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  • Written by Stuart Isacoff
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The Instrument, the Music, the Musicians--from Mozart to Modern Jazz and Everything in Between

Written by Stuart IsacoffAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Stuart Isacoff

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On Sale: November 15, 2011
Pages: 384 | ISBN: 978-0-307-70142-8
Published by : Vintage Knopf
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Synopsis|Excerpt

Synopsis

A fascinating celebration of the piano, including tales of its masters from Mozart and Beethoven to Oscar Peterson and Jerry Lee Lewis, told with the expertise of composer and author of Temperament, Stuart Isacoff.
 
This history takes us back to the piano's humble genesis as a simple keyboard, and shows how everyone from Ferdinando de’ Medici to Herbie Hancock affected its evolution of sound and influence in popular music. Presenting the instrument that has been at the core of musical development over the centuries in all its beauty and complexity, this explores the piano’s capabilities and the range of emotional expression it conveys in different artists’ hands. A Natural History of the Piano is fast-paced and intriguing, with beautiful illustrations and photos, a must-read for music lovers and pianists of every level. 

Excerpt

Chapter 1


A Gathering of Traditions


Even as his body began to fail, for Oscar Peterson (1925-2007) the piano remained a lifeline. The instrument had long been a trusted companion-sparking early dreams, conferring a place in the history books, and easing his way in a world of racial strife. Now, at eighty- one, he looked worn out. Arriving at the stage of New York's Birdland in a wheelchair, after debilitating strokes had weakened his legs and slowed his left hand, he struggled to move his heavy frame onto the piano bench.

Yet, as soon as the keyboard was within reach, even before his torso had completed its fall into a seated position, he thrust out his right arm and grabbed a handful of notes; at that signal, the bass player, drummer, and guitarist launched into their first number. And suddenly there was that sound. He still had it-a musical personality as large as life, steeped in tradition yet recognizably, unmistakably all its own.

For decades, Peterson's technical command and musical instincts had instilled in others the kind of awe and fear he expressed about his idol, the late Art Tatum. He once compared that older piano master to a lion: an animal that scares you to death, though you can't resist getting close enough to hear it roar. (Classical firebrands Sergei Rachmaninoff and Vladimir Horowitz went to hear Tatum perform and came away with the same sense of intimidation.) And that made his comeback all the more difficult.

The Peterson style was always characterized by rapid, graceful, blues- tinged melody lines unfurled in long, weaving phrases with the inexorable logic of an epic narrative; and, equally important, a visceral sense of rhythm, transmitted with fire and snap. Those qualities for which he was renowned-effortless fluidity and clockwork precision-were not merely aspects of his playing; they were the very foundation on which his artistic expression rested. And pulling them off required the highest level of athletic prowess.

At times that evening in 2006, in one of the few scheduled performances on what would turn out to be his farewell tour to the world, flashes of the old brilliance emerged, unscathed by illness and time. Yet the strain was also clear. No matter: playing was for him as necessary as eating and breathing. "That's my therapy," he said after the set, nodding in the direction of the piano as a small smile inched across his half-frozen visage. But in the memorable moments during his set, the large, glistening, ebony Bösendorfer that filled most of Birdland's stage meant something even greater than his personal salvation; for everyone in that room, it became the center of the universe.

It's a role the piano has enjoyed for over three hundred years: luring music lovers to Parisian salons to hear Chopin's plaintive improvisations, and to Viennese concert halls for Beethoven's ferocious, string-snapping outbursts. The piano captured the spotlight at Harlem "rent parties," where two-fisted ivory "ticklers" worked furiously to outshine each other, and consoled lonely miners in the California Gold Rush as roving European virtuoso Henri Herz performed his variations on "Oh Susannah" [sic] for them. It comforted thousands of Siberian peasants who never had heard a note of classical piano music until Russian master Sviatoslav Richter brought it to their doorsteps. It is still capable of wowing crowds in concert halls, clubs, and stadiums the world over.

