Loud and Fast: the scourge of the Macho Pianists
A couple of months ago I received an email from my friend, the composer Dave Deason, who, after hearing a blazingly-fast performance of a Beethoven sonata on the radio, had heated things to say about performers he refers to as “Macho Pianists.”
“When is the last time you heard the word 'brilliant' associated with a slow piece?” he asked me. “And yet, there is no reason that a slow, beautiful performance can't be just as brilliant as a fast audience-grabber the old ladies like to coo over!! Music is not a sporting event, even though so many may see it as an Olympic sport, if you know what I mean.”
I do know what he means, as does every pianist who has watched YouTube videos or seen social media postings of little kids who tear through advanced repertoire at lightening speed. We’re living in an era of Macho Pianists. It’s as if we’ve all adopted the Peter Schickele (aka PDQ Bach) line—“Loud is good, fast is better, loud and fast is best”—as our interpretive guide to everything we play. There’s no longer time to hear the structure, the chord changes; we no longer hear the power of the space between the notes.
Why do pianists fall prey to the Macho Pianist mindset? Competition. Whether it be in the next practice room or online, if we play standard repertoire, it seems there are hundreds of other pianists who can play what we play faster than we can. And so, in order to keep up, we focus on bravura rather than interpretation. We “razzle-dazzle” rather than communicate. The result is rushed performances that glorify ourselves rather than the music and have the staying power of whipped cream.
One of the reasons why so many music lovers turn to older recordings of piano music is because many of those great performers knew that they were interpreters, not showmen; communicators, not athletes. As exquisite artists, they understood that technical wizardry may dazzle in the moment, but music communicated from a lifetime of living and loving the music—and all of life—is what reaches the heart. What does it matter if we can play faster than the mind can absorb if we have nothing of value to say?
Like most pianists, I fight against the lure of trying to be a Macho Pianist. Many blurred and muddy performances in my past can be laid at the feet of this relentless internal pressure to keep up with other players—and always at the expense of the music. Getting away from that thinking requires me to drop my ego, stop looking for glory, and approach the music with humility and curiosity. What does it want to say? How can I, with my combination of strengths and weakness—as a pianist and as a human being—best serve the music I’m privileged to play? How willing am I to let the piece breathe by remembering that silence is the foundation of every note? When I step away from my ego, these questions help me to escape the Macho Pianist trap and to play with clarity and simplicity.
Thoughtful performances are memorable. One of the most powerful responses I ever got from a listener came from the custodian of an art gallery where my duet partner Molly Wheeler and I gave a concert several years ago. He was someone who had never listened to classical music before and, I suspect, stayed for our concert after helping set up out of curiosity. When he approached us in tears after we finished the program, it wasn’t the fast or flashy music that had him stammering for words, it was a quiet, magical movement of slow, sonorous beauty that opened his heart.
Perhaps if we, as pianists, can stop equating brilliance with speed, we will find (and communicate) the brilliance of structure, sound, and silence. Perhaps we will create thoughtful, spaciously brilliant music ourselves. After all, none other than the great Arthur Rubenstein once said, “I handle notes no better than many others. But the pauses; that is where the art resides.”
Words to live by.