Fernando Sor’s Op. 60:
Complete Recording

I recently recorded Fernando Sor’s complete Op. 60. Thinking you may find my experience of interest, I’ve written a piece by piece essay on my exploration of this justifiably renowned collection. At the bottom of this post is the full YouTube video of my complete recording. If you wish, you can scroll down and start the video, so you then can listen to each étude as you read this essay. 

Études 1-4

The first four études of Op. 60 are almost entirely single line melodies. Sor himself offered no explanation for why he did this. But it’s tempting to assume he wanted students to focus on phrasing and articulation of a simple melody, without the distraction of polyphony. I’ve chosen to impose two limitations on my performances. First, I add no ornamentation. My goal is to craft interesting performances without gilding the lily. Second, I deliberately avoid over-rings that create the illusion of extra voices. I want to imitate the sound of a solo singer. Though I make no pretense that this was Sor’s intent, it’s in keeping with the stripped down nature of these pieces. It’s also more difficult to prune away all over-rings. To me, an important point of an étude is to master difficulties, even if the difficulties are of my own making.

Étude 5

This étude goes a step further, adding bass notes to a melody. It’s as if Sor is saying: “Okay, you’ve learned to play a melody. Now it’s time for counterpoint.” He clearly meant to ease the student’s transition into polyphonic music—most of the bass notes are open strings. In this étude I’ve allowed myself a smattering of ornaments. You’ll also hear that I change a few notes from the original. Consider this a warning shot: in playing these pieces, I intend to bring my own taste into the mix. It’s my belief that players should bring something of their own to the table. Unexpected departures, done with taste, can keep listeners engaged. Note: Between the 9:22-9:54 time marks the sheet music doesn’t match what I’m playing. I apologize for my mistake. (If you’re charitable, call it my tribute to wabi sabi.)

Étude 6

Here’s another étude in two voices. Now the bass line is more challenging, using more fretted notes. It’s also here that we begin to see Sor’s meticulous use of rests, so common in his advanced music. It’s a mistake to ignore these rests, as many guitarists do. Instrumental music of this time had a parlando style to it—that is, the music sounds almost like speech. Honoring the rests contributes to Sor’s declamatory style. Yes, it makes the music harder to play. But the result justifies the effort.

Étude 7

By now you may have noted the preponderance of C major in Op. 60. Eleven of the twenty-five pieces are in C major. (And No. 4 is in C minor.) While études in C major aren’t unusual for Sor, it’s unusual for him to have so many in one collection. Perhaps it’s his concession to what he regarded as a beginner collection. (Like many virtuosos, Sor overestimated the skill of real world beginners.) Étude 7 is a cheerful little waltz. In the early 19th century, the waltz was evolving into an obsession in Europe. So it’s no surprise for Sor to tap into this popular dance. This piece is an old favorite of mine. For this reason, I take the repeats in the return to the A section, sprinkling in ornaments to lighten the mood.

Études 8-9

These two études are unusual. No. 8 is merely a slowly arpeggiated chord progression. No. 9 is the same chord progression with smaller note values. Taken together, they’re a thinly disguised theme and variation. They remind us that Sor was teaching more than guitar playing—Op. 60 is also a primer on how to compose. Since these two pieces are clearly linked, I perform them attacca. And here’s something curious about No. 9. It has measures that are repeated almost note for note, and yet are stemmed differently. (See mm. 1-2 and mm. 5-6, or mm. 9-10 and mm. 11-12.) Often these differences are overlooked. But why would Sor take the trouble to notate these differences if he expected them to be ignored? Thus, I’ve taken Sor at his word—that he wants the notes stemmed upward to be treated as melody. So I’ve honored his notation by accenting these upward stemmed notes.

Étude 10

What a sparkly little gem this is! And Sor does it with the simplest of means. Almost the entire piece is nothing more than broken chords. Indeed, the first eight measures are merely the I, IV, and V chords of C major. It’s as though Sor is reveling in what can be done with a mere chord progression. In my performance, I try to sharpen the good spirits with some snappy ornaments.