But the piano is more than just an instrument; in the words of Oliver Wendell Holmes, it is a "wondrous box," filled as much with hopes, yearnings, and disappointments as with strings and hammers and felt. It has been a symbol as mutable as the human condition, representing refined elegance in a Victorian home and casual squalor in a New Orleans brothel.

Consider the gamut of emotions, from elation to dread and even to terror, a performer may face in conquering its technical hurdles, as the young woman in Nobel Prize-winner Elfriede Jelinek's novel The Piano Teacher learned: "She gathers all her energy, spreads her wings, and then plunges forward, toward the keys, which zoom up to her like the earth toward a crashing plane. If she can't reach a note at first swoop, she simply leaves it out. Skipping notes, a subtle vendetta against her musically untrained torturers, gives her a tiny thrill of satisfaction."





THE CRUELTY OF THE PIANO-by Piotr Anderszewski

When I play with orchestra, I sometimes tell myself I'll never play a concerto again. Too many artistic compromises. I only want to do recitals.

When I'm confronted with the extreme loneliness of the recital, the heroism and also the cruelty involved, I sometimes think that I'll never do recitals ever again. From now on I'll only make recordings.

When I'm recording and am free to repeat the work as often as I wish, the possibility of doing better, of giving the best possible performance and where everything can turn against me, the piano, the microphone, and above all my own sense of freedom, I think to myself, I'll never go into a recording studio ever again. It's even more cruel. In fact, the ultimate temptation would be to stop everything, lie down, listen to the beat of my heart and quietly wait for it to stop_._._.

[Yet] sometimes I may not want to play at all, but upon striking the final chord, I say to myself, Something happened here. Something that is completely beyond my control. It's as if the audience had co- created something with me. That's life. Giving is receiving.

FROM THE BRUNO MONSAINGEON FILM Piotr Anderszewski: Unquiet Traveller

Nevertheless, the piano can also exert an almost mystical attraction, seducing devotees into lifelong bonds. The magic, when it happens, is inexplicable. Even the technicians who maintain the piano's working parts can seem at times like initiates in a mysterious cult. "A tuner makes a good husband," claims a character in Daniel Mason's novel The Piano Tuner. "He knows how to listen, and his touch is more delicate_._._._Only the tuner knows the inside of the piano."

Those innards are a miracle of invention. With wood and cast iron, hammers and pivots, weighing altogether nearly a thousand pounds-and capable of sustaining twenty-two tons of tension on its strings (the equivalent of about twenty medium-sized cars)-this majestic contraption will whisper, sing, stutter, or shout at the will of the player. Its tones range from the lowest notes of the orchestra to the highest. It has the remarkable ability to express music of any time period, and in any style-Baroque fugues, Romantic reveries, Impressionist sketches, church hymns, Latin montunos, jazz rhythms, and rock riffs. In the process, it makes everything its own.

THE WONDER OF THE PIANO by Menahem Pressler

I was recently asked by Indiana University, where I teach, to select a new piano, and I found one that I felt was exceedingly beautiful. I've chosen many pianos over the years, and most of the time there were some colleagues who complained about my selection, saying, "It's not brilliant enough," or "It's not for chamber music," or "It's not for solo performance." It's like when you choose your mate and someone else says, "I would never have married her." But this time it seemed that I had selected the Marilyn Monroe of pianos-everyone loved it.

The other night I was playing the Schubert B-flat Sonata on it, and the piano was like a living soul. This was at the end of the day, and I was very tired. And yet I was reminded of what a happy man I am playing on such a piano. You become elated, invigorated, and inspired_._._._all through something built by a factory. It tells me that there is more to life than we can see.

At birdland, Oscar Peterson again proved the instrument's enduring power. By the end of the evening he had the crowd on its feet, cheering and whistling. It was a special moment, and the audience knew it, the culmination of a unique career, and a last chance to experience the Peterson style, crafted by melding many of the disparate strands that ran through the piano's history. His artistry encompassed them all.

