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Tokyo’s Thriving Classical Music Culture, Part 1

Classical music is not dying out. When I hear the opposite statement being expressed, I have to stifle a sigh — not a reaction of blind optimism, but of my acknowledgment of active organizations successfully bringing great, living music to large and diverse audiences.

One of the most common criticisms of classical music is that it’s too stuffy or exclusive. Being “different” or “exclusive” in classical music is simply an illusion: isn’t exclusivity a part of any culture or practice? And truly, classical music is no less welcoming than jazz, musical theatre, indie, folk, or even popular music.

With all forms of music, there is a certain pride that comes with familiarity and being educated in the field. This holds true even with pop music. American society is so inundated with it that we’re expected to know names and songs of certain pop celebrities, and we almost couldn’t run away if we wanted. As a result, we’re often judged as having antiquated tastes if we happen to be clueless. The feeling of exclusivity in any field happens mostly because people have gotten excited enough about the subject that they have chosen to invest their time and money in it. Consequently, they’ve built up a certain pride in the attainment of knowledge or skill, and some handle it quietly and humbly while others may express themselves differently.

Actually, people are much more receptive to classical music than most think. For instance, all our greatest films would be horribly, painfully awkward without their soundtracks. Remember this video of the Star Wars Throne Room scene, minus John Williams? (And I do consider film music a type of classical music, but more about that in a future blog post.)

So again, classical music is very much alive. That being said, the music is brought to people by various organizations, so it’s always important to acknowledge specific organizations and cultures that manage it well. In my experience thus far of traveling and observing how classical music is received in various cultures, I was most impressed with Tokyo’s overall receptiveness to and integration of classical music, while keeping in mind that this genre of music is a fairly recent import to Japan.

I’ve been to Japan twice: the first time in 2014 to witness conductor Keitaro Harada’s incredible Japan debut with the New Japan Philharmonic in a winter trip that lasted all of four days, and last summer of 2015, when I spent five weeks in Tokyo. Both times, I was awed by the accessibility of classical music and at the respect the people have for music. I’ve been quite fascinated by this, and it’s a topic that repeatedly gets brought up in conversation. It’s about time I wrote a post about all the things that shocked me so much about how music (namely, classical music and cultural music) is presented in Japanese life, with further research to clarify my impressions. While classical music is a thriving entity in Tokyo culture, I believe that the main catalyst for this is the built-in importance of meaningful music in everyday life, whether it’s culturally-significant folk music or classical (some of which really has become as culturally significant as traditional melodies which originated in Japan). While most of this blog post is about classical music, I will also discuss how music in a broader sense is brought to the people.

1. 1 City, 8 Full-Time Orchestras

Tokyo is saturated with classical music. In just this city, there are EIGHT professional, full-time orchestras that total over 1,200 concerts a yearNHK Symphony Orchestra, Yomiuri Nippon Symphony Orchestra, Tokyo Metropolitan Symphony Orchestra, Tokyo City Philharmonic, Japan Philharmonic, New Japan Philharmonic, Tokyo Philharmonic, and Tokyo Symphony. Though the names are amusingly similar, each organization is separate and unique. In all of Japan, there are 1,600 orchestras (professional and amateur) — all in a country with a land area that’s smaller than the state of California but holds a population that’s about 40% of the United States! To put things into perspective, the United States would need about 38,000 orchestras to equal that percentage.

Additionally, these concerts are very well-attended. The halls are usually 85-95% full, and the demographic ranges widely in age with many young people in the audience. The dress code is fairly casual, ticket prices are accessible from US $30-120, and evening concerts usually begin at 7 pm. The Japanese audiences are very respectful and quiet from my experience, which isn’t surprising at all considering the widespread societal aversion to acting out. Programming is also pretty standard. In the 10 concerts I attended in five weeks, I didn’t hear anything past Bartok and Stravinsky. Bruckner is interestingly noted to sell out concerts very well (read more here). This suited me just fine since I fell in love with the composer after hearing Herbert Blomstedt conduct Bruckner 9 with the LA Phil in a performance that was nothing short of transcendent. Program books are dense and packed with separate flyers for future concerts. Also, most of the orchestra members are Japanese. On the other hand, most of the conductors were European, even while it seems to be quite a trendy thing for Japanese men to want to be conductors.

