CONVERSATION WITH COLIN CARR

by Tim Janof
Colin Carr has appeared throughout the world as soloist, chamber musician, recording artist,
and teacher. As a soloist, he has played with the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra, The
Philharmonia, Royal Philharmonic, BBC Symphony, BBC Philharmonic, and the orchestras of
Chicago, Los Angeles, Washington, Philadelphia, and Montreal. He is a regular guest at the
BBC Proms, he has twice toured Australia, and he recently played concertos in South Korea,
Hong Kong, and New Zealand. Last year he returned to the Philharmonia in London and made
his debut with the Los Angeles Philharmonic under Mark Elder. This year he toured with Mr.
Elder and the Halle Orchestra, playing the Dvorak, Elgar, and Walton Concertos. Other
highlights included a performance of the Dvorak Concerto to close the Prague Autumn Festival,
and the Beethoven Triple Concerto with Sir Colin Davis conducting at the Royal Festival Hall in
London.

Recitals have taken him to major cities each season: he regularly performs in London, New
York, and Boston. As a member of the Golub-Kaplan-Carr Trio he has recorded and toured
extensively for twenty years and recently formed the new group Sequenza. He is a frequent
visitor at international chamber music festivals worldwide and has often appeared as a guest
with the Guarneri and Emerson String Quartets and at the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln
Center in New York.

His solo recording of the unaccompanied cello works of Kodály, Britten, Crumb, and Schuller
received an industry award in the US. His recording, "Bach Suites for Unaccompanied Cello,"
performed live at Boston's Jordan Hall (GM Recordings), has been highly acclaimed, and the
Brahms Sonatas (Arabesque) were released in November 2000. He was also the soloist in the
Elgar Cello Concerto with the BBC Philharmonic on a BBC Music Magazine cover CD.

Colin Carr is the winner of many prestigious international awards, including First Prize in the
Naumburg Competition, the Gregor Piatigorsky Memorial Award, and Second Prize in the
Rostropovich International Cello Competition.

He first played the cello at the age of five; three years later he went to the Yehudi Menuhin
School, where he studied with Maurice Gendron and later with William Pleeth. He was made a
professor at the Royal Academy of Music in 1998 after having been on the faculty of the New
England Conservatory in Boston for 16 years; in 1998, St. John's College, Oxford created the
post of "Musician in Residence" for him, and in September 2002 he became a professor at Stony
Brook University in New York.

Mr. Carr plays on a Matteo Gofriller cello made in Venice in 1730.

TJ: You studied with the great French cellist, Maurice Gendron, at the Menuhin School.
CC: Actually, Gendron came to the school quite infrequently, at most once a month for a day or
two, and sometimes there were three or four months between visits. One of his former students
taught us twice a week in his absence, but I'm afraid these lessons were dull.

Before studying with Gendron, I had played whatever I felt like, usually pieces that were too
difficult for me. He reformed me using the same system that he used with his students at the
Paris Conservatoire -- Franchomme, Duport, Servais, Feuillard Daily Exercises, scales -- and had
me playing Romberg and Davidoff Concertos.

Menuhin brought Gendron to the School because of their long-standing professional relationship;
they had played together for decades. But Gendron was a terrifying and tyrannical teacher. He
was extremely demanding, impatient, intolerant, and not used to dealing with children; I was ten
years old.

He would often yell, raising his voice to a pitch that was quite scary for child, and he was
physically violent at times. I remember him deliberately knocking the bow out of my hand with
his bow. By the time I left the school at age 16, people realized that, although Gendron was a
wonderful cellist, he was not suited to teach young children; they phased him out.

TJ: Do you recall any of his guiding principles?

CC: His main theme was, "Play the way I do." The idea that I should try to understand a
composer's thoughts didn't occur to me until much later. He demonstrated frequently in lessons
and highly recommended his own recordings for further study.