For dazzling technique, he followed the lessons of the European classical tradition, culled from childhood sessions in his native Canada, first with his sister, Daisy, then with local pianist Louis Hooper and the Hungarian teacher Paul de Marky. He was so serious about his lessons as a young boy that he would practice for up to eighteen hours at a time, he said, on days "when my mother didn't drag me off the stool." De Marky was a good model: he had studied in Budapest with Stefan Thomán, who had studied with the great Franz Liszt-a musical titan of his day and the founder of modern piano technique.

Liszt's phenomenal facility-in trademark rapid-fire passages and streams of double notes, along with other exciting displays, such as the quick alternation of hands on the keyboard (which, he explained, he had taken from the music of J. S. Bach)-created such a sensation that poet Heinrich Heine described him in 1844 as "the Attila, the scourge of God." Indeed, claimed Heine, audiences should take pity on the pianos, "which trembled at the news of his coming and now writhe, bleed and wail under his hands, so that the Society for the Protection of Animals should investigate them." Liszt's musical tricks had made many of the breathtaking piano feats of Art Tatum possible. (Peterson was so flabbergasted when he first heard Tatum on record that he almost retired on the spot. "I still feel that way," he admitted that evening at Birdland.)

De Marky trained Peterson in that great tradition, and assigned the pianist other staples of the repertoire, such as Chopin's treacherously difficult Etudes, along with the "big, rich soft chords" (harmonies, or simultaneously sounding tones) of Claude Debussy. "Oscar is our Liszt and Bill Evans is our Chopin," commented composer Lalo Schifrin, referring to the popular conception that Liszt conquered the piano while Chopin seduced it.

It's only partly true: the dreamy, impressionist character of a Bill Evans performance does suggest comparisons with the hushed, poetic approach of Chopin, who, according to witnesses, played the instrument using a dynamic range that fell somewhere between a whisper and a murmur. Yet the intricate melodies spun out in an Oscar Peterson solo also owe a great deal to the lyrical genius of Chopin, a composer whose "irregular, black, ascending and descending staircases of notes," wrote critic James Huneker, could "strike the neophyte with terror." And as he taught Peterson, Paul de Marky homed in on Chopin's most important trait. "I don't hear the melody singing," he would tell his student. "The melody is choppy. Make it sing." And so the works of the celebrated classical composers-great improvisers, all-served as his training ground.

Peterson's immersion in classical studies made him an easy target for some of the jazz crowd. Writer Leonard Feather, using the pseudonym Prof. S. Rosentwig McSiegel, authored a lampoon about a technically astounding pianist named Peter Oscarson who dumbfounded other musicians at a concert by playing a "somewhat esoteric interlude, a set of quadrilles and French-Canadian folk songs." But those studies with de Marky put him in good stead for the artistic heights that would come.

Paul de Marky's classical expertise notwithstanding, he also encouraged Oscar Peterson's immersion in the jazz canon. "Mr. de Marky was a very great pianist and teacher," remembered Peterson. "What I loved about him was that he was not shortsighted. He was a fantastic classical pianist. But I would come to him for a lesson, and he'd be playing jazz records"-greats like Teddy Wilson, Nat "King" Cole, and Duke Ellington. "Their playing served as my rudiments," he reported.

He was swept into almost instant fame when producer Norman Granz, visiting Canada, heard him in a live radio broadcast in 1949, and soon after coaxed him into playing in a Jazz at the Philharmonic concert at Carnegie Hall in New York. Introduced as a surprise guest performer, no sooner did he take the stage than, as Mike Levin reported in the magazine DownBeat, the event was stopped "dead cold in its tracks." According to Levin, "he scared some of the local modern minions by playing bop ideas in his left hand_._._._Whereas some of the bop stars conceive good ideas but sweat to make them, Peterson rips them off with an excess of power." Reminiscing about that time, Peterson revealed that he had decided the only way to get attention was "to frighten the hell out of everybody pianistically." He did, and the Peterson-Granz partnership was cemented. The two ended up touring across the continent together, building larger and larger audiences, while battling the pervasive racial prejudice they encountered along the way.

