July 28th Program

Weber State University

Department of Performing Arts 

Presents

Nicholas Maughan, Pianist

In Solo Recital

Wednesday, July 28, 2010 7:30 PM

Garrison Choral Room (BC 136)

Val A Browning Center for the Performing Arts 

(1901 University Circle
Ogden, Utah 84408) 

PROGRAM NOTES

Ludwig van Beethoven:     Sonata in Ab Major, Op. 110 

     i. Moderato cantabile molto espressivo

 Beethoven's final three Piano Sonatas (Opp. 109, 110 and 111) are sometimes performed as a complete set.  This is easily understood, realizing these are the final works he ever created for solo piano.  We discover within these pieces Beethoven's most intimate, inward relationship with sound and form, and--when one considers the works were composed after Beethoven had completely lost his hearing--how Beethoven's music really became a vehicle for his deepest expression.

I've chosen to open this evening's program with the first movement of Op. 110.  For me, it's the musical brother of Kafke's words:  "No people sing with such pure voices as those who [have] live[d] in deepest hell; what we take for the song of angels is their song."

 A man acquainted with ill health, I imagine the finality Beethoven's hearing loss created his "deepest hell."  He was, after all, a man of music, his soul in his ear.  And yet, in spite of the crisis, he continued to sing.  Opus 110 is a testament and a hymn, its reverent opening chords opening up to show that life, even when filled with silent adversity, can still reveal ripples and peals of joy.

JS Bach:     Prelude and Fugue in F# Minor, BWV 859

Bach's collection of 48 Preludes and Fugues, The Well-Tempered Clavier (Books I & II), is probably as revered in the pianist's musical literature as the Bible is in Christianity's canon of sacred texts.  Each of the Preludes and Fugues creates its own sound world and presents unique technical and artistic challenges, and Bach himself wrote the pieces were written "for the profit and use of musical youth desirous of learning, and especially for the pastime of those already skilled in this study."

I selected this Prelude and Fugue in F# Minor from Book I because I found the  characters of the Prelude and the Fugue make quite an intriguing philosophical contrast.  The Prelude exhibits Bach's love of the dance.  It's lithe and fleet-footed, 16th notes almost tipping over themselves in their rushing descents.  The Fugue, however, is a study in distressed resistance (the main subject) and calming assurance (the countersubject).  I also love the fact that this is a work written in a minor key, but the last chord finds a major resolution.  There's nothing as fulfilling as a lovingly-placed Piccardy third!

 Arno Babadjanian: Poem (1966)

I first became acquainted with this work when Tria Fata was competing with Badajdanian's expertly crafted Piano Trio.  I was YouTube-ing Babadjanian's other works, saw the title Poem, and thought to myself, Well, with a title like that, this should be a pretty, lyrical piece. Let's give it a listen.  Needless to say, I was quite shocked and thrilled when my expectations were shattered.

 After an explosive introduction, the work travels through three parts: the first presents an undulating ostinato which accompanies a long soprano line fitted with little Armenian inflections and turns; the second is a kind of nervous toccata-rondo, full of schizophrenic leaps and manic hand-crossings; and the final section repeats material from the introduction, ending in a cataclysmic bacchanale of sound, engaging the widest ranges of the keyboard.

 Sergei Rachmaninoff: Etude-Tableau in C Minor, Op. 33, No. 3

C minor is traditionally one of the darkest, most fate-filled musical keys.  Beethoven's Fifth Symphony and his ultimate Piano Sonata (Op. 111) were written in C Minor.  Rachmaninoff's initial treatment of the key is especially brooding and dark.  Thick chords and murky harmonies create an oppressive, seemingly endless heaviness.  To me, it almost feels like Rachmaninoff is contemplating his death.   But there is hope.  The tonal center of the piece shifts, light descends and, again, as I've mentioned with regard to the Beethoven's 110, we think we hear the angels sing.

This special piece is a fascinating study in the emotions and pictures harmony can inspire and suggest.  It's an essay in chiaroscuro, the strong contrast between dark and light, night and day and death and life.

Sergei Rachmaninoff/Sergei Rachmaninoff: Daisies, Op. 38, No. 3

This lovely piano transcription was originally part of Rachmaninoff's 6 Romances, Op. 38, a set of expertly crafted art songs for soprano and piano.  "Daisies," the third song in the set, revels in the delicacy of the white-petaled flower.

One of the few pieces Rachmaninoff wrote in consistently major harmonies, it demonstrates his affinity for refined counterpoint, his sweeping, lyrical lines and his expert artistry in manipulating pianistic (and vocal) color, all within three pages of music.  Although it is a miniature, it is a work of supreme, elegant beauty.  As the last line of the proclaims, "Oh, daisies! I love you so!"