Étude 11

Though this étude sounds different from the one before, it’s really quite similar. Again, Sor fashions an entire piece from nothing more than broken chords. Here we also hear a favorite compositional device of Sor’s: gradually building tension over a bass ostinato.

Étude 12

Here’s another jolly piece. Its apparent simplicity, however, masks an underlying complexity. We now have counterpoint in which the two voices are more equal. And the chromaticism hinted at in the B section of No. 11 is more overt in No. 12. The challenge for the player is to make all this added complexity roll trippingly off the tongue. In this, we’re reminded of the familiar quip pianists have about Mozart’s music: “too easy for children—too difficult for adults.” (In m. 20, I suspect the last note of the upper voice is a misprint. I changed it from G to B.)

Étude 13

Sor now thickens the musical texture, expanding to three full fledged voices. As it happens, some years ago I wrote an analysis about this piece. You can find it here:

https://pooretom.blogspot.com/2020/01/the-value-of-musical-analysis_1.html

Étude 14

I made a slight change in this piece. Mm. 17-18 have the E bass note tied. So although mm. 1-2 omit this tie, I’ve elected to put it in. To my ears, it sounds better.

Étude 15

This is an odd piece. In the opening Sor simply announces the I, IV, V7, I progression, and then repeats it with arpeggiation. Although the B section is a tad more elaborate, Sor then returns to the opening declaration. Perhaps this is an inside joke, alluding to an improvised prelude in which players would play a simple chord progression to check their tuning.

Étude 16

This is a personal favorite of mine, which I played for decades as part of my gig repertoire. So I indulged myself by repeating the B section with ornamentation. At 52 measures, this is the longest piece in Op. 60. (Though some pieces exceed it if you count their repeats.) Again, we encounter an extended passage with a bass ostinato. This piece is also notorious for the gnarly ornament in m. 46. Why Sor put this challenging ornament into an otherwise easy piece is a mystery. Then again, he never seemed interested in making his music easy for dilettantes. If you want to know how I counted this ornament, click here:

https://www.classicalguitardelcamp.com/viewtopic.php?p=1681428#p1681428

Étude 17

Some of Sor’s music has latent sonorities that are often overlooked. No. 17 is a good example. On the page, it’s just broken chords. But if you listen closely, it’s chock full of suspensions across the bar lines. You have tease them out of the background, taking care to hold the notes past their literally notated values. But if you do, the piece shines. Did Sor intend this? Well, he didn’t explicitly notate it the way I play it. So one can argue that I’m foisting things on the music that aren’t there. My reply? Listen to the result. To quote Duke Ellington, if it sounds good, it is good.

Once composers release their music to world, it’s no longer entirely theirs. A creative player may raise a piece beyond what the composer intended. The composer’s intent (insofar as it can be divined) is certainly grist for the mill. But when a composer’s intent becomes a rigid proscription, it has degenerated into something harmful to the creative process.

By the way, if you hear a touch of Travis picking in my performance of No. 17, you’re not imagining it. Practicing this piece, I couldn’t shake the shadow of Merle looking o’er my shoulder. So I just went with it. Yes, it’s an anachronism. Doubtless I’ll land in music history hell for this.

Étude 18

On occasion, Sor lets technical formula override musical taste. No. 18 is to me an example of this. Its start and stop texture grows tiresome—at least to me. I did the best I could with it. But to pull it off convincingly will require a better player than me. I invite someone to sell it better than I did.

Étude 19

On the guitar, the key of G major invites this texture: a melody and bass flanking a repeated open string accompaniment. Nearly every early 19th century guitar composer wrote 6/8 G major pieces like this. The challenge, of course, is to highlight the melody over the third and fourth string drones. And again we encounter a gradually intensifying melody over a bass pedal.

Étude 20

Sor had a thing for B minor. It’s the key of his justly popular Op. 35, No. 22 arpeggio study. But this one, while not as well known, is equally worthy. For me, the change into D major at m. 17 is exquisitely magical—to blow through it without an expressive response is inexcusable.

Étude 21

Sor also had a thing for damping. He wrote a number of pieces in which chords are immediately damped—Op. 31, No. 20 (the old Segovia edition No. 9) is a well known example. In my performance, I indulged myself by penning a new coda for this piece. I like to think Sor would be delighted if one of his students showed a little compositional chutzpah.