That American debut helped Peterson move beyond an early reputation as an expert in the rhythmically charged, perpetual- left-hand-motion technique of boogie-woogie. After winning a Canadian amateur contest in the style when he was just fourteen, he became known for a while as "the Brown Bomber of Boogie-Woogie," a takeoff on the nickname given to boxer Joe Louis. ("That was RCA Victor's idea, not mine," Peterson recalled with a glint of anger. "They insisted that I do that. As for whatever name they gave me, I'm happy not to remember.")



JAZZ VS. THE CLASSICS

Oscar Peterson was not, of course, the only jazz great with a classical foundation. Even Louis Armstrong, whose sound seemed hatched from the streets and sporting houses of New Orleans without a hint of European influence, spoke of studying the classics as a child in the city's Colored Waif's Home for Boys. "I played all classical music when I was in the orphanage," he recalled. "That instills the soul in you. You know? Liszt, Bach, Rachmaninoff, Gustav Mahler, and Haydn." Pianist Lil Hardin, who eventually married Armstrong, had been a classical-music major at Nashville's Fisk University before she joined the Creole Jazz Band. She found the transition a bit of a challenge, however. "When I sat down to play," she said, "I asked for the music and were they surprised! They politely told me they didn't have any music and furthermore never used any: I then asked what key would the first number be in. I must have been speaking another language because the leader said, 'When you hear two knocks, just start playing.' " She did, they hired her, and her life as a jazz musician was launched.

Leonard Feather was just having a little fun with his "Peter Oscarson" portrait. Yet, even today, it's easy to find "experts" guilty of such silly pigeonholing. Ironically, just at the time the "original instrument" movement in classical music was reaching the conclusion that the quest for absolute stylistic authenticity in the performance of early works was futile, the leadership of Jazz at Lincoln Center in New York was attempting to frame the parameters of "authentic" jazz, as if a sort of purity test were possible. But Whitney Balliett got it right when he wrote that jazz was "the sound of surprise." It thrives on unlimited possibility, not hidebound categories.
Stuart Isacoff|Author Q&A

About Stuart Isacoff

Stuart Isacoff - A Natural History of the Piano

Photo © Michael Lionstar

Stuart Isacoff is a pianist, composer, and critic; he was the founding editor of Piano Today magazine. A winner of the ASCAP Deems Taylor Award for excellence in writing about music, he is a regular contributor to The Wall Street Journal and other publications. Isacoff gives lectures and performances at numerous venues, which have included the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He currently teaches at the SUNY at Purchase.

Author Q&A

A Conversation with

Stuart Isacoff
author of

A Natural History of the Piano

Q: You call the piano the most important instrument ever created. How so?

A:
It could perform so many different roles: as a solo instrument, as an accompaniment to singers and other instrumentalists, serving as a member of a chamber ensemble. And, unlike the harpsichord, its sound could easily be shaped by the player to render thunderous storms, soulful melodies, or the airy tones of a music box; it filled ordinary homes with grand symphonies and operas (bringing the masterpieces of music to people who could not hear them in concert halls), along with Baroque fugues, sentimental waltzes and novelty rags. That is, it put the whole world of music in the hands of millions of people.

Q: You say that the piano was “born of the odd pairing of a little-known instrument maker and a dissolute prince.” How intriguing. Tell us a little more on how the first piano came to be?

A:
The Medici family had ruled Florence since the thirteenth century, producing popes, a bank of unrivaled power, and an astounding number of artworks commissioned from the greatest painters of the age. Ferdinando de Medici was also a collector of gadgets and musical instruments. But another Medici trait was a history of failed marriages, and in 1688, Ferdinando sought temporary escape from his problems by going to Venice for the Bacchanalian celebration known as Carnival.

