Risks in concert performances

The uncertainties we encounter as performers translate to the risks we face and manage on the spot. Before arriving at the venue, we have no idea how we will sound and how the audience will respond to our music. Getting to the venue poses other uncertainties, particularly if the journey is susceptible to traffic congestion and delays.

Musicians who bring their own instruments have one less uncertainty to worry about compared to those who rely on the instruments provided. By this token, pianists have to get used to a lot. Other surprises have to do with room acoustics, audience, and technical adequacy.

One way to control risk is to reduce the number of moving parts. This year we decided to stick to one programme with minor alterations, unlike the previous year of changing programmes every month and nearly custom-tailoring to every venue and occasion. By restricting ourselves to a fixed set of duo works, we were able to focus on the way we play together rather than tackling each piece individually.

As a pianist, I feel more prepared if I know what kind of piano to expect. The top models such as Steinway, Bechstein, and Borsendorfer grand pianos give me confidence that I don’t have to exert extra effort to “control” the instrument. An unknown name or an upright piano gives me an added worry that I’d have to get used to how it sounds, whether I’m able to play repeated notes, if I will need extra pedal control, if it would go out of tune, and how I should sit so that I can still see and hear the guitarist.

Recently I played on a Steinbeck upright. The name rings a bell. It sounds like Steinway — could it be a relative?

Steinbeck upright piano in Deventer

The guitarist observed that it was Bechstein in reverse. That’s why it sounds so familiar!

Unfortunately the piano did not behave like either a Steinway or a Bechstein. It was not evenly tuned, making it difficult to play with another instrument in this chamber music setting. Worse, it got progressively out of tune the more I played.

Pianists have a prejudice when it comes to their instrument. Grand pianos look and sound better than uprights in general. The well-known models are more predictable (and reliable) than the unknown ones. Uprights are usually used for rehearsals and not considered instruments for solo or chamber music performance. Equally black is favoured over brown.

Unlike the pianist, the guitarist, who always faces the audience, feels the full impact of audience attention and reaction. Restlessness, movement, and noise can unnerve a performer’s concentration. With my side or back facing the audience, I can choose to ignore such distractions more easily than the guitarist who is more exposed.

“All that glitters is not gold.”

The stage in Amsterdam viewed from the back

We thought it would be a good concert this afternoon in Amsterdam when we saw the Yamaha grand piano and raised stage. After we sat down to warm up, we noticed that only the treble notes of the piano were resonating. The bass notes drowned almost as soon as they were played.

The guitarist gestured to sit more closely together. He pointed to the floor to ceiling and wall-to-wall glass windows and doors. We were surrounded by glass on three sides. The low system ceilings further dampened the sound.

It was an acoustically challenging situation, not helped by the piano feeling rather new. The action did not allow me to play fast runs or repeated notes.

“We’ll have to take it easy,” he said. “Slower tempos.”

The one hour concert (without intermission) was further exacerbated by the restless audience. Ten minutes before the end, we heard the foot steps of a staff member wheeling a resident out the door. It was so loud that it sounded like a third instrument, only off stage.

We took our bows and walked quickly to the windowless dressing room on the side of the stage. We were exhausted from having to cope with elements incompatible with what we had hoped for.

Robert Bekkers, guitarist, in the dressing room after an exhausting concert

“Come on,” I urged. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I don’t think they’re used to classical concerts,” he concluded. “You have to arrange the opera overtures for our duo quickly. Those are the tunes they’ll recognise.”

We had forgotten that there is risk in the repertoire. Most of the composers and works for piano guitar duo are unfamiliar to most audiences. Perhaps more familiar works or composers would reduce the uncertainty in audience reaction.

I leaned against the doorway and agreed. It’s about time we focus on getting a CD to send to those venues equipped with grand pianos and good acoustics, those that attract attentive audiences who would appreciate our music.