Études 22-23

It’s no secret that Sor was influenced by Haydn and Mozart. But he also lived in the time of Beethoven, Chopin, Schumann, and Liszt. How could he not be influenced by them? In my recordings of 1-21, my expressive approach cleaved to conservative classicism—my fairly steady tempi reflect this. (Recall Mozart’s famous dictum that, when playing tempo rubato, the right hand stays in strict tempo.) But in Nos. 22 and 23 of Sor’s Op. 60, I sense a more Schumannesque approach is apt. So I’ve relaxed my otherwise classical pacing and adopted a more romantic vibe.

In No. 22, mm. 45-47 display a complex stemming. To convey this audibly is a worthy challenge.

Étude 24

Like No. 18, this étude again sports the start and stop right hand arpeggio approach that I find so unconvincing. And again, I did my best to sell it. It’s interesting, however, that this approach is similar to the idea of “speed bursts” often found in current guitar pedagogy. Might Sor have anticipated this concept in his own teaching?

Étude 25

One might think that Sor would end Op. 60 with a bang. But instead, he takes leave with a gentle aria. Here again I take liberties with the printed music. Rather than play the harmonics in each initial statement and repeat, as Sor originally wrote it, I elect to play normal notes in the initial statement and harmonics in the repeats. I do this for two reasons:

1) To break up the sameness.

2) To recall the single line melodies that began Op. 60, thus closing the circle.

Sor almost never used artificial harmonics. Though he was aware of them, he felt they were difficult, unreliable, and took the right hand out of optimal position. You’ll notice that, by using natural harmonics, 4th fret notes will be noticeably out of tune. (A consequence of modern tempered tuning.) To avoid this, some players today use artificial harmonics when playing this piece. Indeed, I considered it myself. But keeping to natural harmonics gives the player practice in accurately locating the 4th and 3rd fret harmonics, which are not directly over the fret. Besides, the slightly out of tune 4th fret harmonics add a bit of piquancy to this lovely piece.

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You can find my complete recording of Op. 60 here:

I hope you enjoy hearing this recording as much as I enjoyed making it.

Early 19th Century Studies: Fun for the Whole Family

How we hear music today is different from the far past. Two hundred years ago, if you wanted to hear music, you either sought out someone who could play it or learned to play it yourself. Both required effort. By contrast, today music can be had at the push of a button. Indeed, it’s often piped in to our daily lives with no effort on our part. This very effortlessness makes it hard for us to understand what music used to be. It was a rare and special thing, and those who could do it were admired.

By the early 19th century, music became something more democratic than an elevated accouterment for the nobility. More and more, ordinary people could reach a standard of living that made music a part of their lives. Well-heeled families could afford music lessons for their children. Musically skilled family members became the 19th century equivalent of a radio or stereo system.

In this era, music teachers thrived (at least modestly so). And they wrote and published music aimed directly at music students. Such music was seldom difficult or profound. Rather, it was approachable fare that could be learned fairly quickly, and once mastered was pleasant to hear.

With this in mind, I offer the following selections of early 19th century guitar studies. My goal is to transport you back to a time when hearing music was a unique experience to be savored. I’ve tried to reanimate the spirit in which this music was conceived. You’ll notice that I often depart from the written music. This is because early 19th century musicians were less rigid in their attitude to the printed score. Improvisation was a natural part of music making. We today would do well to revive this creative response.

Enjoy.

Carlo Domeniconi: Preludes, Op. 20 (Complete Recording)

 

Carlo Domeniconi’s Op. 20 Preludes have been in my collection for years. Yet for whatever reason, I’d never read through them. Nor have I ever heard them played by an established concert artist. That alone kept Op. 20 off my radar screen. But after playing the first Prelude, it intrigued me enough to look into the second. And then the third. It was like eating one chocolate piece—once I started, I had to finish the whole box.