Apparently he had a rollicking good time. And it was likely on his way back home that he stopped in Padua and first heard about a topnotch instrument technician named Bartolomeo Cristofori. It so happened the prince had lost his technician and was in the market for one. “The prince was told that I did not wish to go,” reported Cristofori some years later; “he replied that he would make me want to.” Medici made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

The two didn’t get along at first, but Cristofori did a good job, the prince rewarded him, and the technician not only serviced the instruments but also created some new ones. His most astounding was an ordinary looking keyboard made of simple cypress, covered with red leather and lined with green taffeta. It was called “a keyboard of cypress with piano [soft] e [and] forte [loud].” And it revolutionized the practice of music.

If it hadn’t been for Medici’s love of gadgets, or his poor marriage and roving eye, the piano might not have been brought into existence.

Q: You describe the inside of a piano as “a miracle of invention.” What is so miraculous about it, technically speaking?

A:
Various kinds of keyboards had been around for quite a while before the piano came into being, but none could offer the expressive possibilities of this new invention. Organs were overwhelmingly powerful, and lacked the musical nuances of the more delicate piano; harpsichords, which employed quills to pluck the strings, had a strident, nasal tone and couldn’t shift easily between soft and loud sounds; clavichords, which used metal “tangents” to strike the strings, offered a greater range of musical possibilities at the player’s fingertips, but it was far too soft to be used in concert.

Precursors to the piano abound in the literature. The fourteenth century gave rise to the “checker” (possibly because it looked like a black-and-white chessboard), and blind musician Francesco Landini’s unique instrument, which he named “the joyous of joyous, the sirens of sirens”; the fifteenth century offered a keyboard called the “dulce melos,” (sweet song). But the ingenious mechanism that allowed the piano’s hammers to strike the strings with greater or lesser force at a pianist’s will, while allowing them to fall back in preparation for the next strike, opened up new musical horizons, and produced a sound that eventually seduced the entire world.

Q: You write about the political and social forces that brought pianos into the home and made them part of domestic life.  How important was this shift for the future of the piano?

A:
Victorian England was the site of dramatic changes in the status of the piano. The London debut of the instrument was in 1768, when only a handful of craftsmen were turning out around thirty-to-fifty per year. By 1798, one piano maker, trying to keep up with demand, wrote, “Would to God we could make them like muffins!” Five decades later, there were some two hundred manufacturers.

It wouldn’t have happened for musical reasons alone. The social status of instruments became a major obsession for families seeking to better their fortunes. Young ladies from fine families were expected to learn to play the piano, especially those on the prowl for a husband. Publications cited the piano as essential for social harmony, and every Victorian home was expected to display it prominently.

The same trends took hold in the New World, and the instrument even made its way to log cabins on the Western frontier.

Q: You open this book talking about Oscar Peterson—why did you choose him as the first, of numerous, people you write about in the book?

A:
Oscar Peterson was a truly great artist. He was the first jazz musician I ever listened to and it so happens I was the last to interview him before his death. Just as importantly, he bridged the false divide that is so often assumed to lie between classical music and jazz. When he complained to me, during our interview, that they don’t play “our kind of music” on the radio much anymore, he was talking about masterful music from both ends of the spectrum.

Using his example allowed me to muse a bit about the relationship between the two traditions, to convey the excitement of top-level piano artistry, and to introduce some key elements in the story that follows.

Q: You write about so many musicians who have been instrumental (pun intended) in the history of the Piano and divide them into four styles—The Combustibles; The Alchemists; The Rhythmitizers; and The Melodists. How did you come up with these four categories?