2. The history of western music in Japan, and Japan’s current music education

How did Western classical music become such a huge part of Japanese culture? I was curious and did a bit of research to find out the origins of this cross-cultural exchange.

Japanese art music originates with shōmyou Buddhist chants, which gradually developed into festival music, nō, and kabuki theater music. The Tokugawa Shogunate of the Edo period (1603-1867) in Japanese history closed the country’s doors to other nations, cutting off trade of goods, ideas, religion, and art. Japan remained this way for two centuries from 1641-1854, when the United States and Japan signed the Treaty of Kanagawa, which reopened Japan to foreigners. This treaty ushered in the Meiji Restoration (1868-1912), during which Japan emerged as a competitive modernized nation. International trade and influence rushed in, and Japan’s leaders attempted to modernize by emulating Western culture, practices, and thought — including music. Minzoku ongaku, or folk music, was gradually displaced by Western classical music, which they simply referred to as ongaku (“music”).

Public school music education began to show this development: Isawa Shūji, a member of a Meiji education search team, and Luther Whiting Mason, a Boston music teacher, teamed up to organize music education in Japan. In 1880, Mason traveled to Japan to create a music curriculum and to begin training teachers. The first children’s songbook, the Shōgaku shōkashū (1881), combined Western pieces that sounded pentatonic (such as “The Bluebells of Scotland,” “Auld Lang Syne,” and Stephen Foster’s songs) with Japanese words and included songs that Mason composed. The teacher-training school that Mason began became the Tokyo School of Music in 1890, and today, the location is occupied by the music department of the Tokyo University of Fine Arts and Music in Ueno Park, Tokyo. Though the university now offers traditional Japanese music courses like koto, samisen, noh, and Japanese music history, until the late 20th century, music education was completely Western. Children’s education of Japanese music was only presented in middle-school music appreciation courses around ten years after the conclusion of WWII. 20th century youth and workers’ choruses only performed Western repertoire and learned Western-style singing. As worldwide appreciation for cultural identity rose in the mid-20th century, Japanese music education turned back to acknowledge its traditional roots and found ways to combine the Western “robust volume of such functional, harmonized tunes [with the] quieter sounds of older, traditional music” by using the developed Westernized public-school choral tradition for an increased repertoire that now included Japanese music.

Nowadays, in public schools, music education begins at age 6 and lasts as a mandatory class until age 15 (during elementary and junior high schools). In elementary schools, music is taught as an independent subject either by the regular class teacher or by a specialized music teacher. Students learn to play recorders and sing. In junior high schools, music is taught as a separate subject, and starting from junior high, the students learn how to play traditional Japanese instruments as well. At this point in their education, 100% of students in both public and private schools have been exposed to western classical music. Music classes become optional electives at the senior high school levels, and ensembles like bands, choirs, orchestra, etc. congregate in sessions after normal school hours. The normal Japanese education timeline is: 6 years in elementary school (sho-gakko), 3 years in junior high school (chu-gakko), and 3 years in senior high school (koto-gakko). Solfege is taught with the fixed-do system, unlike most American institutions that teach movable-do.

Further schooling at a college level is subject to a performance audition and aural skills test. All music students are expected to have basic competence in piano playing. Most courses in music schools cover western classical music subjects; however, in order to receive certification as school music teachers in Japan, students are required to take courses in Japanese traditional and folk music in addition to the general music curriculum. The music education program leading to graduation with the license to teach at schools in Japan must include: solfege, vocal and instrumental ensemble (choir, instrumental ensemble, piano accompanying), conducting, music theory, composition and arrangement, Western music history, and Japanese traditional and folk music — in addition to general education degree requirements. While all these requirements don’t necessarily guarantee great results, the high standard for music educators definitely is a heartening find.