He made us do unusual things too. He insisted that his students have razor blades, the purpose of
which was to erase printed slurs. He wanted us to use his bowings, but it wasn't enough to just
pencil in a slur; no, musical history had to be erased. A slur that Brahms wrote, for example, had
to be completely obliterated. My old music actually has holes in the paper where I had tried to
scrape off the printed slurs with the razorblade. I occasionally pressed too hard and went right
through, resulting in some missing notes on the back side of the page.

He wanted us to use three colors when marking our music -- red, blue, and green. One color was
for fingerings, another for bowings, and another for expressive markings. There was hell to pay
if a down bow was written in blue instead of red.

TJ: Did you go to William Pleeth directly after Gendron?

CC: No. I was 16, and not too wise. I decided that I didn't want to go to Conservatory or
University. I thought I had a career since I had won some small competitions and was playing a
few concerts. I shared a house in London with my girlfriend -- yes, I was still 16 -- imagining
that my solo career to be on an unstoppable path to greatness!

I did have the occasional private lesson with Pleeth. My parents wanted me to have weekly
lessons with him, but it didn't work out that way. Over the next year or two my lessons became
less and less frequent until, by the time I was 18 years old, I wasn't having any lessons at all.
Basically, I was a terrible student and a bad listener. Whatever it was that my teachers had to
offer me, I was not ready to receive it. I was unteachable.

TJ: What did you glean from your limited time with William Pleeth?

CC: He made me feel like I could do anything. He always told me that I played wonderfully, no
matter what. If I went into a lesson feeling that I wasn't up to it, I'd come out with all doubts
dispelled. Often students go into a lesson with doubt and leave with even more doubt because
teachers prey upon their students' eroding self-esteem. Pleeth understood that we all play better
when we are feeling good about ourselves and he rescued many from their downward spiral of
self-doubt.

TJ: Did he ever discuss technique with you?

CC: I can't remember him saying a single thing about it. His book, Cello, is very representative
of his teaching method; there's not much technical discussion. My time with him felt like a
continuation of my experience at the Menuhin School -- not counting Gendron, who was an
anomaly there -- since the School's music director, Peter Norris, had similar ideas.

Pleeth had passionate feelings about teaching and playing music; he believed that if you have
total conviction and commitment to the music, then technique will follow. In other words, if you
feel the music strongly enough, you will be able to play it. This was a truth for me for a long
time, long after I had finished studying, and I took his principles to my first professional teaching
position. Soon afterwards I realized that it doesn't always work.

TJ: Why not?

CC: Everybody feels music strongly, but it's too big a leap from that to the ability to express
those feelings through our instrument. We need tools, which means we need to focus on purely
technical matters too.

I realize that I am saying two conflicting things. On the one hand, there's the Pleeth/Norris idea,
if you feel it, you do it, and in order to do it, you need to feel it. On the other hand, there are the
millions of us who do feel it, but are unable to do it because there are too many things getting in
the way. I've seen this in students throughout my teaching life.

TJ: What musical principles did Pleeth emphasize?

CC: Communication was paramount. As long as you were speaking and singing he was happy.
He empowered his students to do just that.

He believed in the use of physical gestures as an aid to expression. We use our body in different
ways, depending on what we are saying. For example, when you stroke a cat, or you see
somebody that you dearly love, you use your body, including facial expressions, to reinforce the
feeling. When you say, "Oh, what a beautiful baby," there's a physical sincerity without which
the words do not make sense. The same thing must happen in music. You involve your whole
being in its message and your body will behave accordingly. Although this is an obvious idea,
many musicians don't do it!

TJ: Let's say you're playing the second theme in the first movement of the Dvorak
Concerto (see Example 1). How would you apply this idea to this passage?

Example 1 -- Dvorak Cello Concerto - 1st Movement, 2nd Theme

CC: That's a theme we all agonize over. But if we just remember the simple beauty of it, we can
bypass a lot of troubles. According to Pleeth and Norris, think of its tenderness and simplicity,
and then allow your whole being to behave accordingly.