A:
My first objective was to find a way of writing about composers and performers from different genres without segregating them into little insular boxes. Most of the jazz artists, for example, are from the twentieth century, and I didn’t want to give readers a sensation of whiplash, forcing them to scan back and forth between eras. In addition, the usual categories of Baroque, Classical, Romantic, and Modern don’t always work so well: contemporaries of Haydn and Mozart thought they were Romantics, while later generations saw them as Classical. The lines that are often drawn are fairly arbitrary.

So, if I was not going to organize the material chronologically, I needed to find another way of discussing commonalities and differences. I hit on the idea of analyzing the sound of the piano itself—the shape of each individual tone as it is struck (with a percussive pop), sings out, wobbles a bit, and decays. It seemed to me that these individual elements, and the piano’s unique ability among keyboards to vary dynamics, each serve as the basis for a musical approach, and that artists from different eras and genres often share those approaches in surprising ways.

Q: Tell us a little about what characterizes each and some of the people that best exemplify the category?

A:
Each of these categories can be seen in the light of the four elements described by Empedocles in the fifth century BCE: Earth, Water, Air and Fire. There are the Combustibles (fire), for example, who bring edge-of-your-seat volatility to the keyboard, exploiting the piano’s vast dynamic range to create music that can smolder and explode. Beethoven, jazz pianist Cecil Taylor and rocker Jerry Lee Lewis all belong here; this may raise a few eyebrows, but I think it is legitimate.

The supple nature of water suggests the quality of the Melodists, whose streams of singing tones seem to form sinuous waves and soft arabesques. Musicians in this category include Franz Schubert, George Gershwin and George Shearing.

Air befits the world of the Alchemists—musicians like Claude Debussy, Bill Evans, Alexander Scriabin and Herbie Hancock, who are all masters of atmosphere, combining tones and silence in mysterious ways to create haunting, resonant worlds.

And the solidity of the earth is the fundamental quality of the Rhythmitizers—including rock performer Fats Domino, Latin-jazz pianist Arturo O’Farrill, and classical composers Bela Bartok and Sergei Prokofiev: musicians who take the percussive “pop” that brings every piano tone to life and places it center stage.

Q: You write that the piano’s “ease in shifting between the ‘cultivated’ and the ‘vernacular’ traditions made it ripe for appropriation by the Holy Rollers, the high rollers, and rock’ n’ rollers.” What made the piano so beloved by both pulpit and pleasure house?

A:
Mid-nineteenth century hymnists like William Batchelder Bradbury found it unobtrusive; Bradbury used it with his thousand-voice children’s choir at the Broadway Tabernacle. Similarly, Charles M. Alexander of Tennessee, who became known as the father of evangelical pianism, found that it had the advantage of holding the singing of a large crowd together, and unlike the organ, didn’t overwhelm.

Meanwhile, the piano was so prevalent in pleasure houses for the same reason it could be found in homes: it offered a world of music through the hands of a single player. What better way of entertaining guests? In New Orleans, artists like Willie “Drive ‘Em Down” Hall and Kid Stormy Weather took advantage of the proliferation of the piano to earn some money and hone their skills. In the process, they developed a special style based on the fact that most of these instruments fell into disrepair and the music had to be as full and loud as possible. The rollicking New Orleans sound that came out of Storyville—was partly a result of musicians finding ways to force music out of those battered remnants whose keys often failed to sound, and playing very full harmonies and doubling up on melodies and bass lines was one way to do it.

Q: Why do you think the Russians and Germans came to dominate the musical stage from the mid 19th to 20th century? What about those two countries in particular produced such talent?

A:
Both countries had a long history of cultural achievement in a wide range of activities, including music, poetry, literature, the plastic arts, and aesthetic philosophy. And their national inclinations happened to place them in opposing camps: the Germans on the analytical side, and the Russians on the emotional (of course, these are primitive stereotypes and need to be taken with a grain of salt).

As a result, the virtuosos of each nation who traveled to these shores gained their followers through particular qualities: German Hans von Bülow, for example, was much admired but described by critics as a “musical refrigerator,” while Russian Anton Rubinstein “stirred up emotional cyclones wherever he went.”