 Frederic Chopin: Polonaise-Fantaisie in Ab, Op. 61

The polonaise is one of the most important of Poland's national dances.  At times heroic, chivalric, and even defiant, Chopin used his 16 polonaises to express the intense national pride he felt as a Pole, though living in France.

The Polonaise-Fantaisie, however, takes a less militant approach in telling its musical story.  It's his last large work, written three years before his death in 1849, and for me, even though he pays homage to the dotted rhythms of his beloved polonaise, there's a greater sense of distance, of immense space (pay attention to places where he employs silence), and of longing for the beautiful place one calls Home than we hear in many of his other works. I tend to think this is Chopin's meditation on mortality and the possibility of immortality.  The work presents a rich and complicated emotional image, its culmination more of a question mark than an exclamation.

Tonight, Tonight! :/

I rarely get up anymore before 8:30 in the morning.  I'm a pretty late night owl, usually practicing in one of the practice rooms at school until midnight or later, preparing for this or that performance or gig or Tria date.  This morning, however, found me waking at 6 am on my parents' couches, my nerves already tightening themselves in preparation for tonight's solo recital.

That's right, I'm performing this evening.  Alone.  As in without anyone else on stage.  I haven't played a solo gig in two years.  I'm a little nervous.

I have, of course, been playing parts of the program at different functions for which I've been hired.  Birthday parties for important university doners. My professor has been so gracious in meeting me for weekly lessons, during which time we discuss the best way to play technical passages and my philosophy about each piece.  Good friends have been patient and listened to entire runs of the program.  I shouldn't be nervous: I'm quite prepared.

I guess the reason behind the nerves is the uncertainty that I can pull off a solo recital as well as Sam, Katie and I can pull off a chamber music concert, or as well as a recital in which I'm collaborating with a vocalist or other instrumentalist.  I'm fighting doubt, trying to remember that I've done my best, and grace, thankfully, should settle in and do the rest.

The instrument upon which I'll play is a perfect 9-foot Steinway Model D, it's range of color and tone an impeccable palette with with to create musical pictures.  The hall is not bad, and it's one with which I'm well acquainted.  My teacher will be there, offering up words of support in the green room before, and my parents and friends will be rooting for my success.  I'm playing magnificent pieces of music which run the gamut of musical expression.

It will be a fine evening.  I will trust the Inspirer of all good things and let the music ring.

On Bodies (cont.)

It's been a long time I've been in this body, with all its idiosyncratic intricacies. I've accepted the fact my immune system is weak, that my metabolic rate is exceptionally high and that my muscles will probably never get me a job as an underwear model (but I can still admire those kinds of boys, can't I?). I've finally learned how to eat healthily, how to sleep regularly and how to listen to my body's rhythms and keep myself from overrunning it with too much business. I've finally learned how to dress myself myself and take pride in the way I keep myself preened and coiffed.

Really, my body isn't all as awful as I sometimes make it out to be. I'm always fascinated at how quickly my blood coagulates after slicing my thumb when peeling potatoes for Sunday dinner; at how the wound heals and becomes a scar, a seam of flesh, raised and stronger than before. I revel in the glory of sight and sound and touch and taste and smell. I've always recovered from tough bouts of illness, maybe not totally unscathed, but still, my white blood cells always seem to win out over the onslaught of virus and bacteria. I survived childhood without a broken bone, but I believe my bones would have healed themselves, too, had the need presented itself.

Bodies are a wonder. Even mine.

It took a funeral to remind me: I'll be happy to keep it as long as I can.

On Bodies

My dad recently spoke at the funeral of a man who was his cousin and best friend growing up.  The man miraculously survived a terrible motorcycle accident a little over a month ago.  He wasn't wearing a helmet and received some pretty traumatic head wounds.  I believe he was in the ICU for a few days, followed by a convalescence at home.  His recovery was going well: he had been in his home for about three weeks or so, doing fine by all accounts.  It was quite a shock when he did die.  Dad had a difficult time.

This man's funeral, as with all other funerals I've had close experience with, gave me the opportunity to be still and take time to think about some meaningful things.  I've thought a lot about bodies.  What a magnificent clutch of parts: the blood, the bone, the curve of breath and vertabrae and flesh; the nerves and effortless signals of sensation; the brilliance and the banality of thought and thinking.  Bodies are a wonder when you really think about them; I can understand why people call them temples.