But there is an obstacle. Let's say you change the bow between the f# and e, which is common
enough. The challenge is that you've been on a long down bow on the first two notes (A and F#)
and then three eighth notes follow on the up bow. What usually happens is that the energy of the
faster bow for the three eighth notes makes them sound too heavy, when they should fall away
instead. This can be dealt with so easily by lightening the bow on the change, but first we must
recognize the tendency, which we often don't.

This is a universal problem for all of us musicians: we don't listen to ourselves keenly enough.
Sure, we feel the music strongly, but these feelings often cloud our perception of our own
playing. Clearly, feelings are not enough.

TJ: How does one attain this ability to listen to oneself objectively?

CC: I suspect that we don't listen to ourselves because we don't like what we hear when we do;
moreover, if we needed to fix every blemish we heard it could feel quite overwhelming!
Enjoying our emotional response to the music is much more pleasant. However, the key is to
listen, no matter how unpleasant, so that problems can be noticed, analyzed, and solved.
Otherwise, progress will be much slower.

It's also important to minimize tension when playing. We cannot hear ourselves objectively when
we are physically tense. Tension also hampers our expressive ability, so we must learn to breathe
when we play, to relax the stomach, the jaw, the neck, and all those other places that we often
don't think about. Only then are we able to hear if we are offending.

TJ: As you indicated earlier, you didn't have much formal training. How did you achieve
the tremendous technique that you have today?
CC: I practiced six or seven hours per day in the long distant past. During that time I did a lot of
technical work and had fun designing exercises when I had difficulties with any specific aspect
of playing. For a while I played scales in harmonics, not to mention 4ths, 5ths and wild bow
patterns. My children have put an end to all that now.

I had a lot of concerts in those days too, up to ninety per year, so I had a lot of music to learn and
I felt I needed to put in that kind of time just to stay afloat. Back when I was at the Menuhin
School, I would learn a couple of pieces and play them all year long. After I left I had a lot of
catching up to do. Even now my repertoire is quite small compared with some of my colleagues.

Someone came up to me after a concert when I was in my early 20's and said, "I admire you so
much for your sheer will power." I don't think it was a compliment, but I thought about it and
realized that it was right on the mark. I had made it through the first third of my cello life
through stubborn determination. I had been practicing six or seven hours a day for years and the
consequence was that I was tense and hurting in my right arm, shoulder, and fingers. I was
virtually a cello cripple, but I was in denial and kept on playing through the pain, squeezing
everything with incredible intensity. I suppose some people found it gripping, but I can't imagine
that it was all that pleasant. Then, around the time we got married in 1993, my wife, Caroline,
said, "You've got to do something about this," and I always do what she tells me.

TJ: How did you figure out how to play with less tension?

CC: I'm still working on it. It's a daily challenge for me.

TJ: One of your former students said that you encouraged him to give up having a life
while in school if he wanted to become a professional cellist.

CC: That's something I might have said a while back. Now I would say, "If you want to have a
life, give up being a cellist!" I have had students who have tried both! I did have one no-hoper
who decided to forego a life of fun and he locked himself up in a practice room for three years in
school. Now he has a career, a family, and a life, and he's very happy. I think he's the exception.

TJ: Some of your former students at New England Conservatory (NEC) recall you
practicing scales and Popper Etudes every morning. Do you still do this?

CC: Not as much as I used to. Scales were a religion for me for almost twenty years; I still love
them. It's true that I was always up bright and early at NEC and once had a bucket of cold water
dumped on my head when I entered my usual room at 6am -- somebody's idea of a joke ... or
punishment. I always want to practice before my day gets going, no matter when the first lesson
or rehearsal is, or what time the plane is to leave ... it centers me. I find my head and heart aren't
in my practicing as much if I wait until the end of the day.

I encourage everybody to play tons of scales if they so desire, but, for goodness sake, not just for
intonation. It's essential to be aware of many things so that scales aren't merely mechanical
exercises, but more of a study of the "raw materials" of music -- Peter Norris' expression. One
must be in love with intervals, chords, melodic shapes, and cadences. Every note has its tonal
and harmonic place in the scale, as well as its obvious melodic position. If every note of our
scales is played with love, care, and intention, all will be well with the rest of our practice.