3. Music in everyday life: train stations and station buildings

Though much of Tokyo’s music is Western in origin, it is distributed and presented by Japanese means. It is incorporated into daily life through the city’s train stations, shopping centers and markets, individual stores, TV commercials and shows, and even household appliances (the last two will be elaborated on in a future blog post).

The train stations in Tokyo are absolutely fascinating because 1) their relative cleanliness despite the insane number of commuters, 2) the amazing shopping for gifts, clothes (Uniqlo!!!), and FOOD, and 3) the MUSIC. The music — the tunes played in the station stores as well as the train melodies to indicate train arrival or departure — always gives me a reason to smile (and forget, for a few seconds, the swelteringly humid heat of Japan in the summer).

A compilation of the JR Line melodies, if you’re curious about the sounds:

If you listen to the train music, the immediate realization is that instead of generic tones and beeps, there are real, composed melodies. It was at the Oimachi Station – Rinkai Line where I first realized that there is a reason for every train melody in every station. When I first arrived at this station, I heard the happily familiar sounds of Vivaldi’s “Spring” from Four Seasons. The Oimachi area houses the Shiki Theatre Company, the crown jewel of theatrical achievement in Japan. The meaning of Shiki? “Four Seasons.”

This drove me to research the reasons for other station melodies. At Ebisu Station – Yamanote Line, which is named after Yebisu beer and is the stop for the Yebisu Beer Museum, the train melody is “The Third Man Theme” from the classic film The Third Man. This song was used in a very famous Ebisu beer commercial and has since been associated with the company:

The original theme can be found here.

At Kamata Station – Tohoku Line, which was once a prominent spot for the film industry, you will hear this:

It is the theme from the Kamata Film Studio’s movie Kamata Koshin-kyoku (“Fall Guy”), which won Picture of the Year at the 1982 Japan Academy Prize ceremony.

Original here.

Maihama Station – Chiba Line is the stop for Tokyo Disneyland, so naturally…”It’s a Small World” is its theme song:

[More tunes and their background in this incredibly informative article.]

Other tunes are new compositions. Musicians like Takahito Sakurai work to create musical miniatures (7 seconds!) to calm the commuters and even to reduce the overall noise level of train stations. In the approximately 300 melodies that he has written, which are played in about 30 of Japan’s train stations, he searches for “presence and energy” in about the tempo of “a human heartbeat” — a description which I would assume acknowledges the natural fluctuations of tempi. Sakurai is also inspired by Japanese music traditions, including the sound of the ancient stringed koto and Zen Buddhist aesthetics, like the sound of water dripping on a rock. After the tune is written, he runs it through a computerized sound-analysis test to see how the music would mix with the sounds of a passing train; if the results are positive, the music is ready for use. He views his work as another side of Japanese miniaturization in art, in the tradition of haikus, food presentation, toys, and capsule hotels.

Sakurai’s songs, as well as the other melodies used in stations, have garnered a significant following, which shows that the train melodies are an important and valued part of Japanese culture. Albums and ringtones of train melody collections have been made to a very receptive market, and even an alarm clock equipped with these melodies has been manufactured, only to sell out of all 2,000 units priced at 5,800 yen within the first month on the market in 2002. (If you’re curious, the alarm clocks are available here.)

When I realized that the personality and culture of each stop are revealed through such a subtle but concrete way, it made me think twice about the impersonal feeling of a big city and the impression of impersonality in Japanese people. From a musical perspective, I am thrilled to see music being used in such a culturally relevant way, whether it’s classical melodies, film music, folk music, or newly-composed tunes.