That being said, I've had a difficult time understanding and enjoying my own body.  I was always that underweight, asthma-and-allergy-prone, sickly-looking kid, often suffering from this bout of bronchitis, that extended case of pneumonia or the flu, sneezing anytime the pollen count was above zero.  I remember spending many winter days cooped up (or "crouped up", as it were) inside, wearing tents of blankets and handfuls of Vicks Vap-o-Rub, wishing I were out in the snowbanks with my younger brothers and the cousins who lived next door.  I hated the fact that, although I loved camping with my family, I could never breathe through my nose when we spent weekends in the mountains.  I desperately wanted to enjoy horses (which were, of course, my favorite animals EVER!!) and other barnyard animals, but the one time I did saddle up, my lungs closed up and I couldn't breathe for two days.  Thank heaven I could at least spend some limited time with the cats and dogs we kept as pets, only resulting in enflamed mucous membranes and itchy, watery eyes.  Allergies were the bane of my childhood.  I even became allergic to the shots a pediatrician prescribed!

Things got a bit better after puberty.  I'm not sure if my body actually outgrew my sickly symptoms, or if I just had gotten used to managing them.  I still carried an inhaler with me pretty much everywhere I went.  My friends will tell you otherwise, and lead you to believe that I often forgot said inhaler and had to leave weekend card-and-popcorn parties to drive home and get it.  I still took a daily anti-histamine to battle against post-nasal drip.  I still loved horses, but had learned to admire them from a distance.

And, as it happened, I was still quite underweight.  I had a pretty hard time watching my young 16- to 18-year old peers, crowing about how much they were working out, comparing the size of their biceps and their calves with each other.  I was a skinny kid and just wasn't a part of the sweaty weight-room scene.  It was upsetting enough that I remember talking with my mom about it.  "Oh, honey," she said, "You just haven't reached your physical peak as quickly as they have.  You just watch and see: in ten years, you'll be the desirable one, and they'll be growing bellies and back hair."  We giggled at the thought, but I admit, I wasn't exactly convinced at Mom's logic.

Serving a mission didn't help with the feelings of frustration in regard to my health or my body image.  I became very ill and was sent home to undergo a a battery of tests to see why I had lost 10% of my total weight in a matter of weeks.  After months of Western medicine's tactics failed, I began to search out alternative means of diagnosis and healing.  Let's just say it was all, quite literally, a crap-shoot!

End Part I

Music Lesson (A Quick Rant/Addendum to the Last Post)

I'm always blown away by the epiphanies my love of music allows. As previously mentioned in the blog, I've been playing with a couple of trio mates, and working with them has taught me so much. Also as mentioned, I've been doing some studious work on a piece that Sam and I will most likely be playing this year.

Over the past couple of days, I've thought frequently about chamber music as a lesson in diversity and acceptance. The artfulness of chamber music is that it creates a relationship between two or more very diverse instruments (in this case the cello--an incredibly expressive, lyrical instrument--and a piano--which, in comparison--is an exceptionally clunky and percussive musical tool), bringing all the different sounds and tambres and instrumental designs--as well as the personalities of the musicians themselves--together to create a beautiful whole. The best composers and chamber musicians know when to highlight each instrument's positive qualities in a soloistic line, when to create pairings or groupings of instruments, creating a sort of musical dialogue or history, or when to involve all the players to really send the music message of togetherness home.

Let's look at my last post's musical selection, the Andante Movement from Rachmaninov's Cello Sonata in G minor, Op. 19.

The piano introduces the initial musical material in an eight bar phrase. Accompinamental 16th notes weave in and out of major and minor tonalities, hinting at the kind of longing and reprieve we'll hear throughout the work. The melody is perfectly Rachmaninovian: repeated Bb's descend a fifth and return to themselves in a kind of humble invocation or request. It's a tender 8-bar introduction, a voyage into the world the cello will sing about in measure 9. I find it so fascinating that the piano doesn't finish the musical thought before the cello comes in to take it up, note for note. The two different musical personalities are speaking the same words, layering their voices on top of each other (0:55-1:27 in the youtube clip).

The trick is to make the cello and the piano sound similar.  Each of the musicians have to be so conscious of the sounds they can create on their instrument, as well as their partner's instrument, in order to create the one long line of melody Rachmaninov composed.  You really have to converse, actually talk about the sound world you both want to create together, and then experiment until you get as close to the ideal sound as you both can.  It takes a lot of patience, a lot of humility, and so much love to make even four bars of music beautiful and meaningful.

And then, there are times when you have to understand the differences between your instruments, and love the fact that different from is not inferior to.  Looking at these measures (31-36) illuminates the idea a little bit better.