Q: How has the digital revolution and technology changed the history as well as the future of the piano?

A:
Electronic keyboards have, by now, evolved to the point that digital sampling and other refinements make very realistic imitations of the acoustic piano possible. And the new instruments don’t require tuning, are lightweight, and take up very little space. The advantages are obvious.

What’s more, they offer enhancements like accurate recording and playback technology, the ability to produce other instrumental sounds, and push-button ease in changing keys. One concert pianist I know uses an electronic piano to practice at night, utilizing headphones so the neighbors won’t be disturbed. It’s a new world. Nevertheless, I’ll take my acoustic piano any day.

Q: How important a role has the piano played in your personal history? And as a pianist yourself, who are your personal favorites and what your favorite pieces to play?

A:
The piano has shaped my life. I fell in love with it as a child (there was an upright in the apartment in which I grew up), then left it during various periods, but it never left me. I can’t imagine living away from one for any length of time.

I have too many favorites to name. My love of all kinds of music continues to grow exponentially, and since I play both classical music and jazz, and compose as well, there is no end to the discoveries I make. The piano recitals I play combine classical repertoire with improvisation, exploring connections between radically different composers and eras—because the primary building blocks of music are essentially the same, whether one is playing a piano sonata by Domenico Scarlatti or a song by Jerome Kern.


For booking information: 
Gabrielle Brooks / 212-572-2152 / gbrooks@randomhouse.com


From the Hardcover edition.

Praise

Praise

Praise for Stuart Isacoff's A Natural History of the Piano:

“Isacoff’s heartfelt history of the piano will make you want to Stop! Read! and then go Listen! . . . Like listening to a fascinating raconteur who informs and entertains and really knows his stuff . . . Passion and unstoppable enthusiasm are palpable throughout this beautifully written and illustrated book.”
—Eugenia Zukerman, The Washington Post
 
“A generous, welcoming book, full of oddities and insights. . . . A history written by a pianist and historian with a lively touch and a reach that spans octaves of science, culture and politics.”
The Dallas Morning News
 
“Anybody who cares about the piano—past, present and future—will find this book irresistible reading.”
—Tim Page
 
“Wonderful. . . . The perfect gift book . . . So layered with anecdote that it reads like a novel or a good biography.”
Hudson Valley News
 

“Isacoff follows the piano into the honkytonk, the drawing room, the middle-class home and the jazz club, tracking the evolution of the physical instrument itself as well as the composers and performers who made the piano an emblem of cultural variety and a laboratory for musical form.”
The Wall Street Journal
 
“That rarest of treats: a substantial book about music that’s actually easy to read. . . . As a primer on the piano and music history . . . it executes the job with distinction.”
The Plain Dealer
 
“A big slice of heaven for piano lovers.”
Booklist
 
“An exhaustive and entertaining cultural history of the piano . . . ‘Sparkling discourse’ is his aim, and he succeeds . . . An enjoyable read.”
The Star-Ledger
 
“Fascinating. . . . A rare journey of discovery and delight. . . . Every detail is conveyed with a vivid sense of ‘you are there,’ and on every page we sense Mr. Isacoff’s enthusiasm and lifelong dedication to the art of the piano. . . . This is no obvious retelling of the piano’s development. . . . It contains a wealth of information, lavish illustrations, thought-provoking comments, and, most of all, it is a pleasure to read.”
Clavier Companion
 
“Deft . . . In A Natural History of the Piano, Isacoff proves as fleet-fingered as any virtuoso.”
The Chronicle of Higher Education
 
“It’s almost like listening to the music as you read Isacoff’s relaxed, compelling prose.”
Huffington Post 

“[A] historical tribute to the piano.”
—NPR
 
“A lively, virtually all-inclusive survey of all things pianistic . . . Isacoff’s ability to convey his formidable erudition in the most engaging terms, coupled with his infectious enthusiasm for music of all kinds, make this a charming and highly readable potpourri. Informative fun for every variety of music lover.”
Kirkus Reviews
 
