Effectiveness of Performance

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Josephine Chang Professor Magee Music 415 02 May 2006 Effectiveness of Performance: Alban Berg’s Piano Sonata Op. 1 as performed by JeanJacques Dünki, Glenn Gould, Karl Steiner, and Yuji Takahashi The role that the performer plays in the life of a composition is one of intermediary significance. Essentially, the performer acts as the interface between composer and audience. Given that compositions serve as modes of expression, through the performer such expressions are given voice. Thus, the performer holds great influence on the integrity of a composition. A performance of a work can affect an audience’s perception of not only that specific work, but also of its creator, the composer. An effective performance will reflect the composer’s intentionality for the work, in addition to suggesting aspects of the composer's personality. Performer responsibility thus involves developing a thorough understanding of a composer and his work, achievable through musicological research and careful study of the score. For this survey, I will examine the effectiveness of performances by JeanJacques Dünki, Glenn Gould, Karl Steiner, and Yuji Takahashi, of Alban Berg’s Piano Sonata Op. 1. I will begin with extensive discussion of Berg and the circumstances surrounding his composition of the work in question. I will then follow with examination of the score, and conclude with study of the performances given by the performers mentioned above.

Berg at the Piano Berg’s competency for pianistic composition was rather strong. He was by no means a young piano virtuoso, but he did dedicate himself to study at the piano as a youth, and according to Willi Reich “played the piano with enthusiasm” (14-15). Berg certainly found in the instrument a ready means for musical expression. In a letter to Hermann Watznauer, dated 20 November 1902, he

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proclaims: My dear Hermann, you left us on Thursday... melancholy—as is unfortunately always the case with me—followed on the heels of gaiety!! I was attacked again by that old-life-pain, which clings to me like some old inherited will. I had little to do—it was soon done—and then I felt the tug of the piano. I wanted to hold on to the first impression awakened in me by that poem of Hoffmansthal’s: ‘Hortest du denn nicht hinein, dass Musik das Haus durchdrang’...” (Reich 15) Here, one observes not only an instance of Berg mentioning “the tug of the piano” in passing in a friendly letter, but one also discovers the very passionate language of a romantic youth, satiated with dashes and dots, and exclamation points not only once, but twice in succession. Berg’s later writing reads tamely by comparison, but the ardor exhibited in these youthful exchanges found itself in his works continuously throughout his oeuvre.

The Preliminary Sonatas Despite the easy volubility of Berg’s prose, the Piano Sonata Op. 1 proved to be a challenging endeavor for the composer. In discussing the Sonata, Theodor Adorno states: The Piano Sonata, Op. 1, is Berg’s apprentice piece. Worked out to the last note, it can be proclaimed a complete success. But it bears the marks of the stress and agony of that achievement; the hand that conquered the recalcitrant material left its trace everywhere on the resultant form; to the experienced eye signs of its production are everywhere apparent in the product.” (40) Thus, unlike the ease of Berg’s prose, Berg’s work on Op. 1 conveys a sense of laboriousness in production and product. Yet, because of the labor, the work actually resulted “a complete success,” though between the lines, strain of effort can be found. In discussing the work of Berg his student,

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Schoenberg attributes this difficulty to the young composer's modernist impulse: I know it today: obviously, Alban, who had occupied himself extraordinarily intensively with contemporary music, with Mahler, Strauss, perhaps even Debussy whose work I did not know, but certainly with my music—it is sure that Alban had a burning desire to express himself no longer in the classical forms, harmonies, and melodic forms and their proper schemata of accompaniment, but in a manner in accordance with the time, and with his own personality which had been developing in the meantime.” (Reich 29) Thus, Berg, in his impetus to write a sonata work, was acting against his natural impetus toward a more contemporary voice in which traditional values are moot. The Piano Sonata Op. 1 bears signs of strain because Berg was strained in working under the old models.

