The program is a bear: the Rachmaninoff sonata, which is the most difficult piece in our repertoire by far for Shino, and the Beethoven fourth sonata, which, although not terribly difficult, takes immense concentration and precision, because the writing is sparse and every mistake can be heard.
This will be our first performance of the entire Rachmaninoff sonata; we’ve been adding to it bit by bit over the last two years. We were relieved to come to the fourth movement and find it not as difficult as the first movement, although there are moments which favor the composer’s gigantic hands over Shino’s small ones, and she has to be rather creative to get all the notes—including rolling chords that come in the middle of a quickly moving melodic line. (We’ve started calling this issue “the big hands problem.”)
Under normal circumstances, we might be inclined to put the Beethoven sonata first and the Rachmaninoff last in a program, but we felt it might be better to perform Rachmaninoff first, while we are fresh. I asked Shino if it was really okay to put Rachmaninoff in the program this time. “If I can play this, I can play anything,” she responded. (And, we confess, the beautiful piano at this particular church lit a fire under us to have the entire Rachmaninoff sonata ready in time.)
But while practicing yesterday, I started to panic and to second-guess the wisdom of our choices for this program. This transition is still rough, I thought. I still haven’t nailed that shift. This fast bit is messy. This melody is boring the way I play it now. If I mess up the counting during this rest, I don’t have the confidence that I’ll come in at the right time. And on and on and on. As a result, I kept practicing past that sweet spot where I’m warmed up and focusing well… into the place where I started making stupid mistakes because I was tired. I was out of time.
I feel this way before almost every concert—the despair that even though I’ve done my best to prepare, once again, this concert will not be perfect. I can comfort myself all I like with the assurance that no one will notice, but I will notice, and so will Shino. We are both painfully aware of our shortcomings as musicians.
Judith Glyde, my cello professor in college, gave me some excellent advice that I’ve never forgotten. The week before a major performance, it’s best to practice a lot early in the week, while daily reducing the amount of practice, with light practice the day before, and only warming up the day of the concert. Right before a concert, she explained, a performer is very susceptible to the effect of mistakes in practice. When you make a mistake right before a performance, even in a spot you usually get right, you panic, and hastily fix the problem… and then panic again when you get to that spot in the concert. So, although it seems counter-intuitive, it’s best to trust that you’ve done your best and practiced enough, and go into a concert well-rested and confident.
My life as a musician includes a constant letting go of the lofty ideal of a perfect performance. There is no such thing. It’s a paradox: I strive for perfection, knowing I will never achieve it. I can only practice so much. At some point I will always run out of time or energy or concentration.
Wouldn’t it be nice if we could play this concert, enjoying every gorgeous moment of these two exquisite sonatas, not caring one bit if we mess up, or if anyone notices?
Forty-nine hours and fifteen minutes until my next concert…
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| At our last concert. If you look closely, you will see that we're about to start the first movement of the Rachmaninoff sonata. |
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