Having decided to record all 24, I established a consistent equipment setup. My audio environment isn’t ideal. There’s no part of my house that yields an excellent sound. So I concluded that if my recordings of each piece couldn’t sound great, they could at least sound consistently okay. The finished recording of the 24 Preludes shouldn’t distract the listener with wildly variable sound. I bought a computer desk of about a meter in length and set it at the foot of my bed. It has room for my preamp, A/D converter, and MacBook Pro. A spaced pair of DPA 2011C mics is permanently hooked up. This saved on the wear and tear of repeatedly plugging and unplugging mic cables. I also experimented to find the best mic placement. Once I found it, I left the mics in place. Besides giving a consistent sound, this had the added advantage of convenience. When I felt like recording, I simply plugged in the preamp and converter, hooked up my computer, and was ready to roll.

Recording a set of pieces is different from recording one stand-alone piece. One has to consider how each one fits into the whole. This often affected how I played each piece. For example, Prelude No. 10 (“Sagra”) is a rustic piece. It needed a rougher, less pretty sound than the pieces flanking it. So I deliberately went for a thin and twangy sound. Would I do that for a one-off recording? Probably not, as listeners might conclude this is my normal sound. But in the larger context, the “bad” sound is apt.

What struck me is how recording an entire set affected how I played the last note of each piece. To me, the last note of one piece should set up the next. This especially affected how long I held the final note of a piece. Occasionally the composer dictated this—in three pieces Domeniconi marks the final notes staccato. Elsewhere, I tried to end each piece so that the next piece felt like a natural consequence. Most conspicuous is the ending of Prelude No. 19 (“Sonorità”). This piece seems a central moment of stillness in the entire set. So I let the last note fade out to inaudibility. I also allowed more silence before the start of Prelude No. 20 (“Quasi A la turca”)—while I wanted a jarring contrast, I didn’t want a Haydn “Surprise Symphony” shock. By the way, “Sonorità” is perhaps my favorite of the 24 Preludes. It’s also my only straight-through unedited recording in the set.

Of these 24 recordings, two of them fall short of ideal to my ears. In Prelude No. 16 (“A tre”) I inexplicably failed to make the glissandi audible. That dismays me, as I was sure I was doing them when making the recording. The ear, however, doesn’t lie. Most of the glissandi just aren’t there. I should’ve redone the recording, but other problems annoyed me too much to do so. The other shortfall is Prelude No. 24 (“Il mercato”). This is the one Prelude that exposed my subpar right hand. I always have trouble with fast arpeggios involving a. Further, throughout this project I had to work around a split m nail. In many of the pieces, I could avoid it. No. 20 was the conspicuous exception. I spent two weeks trying to whip my right hand into playing this piece acceptably. As the last one in the set, it had to deliver. My finished recording is acceptable. But I hear missed opportunities. What can I say? I did what I could.

Domeniconi’s 24 Preludes are a unique confluence of fortuitous circumstances. They’re not well known, and I have a soft spot for neglected gems. Further, with the exception of No. 24, they’re within my ability to play convincingly. Considering my age and diminishing skill, that’s no small thing. Most importantly, they’re just excellent pieces. Work is easier when quality beckons.

So here’s my complete recording of Carlo Domeniconi’s Preludes, Op. 20. I hope you enjoy hearing it as much as I enjoyed playing it.

Perfection, With a Side Order of Flaws

“Perfection is not attainable. But if we chase perfection, we can catch excellence.”

― Vince Lombardi

Perfectionism gets a bad rap. And for good reason. After all, a musical performance can never be perfect. There are too many balls to keep in the air at once. One can’t help but occasionally drop something. So it would seem that perfectionism has no place in the practice room. After all, why chase the impossible?

But this is a misunderstanding of what perfectionism should be. It’s not a result. Rather, it’s a vital element to producing an admirable result. Perfectionism itself is neither good nor bad. It’s like fire: you can warm your home with it, or you can burn your home to the ground with it. The result depends on how you use it.

It helps to treat perfection as a malleable thing. For example, some believe a perfect performance is one in which every note is a polished diamond, dutifully in attendance at its appointed time. But that’s wrong. Hearing a meticulously burnished performance is like hearing a computer-generated midi file. It’s boring. A great performance is unpredictable. Things happen that throw a listener off balance. One can’t do this with notes neatly arranged like ducks in a row.