Though it is labeled as Op. 1, Berg composed several pieces prior to this, mostly lieder of the Late Romantic tradition, and numerous first attempts at a piano sonata. These pre-Op.1's, five in total, all began with a sonata-allegro movement, and all were left incomplete, a testament to the difficulties described by Adorno and quoted above. Some of the elements of the earlier sonatas found their way into Op. 1, notably the dotted rhythm and leaping motivic shape of “No. 3" and the meandering development of “No. 5" (Pople 58). The final version of the Sonata is described as “short, easily accessible, and not terribly difficult to perform” (Adorno 40). It was completed in 1908, and premiered in 1911 (Headlam 22).

Form in Piano Sonata Op. 1 The end result is a concise sonata piece. Berg had no intention of mounting a monumental work the likes of Liszt’s B minor Sonata, a standalone work that encompasses not only the first movement sonata-allegro form, but also, concurrently, the multi-movement sonata form. Instead, with his first opus, Berg produced a relatively basic, single movement sonata-allegro piece. Anthony Pople

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suggests that the omission of the other sonata movements is a commentary signaling a “devaluation of the other movement-types” (59). However, there appears to have been every intention on the part of the composer to compose a complete sonata work, in the traditional sense of multiple and distinct movements. Berg had originally planned to follow the sonata with a slow movement, and conclude the work with a finale, but “nothing suitable for these movements came to him” (Pople 59). In seeking Schoenberg’s advice, Berg was told “Well, then, you’ve simply said all you had to say” (Pople 59). As a result, the piece was let to stand on its own. In Schoenberg’s teaching, the production of quality work was stressed above all. Thus, in his advice to Berg, Schoenberg was triumphing quality over quantity; if there is nothing more to say, then there is simply nothing more to say. (Later, John Cage would famously proclaim “I have nothing to say and I’m going to say it,” perhaps spoken in retaliatory response, and instigated by Cage’s failed relationship with Schoenberg as a poor harmony student.)

Berg’s Sonata contains the typical section breaks of exposition, development, and recapitulation, even maintaining the traditional repetition of the first section (Carner 113). In the liner notes to Yuji Takahashi’s 1986 recording, Koji Sano discusses the thematic groups as follows: “The partial motifs which constitute the first theme are spread like nets over the piece as a whole, developing and giving the work a strong sense of unity. In particular, the motif at the beginning of the first theme which descends after rising in fourths is repeated at the climax of the work, raising te [sic] emotional tension to a peak and at the same time creating solid sense of formal coherence” (translated by Robin Thompson). Thus, the work is highly cellular, following in the long lineage of motivic development dating back to Haydn, and continued through Beethoven, Brahms, Schoenberg, and finally Berg. The exposition is replete with such compositional inventiveness; the imaginative motivic treatment and contrapuntal writing provide a wealth of activity for the introductory section of the work. As a result, the development does very little by comparison, fundamentally serving to counterbalance the activity of the section previous with a more becalmed deportment (Adorno 45). The recapitulation reintroduces the expository themes

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in sequence as they appeared originally, though altered in detail. The avoidance of blatant repetition harkens to Schoenberg’s influence, who is known to have implored of his students “Never do what a copyist can do!” (Carner 115). This exclamation is no doubt germane to Schoenberg’s own practice of developing variation and his philosophy of the elitist listener of “alert and well-trained mind” (Schoenberg 401). Berg himself imparted a similar message to a student who presented him with a recapitulation of literal repetition: “How can you do this? Think of what your themes and motives have meanwhile ‘experienced’” (Carner 115).

Incidentally, his declamation to “Never do what a copyist can do” is germane to Schoenberg's practice of developing variation, as codified by J. Peter Burkholder in Schoenberg the Reactionary.

According to Burkholder, the developing variation is an extension of past ideas, the product of which stands both within established ideas and new formulations (Frisch 164). Though Schoenberg had not yet fully developed this compositional approach at the time of Berg’s composition of Op. 1, Berg’s use of combinatorial and recombinatorial techniques in the work clearly suggest familiarity with Schoenberg’s developing compositional technique. For example, the rhythmic patterns and contours of the first three measures of the piece recur in various guises throughout the movement, sometimes in very complex recombinations, as at bars 12-14, where the motives are so varied as to be almost unrecognizable (Pople 59).

