, and it drives out local traditions. Nobody wants to be successful only locally, and therefore local traditions gradually become eroded.”266 He concedes that change will occur nevertheless, writing “No doubt, in a hundred years our generation too will sound old-fashioned.”267 Philip warns that recordings have a “stultifying” result when used as a replacement for imagination and interpretative process.268 The study of early recordings, he writes, should embolden performers to “strike out against the modern trend, particularly when the emphasis on smooth perfection inevitably tends towards uniform dullness.”269

A number of scholars have discussed the limitations of recordings as objects of research. Musicologist Simon Trezise points to a century of consumer naivety in encouraging a view of recordings as proxies for live performance: “Providing consumers were entertained they were content not to enquire too closely into the distortions and illusions that recordings created, especially as sound quality improved and relative prices decreased.”270 Trezise argues that recordings do not reveal their relative performances, but narrate them. He writes: “The record and associated equipment are telling us about a performance, but it is not the performance itself;

262 Ibid. 263 Ibid. 264 Harold C. Schonberg, The Great Pianists, (NY: Simon and Schuster, 1963), 430. 265 Philip, Performing Music in the Age of Recording, 245. 266 Ibid. 267 Ibid., 250. 268 Ibid., 244. 269 Ibid., 252. 270 Simon Trezise, “The Recorded Document: Interpretation and Discography,” in The Cambridge Companion to Recorded Music, ed. Nicholas Cook, Eric Clarke, Daniel Leech-Wilkinson, and John Rink (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 186. 92 it is filtered through a large number of processes and contexts with which the original performer has nothing to do.”271 Philip acknowledges the distance between recording and performance, specifically in separating sound from its physicality: “there is a lot that is not preserved on records. The musicians themselves are missing and we do not see the expressions on their faces, how they move around the instruments, or their physical responses to the music and to each other.”272 Heaton underscores that recording and performance are separate activities. He reminds performers that the object of live performance is not the “faithful reproduction of the album,” akin to pop artists’ performances today.273 Finally, Clarke points out that despite recent developments in the study of recordings and live performance, much work is left to be completed on what audiences hear in performances and recordings.274

Much research is yet to be performed, therefore, in the areas of early recording, nineteenth- and early twentieth-century practice, and live performance. One benefit of continued recording research will be the erosion of sweeping generalizations which plague discussion of artistic époque, geography, and school. In his discussion of American pianism following World War II, Schonberg writes disparaging comments regarding its aesthetic, including: "the new American school makes a fetish of the printed note," and "they have to counterfeit emotion."275 He continues, stating "eclectic in approach, clear in outline, metrically a little inflexible, tonally a little hard, they tend to be literalists who try for a direct translation of the printed note. In a way they are junior executives, company men, well trained, confident and efficient, and rather lacking in personality.”276 Analysis of individual recordings thankfully reveals this as invective.

Admittedly, there exists a tension between the existence of creatives like Gould and the increasing standardization of practice encouraged by competitions, recordings, and globalism. My research demonstrates that common practice is a persuasive force for most performers, with outliers representing a minority population. Despite areas of predictability, my analyses reveal that mainstream performers retain differing styles falling short of paradigm variance but

271 Ibid., 207. 272 Philip, Performing Music in the Age of Recording, 231. 273 Heaton, “Reminder: A Recording is Not a Performance,” 217. 274 Clarke, “Listening to Performance,” 195. 275 Schonberg, The Great Pianists, 429. 276 Ibid. 93 nonetheless demonstrating individuality. As no pre-World War II recordings of Berg’s sonata were located, inclusion of early recordings in this thesis was unfortunately not possible. Finally, continued work in recording analysis will underscore the diversity of approach native to the recorded history of works, complementing the mosaic inherent to music making—however varied and regardless of era.

4.2 Conclusion

The ability to examine a spectrum of human behaviour demonstrates performance studies’ potential to become a major conduit for musical thought. Important contributions can be made by performers, musicologists, and theorists alike. As a pianist who admires musicality and poetry, this work has provided a scholarly platform to examine and discuss the variety of approach inherent to performance.

This thesis recommends a number of verdicts. Chapter 1 confirms the existence of paradigms in performers’ score realization. Most often, these systems concern the creation of phrase, or, the articulation of musical structure. Performers’ employment of methodologies recommends further postmodern dissections of recording histories. Chapter 2 demonstrates Gould’s changing approach across multiple decades. An evolving aesthetic is examined alongside original use of manual asynchrony and tempo, underlining the plurality of the work from the unlikely source of an individual. Chapter 3 reconfirms the influence of practice in performers’ interpretation of formal and motivic structure. The results of performers’ own analytical methods are displayed, many of which intersect with the analyses of theorists.