The cello part is full of rippling triplets written in direct conflict with the piano' right hand eighth-note octave and 16th note left hand arpeggiations.  Each line creates a different sound and feeling, none in harmony with any other.  It's not a really conflict, but the parts aren't really working together.  It's like the piece is growing up.

We do find some resolution.  The initial musical theme returns in the piano in m. 41, in octaves, the cello playing a wavering triplet figure underneath.  The two instruments switch musical material at m. 49.  It's like they're speaking each other's words again, but with more understanding.  I don't know to explain it, but it's matured and it's beautiful.

It's the idea of "We are completely different instruments, we've gone on a journey, and now we can say the same thing and say it together."

Also, as my best friend has written, with regard to his musical experiences, "You take in as much as you put out. You take and you share. You make and partake. And you do all of this simultaneously."

I love chamber music.  It keeps my life full and harmonious.

Achievement!

I spent four hours yesterday day learning Rachmaninov's Cello Sonata, Op. 19.  Sam and I will play it, along with some Arvo Part and a Beethoven Sonata, this upcoming year.

A year ago, I wouldn't have been able to learn a big piece like this in a day.  Granted, it's not perfected, but I did a fine job of analyzing the structure; how the cello and piano parts complement and interact with each other, thanks to some amazing Rachmaninovian counterpoint; figuring out a great fingering and begin to realize a successful musical interpretation.  It felt so good to look back on the day and realize, that within a month, I'll be playing this (the most gorgeous third movement ever!) with my favorite cellist in the world.

And Yet Another Poem (in Honor of the Parades in July)

PARADE CANDY FLUNG BY GIRLS IN PRETTY DRESSES

children dart like fish,
grabbing at those sweet kissings
of summer color.

thirteen-year-old boys
shuffle uncomfortably
and watch waving girls.

boys: too old to chase
a piece of roadside candy,
too young for kissing,

but desiring both.
they kick at stones in the street.

Another Poem

ISAAC BEFORE THE ALTAR
(Abraham 1:12-15; Genesis 22)

My father bends his head toward the dust
And begs his God there be some other way
To prove his faith and loyalty
     Than place his son upon a pyre.

He thinks how he’d been dragged upon a slab
To slake the thirsty gods of Elkenah—
How fear lay coiled round his beating heart
     Like Pharaoh’s hissing snakes beside some mouse

When priestly knives were pressed against his flesh.
He feels my gaze as he collects the tools—
His ropes, knives, his altarcloths and robes—
     Then he passes by the nursing ewes.

We gather branches for the searing flame,
This kindling for my sacrificial bed;
He bundles twigs to sweep away the doubt
    That God could claim such costly price as I.

We set forth to climb a rocky way,
Both knowing it will be my blood we’ll spill.
My shallow faith is not yet deep as his!—
    Yet he weeps to hear me plead, “Where is the lamb?”

A Poem

PARASITES

Know ye not that ye are the
Temple of God, and that the Spirit
Of God dwelleth in you?
    —1 Cor. 3:16

Don’t preach to me of temples, Paul!

I know
the rites
of silent men, white-robed and stethescoped—

these zealous men who poke and prod

who seek to find a tiny God
which dwells within and feasts upon a sacrament:
my feeble flesh and blood.

I've sent them on a pilgrimage
to prove a microbe thieves my life from me;
they bend low,
fix their needles in my modest joints,
and softly cite Hippocrates.

They return,
tested,
ill at ease to post results as blank
as idols’ stares.

I lick my teeth and think
that if my paling body is
the sacred house which cloaks a godly germ,
then let all temples—like my own—

be rot

to show
that higher gods
will sate themselves

on men who’ll bow
to those things
which aren’t seen now.

Amazing Grace

Earlier this week, I received an invitation to attend the Mormon Tabernacle Choir's Patriotic Celebration (not only a patriotic program, but an impressive nod to the Choir's spectacular 100 year recording history) with some lovely friends.  Admittedly, I'm a fan of the MoTab.  They're massive in number.  They're an incredibly fine-tuned ensemble.  They're fabulous and they make honest music with deeply felt convictions.  I love!

I quite enjoyed the beginning numbers, humming along with "It's a Grand Night for Singing" and "Seventy-Six Trombones" and standing up with everybody else in the LDS Conference Center after the Choir's signature rousing rendition of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic."  I was pleased and informed by the well-crafted audio-visual presentation sandwiched in between musical numbers, chronicling MoTab's history as an ensemble always at the cutting edge of new recording technology.  And yes, I did, in fact, tickle the elbows and knees (my way of expressing--in as least an audible, yet still as Nic-ly a way as possible--my sheer glee at the quality of the music) of the friends sitting on either side of my seat.