In addition to the obvious correlation between Berg’s Piano Sonata and sonata form, Adorno has described Berg’s Op. 1 as also containing an element of bar form. The New Harvard Dictionary describes bar form as: In musicology, the formal design AAB, common to music and poetry of many times and places, but particularly associated with German strophic song (both secular and liturgical) from the late 12th century onward... The organization into two Stollen (making up one Aufgesang) and an Abgesang is typical of most Meistersinger Töne; it defines the bar form, both in terminology and

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formal scope. (Puschmann et al 78) In the music, Adorno assigns the material labeled ‘viel langsamer,’ first introduced in bar 50, as serving an Abgesang role (45). Given Berg’s early preoccupation with lieder, such an attribution is not so farfetched, though study of the score and consideration of the explicitly stated form reveals that the Abgesang material as prescribed by Adorno most likely serves more of a Closing Theme role than anything else.

By extension, such associations with Germanic compositional tradition would lead some to speculate a nationalistic element to Berg’s Piano Sonata. Although Berg himself is not known to have overtly identified his piece as such, because he was a devoted student of Schoenberg, who made very plain his own intentions of extending Germanic tradition, nationalistic tendencies in Berg’s work are highly plausible.

Style in Piano Sonata Op. 1 Phrasing in Op. 1 can be ambiguous, and is strongly influenced by Berg’s refined handle of the materials. According to Pople, the combination and recombination of materials, as mentioned above, have implications for the performer in the treatment of phrase delineation. Pople argues that Berg’s manipulation of the material gives license for interpretation of units as either thematic or transitional, an ambivalence vital to the overall structure of the piece, in which the dichotomy of theme versus transition is blurred. Fragments are reordered, repositioned, realigned, and often elided, creating an aspect of disorientation, where all materials begin to resemble one another and become multifunctional. (59-60) Harmony, also, is addressed very amorphously. Berg’s treatment of harmony has been likened to Mark DeVoto’s principle of “creeping chromaticism,” a concept of harmonic progression based more on chromatic motion of individual voices than any consideration for chordal function:

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Creeping is an informally descriptive term which is applicable in many musical situations – DeVoto offers examples from Chopin, Schumann, Brahms and a turn-of-the-century popular song as precedents for Schoenberg and Berg – where chords from a rich harmonic vocabulary seem to be linked in sequence more by the chromatic motion of prominent voices, such as the melody and bass, than by concepts of root progression.” (Pople 63) Thus, creeping chromaticism does exactly what it says it does: it is chromatic movement that appears to be moving in a creeping fashion. Curiously, Pople chooses discretion in disclosing the exact identifying information for the turn-of-the-century popular song referenced by DeVoto.

The application of DeVoto’s terminology is very appropriate for, in his harmony course of which Berg was a student, Schoenberg was known to emphasize “developing a wide-ranging facility in connecting one chord with another: some of the most advanced of these are concerned with ‘connections of altered and vagrant chords’ (i.e., chromaticised and functionally ambivalent chords) and ‘triads connected with all other triads and seventh chords; also, all seventh chords with one another’” (Pople 63). Thus, Schoenberg practiced his students in finding ways to link highly disparately functioning chords, a feat naturally giving way to creeping, chromatic means.

Indeed, Berg’s use of harmony in the Piano Sonata is highly chromatic in its motion.

Chromaticism is established from the very beginning, with the chromatic bass line at the opening of the piece, and continues in ubiquity throughout the work. Carner describes the harmony of Op. 1 as “a study in the use of chromatically ‘altered’ suspensions and passing-note chords” (114-115), clearly suggestive of the “connections of altered and vagrant chords” type of harmonic motion discussed above. One is hard pressed to identify key relationships in the work, although it is generally accepted as opening and closing with clear tonal centricity on B minor. Some overzealous scholars argue that “The sonata is tonal... with unusual but by no means unprecedented harmonic relationships–extended passages of whole-tone-based harmonies and lesser amounts of ‘quartal’ or 5-cycle-based chords”

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(Headlam 22). However, upon continued pursuit of this course, with the development of II7's/III and motion to VIII/bI and so forth, one soon realizes the contestability and ridiculousness of such misreading. As Ulrich Krämer states in the liner notes to Jean-Jacques Dünki’s 1990 recording, the Sonata “can only be forced into the strait-jacket of tonality by the perposive [sic] interpretation” (translated by Clive Williams).