TJ: Do you have any general principles on the use of vibrato?

CC: I get tired of arguments about whether to vibrate or not, as if those are the only two ways to
use vibrato, yes or no; rather it is in a constant state of flux. The job of vibrato is usually to
reinforce whatever the bow is doing, so if the bow follows a melodic line up and down, the
vibrato would do the same thing in a subtle way. Vibrato must obey the same laws of musical
language as the bow. Dissonance can make you vibrate more or less, but generally dissonance
would require more musical tension -- tighter vibrato -- which then relaxes as the music resolves.

TJ: You played the Bach C Major Suite at the last RNCM Manchester Festival. You
seemed to have more of a violinistic approach to bow technique, and seemed to use more of
the upper half of the bow.

CC: If I did, it was not a conscious choice. It's funny you should say this because I often feel that
violinists use the upper half too much in Bach, and that they have this strange idea that separate
notes should be martelé. I've never liked this approach because the bow stays glued to the
strings. If anything, I would like to think that I play in the lower half and middle and take the
bow off the strings so that the sound rings more freely. I like to use a lot of bow in Bach in order
to have a freedom of sound.

I was very much in an Anna Magdalena phase at the time of that performance. I was greatly
influenced by Anner Bylsma's book, Bach, the Fencing Master, in which Anna Magdalena is a
goddess who writes nothing but the Truth. The irregular bowings may have resulted in me
playing in the "wrong" part of the bow at times.

TJ: One of the nice things about your performance was that it seemed neither overly
Romantic nor like a Modern cellist masquerading as an "authentic" player.

CC: I'm glad to hear that. But the two worlds are not as far apart as all that. I love beautiful
baroque style, but I play on a modern cello with steel strings and so on. It would sound all wrong
if I were to attempt to imitate this way of playing, but there's something about the way baroque
players use their bows that is so free and physically beautiful. Pardon my romanticism, but their
bow arm motions are more curvaceous and produce such voluptuous sounds. That's the way to
play on a Modern cello.

Our problem is that steel strings are tight, which makes us tight, especially on the a string. I
clench my teeth when I play on the a string! I hear tension in the a string sound of many students
too. Their bodies tighten up because they just don't like the sound of it, and things get
increasingly worse as they play higher up the cello.
TJ: How should one counteract this?

CC: It gets back to our discussion about listening. If you don't like the sound, do something
about it!

It helps to remember to breathe and to let things happen instead of forcing them. Try to imagine
that all your pipes are open and that blood and air are flowing through you. Also make sure that
your joints aren't too angular and motions are more circular, particularly bowing.

Circular bowing is one of the greatest discoveries of instrumental playing. Bowing should not be
a simple back-and-forth motion, because the bow and arm have to come to a full stop before the
bow changes direction. This causes a break in the sound and creates tension in the arm and
shoulder. Instead, the bow hand should travel in various permutations of a circle or oval or
figure-8, even on one string, depending on the musical passage.

TJ: One of your former students noticed a difference between you and his next teacher. He
felt that you strove more for a ringing and lighter approach, while his next teacher dug
more into the string, perhaps playing closer to the bridge. Does this sound accurate?

CC: Partly, yes. Who likes listening to cello playing near the bridge at all times with a sound that
constantly projects and pierces? Certainly there's a time for playing near the bridge, but I prefer
to play with more variety, changing the sounding point between the fingerboard and bridge as
often as the music calls for it.

When I play Bach, I get into the string, but I do so away from the bridge. This produces a sound
that I think best replicates the gut string timbre of a baroque instrument. This technique produces
a richness and depth in the sound, but without tightness.

What I often notice myself telling students is that they need to get into the string before they play
a note, and then to make sure that they get out of the string after the note has started. This goes
back to what we were discussing about Bach, about letting the strings ring. It's as if you are
putting your bow hand inside your cello and then throwing the sound out.