My method includes a number of limitations. Performance studies is quick to conclude the synonymity of recordings and performance. Indeed, the status quo is to consider recordings as surrogates of performance, and this worldview has benefited record producers. Recordings of live performance are not perfect representations of the actual event, as the visual sphere is unrepresented and the acoustic palette is constricted by the recording medium and consumer’s audio device. Secondly, my work includes both studio and live recordings, despite the increased element of chance with the later. The unsuitability of including these two genres in the same study could be argued. As well, Berg’s sonata—while exquisite—does not share the same 94 attention from performers as a Beethoven sonata or a Chopin étude. This study’s outcomes may have increased individuality as a result. Additionally, the influence of temporal shape in this thesis’s first chapter is largely dependant on a tonal framework. Whether the directionality of practice persists in atonal and more modern repertoire is worthy of another study. Lastly, no recordings predating World War II were found. Representation of that era’s practice is therefore not included.

This work has permitted the disambiguation of certain musical jargon. Performance practice, whose present-day utterance often signals imminent prescription, is commonly envisioned as its lettered medium: treatises of historical significance. My research recommends that its ontology return to its inherent meaning: common practice in performance; or, the shared systems of the largest grouping of performers during any era. The metaphysicality of practice is diminished following recording analysis, where categorization reveals its nature. Musicality, the hope of many performers, is represented by a minority in Chapter 1. Here, the paradigms of common practice are exhibited, but accommodate deviation at expressive moments. The existence of multiple solutions towards realizing the score convincingly should cast doubt on the labelling of composer’s intent and authenticity. These are terms best left aside.

My thesis reveals performance as a practice, evidenced by the various methodologies employed by artists. As practice fluctuates, so too must the works these methods realize. That works are not singular, fixed entities emphasizes the social construction of performance and underlines the pluralism inherent to musical act. Future research would consider early recordings, elucidating practices diverging from the post-war performances demonstrated in this study. This scholarship will reconfirm that practice is subject to the tastes of generations. It is hoped that this thesis will dissuade the labelling of composer’s intent upon compelling performance, recommending instead that recognition be bestowed upon the performer’s methods which rendered the score convincingly. The ability to produce discourse concerning performance practice, musicality, and approach does great service to music’s understanding, and underscores the cruciality of continued work in recording analysis. Appendix - Performers’ Tempo at the Exposition’s Formal Sections

Pierre-Laurent Aimard m. Tempo mm. 150

1 Mäßig bewegt 70 125 12 Rascher als T. I 106 100 17 Tempo I 85 75 30 Langsamer als T. I 62 50 39 Rasch 80 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 48 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Ning An m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 60 12 Rascher als T. I 75 75 17 Tempo I 62 30 Langsamer als T. I 54 50

39 Rasch 95 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 45 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher

Daniel Barenboim I T. als Langsamer m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 60 12 Rascher als T. I 74 75 17 Tempo I 76 30 Langsamer als T. I 51 50

39 Rasch 94 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 44 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer 95 96 İdil Biret

m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 62 75 12 Rascher als T. I 90 17 Tempo I 66 50 30 Langsamer als T. I 38 25

39 Rasch 72 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 23 0 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Alfred Brendel

m. Tempo mm. 125 1 Mäßig bewegt 57 100 12 Rascher als T. I 109 17 Tempo I 82 75 30 Langsamer als T. I 58 50

39 Rasch 103 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 45 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Joachim Carr

m. Tempo mm. 125

1 Mäßig bewegt 53 100 12 Rascher als T. I 94 75 17 Tempo I 77 50 30 Langsamer als T. I 54 25 39 Rasch 87 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 36 0 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer 97 Shura Cherkassky

m. Tempo mm. 125 1 Mäßig bewegt 84 100 12 Rascher als T. I 91

17 Tempo I 98 75 30 Langsamer als T. I 68 50 39 Rasch 97 Metronome Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 83 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher

Carol Colburn I T. als Langsamer

m. Tempo mm. 150

1 Mäßig bewegt 45 125 12 Rascher als T. I 127 100 17 Tempo I 67 75 30 Langsamer als T. I 62 50 39 Rasch 85 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 47 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Massimiliano Damerini

m. Tempo mm. 125 1 Mäßig bewegt 67 100 12 Rascher als T. I 102 17 Tempo I 86 75 30 Langsamer als T. I 54 50

39 Rasch 83 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 52 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer 98 Nikolai Demidenko

m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 40 12 Rascher als T. I 73 75 17 Tempo I 51 30 Langsamer als T. I 65 50