To define the structure of the work, Berg places tempo indications at strategic points in the music to mark shifts in thematic progression (Pople 60). MaBig bewegt (Tempo I) marks the primary theme, Langsame the secondary theme, and the closing theme, or, as Adorno calls it, the Abgesang, is marked as Viel Langsamer. Berg also uses accelerando and ritardando markings throughout to specify the use of rubato technique in the score, occasionally qualifying each with molto, poco, etc. An excellent aspect of the rubato markings is that often accelerando is paired with crescendo and ritardando with diminuendo. Berg seems to be aware of the natural tendency of many piano students to unwittingly accelerate when crescendoing, and decelerate when diminuendoing, prompting piano professors everywhere to plead that they practice with the metronome! Thus, Berg, in indicating, at times, that crescendos and diminuendos work hand in hand with accelerandos and ritardandos, is making those tendentious pianists very happy. Carner observes that such specificity of tempo indication contributes to a “labile nature” for the work, and is “possibly a reflection of the composer’s nervous sensibility” (114).

With the phrasal and harmonic ambiguity, and the “labile” use of tempo, there is a tragic air to the work. Perhaps due to the tragic difficulties Berg experienced in the writing of it, the work has an overbearing sense of sadness about it. Perhaps the death of his father, compounded with heartache and attempted suicide brought on a sense of knowing...

In recent years I have heard (besides the first works) Wozzeck, the Lyric Suite, the Chamber Concerto, and—on a very imperfect gramophone record—the Violin Concerto. Of this last I

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would just like to say that it is reminiscent of his anxious facial expression when something had aroused his friendly sympathy. What an easy thing it was to call forth this sympathy! I always had the impression that he had experienced beforehand what people close to him were going through, as though he had already suffered with them when they were suffering, so that when they came to tell him of it it did not catch him unawares but rather on the contrary reopened old wounds. Wounds that he had already inflicted on himself by his powerful sympathy.

(Schoenberg qtd. in Reich 30) There is certainly an ache about Piano Sonata Op. 1 that some have attributed, in personified fashion, to the fact that it is a sonata-allegro piece missing its other sonata parts, that the piece exudes a nostalgia or sense of loss because of its social isolation (Pople 61). Others link the work to a Wagnerian school of thought, describing it as a “post-Tristanesque” funeral dirge—sadness of a “highly dramatic character” (Carner 113-114). All seem to agree that there is a strong expressive vein in the piece and this, coupled with the observations disclosed above, is something that I will seek in the performances to follow.

Performances of Piano Sonata Op. 1 The following four performances that will be examined were given by Jean-Jacques Dünki, Glenn Gould, Karl Steiner, and Yuji Takahashi. Before delving into their respective recordings, some illumination into each performer’s background is necessary.

Jean-Jacques Dünki is a relative unknown in the group. However, “He has received many prizes both for his piano playing and for composition, amongst them First Prize in the Arnold Schoenberg Competition in 1981," and “In 1984 he gave the first performances of the early piano work of Alban Berg, which he subsequently recorded...” (liner notes: Ulrich Krämer, translated by Clive Williams).

Thus, it can be derived that Dünki has a fair understanding of works of the Second Viennese School, in so far that he has been acknowledged by the Arnold Schoenberg Competition organization, and that he

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has had interest enough to investigate and premier the early piano works of Berg. Here, the mention of “early piano work” is assumed as reference to those compositions previous to Op. 1.