I like to use a tennis stroke as a good analogy for the bow. In tennis, we need to anticipate where
we need to be before the ball comes. We need to be in the right place before it's time and have
something of a back swing already initiated so that, when the ball comes, we are set to hit the
ball in a controlled and less tense manner. Then we swing through the contact, though there is a
moment at the point of contact when there is a special energy. Similarly in cello playing, we
need to anticipate the coming note or notes, and do preparatory movements so that, when the
note arrives, we can play it with minimal tension but much energy.

One of my favorite images in music is the bouncing ball (this is the best image for a succession
of sixteenth notes in separate bows, all generated by one impulse). This is an image for rhythm,
not for a bouncing bow. It can be used on or off the string or a combination of the two. The bow
must be allowed to replicate the ball, i.e. less bow with each successive note but a slight increase
in speed (i.e. less height with each ball bounce and consequently faster). The bow isn't
necessarily bouncing, however. It works well in Bach Preludes, like the 3rd with a detaché and
even the 4th, whose bow stroke I can't describe in words. And the contact doesn't become less
(after all, the weight of the ball remains constant). The point is that the notes get closer together
as they progress and less bow is used as they progress. The great thing about this approach is that
it gets us away from literal rhythm (often square and lifeless) and towards more of a gestural
rhythm. Music is comprised of gestures that are created by impulses and their consequences.

Another image I like for bowing is wheels. Imagine pushing something on wheels and then
letting go. It needs energy to get going but then it continues under its own momentum. This can
be experienced on a bicycle, for example. The pedaling is the pulse that produces the motion of
the music; uphill there is more resistance and friction, downhill less.

Rowing is a similar image that can help with bowing. The oar stroke occurs at the beginning.
You feel the resistance, then your oar is out of the water and even though you do nothing, you
are moving. Then the friction of the boat in the water slows you down until the next stroke.

Resistance is a key concept. It is the feeling of more or less resistance under the bow which
generates more or less tension in the music, but this resistance is created in a particular way
depending on the angle of the bow to the string as it draws the sound. This is difficult to
articulate in words, but essentially in a down bow, if you keep the bow close to the string above
the one on which you are playing, and stay in the string, you will create resistance. In the up
bow, if you keep the bow close to the string below the one on which you are playing, you will
maintain this resistance as well. This results in the basic circular bow stroke for a full sound that
sustains, though it needs some speed at the beginning of each stroke to get the sound going.

Then there are endless variations, of course. If the circular motion were counter-clockwise
instead clockwise in a down bow/up bow cycle, with the bow not in the string, a sound is
produced with hardly any resistance at all, but it's no less valid if used appropriately. This all has
great implications for bow changes, some of which must be seamless and others that require a
consonant at the beginning of the word/note and therefore more resistance; try saying a
consonant without any resistance! A firm understanding of these mechanics will greatly increase
the possibility of a sound that has "clarity and depth," which is another of my slogans.

Be sure to have active fingers on the bow too, especially in faster notes and when there are lots
of separate bows. The ultimate in fast separate bows would be a tremolo, which would only be
executed with the fingers.

TJ: I remember one of your students playing the first movement of the Dvorak Concerto in
a master class at the last RNCM Manchester Cello Festival. She maintained the energy and
tempo throughout the entire movement, which I actually found to be rather exciting, even
though Dvorak indicates that the second theme should be slower. Do you play the piece in a
similar manner, or do you use more tempo fluctuations throughout the first movement?

CC: I don't know that I would play it so straight, but how I play a piece varies, depending on
with whom I am performing. In the Dvorak, the conductor establishes the character of the first
movement in the long opening tutti before we play a single note; I view the Dvorak as a huge
collaboration between soloist, conductor, and orchestra. As a result, I find myself playing the
piece quite differently from year to year.

