Cello Thought for the Day
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As The Strad's review of my book Notes for Cellists
pointed out, "Music history and theory are often taught independently of learning an instrument, granting general understanding but only vague application to the cello." This observation gets to the heart of something I've noticed throughout my teaching career.
Back when I was a student, I was puzzled and disappointed when university music classes made what seemed like an artificial distinction between performance and the "academic" sides of music study such as history and theory. Wouldn't we all be better musicians, I thought, if we found a way to integrate them?
These days I'm a cello professor at the University of Idaho, and I notice that when my own students learn about, say, sonata form in theory class, they don't necessarily know how to apply it to the Bach suite or Haydn concerto they're working on in the practice room. The abstract becomes concrete only when we find a connection between what we know intellectually and what we feel under our fingers.
This is why I encourage cellists to ask questions like: "How does understanding the structure of this movement change the way I shape this phrase?" or "What does knowing about Dvořák's nationalism tell me about how to approach this folk-like melody in his famous cello concerto?"
The magic (or bliss, or joy, or flow, or whatever you want to call it) happens when theory stops being separate from practice and becomes a tool that deepens our musical expression. Your next practice session might be the perfect time to ask: "What do I know about this piece that I haven't yet applied to my playing?"
For more takes on connecting musical knowledge with cello technique, check out Notes for Cellists: A Guide to the Repertoire and my other books on cello music, cello practice, cello pedagogy, and cello performance.
As The Strad's review of my book Notes for Cellistspointed out, "Music history and theory are often taught independently of learning an instrument, granting general understanding but only vague application to the cello." This observation gets to the heart of something I've noticed throughout my teaching career.
Back when I was a student, I was puzzled and disappointed when university music classes made what seemed like an artificial distinction between performance and the "academic" sides of music study such as history and theory. Wouldn't we all be better musicians, I thought, if we found a way to integrate them?
These days I'm a cello professor at the University of Idaho, and I notice that when my own students learn about, say, sonata form in theory class, they don't necessarily know how to apply it to the Bach suite or Haydn concerto they're working on in the practice room. The abstract becomes concrete only when we find a connection between what we know intellectually and what we feel under our fingers.
This is why I encourage cellists to ask questions like: "How does understanding the structure of this movement change the way I shape this phrase?" or "What does knowing about Dvořák's nationalism tell me about how to approach this folk-like melody in his famous cello concerto?"
The magic (or bliss, or joy, or flow, or whatever you want to call it) happens when theory stops being separate from practice and becomes a tool that deepens our musical expression. Your next practice session might be the perfect time to ask: "What do I know about this piece that I haven't yet applied to my playing?"
For more takes on connecting musical knowledge with cello technique, check out Notes for Cellists: A Guide to the Repertoire and my other books on cello music, cello practice, cello pedagogy, and cello performance.
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