Anne Ku, pianist, at the end of a concert

Background noise and foreground music

The black grand piano sat in the corner next to a refrigerator that was to play a significant role in the morning concert. We are weary whenever we enter a hall that doubles up as an eating area with an ensuite kitchen.

Yesterday in Deventer, over an hour’s drive east of Utrecht and east of the famous Veluwe forests, the distinct odour of fried fish lingered from lunch. Barely a week ago on a sunny August morning in Zoetermeer, a half-hour ‘s drive west of Utrecht, thankfully there was no smell but rather the anticipation of something imminent.

I don’t know which is worse: to endure the smell or the noise and unsettling traffic of cooks, staff, volunteers, and residents.

And it certainly doesn’t help when the refrigerator rattles its own ostinato and cadenza.

That August morning in Zoetermeer (which means Sweeter Lake in Dutch) we asked the head volunteer to ask the kitchen staff to switch off the refrigerator. The volunteer mentioned to us that there was not enough staff that morning to get all the residents into the hall, an indication that she was helpless to change the situation.

We sat in the small windowless dressing room wondering what to expect if the fridge continued its buzzing as we had experienced during our warm-up.

The ominously looking refrigerator welcomed us into the hall while more residents were being wheeled in, behind us. We tuned and began the concert with a short Badinerie, the famous one from Bach’s second orchestral suite. The low ceilings didn’t do justice to the grand piano. The volunteer sitting closest to me set a poor example for the audience when she chatted at will. Any amount of noise and restlessness was detrimental to our delivery of music intended for the foreground not background.

During the quiet movements of Rodrigo’s Fantasia for a Gentleman, I heard the refrigerator compete for attention. Its crescendo to a fortessimo intruded upon the guitarist’s solo and intercepted my dialogue. I could feel its girations on the floor and against my piano bench. The vibrations conflicted with the rhythm of the Baroque dance of Gaspar Sanz, whose theme lent Rodrigo the air of antiquity.

Just when the noise became too loud to bear, it died quietly to a near niente. Peace at last, I thought, but not for long. By the time we ended the first half with Torroba’s Sonatina, we had heard several such cycles of the uninvited instrument.

During the break, we asked the volunteer again if she could get the kitchen staff to switch off the fridge. She said it was impossible. At first I guessed that the rules of the house made it impossible. But the guitarist thought otherwise.

“Of course it’s possible,” he said. “If the power is cut off, the fridge wouldn’t buzz. The cakes won’t melt in 30 minutes. Just unplug it.” He was angry for he had overheard the earlier conversation between the cook and the volunteer.

The cook had refused to switch off the fridge and complained that it wasn’t his fault that the piano was put next to the kitchen. In other words, the dining hall should not be used for concerts. And he wasn’t about to switch off the fridge, just because somebody asked him to.

Accepting fate, we grudgingly returned for the second half.

No amount of concentration could tune out the vibrato of the refrigerator. At some point, an elderly woman sitting in the front row began to sob uncontrollably. Perhaps the slow movement of Summer from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons had brought back memories that ignited such an outburst. She was quietly led away.

The attention then returned to our duo but not for long.

The distant shuffling of paper, more precisely cellophane being unwrapped and rewrapped, permeated the hall from the kitchen. With my back turned to the refrigerator, I could not see the kitchen but I could hear the staff. They went about their duties, taking out things from the other fridge, unwrapping food stuffs, and making sounds typical of a meal being prepared.

We were furious.

“Next time this happens,” declared the guitarist. “We should just leave. We can’t perform under such noisy conditions. I can’t even hear myself.”

At the next concert (yesterday afternoon in Deventer), the fridge and the kitchen were silent. But one volunteer walked on stage during our performance, to sit at a table with his back to me. It seemed strange that he would sit alone, even more strange to share a stage with a live performance. He scribbled notes on a writing pad and later, during the break, advised me that I should announce the previous piece played when I’m introducing the next piece. Was he a volunteer or a resident of the nursing home? I wonder.

Needless to say, I was grateful for the quiet kitchen and mindful of the stranger who entered on and off stage.