On a much darker note, suicide has been a serious concern in Japan, with 2015 reports stating that an average of 65 people commit suicide every day — though the number has been dropping significantly in recent years. A number of these suicides happen at train stations, but there are several known methods of prevention. Barriers, automatic gates, TV screens showing images of nature and the ocean, and soothing blue light (which have been shown to decrease the suicide rate by 84%) are used to combat station suicides. In addition, there is a hefty fee for the families of suicide victims for causing delays in the train systems and also to discourage people from committing suicide. The most intriguing technique to me, however, is related to music and musical understanding. I was told that the keys of the station melodies are chosen based on the character and history of the stop, based on the music’s “color” and corresponding emotional response. In relation to the suicide topic, brighter major keys are used in stations with a history of suicide.

The buildings of Tokyo’s train stations are quite impressive. You can do some of the best shopping for food, clothes, and gifts right in many of the big stations. One of these huge stations is Shinjuku Station.

In #Tokyo, we can reach the ceiling. 😎 #tall #onlyinjapan

A photo posted by Josephine Yang (@yangandfree) on

At Shinjuku Station with my best friend, getting an ego boost from the low ceilings. 😉

Another one of my favorite memories was when I was wandering through the station’s crowded underground market, looking for an afternoon snack. When I noticed that the beautiful strains of Beethoven’s 7th Symphony were floating above the noise and chaos of the crowd, I had to stop in my tracks and appreciate the initiative and the music, which somehow still seemed so fitting despite the packed environment. I might have been shocked to hear classical music in this setting, but this is actually the norm in many stores in Tokyo.

Soon I will continue this subject in one more blog post with a few more points – including how Japan takes music to the toilet, quite literally! Feel free to let me know your thoughts, observations, or suggestions via email or in the comments. I would be happy to discuss!

Photo: Dennis Christians dennisjchristians.com

Exposition

Letter in Silence

[To My Self]

Who am I?

The stats would say I’m Josephine Yang, age 24, birthday 2 December 1991. I play piano, and I’m an occasional violinist.

The people who really care to know me much more than that are few and far in between. This is not a resigned statement; it’s simply the truth. I say it with little negativity or sadness, and actually, I’ve grown not only to accept it, but to embrace it. True friends are difficult to find, and I think that it’s for the better, so we can value the ones we do have and retain our sensitivity to true connection: the deep, penetrating soul-connection with which honesty comes simply and matter-of-fact.

I’m about to move out of Los Angeles after nearly two years of residence, and I’m quite torn. I’ve spent most of my time here feeling a little empty, a little overwhelmed, a little wishing I were somewhere else. And now that I’m really on my way out, I’ve realized that I’m leaving at a point when things were starting to pick up, both professionally and intimately with the beginning threads of friendship. Such is life. I am incredibly grateful for my time in LA, however. A large part of this process has been endless self-discovery: coming to terms with who I am right now, what I value and want, and what has influenced all the development thus far.

So…who am I?

I was born in a hospital in Mesa, Arizona, and I grew up in Phoenix. I am the second of three sisters, solidly in the middle. We all grew up playing piano and violin. That’s the easy, concrete, historical information. Much of everything else is memory.

My memory of growing up is scattered, like a linear puzzle with huge chunks missing. Philosophers and researchers have often spoken about memory: what we remember, how we alter what we “remember,” etc. There is always some amount of self-deception in our memoirs. What I do remember is that my mom was the “perfect” mom in our early development; she taught my sisters and I most things we knew in our education. I remember clearly that she would read to us every night: serious books, and she didn’t mind if we didn’t understand everything we were listening to. She had faith that somehow we would take what we needed from every story, every word spoken out of her patient and wise heart. She would play piano music throughout the day, whether or not we would really be listening. But it would still communicate, even to closed ears and wandering minds. My dad was and always has been the rock of the family: quiet, reserved, diligent in his work and endlessly loyal in his strength of love for all of us. My sisters and I played piano and violin well and excelled in school. Today, my sisters’ chosen form of expression is in brain sciences; mine is in music. The path that our parents had put us on from the beginning of our formation propelled us onward continually; though exterior pressure existed and was acknowledged, most of the pressure was, in actuality, from ourselves. And that was the simple method of bringing up three girls who would all be destined to graduate first in class from our high school: being first was part of our limited identities.

