The impossible chord
My semianonymous reader "GK" sent me, by the agency of the United States Postal Service, no less, a photocopy of a page of piano music together with a fingering question. I responded within 24 hours, because GK had taken the precaution of including a stamped, self-addressed envelope. It would have been churlishness of historic proportions not to reply promptly.
Nonetheless, GK will probably read this before my letter arrives at the chateau. That sort of ruins the fun of corresponding in ink, but on the other hand, I can hardly ignore such juicy blog material.
GK is in the process of renewing an acquaintance with the piano that I believe had lapsed for something approaching two decades. I approve of the choices of Bach's first and second two-part inventions. About twenty years ago, when I was approaching the piano, warily, for the first time, I chose them too. For my third piece I wanted something a little harder, so I turned to Scott Joplin's Maple Leaf Rag. It took me several months, but I eventually limped through it. I can still play most of it.
GK, like me, decided that ragtime would make an excellent counterpoise to Bach. But I would not have chosen William Bolcom's Graceful Ghost Rag.
First of all, the damned thing has five flats. That's way out in the key-signature boonies, out where they are running out of notes to flatten, so they have to resort to putting flat-marks in front of D and G. That's right: the black key that normally plays the familiar role of F sharp is suddenly pressed into service as G flat. Is that any way to treat a defenseless piece of ebony?
And then there's the Chord From Hell. It's the very first stroke for the right hand in the first serious measure of the piece (preceded only by a pickup note and one measure of fairly innocent oom-pahs). And then, bam instant carpal tunnel syndrome.
Mostly, the chord in question is just a high C and a high-high C played in unison, an octave. Anybody can play an octave with their outstretched thumb and pinky; it feels a little uncomfortable for a couple of weeks when you start piano, but almost all of the piano repertoire depends on the typical human hand being able to span an octave in reasonable comfort. If you want to know what it feels like, find a desktop computer keyboard. Put your right thumb on the Q key and your right pinky on the P. That's about how wide you have to spread to play an octave. (A laptop keyboard is a bit smaller, so maybe you have to stretch to the right square-bracket to get that octavy stretch.)
So, two C's an octave apart? Piece of cake. Too easy. So Bolcom threw in a D-flat.
Now, playing C-D-flat-C is about like hitting Q and P with your thumb and pinky while hitting the number 2 with your index finger. Now, if your hand is anything like mine, your index finger is somewhere above the 6 when you are straddling the Q and P keys, and you can maybe squinch it over to hit the 4 if you don't mind a little pain. The 3 is impossible, and the 2 is really impossible; you'd have to have your hand surgically altered to manage it. It's that stupid opposable thumb or something.
Sometimes, such things are possible by a trick. If you look at the score, you might find that the left hand is conveniently close, and has a spare finger to lend to the treble, quick, while nobody's looking. In the case of the chord in the Graceful Ghost, alas, the left hand is off in Patagonia, an octave and a half to the left of the action. No finger can be spared.
Short of the timely deployment of a nose, I can think of only one thing Bolcom might have had in mind: that the thumb should play both the C and the D-flat, by sort of mashing down on the crack between the two keys. This would be easier if the two keys in question were adjacent white keys, like B and C. C and D-flat is doable, barely, by sort of pressing the thumb against the side of the D-flat key and dragging it down by a judicious combination of friction and prayer. I actually managed it four or five times, each time with elaborate care and preparation. Of course, in the sheet music, said chord is a sprightly sixteenth-note in length, and Bolcom cheerily advises "Don't drag". Right.
Having put in all the effort, it pains me to report that said chord actually sounds like a monkey-fart. The D-flat is a mere sound-effect, intended to make the chord sound out-of-tune and honky-tonky. To my knowledge the chord has no technical name, at least none suitable for polite society.
I look forward to hearing GK's assault on this rag, and express my fond hope that no hospitalization will be required afterward.
Nonetheless, GK will probably read this before my letter arrives at the chateau. That sort of ruins the fun of corresponding in ink, but on the other hand, I can hardly ignore such juicy blog material.
GK is in the process of renewing an acquaintance with the piano that I believe had lapsed for something approaching two decades. I approve of the choices of Bach's first and second two-part inventions. About twenty years ago, when I was approaching the piano, warily, for the first time, I chose them too. For my third piece I wanted something a little harder, so I turned to Scott Joplin's Maple Leaf Rag. It took me several months, but I eventually limped through it. I can still play most of it.
GK, like me, decided that ragtime would make an excellent counterpoise to Bach. But I would not have chosen William Bolcom's Graceful Ghost Rag.
First of all, the damned thing has five flats. That's way out in the key-signature boonies, out where they are running out of notes to flatten, so they have to resort to putting flat-marks in front of D and G. That's right: the black key that normally plays the familiar role of F sharp is suddenly pressed into service as G flat. Is that any way to treat a defenseless piece of ebony?
And then there's the Chord From Hell. It's the very first stroke for the right hand in the first serious measure of the piece (preceded only by a pickup note and one measure of fairly innocent oom-pahs). And then, bam instant carpal tunnel syndrome.
Mostly, the chord in question is just a high C and a high-high C played in unison, an octave. Anybody can play an octave with their outstretched thumb and pinky; it feels a little uncomfortable for a couple of weeks when you start piano, but almost all of the piano repertoire depends on the typical human hand being able to span an octave in reasonable comfort. If you want to know what it feels like, find a desktop computer keyboard. Put your right thumb on the Q key and your right pinky on the P. That's about how wide you have to spread to play an octave. (A laptop keyboard is a bit smaller, so maybe you have to stretch to the right square-bracket to get that octavy stretch.)
So, two C's an octave apart? Piece of cake. Too easy. So Bolcom threw in a D-flat.
Now, playing C-D-flat-C is about like hitting Q and P with your thumb and pinky while hitting the number 2 with your index finger. Now, if your hand is anything like mine, your index finger is somewhere above the 6 when you are straddling the Q and P keys, and you can maybe squinch it over to hit the 4 if you don't mind a little pain. The 3 is impossible, and the 2 is really impossible; you'd have to have your hand surgically altered to manage it. It's that stupid opposable thumb or something.
Sometimes, such things are possible by a trick. If you look at the score, you might find that the left hand is conveniently close, and has a spare finger to lend to the treble, quick, while nobody's looking. In the case of the chord in the Graceful Ghost, alas, the left hand is off in Patagonia, an octave and a half to the left of the action. No finger can be spared.
Short of the timely deployment of a nose, I can think of only one thing Bolcom might have had in mind: that the thumb should play both the C and the D-flat, by sort of mashing down on the crack between the two keys. This would be easier if the two keys in question were adjacent white keys, like B and C. C and D-flat is doable, barely, by sort of pressing the thumb against the side of the D-flat key and dragging it down by a judicious combination of friction and prayer. I actually managed it four or five times, each time with elaborate care and preparation. Of course, in the sheet music, said chord is a sprightly sixteenth-note in length, and Bolcom cheerily advises "Don't drag". Right.
Having put in all the effort, it pains me to report that said chord actually sounds like a monkey-fart. The D-flat is a mere sound-effect, intended to make the chord sound out-of-tune and honky-tonky. To my knowledge the chord has no technical name, at least none suitable for polite society.
I look forward to hearing GK's assault on this rag, and express my fond hope that no hospitalization will be required afterward.