“Engrossing . . . Witty . . . Pianists at all levels, music history buffs, and academics will appreciate Isacoff’s insights and clever way with words; this is an enjoyable and informative book.”
Library Journal
 
“An encyclopedic and argumentative overview of all things piano. . . . Readers will be impressed . . . by the depth and diversity of Isacoff’s research and references.”
Publishers Weekly
 
“Entertaining . . . Crammed with great anecdotes and mini-essays.”
The Seattle Times
 
“Informative, comprehensive, and conversational . . . Refreshing . . . A deft rendering.”
Choice
 
“Never before have I learned and enjoyed so much about the instrument and its most distinctive practitioners—transcending so many categories of music. Whether the subject is jazz or classical music, the writing is unfailingly engaging and revealing.”
—Nat Hentoff
 
“A dazzling structural juxtaposition from Mozart, Liszt and Horowitz to Joplin, Tatum and Jerry Lee Lewis, written with verve and sensitivity. Piano lovers will eat it up!”
—David Dubal, author of The Art of the Piano
 
“Every page of this book is filled with the poetry of Isacoff’s writing as he outlines the fascinating development of the piano and its effect on music tradition throughout the centuries. The research is of great depth: how Isacoff weaves what he has discovered into a gripping and entertaining narrative is sheer magic. Essential reading for anyone who embraces not only the piano, but music, history, and culture. Bravo, Maestro Isacoff!”
—Frank Brady, author of Endgame
 
“I loved this book. Isacoff tells the story of the piano through every conceivable device and viewpoint. . . . And he never forgets that piano lore includes the highest of high culture as well as the pop-est of pop. It’s a terrifically enjoyable read.”
—Sara Fishko, Producer/Host, WNYC
 
“Supremely informative as well as fascinating and entertaining—highly recommended.”
—Vladimir Ashkenazy
 
“A delight, both informative and entertaining. To borrow the author’s categories, I find the writing both melodic and combustible.”
—Dick Hyman
 
“Irresistible! Stuart Isacoff charts the three-century evolution of the world’s most popular instrument with insight, love, and wit, garnished with the wisdom of today’s foremost masters of classical and jazz.”
—Sedgwick Clark, editor, Musical America International Directory of the Performing Arts 

"The title only serves as a mere hint at the breadth of information covered in the book; the work bears a distinct parallel to Isacoff’s own considerable and multifaceted career as a pianist, critic, teacher, award-winning writer, and editor. . . . The book is a great read. . . . Any reader will part with A Natural History of the Piano having a renewed appreciation for the complexity and magic of the piano, its music and development, as well as an array of musically sophisticated dinner party anecdotes."
Music Reference Services Quarterly

"This beautifully presented survey of all things keyboard . . . is accurately and articulately mapped out by a writer who is hugely knowledgeable and, vitally, passionate about his subject."
International Piano (UK), CHOICE selection

"Stuart Isacoff's new book can make you fall in love with the three-legged marvel all over again. Wise, warm, witty, and always erudite, Isacoff's engaging style brings out a lifetime of love for the instrument and those who make music with it. . . . Humour and anecdote pepper the discourse, alongside vital information and an eclectic range of extra-musical references. . . . This is a treat for all pianists and pianophiles alike, one that leaves behind a rare glow of warmth."
BBC Music Magazine

"So appealing. . . . A remarkable book that captures the interactions between craftsmen, composers, performers and the public in a style that is informative and entertaining. . . . Stuart Isacoff has achieved something significant in presenting a rich history of the piano in such an engaging form."
Literary Review (UK)

"Stuart Isacoff, pianist, critic and academic, leads readers on a journey of discovery in A Natural History of the Piano . . . the music, the musicians and 'the wondrous box' itself: a volume to inspire and delight."
—The Independent (UK), An Independent Best Book of 2012


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