Around fourth grade, I started observing other people’s interactions. Even if it wasn’t really “my” kind of fun, I yearned to share in their activities, but I never fit in despite my efforts. My very naive mind started analyzing why that was the case. I was in all the “gifted” classes in elementary school and had gotten the nickname “Little Miss Perfect” tacked onto me. I was branded. And rebelliously, I did what I could to get rid of this “brand,” because I hated to be defined. I began consciously lowering my grades. I hated being called a teacher’s pet, so I would treat most teachers a little haughtily so I couldn’t be favored. And, most destructively, I began training myself to achieve an attitude of what I could describe as a “blasé spite,” partially out of my desire to be something that people would like more, and partly out of self-defense.

This transformation took several years, and it was mostly unconscious. Every time I would be reminded that I wasn’t what other people liked, I would retreat more and more into this armour. By high school, I was well-versed in the mindset of indignant rebellion. I was jaded with the limited world in which I lived. And even then, I searched desperately for a true friend. Ultimately, betrayal after betrayal, I found none. High school was a black hole of despair, and now, looking back, I can understand my role in my own exile. In my agony and inability to handle my deep-set feelings and broken-hearted yearning for acceptance and true connection, every insult and injury was internalized and taken much too personally. It is no surprise now that people didn’t understand or care to understand what lay beneath the haughty exterior. My retreat was in fiction novels, which no doubt was a consequence of my mom’s constant reading in my early development: in these pages where I exercised my imagination, I found my idols, my kindred spirits, my developing ideals, and my loyal friends.

On top of the turmoil at school, every day at home was a struggle. I was in a period of constant rebellion – a terror to my poor parents; now that I was discovering more of myself and what I believed in, I was up in arms against anyone and anything who thought differently. I am well aware that it is not just my family; most parents and their children fly at each other with weapons of words and actions. Every family suffers through tribulations, and ultimately, you may never forget things that were done and said, and those memories may become a heavy load on your cross to carry — but there is redemption in forgiveness.

However, there were lights along the way. I think immediately of three teachers who somehow identified that there was something wrong, and instead of punishing me for sleeping through every class (an offense I committed out of true weariness for the regular three hours of nightly sleep, out of habit, out of a helpless attempt at control and rebellion), they found ways to speak to me through their nonverbal and verbal communication. My piano teacher was also a powerful positive influence, musically and personally. With his guidance, I discovered much more about myself, my inner strength, and how music so magically expresses what words and thoughts cannot. I found rare communication and meaning in the 88 beautiful keys of my family’s Bӧsendorfer grand…I began to find the solace and meditation in practicing that continues steadily to this day. Performance began to drive me more than ever, as a release of freedom and structure combined. Music led me to reach deep inside myself and examine who I was from continually expanding dimensions, and performance gave me a ladder to climb and clarity to my direction. I cannot think of who I am without including both music and novels: with my extremely limited life experience at that age, I had lived mostly in these two worlds.

At this point, though I still valued education immensely, my interests shifted from academic reliance to music and matters of the heart. My distaste for what I felt as the stifling consequence of strict academia had grown to a point of no return as my interest in creative arts and expression expanded. When May 2010 rolled around, I walked in what would become the only graduation I would really care about, though I went on to obtain two further degrees in the next six years. In school from this point on, I pursued personal development and improvement in musical understanding and communication — never the actual degree.