39 Rasch 88 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 44 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Jörg Demus

m. Tempo mm. 125 1 Mäßig bewegt 71 100 12 Rascher als T. I 106 17 Tempo I 74 75 30 Langsamer als T. I 54 50

39 Rasch 96 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 48 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Adam Fellegi

m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 62 12 Rascher als T.I 74 75 17 Tempo I 88 30 Langsamer als T. I 56 50

39 Rasch 95 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 44 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer 99 Allison Brewster Franzetti

m. Tempo mm. 125 1 Mäßig bewegt 75 100 12 Rascher als T. I 97 17 Tempo I 73 75 30 Langsamer als T. I 56 50

39 Rasch 98 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 49 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Franzpeter Goebels

m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 72 12 Rascher als T. I 85 75 17 Tempo I 83 30 Langsamer als T. I 63 50

39 Rasch 71 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 35 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Gould, Radio (1952)

m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 65 12 Rascher als T. I 84 75 17 Tempo I 84 30 Langsamer als T. I 66 50

39 Rasch 92 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 54 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer 100 Gould, Hallmark (1953) m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 63 12 Rascher als T. I 95 75 17 Tempo I 84 30 Langsamer als T. I 63 50

39 Rasch 93 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 55 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Gould, Moscow (1957)

m. Tempo mm. 125 1 Mäßig bewegt 51 100 12 Rascher als T. I 104 17 Tempo I 96 75 30 Langsamer als T. I 82 50

39 Rasch 102 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 56 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Gould, Columbia (1958)

m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 50 12 Rascher als T. I 92 75 17 Tempo I 85 30 Langsamer als T. I 51 50

39 Rasch 77 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 44 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer 101 Gould, Stockholm (1958)

m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 42 12 Rascher als T. I 91 75 17 Tempo I 71 30 Langsamer als T. I 58 50

39 Rasch 67 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 44 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Gould, Radio (1969)

m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 30 12 Rascher als T. I 61 75 17 Tempo I 60 30 Langsamer als T. I 40 50

39 Rasch 70 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 45 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Gould, CBC TV (1974)

m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 36 12 Rascher als T. I 85 75 17 Tempo I 78 30 Langsamer als T. I 53 50

39 Rasch 90 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 60 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer 102 Gould, Monsaingeon 1974

m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 37 12 Rascher als T. I 74 75 17 Tempo I 78 30 Langsamer als T. I 45 50

39 Rasch 73 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 33 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Hélène Grimaud

m. Tempo mm. 125 1 Mäßig bewegt 66 100 12 Rascher als T. I 93 17 Tempo I 91 75 30 Langsamer als T. I 62 50

39 Rasch 89 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 48 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Marc-André Hamelin

m. Tempo mm. 125 1 Mäßig bewegt 57 100 12 Rascher als T. I 104 17 Tempo I 60 75 30 Langsamer als T. I 62 50

39 Rasch 80 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 49 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer 103 Claude Helffer

m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 85 12 Rascher als T. I 84 75 17 Tempo I 82 30 Langsamer als T. I 53 50

39 Rasch 73 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 45 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Stephen Hough

m. Tempo mm. 125 1 Mäßig bewegt 58 100 12 Rascher als T. I 108 17 Tempo I 83 75 30 Langsamer als T. I 66 50

39 Rasch 83 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 56 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Elaine Keillor

m. Tempo mm. 150

1 Mäßig bewegt 37 125 12 Rascher als T. I 128 100 17 Tempo I 66 75 30 Langsamer als T. I 63 50 39 Rasch 92 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 46 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer 104 Anton Kuerti

m. Tempo mm. 150

1 Mäßig bewegt 62 125 12 Rascher als T. I 125 100 17 Tempo I 78 75 30 Langsamer als T. I 63 50 39 Rasch 102 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 38 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Bruno Mezzena

m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 49 12 Rascher als T. I 93 75 17 Tempo I 75 30 Langsamer als T. I 57 50

39 Rasch 78 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 49 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Peter Miyamoto

m. Tempo mm. 125 1 Mäßig bewegt 61 100 12 Rascher als T. I 85 17 Tempo I 63 75 30 Langsamer als T. I 42 50

39 Rasch 113 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 32 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer 105 Lucia Negro

m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 46 12 Rascher als T. I 70 75 17 Tempo I 69 30 Langsamer als T. I 58 50

39 Rasch 88 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 42 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Murray Perahia

m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 62 12 Rascher als T. I 96 75 17 Tempo I 69 30 Langsamer als T. I 62 50