Glenn Gould’s recording is somewhat of a curiosity, being that he is primarily known for his recordings of Bach. Nevertheless, Gould has released a recording of Berg’s Piano Sonata Op. 1, which has been included in this survey. Now, the story of Gould’s introduction to 20th century music is an interesting one, and is here disclosed: It was distinguished Chilean-Canadian pianist and pedagogue Alberto Guerrero (Gould’s teacher and mentor for nine years – from 1943 to 1952) who was, in part, responsible for Gould’s conversion to music of the 20th century. As composer John Beckwith recalls in his essay Shattering a Few Myths, “Guerrero had performed the Opus 11 and the Opus 19 pieces (of Schoenberg) on several occasions (in Toronto), and was amazed at Gould’s reaction when he showed them to him at a lesson in 1947 or 1948. The first response was rejection. Strongest arguements [sic] against Schoenberg and atonality were raised. Guerrero being put on the defensive. But, a few weeks later, Gould showed up with some pieces of his own in the same style, for which Guerrero was full of praise. That was the start of an unusual absorption, the early culmination of which came in the two Toronto concerts...one of Schoenberg’s music in October 1952 and one of music by Webern and Berg in January 1954...” (liner notes: Neil Crory) Thus, in this narrative, one discovers Gould’s initial bad taste for 20th century music that later, and inexplicably, developed into a warm friendship. Further research reveals that Gould wrote very prolifically on the subject of new music, publishing numerous essays with titles like “Arnold Schoenberg —A Perspective,” and “Piano Music of Berg, Schoenberg, and Krenek” (Page v-vi). In the latter article, Gould discusses Berg’s Op. 1, and with very flamboyant language: he unabashedly comments on how the piece “indulged [Berg's] weaknesses—the jacked-up sequence, the melodic line supported by

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chromatically sliding sevenths, the plagiarism of the whole-tone scale” (Page 195). Perhaps these are the signs of strain that Adorno artfully alluded to. Still, despite such remarks, Gould expresses admiration for the work in its ability to “convey fulfillment,” though “the harmonic texture is shifting continuously,” and he marvels over the “unity of motivic intension so firm, so interdependent, as to lend a complete coherence of linear flow” (Page 195). Thus, Gould shows a level of understanding and appreciation for Berg and his Op. 1.

Karl Steiner is undisputedly the veteran of the bunch, with his close personal ties to Berg and the Schoenberg School through his teacher, Olga Novakovic. The liner notes state that “In 1935 he received his Licentiate from the Vienna State Academy studying piano with Olga Novakovic, who introduced him to members of the Schoenberg circle,” then “From the 1950s to the early 1970s, Steiner gave innovative performances–some of which are preserved in the present discs–of music of the Second Viennese School for broadcast on English and French networks of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation,” and “Steiner’s contributions have been acknowledged by the composers themselves and in the Osterreichische Musikzeitschrift” (Prof. D. R. McLean). Additionally, the notes also have this to say of Steiner’s recording of Berg’s Op. 1: “Steiner’s performance is of particular historical value for he remembers his teacher Novakovic recommending interpretive changes afer her own sessions with Berg” (Prof. D. R. McLean). Thus, if one were to place bets solely on the performer’s background, the odds in favor of a strong Steiner performance are very good: he had personal contact with the “Schoenberg School,” gave numerous “innovative performances” of the music of that same school, and composers themselves have commended these very same performances. And if that is not enough, Steiner, through Novakovic, has teachings from Berg himself on interpretive aspects of the music. The hype is so great that there is a danger Steiner may disappoint!

Last but not least is Yuji Takahashi. The liner notes for this artist are so brief and so adequate that I reproduce them here in full:

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Yuji Takahashi was born in Tokyo. His early composition teachers included Ikuma Dan, Minao Shibata and Rô Ogura. He began his piano studies with Hiroshi Itô. He entered the TôhôGakuen School of Music in 1958, and two years later, along with fellow composers Toshi Ichiyanagi and Kenji Kobayashi, organized the ‘New Directions’ group, devoted to avant-garde music. At about the same time, he made his pianistic debut at the Tokyo Modern Music Festival. After having given the premier performance of Iannis Xenakis’ piano work, ‘Herma’, also dedicated to him, Takahashi went to Berlin, where he took up the study of stochastic music and computer composition with the Greek composer. During this same period, he performed extensively in western Europe, including solo work with the Domaine Musicale in Paris. In 1966, he premiered the Xenakis’ work for piano and brass, ‘Eonta,’ his recording of which, on the Chant du Monde label received the Grand Prix of the Académie du Disque Français award for that year.” (Koji Sano, translated by Robin Thompson) Thus, in Takahashi one finds yet another formidable contender. With extensive background in 20th century composition and performance, Takahashi clearly demonstrates knowledge and understanding of modern genres and forms. So, without further ado, let us listen to the recordings and make our assessments.