I began college as a piano performance major socially stunted, but I was excited to finally get a chance at independence. It was in college that I discovered beauty…beauty in the world, in freedom, in love, in myself. That’s when friendship really blossomed all around me. For the first time, I felt free. I was so uninhibited, to a point when I hardly judged anyone or anything. I was exploring everything, with a laid-back, patient observation that I haven’t previously known. Through all this, I learned about acceptance and letting go. I learned Grace. In these years, I experienced this long-awaited freedom, during which my hard shell was broken and, vulnerable and with a wide-eyed wonder, I discovered an underlying purity of soul. All the fighting to figure out my identity, when little did I know that it would simply be revealed to me in its own time. I’m at quite a loss for words to describe specific ways that things changed, or how they changed. The only word that comes to mind is simply…release.

My boyfriend in those years was – and continues to be – truly a godsend; he remains a huge part of me and I first knew grief when the relationship ended. His life and upbringing were starkly different from mine, but through him, I realized that it doesn’t matter where you came from or what you do; you can still be looking in the same direction and have at your core the same Love that guides everything in your life. He brought me back to God, when for most of my life, I wavered between a constant feeling that there was Someone who not only observed but was with me at every point – Someone to whom I prayed long before I knew “how” — between this acknowledgment, and my intellectual rebellion and disdain for things I could not control. In Christ, I found my ultimate peace. I was baptized in 2012 in a ceremony which was a natural progression of my developing faith.

Back to the present day…

What are my values, truly? I love piano and music dearly, and I’ve discovered that there is little that can’t be fixed with some serious, committed time at the keys. Why do I play piano? I believe in it. I believe in music. I know a little something about communication without words. Words are powerful, but the vast majority of human communication doesn’t have to do with opening our mouths. Music is an essential part of humanity and expression; it is essential to my entire life and being. Great music drives me, grounds me, humbles me, elevates me, enlivens me, more than anything else in the world. I know how it feels to channel the flow of music through my body and mind as the communicator. I have felt the awesome power of music coursing through me, and because of this, I am filled with wonder of this force that is so above us, and humbled with gratitude that we are able to tap into its power, partake in, and witness its glory. It is truly unfortunate that not more people are brought to a deeper relationship with great music, and I do believe my purpose in this world is to forge more avenues of communication between living music and humanity.

And living music: I mean that very seriously. Not all music that is “live” is living; in fact, the vast majority of the “music” today was born dead. Music means something significant to me when there’s a real force behind it…even if it whispers – and that’s subconsciously how I choose my strongest repertoire. I don’t claim to be great – or even good – at the rational theory behind the writing, and I’m far from a composer, but to me, the music lives when it has this flow, this direction, this breath. I’m not in the business of reviving a piece that never lived.

What increasingly excites me is a cross-section of all art – visual, auditory, literary, etc. – all mediums intersecting and communicating in tandem. I believe in collaboration as much as individualism: each artist brings his or her perception and experience to the breathing canvas of time and space, and together, the art pulses out in all angles of communication. I believe in a deep respect for original intent while living and presenting in this moment of time. Great music is timeless and continues to breaks structures of time when it is presented truthfully.

For years, I felt dormant as I plodded along in my education of life, music, and humanity, but now, something propels me forward, and I seek something more concrete and plausible and just as grand. There is still fight left in me… And fight is necessary. What else can counter the intoxicating lull of modern-day apathy, that dresses in bohemian gauze and wears masks of “acceptance” and “freedom”? Freedom is disaster without responsibility.

What can reawaken the imagination, unchain the mind, stir the Spirit? Certainly not sensationalism, superficiality, irrelevance, nor avant-garde for the sake of being avant-garde… Nothing less than Truth and an honest fight to bring people back in sync with their rhythms, to the freedom of their imaginations, to the fortitude of their joined minds and hearts, and to the stillness of their “inner man.”

I might not know exactly where I’m going or what’s going to happen, but I am fortified by faith and enlivened with hope. I remember where I came from, and I know what’s at the end.

Everything’s going to be okay.

Photo: Pianofest in the Hamptons

Pianists in Paradise

First of all, a huge thank you is in order to Keitaro Harada and Kei Meguro for their invaluable help in my website’s creation! I finally have a homepage, and it looks and functions much better than I could have dreamed.