39 Rasch 90 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 51 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Maurizio Pollini

m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 70 12 Rascher als T. I 94 75 17 Tempo I 79 30 Langsamer als T. I 57 50

39 Rasch 90 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 46 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer 106 Steffen Schleiermacher

m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 60 12 Rascher als T. I 85 75 17 Tempo I 67 30 Langsamer als T. I 56 50

39 Rasch 83 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 35 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Karl Steiner

m. Tempo mm. 150

1 Mäßig bewegt 60 125 12 Rascher als T. I 140 100 17 Tempo I 116 75 30 Langsamer als T. I 71 50 39 Rasch 94 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 46 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Benjamin Tupas

m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 55 12 Rascher als T. I 62 75 17 Tempo I 64 30 Langsamer als T. I 42 50

39 Rasch 75 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 33 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer 107 Mitsuko Uchida

m. Tempo mm. 150

1 Mäßig bewegt 50 125 12 Rascher als T. I 130 100 17 Tempo I 72 75 30 Langsamer als T. I 54 50 39 Rasch 82 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 34 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Beveridge Webster

m. Tempo mm. 100 1 Mäßig bewegt 55 12 Rascher als T. I 82 75 17 Tempo I 74 30 Langsamer als T. I 50 50

39 Rasch 74 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 40 25 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Liselotte Weiss

m. Tempo mm. 125

1 Mäßig bewegt 65 100 12 Rascher als T. I 108 75 17 Tempo I 116 50 30 Langsamer als T. I 68 25 39 Rasch 82 Marking Metronome

50 Viel langsamer 46 0 Rasch Tempo I Tempo Mäßig bewegt Mäßig Viel langsamer Viel Rascher als T. I T. als Rascher Langsamer als T. I T. als Langsamer Bibliography

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Aimard, Pierre-Laurent. Deutsche Grammophon 477 9439. CD. 2011.

An, Ning. Van Cliburn Competition. CD. 2005.

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Brendel, Alfred. Philips 426 814-2. CD. 1990.

Brewster Franzetti, Allison. Naxos. CD. 2004.

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Cherkassky, Shura. Ermitage 133. CD. 1993.

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Damerini, Massimiliano. Arts Music 47216-2. CD. 1987.

Demidenko, Nikolai. Hyperion CDA66781. CD. 1993.

Demus, Jörg. The Music Guild, Inc. S 23. LP. 1961.

Fellegi, Adam. Hungaraton, LPX 11529. LP. 1975.

Goebels, Franzpeter. Barenreiter Musicaphon 30 SL1525. LP. [n.d.].

Gould, Glenn. BIS CD-323. CD. 1986.

______. CBC Records PSCD 2008. CD. 1995.

______. CBS Masterworks. CD. 1986.

______. Glenn Gould, l’alchimiste. Directed by Bruno Monsaingeon. 1974. London: EMI Classics, 2002. DVD.

______. Harmonia Mundi France/Le Chant du Monde LDC 278 799. CD. 1983.

______. Music & Arts CD-679. CD. 1991.

112 113 ______. Musicamera - Music in Our Time - The Age of Ecstasy: 1900-1910. Canadian Broadcasting Company, 1974. http://www.cbc.ca/player/play/2191277761 (accessed March 3, 2016). Online video.

______. Vai Audio VAIA-1198. CD. 2001.

Grimaud, Hélène. YouTube video clip. Accessed March 5, 2015. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3InKmrbXm_Y, 2011.

Hamelin, Marc-André. YouTube video clip. Accessed March 5, 2015. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hpi8fJABVHo, 2013.

Helffer, Claude. Deutsche Grammophon D 2530 050. LP. [n.d.].

Hough, Stephen. Hyperion Records. CD. 2007.

Keillor, Eliane. Carleton Sound CSCD-1002. CD. 1997.

Kuerti, Anton. Monitor, MCS 2134. LP. [n.d.].

Mezzena, Bruno. Electrola C 065-95 058. LP. 1973.

Miyamoto, Peter. Albany Music BGR335. CD. 2014.

Negro, Lucia. Caprice. LP. 1971.

Perahia, Murray. Sony. CD. 1987.

Pollini, Maurizio. Deutsche Grammophon D 105959. CD. 1993.

Schleiermacher, Steffen. MDG Scene 613 1475-2. CD. 2008.

Steiner, Karl. Centaur CRC 2241/42. CD. 1993.

Tupas, Benjamin. Lyrichord Long Playing Records. LP. [n.d.].

Uchida, Mitsuko. Philips 468 033-2. CD. 2001.

Webster, Beveridge. Dover 97285-2. LP. 1968.

Weiss, Liselotte. BIS. LP. 1975.