Some years ago a student of mine did a class with a virtuoso. He got to hear the player while sitting right next to him. Afterward, I asked my student if the virtuoso had an absolutely pristine sound. “No, he didn’t!” replied my student with surprise. “Up close, there’s a slight roughness to his sound. But he makes it sound great.” We discussed this, and my student realized that misdirected perfection is a black hole. When a player is too fixed on perfection, it scrubs the passion out of the music. There’s a delicate balance at work. Too much perfection is itself an imperfection. It’s a misunderstanding of what great players want to do. Great players are obssessed with an emotional effect. The closer they get to it, the closer they are to musically meaningful perfection.

Perfection varies from person to person. The perfectionism of a master isn’t appropriate to a beginner. But aiming to be perfect is apt for both. The master may aim for the nuances of a style that sound like no one else. The beginner may aim to keep a steady beat while playing open string notes. So while the individual goal varies, the standard is the same for both master and beginner. Each tries to perfect something suited to their level.

Some people freak out when trying to be perfect. They’re dismayed when they fall short. But dwelling on the shortfall is the wrong idea. When aiming for perfection, falling short is inevitable. That’s not what matters. What matters is that high goals make high achievement more likely.

In playing an instrument, no one gets exactly what they aim for. Making music is far too complex for that. What really happens is that we all fall short of our ideal. Even great players fall short of the performance in their minds. In a quiet moment after the applause subsides, the great player likely thinks: “Not bad, but I wish I had done that vibrato just the way I wanted.”

What great players know—and what all of us can learn—is that steady perfectionism during practice raises what we can do in performance. In the hurly-burly of performing, we need not be perfect. We just need to get close enough that the tiny flaws don’t matter.

In optics, there’s something called the “1/4th wave rule.” When making an optical lens or mirror, one doesn’t have to be perfect. Instead, one must produce an optical surface that’s accurate to within 1/4th of a wavelength of light. A lens or mirror that meets this standard will, for all practical purposes, behave as though it’s perfect. So the 1/4th wave rule is a threshold. Meet the threshold, and you’re essentially perfect.

Good players know this. They know they must strive for perfection as they practice. Then in performance, they turn off perfectionism and go with what they’ve got. If their practice was good, then their performance likely will be good. Yes, there will be flaws. But the good will outweigh the bad. Listeners will be happy, and the player will live to play another day. (“Hey, maybe the next performance will catch lightning in a jar.”)

Perfection is a moving target. The better the player, the more individual and varied is his or her definition of perfection. Among great players, perfection contains multitudes.

Recommended Recordings

 

Manuel Barrueco: 300 Years of Guitar Masterpieces—VoxBox CD3X 3007

This three CD collection is a reissue of Cuban born virtuoso Manuel Barrueco’s early Vox LPs, recorded in the late 1970s to early 1980s. Included in this set is his stunning performance of selections by Spanish composers Isaac Albéniz and Enrique Granados. This 1978 Albéniz/Granados recording is perhaps the best example of what I call the “cool school” of guitar playing, eschewing color and warmth in favor of restraint, taste, and note perfect execution. One complaint: in this reissue VoxBox inexplicably spread the Albéniz/Granados selections over three CDs.

David Russell: Francisco Tárrega, Integral de Guitarra—Opera tres CDS 1003/4

Scottish guitarist David Russell spent much of his childhood in Spain, speaks fluent Spanish, and married a Spaniard. So he brings a deep understanding and affection to the music of late 19th century guitar virtuoso Francisco Tárrega. Add to this his supple phrasing and gorgeous tone—lovingly captured by recording engineer John Taylor, himself a guitarist—and you have a recording that shows off guitar playing at its finest.

Raphaëlla Smits: Early 19th Century Guitar Music—Accent ACC 21146

Belgium born guitarist Raphaëlla Smits has a deep interest in the guitar’s 19th century repertoire. In this recording she performs on a French guitar from about 1820, restored by the German luthier Bernhard Kresse. The music highlights two abiding interests of early 19th century composers: the concert etude and the song. The solo guitar arrangements of six Schubert lieder are breathtakingly beautiful, and Smits brings an operatic intensity to Luigi Legnani’s “Capricci.” This may be the finest available recording of music performed on an original 19th century guitar. 