I’ve been hesitant about including this blog section, quite frankly because I never feel like I have enough time to practice and learn the slightly intimidating stacks of scores on the table. But today, AS I was at the piano I felt compelled to write on a topic very dear to my heart.

My website’s launch comes in the wake of a truly momentous month. From June 14 to July 14, I attended Pianofest in the Hamptons, directed by Paul Schenly: an all-piano festival centered around the “Pianofest House.” In this house, we practiced, played, convened, cooked, enjoyed music and food, learned in music and life, laughed, and, at the culmination of the month, cried. It was undoubtedly one of the best experiences of my life. Pianofest far surpassed the normal expectations of a music festival; in fact, it didn’t feel much like a festival but rather like the forging of a timeless fellowship. Our lives seemed to intersect at just the perfect place with just the perfect timing, and for a rare moment everything outside stopped, but the inner world of Pianofest tinkered forward in a spell-like harmony. It was a gathering of beautiful people from all over the world, working toward separate goals from unique perspectives, adhered together in friendship by similar interests, and respected for our different talents and personalities.

The remarkable thing about this attitude of respect is that it comes from each of us and extends toward one another. It is relatively easy to garner admiration from audience members or those who are allowed only to see what we show them. It is much more difficult, however, to gain respect from those in intimate proximity — much less from those who are in direct competition with each other. As pianists constantly faced with a “make it or break it” attitude and as soloists pulled into the spotlight where we hold full responsibility of what might happen, the very nature of what we do is more individualistic than the spirit of most other paths. It certainly is customary to regard one another with apprehension or spite.

But in his selection process Mr. Schenly must have worked some kind of miracle. This group of 12 participants was in sync from the start: in mutual understanding rather than judgment, in support rather than in competition. It was immediate; we unconsciously chose to cooperate instead of falling to the temptation of a “soloistic” attitude. And thus our Pianofest family was formed.

One of the intriguing things about our session of Pianofest was that we were the inaugural group of the new YouTube show “The Real Pianists of the Hamptons,” a show entirely planned, filmed, edited, and put together by our fantastic, multi-talented artist-in-residence Konstantin Soukhovetski, the smoldering Italian heartthrob (and my very best friend from LA), Jacopo Giacopuzzi, and a reintroduced kindred spirit, Matt Griswold. These lads really deserve a standing ovation for all their work on top of performing and all other regular Pianofest activities.

The first few released episodes are the start of something new; an embodiment of classical music as a mix of playfulness and personality, with the seriousness of thought and background that goes into every phrase. They incorporate interviews, performances, everyday activities, and a challenge and punishment for each featured group. The first three episodes are out:

Episode 1: An introduction to Soyeon, Vladislav, and myself as the first featured group, as well as an introduction to the show.
Episode 2: Our challenge and punishment.
Episode 3: Interviews with the next group: Alevtyna, Keru, J.T., and Albert.

I’m especially excited about the upcoming 4th episode, because it’s going to be hilarious — with cross-dressing, faux-opera singing, and a sweet punishment.

All this being said, I would like to amend a reply that I made during my interview portion of the Real Pianists of the Hamptons (episode 1). When asked what happiness was, I answered that it is contentment with everything that you’ve been given. On second thought, the word “contentment” is rather unsatisfying… What I really think is this: happiness is peace. Peace with your circumstances, peace with others, peace within yourself that you stayed true to what you believe in and upheld your principles. It means learning to love people even if you don’t like them, acknowledging gratitude rather than jealousy or regret, and knowing that you wouldn’t be who you are today if it weren’t for all the past mistakes. And if there are scars that do remain, happiness is looking at them with acceptance and appreciation for their reminder to do better next time.

Pianofest comrades, I am thankful for all of you and the time we shared together. Music’s unrivaled power is most evident in the hearts and lives of every musician.