Jean-Jacques Dünki 1990 Pere Casulleras, Waldenburg/BL Dünki’s performance of Op. 1 has a very crisp quality. His playing is very articulate—namely, the running sixteenth notes that infiltrate the score at various intervals are very pungent under Dünki’s hands. There is certainly a passion to Dünki’s performance, although a sense of reserve, or controlled, deliberate placement of emotional expression permeates his approach. Dünki never fails to direct the

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listener to the opening primary motive and its derivations. Thus, there is a complexity of motivic treatment, as discussed above, that is lost in Dünki’s performance. He is too giving to the listener, clearly outlining the primary melodic lines. Or, he is not giving enough, in that the contrapuntal lines, though vaguely present in Dünki’s performance, are not provided enough prominence. Also, Dünki’s attention to tempo fluctuations is too subtle to be noticeable, and his iteration of the return is underemphasized. This is paradoxically striking, in so far that one is surprised at the abruptness of the return due to its lack of striking quality. The “formal functions of the individual sections... had to be brought out clearly,” as stated in the liner notes (Ulrich Krämer, translation by Clive Williams), and Dünki failed to do so, running past the recapitulation without so much of a glance. It is odd that Dünki should be so particular about the depiction of the primary motive, and yet so dismissive of its pivotal return.

Glenn Gould 14 October 1952 “CBC Concert Hall,” Toronto Gould’s sense of phrasing is miraculous. Never is the same idea played exactly the same in its return. Melodic contours are beautifully treated, and motivic layering is very clearly articulated.

Contrapuntal pellucidity is strong in this performance, and lends to an accurate portrayal of expository and recapitulatory convolution. However, Gould’s treatment of rubato is almost nonexistent. Oddly, in this performance Gould is not as free with the tempo as one might expect. There is an unbridled characteristic to Berg’s temporal treatment of Op. 1 that is essential to its character, and Gould is, unusually, rather careful in his pacing. This may be attributable to the fact that there is an impression of indulgence to Gould’s performance. One senses that he is savoring every aspect of the music, with the result that the music in time is progressing carefully. This, unfortunately, occurs at the cost of losing

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an essential, abandoned aspect to the writing. Also, the return of the opening material is again rather dismissive—I find that it has snuck up on me once more. Perhaps this is an aspect of Berg’s Op. 1 that was intended to be so.

Karl Steiner 26 October 1964 Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, C.B.M., Toronto Immediately, one perceives a vitality to Steiner’s performance. He takes the piece at a quicker pace than those performances examined previously, and his accelerando and ritardando are very explicit. In fact, at times Steiner seems even to lose control over the keys, having reached wildly accelerated extremes in tempo. There are also moments where Steiner takes an inordinate amount of time, broadening phrases to unnecessarily histrionic lengths. With respect to the other performances, Steiner is really not at any point playing too slowly, but in the context of his own playing, such a sharp contrast in tempo can be vulgar. Additionally, his phrasing is rather emotionally detached and blase.

Steiner does not indulge in the “unabashedly ‘romantic’ qualities” (liner notes: Prof. D. R. McLean) of the work. Instead, he appears to affect an almost insouciant mannerism in his performance. However, the temporal freedom of Steiner’s performance is certainly the strongest of the performances examined thus far.