I don't think I would enjoy listening to a metronomic performance of the Dvorak, however. He
gave tempo markings -- 116 for the opening, 100 for the second theme -- which are not far
enough apart for most people, I know! The second theme doesn't want to be put in a straitjacket,
so stubbornly sticking to 100 just because Dvorak indicated it often does not feel natural. The
tempo may ebb and flow as the musical tension builds and subsides.

I always try to be truthful and sincere about what I believe are a composer's intentions. But if I
feel like I am compromising to the point that I'm not being true myself, I allow myself the
freedom to try something different. We all draw lines in different places.

TJ: I found your recording of the Kodály Solo Sonata to be wonderfully passionate. Did
Starker's recordings influence you at all?

CC: I recorded the Kodály nearly twenty years ago, and I'm sure that I play it differently now. I
think the first couple of movements lose their way in my recording -- although I haven't listened
to it for a good 15 years! Anybody who makes a recording of the Kodály would have to listen to
Starker at least once, but I don't think I used him as a model.

I approach the Kodály a little bit like the Bach Suites. The freedom and improvisatory nature of
both is obvious, yet both also have a formal structure that should not be messed with.

TJ: Are there any musical mistakes that you find yourself correcting in student after
student?

CC: One day I'm going to write a book about this. When students bring in a new piece, more
often than not, they play the same wrong notes. And I'm not talking about notes that are in doubt,
like in some of the Bach Suites. There are five or six notes, for instance, that I always have to
point out to my students in the first Shostakovich Concerto:

 In the 1st movement, m. 155, the last note is a c-flat (see Example 2):

Example 2 -- Shostakovich Concerto, 1st movt., m. 155 (bass clef not shown)

 In m. 185, the sixth note is a c-flat (see Example 3).

Example 3 -- Shostakovich Concerto, 1st movt., m. 185 (tenor clef not shown)
  In m. 255, the last note is an a-flat (see Example 4).

Example 4 -- Shostakovich Concerto, 1st movt., m. 255 (bass clef not shown)

 In the 2nd movement, m. 133, the grace notes are d and a, not g and d (see Example 5).

Example 5 -- Shostakovich Concerto, 2nd movt., m. 133 (tenor clef not shown)

 In the 8/8 bars just before Allegretto in the Cadenza (see Example 6), I often hear
students play two beats of triplet 8ths and one of a duplet, which comes out as 3/4
whereas the notes should be of equal length.

Example 6 -- Shostakovich Concerto, Cadenza (bass clef not shown)

There are some in the Bach Suites too. Aside from the questionable ones of Anna Magdalena, I
often hear the following:

 A b-natural in the d minor Prelude, m. 25, third beat, instead of a b-flat (see Example 7).

Example 7 -- Bach d minor Prelude, m. 25

 I can't tell you how many times I have heard b-flat in the Allemande of the d minor suite,
m. 22, third beat (see Example 8).

Example 8 -- Bach d minor Allemande, m. 22 (bass clef not shown)

  In the 2nd Bourrée of the C major, why do people play the last note of bar 4 as an a-flat
(see Example 9)?

Example 9 -- Bach C Major 2nd Bourrée, m. 4 (bass clef not shown)

 And in the 4th Suite, why an a-natural in the Allemande m. 23, 3rd beat? None of the
source manuscripts indicate an a-natural, and yet it keeps appearing in editions (see
Example 10).

Example 10 -- Bach E-flat Major Allemande, m. 23

The list goes on and on.

There are also some unfortunate bowings that have become standard because everybody uses the
same bad editions. Leonard Rose, for all his great artistry, has a lot to answer for here. His
editions are widely used, particularly in the United States. In many cases, the original musical
gestures of the composers have been obliterated. The Dvorak and Schumann Concertos and the
Arpeggione Sonata are innocent victims, as are the Brahms sonatas.

Then there are many examples of a bowing becoming so common that we forget the original.
The Brahms F Major Sonata is a victim here. For instance, in measure 4 (see Example 11),
people often break the slur between the c and b-flat, therefore avoiding would have been a subtle
release and replacing it with a hefty up bow.

