During my high school and college years, I performed as a pianist both solo and in chamber ensembles, and I also accompanied other musicians. I accompanied violinists, choirs, and vocalists, and — just for fun — a friend who played the flute.
Being an accompanist means you're not the main event; however, if a composer included a piano part as accompaniment, then the work needed both the soloist and piano. Some composers gave the pianist little to do; others, like Beethoven, made the pianist an equal partner in the music.
So, what is accompanying all about? Well, the music, first and foremost. An instrumentalist or vocalist will want to find a pianist who knows how to accompany but also is an excellent pianist. As an accompanist, I learned the importance of eye contact, of being able to read body language, of knowing the instrumentalist's or vocalist's part well enough so I could tell if he or she was in trouble, and listening. In short, learning how to collaborate to achieve a common goal — a valuable skill.
Every year in high school around New Year's, a violinist classmate named Steve asked me if I'd be willing to accompany him for the state music competition in May. Steve would then give me the piano part to learn. By the end of March, we'd meet to play the piece through at his house which was near the school. The following week, I went with him to his violin lesson and we played the piece for his teacher, who gave us notes.
After that, we practiced and practiced — alone and together — discussed our parts, and worked on balance and dynamics up until the week before the competition. Then, Steve's teacher would listen to us again. Each year, we improved. Each year, Steve took on a piece that was a little harder than the previous year's.
The last year, when we were both seniors, I think we played a movement from a Mozart violin sonata. I remember it was a truly lovely piece of music, and we both enjoyed playing it. The competition was held at the state university campus in town, so we didn't need our mothers to drive us. We met at the front entrance, checked in with the competition officials, found our practice room, and warmed up. We ran through the Mozart once, both of us on edge and jittery.
When our time came, we entered the room to find one middle-aged judge, a man in a tweedy jacket and twill pants, who spoke in a gentle voice. We set up, Steve standing so he could see me and my hands over his violin, and waited for the judge to nod for us to start. About four measures in, I noticed the judge had put down his pen, sat back, and just listened to us. We had practiced so well, knew the piece so well, we moved together, and I only needed to glance at Steve once or twice.
After we finished, the judge sat for a moment, his head bowed. Finally he looked at us and said, "Listening to the two of you was a real pleasure. Thank you." Steve won the highest score that year.
Cinda Yager writes essays, fiction, and two blogs in Minneapolis. She loves classical music and has just published an e-book novel set in the classical music world, Perceval's Secret.
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