I was not, however, ready for the profound emotional and spiritual shift I would experience during this Mack Wilberg arrangement of "Amazing Grace."



It's a beautiful hymn on its own, but Wilberg's treatment of the musical material is stunning.  I sat, my soul in my ear, analyzing Wilberg's supreme use of suspensions and lingering non-harmonic tones, his exceptional use of harmonic and orchestral color and, most especially, the way he employs the same notes in the bass (also known as a pedal tone) throughout all three verses--

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

The Lord has promised good to me.
His word my hope secures.
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

When we've been here ten thousand years
Bright shining as the sun.
We've no less days to sing God's praise
Than when we've first begun.

He repeats the refrain "We've no less days to sing God's praise/ Than when we've first begun" and this is the only occasion in the entire setting of the hymn that the bass notes actually change.  It's an incredible way to inspire reflection in the listener, taking them by reverent surprise, as it were, with this shift from a major key to a minor one (happens at 5:17).  We, as listeners, don't realize how steady this bass note has been--grounding us in consistent and comfortable harmonies--until it gets somehow shifted. 

I took the moment to muse a bit about that pedal tone.  I thought, It's kind of a symbol of God's presence in our lives.  We don't always notice He's there; a  situation changes and our sense of life's harmony is abruptly challenged and we want, like all musical resolution, to find our tonic resolution.  Get back to Home.

Then I started thinking about that choir.  Over three hundred voices uniting to create one, perfect lovely sound, "to sing God's praise," or, as I've always mistakenly heard it "to see God's face."  Kind of whoa.

Then I imagined all the voices of all people, rising with whatever sort of energy sparks a prayer to God's ears.  What a choir that must be.  To me, it would be overwhelming cacaphony, because I don't know how to listen to that, but God does.  I think He hears us like we hear music.

Then I wondered if I were a consonant or dissonant "sound" to Him.  I began to worry about the worth of my voice in God's ear.  It's an old worry.  If I'm honest, it's a current worry, too:  I've allowed myself (out of some personal necessity) to become careless in my concern with regard to active participation of my faith.  I thought, I realize, according to the ecclesiastic regulation of things as they are in the church, I'm not "worthy;" but does that really mean I'm not of worth to God?

I listened to the sublime resolution Wilberg creates in the end of his arrangement of "Amazing Grace," but I didn't feel any sort of similar consonance in my mind or heart.  I spent the next numbers chewing on that question regarding my value in God's eye.  Weighing my worth inside my mind, I didn't listen to much of President Monson's remarks.

The choir closed with one of Mormondom's (and one of my own) most cherished hymns, "Come, Come Ye Saints."



I have never heard more comforting words than tonight's "All is well."  It was almost as if God was telling me not to worry too much.  He still loves me.  He's proud of my successes and is always there, the pedal tone keeping steady under everything else.

"Don't fret, Nic:  All is well."  What a bit of amazing grace.

Homesick for Heaven

I was explaining to a friend the other day what I mean when I talk about being homesick for heaven.  It's something I have a difficult time explaining, but here was my at-one-a.m-in-the-morning attempt.

"I've always had the desire to believe that life is more than what exists on a physical plane, and so I'm always searching for those kinds of richly felt experiences in which I sense feelings that are bigger than my body--things that remind me to look and see and explore and feel and expand. Does that make sense? Some people call it connectedness or one-ness; others call it the Spirit or divine kinship; I don't know what to call it, other than it always feels like I'm heavy and light and like flying and dancing with all of the molecules in and around me. So--as you so brilliantly stated--I, too, "have a tendency to want to keep all doors open, all options tentative, as long as possible, and as a result, I keep exploring, always wanting to see a new place, share new experiences with people I care about, maintain distant friendships, explore viable ideas..." I think I do those kinds of things to remind myself of what I want to be when I'm my most complete, best self. Rachmaninov gives me that kind of divine confidence every time, whether I'm playing or listening.

"Homesick for heaven, I guess, is wanting to be in the place where all is as it should be (the best "home") and where you feel fully your SELF and realizing that probably won't happen for a long time but not giving up on finding it."

Here are a few things (among so many others) that make me feel like I'm close to Home:

Being with my Tria mates

an empty performance space, pregnant with artisty and history
















first day in Hawaii (January 2010)

Chocolate Truffles

Hangin' with my buddies
















Searching for and writing in beautifully hand-crafted journals

The Wellsville Mountains

And of course, my family, music, poetry, art and all good things in life.

I'm reminded of one of my favorite works by e. e. cummings

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
wich is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

Thank heaven for those things sent to earth to remind us we are not "human[s] merely being", but that we are sublimely, ultimately divine.