Example 11 -- Brahms F Major Sonata, 1st movt., m. 4

And worse, in measure 8 (see Example 12), many break the slur from g down to c in order to
play the c as loudly as possible. Instead, the c should fall from the g.

Example 12 -- Brahms F Major Sonata, 1st movt., m. 8

In measure 20 (see Example 13), students -- not just students -- usually change the bow on the
high g's, even though Brahms indicated long slurs over entire bars. When the slur is broken at the
g's an unequivocal hemiola is created, which I don't think is what Brahms had in mind. He
preferred ambiguity. He could have easily placed the slur the way everybody does it, but he
didn't. Brahms had it right to begin with; the two g's are going to be heard no matter what you
do.

Example 13 -- Brahms F Major Sonata, 1st movt., m. 20

TJ: The preceding notes lead to the g, so doesn't changing the bow at the g clarify where
the musical peak is within the measure?

CC: Absolutely! But just because the g is the musical peak doesn't mean you have bow it that
way. I think the music becomes too black and white, too obvious.

Brahms does this sort of thing all the time. In measure 83 of the Trio of the second movement of
the Brahms e minor Sonata (see Example 14), cellists almost always change the bow at eachg#,
while Brahms groups them less clearly on purpose. I feel like I am getting hit over the head with
the g#'s when they start each bow! We are going to hear those g#'s anyway and what's beautiful
about them is that every now and then they end up on a change of bow. The music washes over
you like waves when bowed as Brahms wrote it, instead of like planks of deadwood.

Example 14 -- Brahms e minor Sonata, 2nd Mov't, Trio, m. 83

Getting back to the Brahms F Major Sonata, I have another pet peeve, which occurs at measure
43 (see Example 15). Cellists often divide these measures into two bows, in groups of three notes
each. I realize that it is more difficult to play each measure in one bow, but the musical result is
better when bowed as Brahms wrote it. The energy is typically at the beginning of any given
slur, so when each of the measures are broken into two bows, false energy is created on the f#
that is after the second beat, which breaks up the continuity of the phrase. When two groups of
three notes are played, one has little choice but to play each group with the same energy because
you have to use the same amount of bow for each half of the bar.

Example 15 -- Brahms F Major Sonata, 1st movt., m. 43

If you must break up these measures, I suggest that you group them into two notes and then four
notes, using whole bows for each group. This results in a comparable distribution to that if the
notes were played in a single bow. There is more energy in the first two notes in a whole down
bow than in the remaining four notes that start at the tip; the up bow will be played on a slower
up bow, which is less energetic, although the last up bow would need a slight compensatory
crescendo!

Another place that bothers me is back in the Brahms e minor Sonata. At measure 83 in the first
movement (see Example 16), many play two bows per measure instead of one. But the gestures
as written by Brahms are by the bar and the phrases are two bars long; this need not be altered. If
it is, the resulting squareness is deplorable -- how loud does this have to be anyway?!

Example 16 -- Brahms e minor Sonata, 1st movt., m. 83

Another is in measure 114 (see Example 17). The music wants to release from the half note to
the quarter note. Many disrupt this flow by taking the quarter note on a separate bow because
they want to be in a more convenient part of the bow for the eighth note -- and to play louder, of
course. But the struggle of the slow bow and the energy to get back for the eighth note conveys
exactly the right message. Without it the resistance and tension of the music are lost.

Example 17 -- Brahms e minor Major Sonata, 1st mov't, m. 114

Another is in the development, at measure 118 (see Example 18), the two-octave leap between
the f's. How many cellists break the f's into two bows? And why? Because they believe they will
be louder, of course. But that motive -- two slurred quarter notes -- is integral to the piece, on or
off the main beat; to break up the slurs willfully goes against Brahms' intent. And in the end I
don't believe it is any louder anyway. Every student with whom I have discussed this has said, "
This feels better musically."

Example 18 -- Brahms e minor Sonata, 1st mov't, m. 118

TJ: One of my former teachers had me play the high f and then, on a separate bow, play a
triple stop that starts on the low f.