Yuji Takahashi 27/28 July & 15/16 December 1977 Arakawa Public Hall & Nippon Columbia Studio No. 1, Tokyo The broadest of the performances, clocking in at 11 minutes and 58 seconds, Takahashi’s performance of Berg’s Sonata Op. 1 is also the free-est and most natural, and, because of this, it truly

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embraces an extemporaneous approach. Also, there are moments where his touch is so full of yearning that one senses Takahashi is baring his soul, with a heart-on-his-sleeve kind of passion. In the liner notes, Koji Sano describes Piano Sonata Op. 1 as “brims full of Berg’s characteristic and strong romanticism” (translated by Robin Thompson), a quality clearly echoed in descriptions provided by other musicologists like the “unabashedly ‘romantic’ qualities” quoted previously. This romanticism is an aspect of the work that Takahashi really owns. Under less experienced hands, such sentimentality can border on tiresome, especially when such effusive expressions return several times, but Takahashi is ever fresh, bringing new perspective to repeated phrases. The recapitulation didn’t sneak up on me this time! Perhaps this shows how Takahashi’s pacing resonates with my sense of timing for the piece.

Concluding Remarks Thus, I have given my initial impressions of the performances of Berg’s Piano Sonata Op. 1 as provided by Jean-Jacques Dünki, Glenn Gould, Karl Steiner, and Yuji Takahashi through their respective recordings. Initially, Dünki’s performance appears rather nondescript, Gould’s performance appears sensitively deciphered, Steiner’s performance appears temporally labile, and Takahashi’s performance appears wholeheartedly sincere. However, I find upon repeated hearings that I hear differently. At other times, Dünki’s performance will not seem so boring, Gould’s performance will not seem so beautifully correct, Steiner’s performance will not seem so erratic, and Takahashi’s performance will not seem so temporally perfect! And no one seems to sneak up on me anymore!

Every time I listen, I hear something different, depending on my perspective at that moment. Perhaps there is something to Berg’s comment: “Think of what your themes and motives have meanwhile ‘experienced’!” Perhaps the repeated listenings, coupled with my own physical and mental health of the moment contribute to my capricious impressions. Regardless of my changing attitudes, I find it difficult to judge the effectiveness of these performances, and to choose one as more effective over

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another. With music of the 20th century one finds such specificity of notation provided by the composer that it becomes difficult to interpret incorrectly the composer’s intentions. Noone’s performance seems to evoke the strain that Adorno speaks of, but perhaps such strain is more of the Romantic Imaginary than the Modern Literal: it is not something readily audible. All seem to rightly present a sense of Carner’s astute attribution of Tristanesque-ism, of extreme longing and profound contemplation. In reality, all of the performances that I examined were strong performances. The differences that I heard were only reflective of each performer’s personality, and their personal place in time at the time of their respective performances. Thus, to rate the effectiveness of their performances seems a moot point.

And this, I only discover after I have written this paper! Alas!

But it is not all in vain. I think I am in the mood for some Steiner tonight.

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Bibliography Adorno, Theodor W. Alban Berg: Master of the Smallest Link. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1991.

Berg, Alban. Op. 1: Sonate fur Klavier.

Berg, Alban. Piano Sonata, Op. 1. Perf. Glen Gould. Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, 1995.

Berg, Alban. Sonate für Klavier, Op. 1. Perf. Yuji Takahashi. Nippon Columbia, 1986.

Berg, Alban. Sonate für Klavier op. 1 - Massig bewegt. Perf. Jean-Jacques Dünki. Jecklin Disco, 1990.

Berg, Alban. Sonata, Op. 1. Perf. Karl Steiner. Centaur Records, 1995.

Carner, Mosco. Alban Berg: The Man and The Work. 2nd ed. New York: Holmes & Meier Publishers, 1983.

Headlam, Dave. The Music of Alban Berg. New Haven: Yale UP, 1996.

Page, Tim. ed. The Glenn Gould Reader. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1984.

Pople, Anthony. ed. The Cambridge Companion to Berg. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1997.

Puschmann, Adam Zacharias, et al. “Bar form.” The New Harvard Dictionary of Music. 9th ed. 1999.

Reich, Willi. Alban Berg. New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1965.

Schoenberg, Arnold. Style and Idea. New York: St Martins Press.