Julian Bream: Twentieth Century Guitar I—BMG Classics 09026-61595-2 

Born in London in 1933, Julian Bream is now retired from actively touring and performing. This CD is a reissue of landmark recordings made for RCA between 1959-73. During this time, few guitarists were more compelling champions of new music than Bream. All the music in this CD is today firmly established within the standard guitar repertoire. Included is the world premiere of Benjamin Britten’s “Nocturnal”—now regarded as one of the greatest works written for the guitar during the 20th century. Bream’s performance, of course, is a historical landmark.

Jason Vieaux: Manuel Ponce, The Guitar Sonatas—Azica ACD-71212

When I first started listening to classical guitar, Julian Bream was the one artist who, if he released a new recording, I would buy it without hesitation. With Bream in retirement, my current “must buy” artist is Jason Vieaux. It’s difficult to choose between his many fine recordings, but a particular favorite of mine is his 2001 release of Mexican composer Manuel Ponce’s guitar sonatas. And don’t be put off by the idea of a CD entirely devoted to one composer. Two of Ponce’s guitar sonatas are homages to other composers—Fernando Sor and Franz Schubert—and Ponce wrote the sonatas in the style of these composers. (In fact, he was so successful at composing in other styles that some of his music in the baroque style was for many years misattributed to 18th century composers.) 

John Holmquist: Las Folias de España—Cavata CV 5001

This recording is a sort of “golden fleece” inclusion. Released only as a vinyl LP, it’s long been unavailable, and Cavata Music Publishers is no longer in business. In fact, it’s unlikely that you’ll ever come across a copy. But if you do, buy it. This is a stunning recording by underrated guitarist John Holmquist shortly after he won the 1978 Toronto International Competition. You’ll never hear the guitar played with greater vibrancy, depth, and intelligence. The five minute performance of Louis Couperin’s “Tombeau de Mr. Blancrocher” is sublime, and Ponce’s “Variations & Fugue on Las Folias de España” far surpasses recordings by more famous guitarists. That Holmquist faded from view almost unnoticed is a terrible loss to the classical guitar world.

Julian Bream: Popular Classics for Spanish Guitar—RCA 88697046062

Recorded in 1962, Bream is in his prime, playing with a passion and flair that no one has surpassed. This CD reminds us of how, in the right hands, the guitar has a voice that no other instrument can match. Too often today the guitar is played as though it’s a second rate piano, eschewing the supple shaping of sound for which stringed instruments are uniquely suited. Bream in this recording will have none of this. His approach is unabashedly sensual and prismatic. This is arguably the greatest single classical guitar recording ever made. While other recordings can claim more historical significance—for example, those that premiere important new works—none before or since has better showcased guitar playing at its absolute best.

Mind Off, Bias On

If you truly were a blank slate, learning the guitar would be easier. It would be like writing computer code: decide what you want, describe it in detail, enter the code, and you’re there. Voila! You’re an accomplished guitarist.

We’re not, however, blank slates. Even as beginners, we have automatic responses built into us. In a primal context, that’s a good thing. Automatic responses—for example, fight or flight—kept us alive when we were on the menu of hungry predators. But in more sophisticated (and less lethal) contexts, automatic responses can sabotage what we’re trying to do.

It helps to know how automatic responses can derail you during practice. If you’re alert to these subconscious quirks, then you can tame them, and thus keep them from slowing your progress. So in that spirit, let’s examine some common culprits that stand in your way.

Symmetry Bias

I often have beginners play “Frère Jacques” in G major. Here are the first four notes:

But when trying to play this for the first time, beginners invariably make this error:

Almost without exception, every beginner does this. And here’s the revealing thing: different beginners don’t make different errors—they all make the same error. (Over decades of teaching, I could’ve made a tidy sum betting beginners on what mistake they’d make when first trying to play this measure.)

Why?