CC: Yeah, I've heard of that one too, and I disagree mightily for the same reasons. I think that
Brahms knew what he wanted.
Another passage in the Brahms e minor is just before the coda at the end of the first movement
(see Example 19). Brahms wrote a slur over all four bars, which is impossible to do well. But do
we have to play one bow per bar, which again ruins the wonderful tension and release of the
phrase? Two bars in one bow here is quite manageable.

Example 19 -- Brahms e minor Sonata, 1st mov't, m. 256 (bass clef not shown)

Another is in the Beethoven A Major Sonata, just before the recap (see Example 20). The slur is
over four bars in the manuscript. In this case it's not hard to do, especially if you're playing
pianissimo. There's something so hushed and special when there is so little motion in the
performer's body. And then the four whole notes come after --very little bow please, just as slow
a bow as in the preceding bars! -- and you've got the release of the crescendo and forte-piano in
measure 152. If you've been using too fast a bow in the pianissimo the dramatic effect is
destroyed.

Example 20 -- Beethoven A Major Sonata, 1st mov't, m. 140 (bass clef not shown)

I am also wary of cheap fingering tricks that are applied with little musical consideration. One
such fingering that I dislike is in Brahms F major measure 122 (see Example 21), where people
often play the first third on the d and a strings, the second third on the d and a strings -- the c on
the d string with an open a string -- and the last third on the g and d strings, thereby playing the
three notes of the melody on three different strings! As Schumann said, "Regard it as something
abominable to meddle with the pieces of good writers either by alteration, omission, or by the
introduction of new-fangled ornaments. This is the greatest indignity you can inflict on art."

Example 21 -- Brahms F Major Sonata, 1st movt., m. 122 (bass clef not shown)

Another off-putting left-hand trick is in m. 35 of the 3rd movement, where many play the upper
two c's on the c string as harmonics (see Example 22).

Example 22 -- Brahms F Major Sonata, 3rd movt., m. 35

Now that I've got all that off my chest.... I suppose that some people do these things because they
feel they can't be true to themselves otherwise, but being true to the composer should come first.
Besides it's mostly due to laziness. And when these things end up in printed editions, they
assume some -- false -- legitimacy.

TJ: How would you summarize your philosophy on music making, assuming a Ten
Commandments sort of structure?

CC: I doubt I can limit it to ten, but here are some:

 Listen with your whole soul.

 Be true to the composer in every respect.
 Be true to yourself in every respect. In great music these two have to coexist.
 Don't play the music -- too controlling -- but let go enough to allow yourself to be
played by it.
 Develop the perfection of the inner ear. In other words, know exactly what you want to
hear before you try and play it. "Nothing has ever grown from the exterior to the interior.
The interior is the basis for understanding. There is the desire, the force, the gift."
(Schnabel)
 Know the score. Its secrets are there to be discovered, often in the notes we don't play
more than the ones we repeat endlessly -- and often mindlessly -- when we practice.
Orchestras and pianos provide harmony and rhythm for our single lines and they, more
than anything we play ourselves, are what determine the subtleties of direction, emphasis,
and shape. This leads to the next one….
 Practice away from the instrument. You hear better!
 In the words of the late Mr. Bill Shankly, former manager of the Liverpool football
[soccer] team "Football -- music -- is not a matter of life and death; it's a lot more serious
than that."
 Nothing matters and nobody cares! This is Anner Bylsma's lesson. This is not meant in
a cynical way, but more as a compliment/antidote to the previous one. It's amazing how
liberating this approach can be on the concert stage. Carefree, not careless!
 Without enthusiasm nothing genuine is accomplished in art.
 "One must be in love with the raw materials of music -- single notes, chords, melodic
shapes, intervals, cadences, etc. -- just as a sculptor must be excited by the feeling and the
possibilities of unformed clay." -- Peter Norris, Menuhin School
 Think twice, play once, instead of playing badly without having thought at all.
Well, that's twelve and there will probably be more tomorrow. There's always more to learn and
discover.