May 24, 2024

On introducing yourself to other musicians

Short-ish newsletter today—I’m currently scrambling to get a bunch of stuff done before I leave town. I’ll be playing a private house concert this Saturday (see you soon, several of you!) and then traveling through next week.

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One of the funniest things about young classical musicians is the way we all introduce ourselves like we’re Lord of the Rings characters. When you encounter a new teacher or someone from a different school/studio, you don’t identify yourself by any accomplishment or even what school you go to (I have never once heard a fellow musician say anything like “I’m so-and-so, I went to Juilliard”—that is simply not a thing), but by what teacher you study with. The studio you’re in is essentially your family name; just as a dwarf would say “I am Gimli, son of Glóin,” a young pianist might say “I’m Key Playerson, I study with Pedha Gough.”

Identifying yourself by way of your teacher gives the person you’re talking to a lot of information about yourself; it’s a badge of legitimacy if your teacher is A Big Deal, it reliably indicates where you live and what school you go to, and as Big Deal teachers are known for specific things, it confers a lot about your baseline strengths and abilities as a musician. One time an audience member who was a fan of the teacher I was studying with at the time said “I can tell you’re one of so-and-so’s students based on how expressive you are,” and when I played for a new teacher I’d been introduced to by my old teacher, the new teacher said approvingly, “I can hear the spirit of [old teacher] flowing through you,” which was a huge compliment for both my playing and my ability to learn things.

(Among students, naming your teacher also opens the door for IYKYK conversations; several times I’ve introduced myself as a student of one teacher, and gotten the response “Ohhhh, so you’ve done those studio classes.”)

Years ago, at a summer music festival, I had a really great lesson with Inna Faliks—she approved of my atypical breadth of study and gave me some truly helpful direction on controlling my quality of sound. I also attended a really memorable solo recital that she gave at that festival; I’ve seen a lot of classical pianists play live in my life, and she was up there in my top rankings in terms of the sheer command and stage presence she had.

The concert was held in a big old hall with no A/C at the peak of a southern Italian summer, and it was hot. It was uncomfortable enough sitting in the audience, and I couldn’t imagine playing a whole athletic program in that state. Faliks had a handkerchief with her at the piano, and right before the start of one piece, she dabbed her face, then, in one single grand swoop, flung the handkerchief into the piano and dove into the grand opening chord so gracefully and so powerfully that we all gasped. It was glorious, unparalleled showmanship, and we were all helpless before it. Her playing, of course, was fantastic, but none of us had ever seen anything like that handkerchief toss, and it was all we students could talk about afterwards.

I realize that “I saw this person throw a handkerchief, and it was awesome” sounds absolutely pathetic but it was so damn compelling that I still remember it seven years later. So many musicians—including the absolute all-time greats—look so small and ungodlike tending to themselves between playing (drinking water, dabbing their faces, adjusting a bench or bow) that to maintain that feeling of grandness, of performance with the audience firmly in your hand, when you’re doing something as mundane as blotting sweat off your brow in a sweltering hall: that, my friends, is power.

This past weekend, Faliks gave an absolute beast of a solo program here in LA, and, remembering that lesson and that concert, I eagerly showed up to hear whatever it was she had to dole out. She’s still got that magisterial stage presence and that ability to make every gesture meaningful; she turned pages on her iPad with grand sweeps of her arm that reminded me of the legendary handkerchief toss. I also, frankly, do not understand how her hands work; she angles her wrists and stiffens her fingers in ways that give me twinges just watching, but it clearly works for her?

I wasn’t entirely sure if I wanted to try speaking to her after the concert—there was no way she’d remember a random festival student years later—but when the program finished I bought a copy of her book and trotted into the line of people greeting her to have her sign my copy. (I’ve accidentally gotten myself a collection of books by/about pianists signed to me, so I might as well add to it, I reasoned.)

I forgot 1) to think of what to say to her and 2) that when you’re talking to someone you admire who doesn’t really know you, you automatically start talking like an idiot. “You wouldn’t remember me, but I had a lesson with you at the Amalfi Festival in 2017,” I said breathlessly, then realized I didn’t have an intelligent follow-up. I think I started telling her she was amazing, then realized that she was waiting expectantly for me to tell her my name so she could sign my book, spelled my name for her, then tried to continue the nonsensical sentence in which I’d interrupted myself. It was not my finest moment.

“And what are you up to these days?” she asked warmly after signing my book.

“I’m a very small-time classical pianist now,” I blurted out, before repeating that she was great and then fleeing the premises.

It wasn’t until I was several blocks away from the venue, clutching my book and eyeing a donut shop across the street, that I realized I had completely forgotten to introduce myself properly by naming the teacher I’d studied with at the time, which would have been way more helpful in placing myself. I’d basically done the equivalent of showing up at the Council of Elrond, brightly saying, “I’m an elf!” and then running away.

Open up the door

In the midst of overwhelm and the usual pre-performance jitters, I’ve been clinging to Billie Eilish’s new album like it’s a life preserver. It’s absolutely perfect for jamming in a pair of earphones, turning up, and dissociating, so thanks Billie!

The first time I heard “CHIHIRO” I didn’t think it was remotely a top 3 song off the album for me, but then I found myself compelled to keep playing it over and over again, which I guess makes it one of my favorites after all.

A little bonus for me: between the name of the song and certain lyrics (“Saw your seat at the counter when I looked away / Saw you turned around, but it wasn't your face”), I thought, “Wait, is this a song about legendary Miyazaki film Spirited Away? No, it can’t be.”

One quick Google later: IT TOTALLY IS ABOUT SPIRITED AWAY. Time to go listen to Joe Hisaishi again. 🎹