The answer is that we have a hardwired and subconscious bias for symmetry. If a melody on the guitar creates a physical symmetry for our left hand, it’s easier to play. Notice, however, that the first four notes of “Frère Jacques” create an asymmetric movement. In essence, the left hand movement for the first four notes is “off, on, off, off.” Subconsciously, we prefer “off, on, off, on.” So unwary beginners give in to this bias. They instinctively change the asymmetric movement into something more symmetric.

Symmetry bias never entirely goes away. Even with advanced players, it lies in wait to pounce upon the unwary. It’s a relentless enemy. Know it well.

False Expectations

Here’s a passage from a piece intended for beginners:

When beginners get it wrong, they do this:

There’s an obvious reason for this error: those who make it aren’t accurately counting the second measure. But this error has another less obvious reason. To a beginner, after the litany of eighth notes in the first measure, the second measure’s half notes just seem too long. Playing the half notes as quarter notes feels more correct. (Experienced musicians notice the anomaly of a two beat measure in a common time piece—beginners, alas, don’t.)

Humans are wired to leap to conclusions. We abhor uncertainty. When faced with a lacuna, we instinctively fill it in—the quicker, the better. As long as our hasty interpolation conforms to our expectations, we’re satisfied. (I recall playing a wrong note in a piece for sixteen years, until another guitarist pointed out my mistake.) The irony of false expectations is this: the better your musical sense, the more likely you are to unknowingly alter the music. Your robust musical sense will lull you into accepting whatever inadvertent changes you make.

Overcomplexity

Some years ago I was practicing this passage:

On the first try, I botched the bar chord. My annoyance grew as the passage refused to get better on repeated tries. Then I noticed something. My second finger on the D# in the measure before the bar chord was the same finger holding the D# in the bar chord. Yet inexplicably, I was lifting this finger and then putting it back in the same spot. This made getting into the bar chord harder than it needed to be. Indeed, why lift the second finger at all? Just keep it in place as a pivot finger. So I did. On my next try, the passage snapped into focus. Simplifying the movement immediately solved the problem. (Now I was annoyed that it took so long to find this obvious solution.)

Sometimes errors are the result of unnecessarily complex fingerings. Fingerings should be as simple as we can make them. Mind you, this isn’t an excuse to accept unmusical playing in the pursuit of simplicity. If a tougher fingering gives a musical result that can’t be done with an easier fingering, then the tougher fingering is a valid choice. (Provided one can do it.) But if two fingerings—one difficult, the other easy—offer the same musical result, then the easier fingering wins every time.

Overcomplexity may not seem related to unthinking automatic responses. But it is. Too often we accept a fingering without thinking it through. We try to make a needlessly complex fingering work when, with some thought, a better fingering might be possible.

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What intrigues me about these errors is that they’re entirely automatic. Commonly, we’re no more aware of them than a computer is aware that it’s running faulty code. But equally intriguing is that they’re so reliably predictable. When assigning to a beginning student music I’ve used for years, I often can pinpoint the exact errors the student will make. Student after student, young or old—if they’re beginners, the errors are virtually the same. And these unconscious errors have the same basic cause: inattentive practice that allows our automatic biases to take over. So to become efficient practicers, we must accept that eternal vigilance is the price of better progress.

Indeed, I’ve become increasingly hostile to the notion of mindless practice. The reports that Franz Liszt practiced scales while reading a novel infuriate me. (To those who take umbrage at my dissent with Liszt: if he advocated jumping off a cliff, would you do it?) And recently I read the following online post:

“I watch television all the time while practicing. I just learn better that way. This way, I’m splitting my concentration between the television and whatever I’m playing—it helps me develop an auto-pilot mode.”

To which I reply: “No. No! NO!” Mindless practice invites the automatic errors I’ve described above. (A friend of mine aptly dubbed it “anti-practice.”) A mindless error, cemented by routine, becomes exasperatingly hard to root out. Mindless practice means wasting countless hours undoing what might have been avoided with more attention.

Abraham Lincoln once said: “If I had eight hours to cut down a tree, I would spend six hours sharpening my axe.”

He might’ve been a fine musician.