The Little Man in the Background

 First published Sept 1988 in Mouthpiece, the official journal of the Brass Band Association of New Zealand. The comments should not be taken seriously; this was meant to be humorous and ironic. Equally, writing as though all brass band players were male is a sign of the age of this piece. There were in fact a number of top female brass players in the bands, just as there were excellent female accompanists in the Competitions.

 Three years ago I became an official appendix – sorry, official accompanist to the Trust Bank St Kilda Band. In other words I have the privilege of travelling to National Competitions at someone else’s expense, in return for a small service.

Before this I had normally accompanied singers, who are a law unto themselves. Many amateur singers know little music, consider the words irrelevant, and are only interested in the ‘voice.’ I have found bandsmen, on the other hand, to be marvellous musicians for the most part, and very conscious of the composer’s directions.

However, there are times when the ‘traditional’ way of playing a piece imposes itself somewhat on the composer’s intentions. Accompanists, Beware! At such times, the soloist may take a mighty pause – not just for breath – while you go gaily on; he may rallentando where you see only allegro; he may give great expressive emphasis to a phrase that appears to you to be as original as something written at the time Adam’s sons were blowing their own trumpets.

For all this, the bandsmen I know are a conscientious lot who apparently spend hours practicing, building up those muscular lips and lungs, and thinking, living and drinking in (no, not just drinking) band music.

So we will arrive at the Competition having spent a good deal of time rehearsing. In spite of this and the marvellous performances given in the privacy of our own homes, something can go haywire, and the poor soloist may play as though he’s sightreading the entire piece. Very distressing for all concerned, including the accompanist, who knows just how well this person can play.

At my first Competition, I had spent a lot of time with a cornettist, whom I reckoned must be the top favourite. A day or two before he was due to play, he developed that bane of bandsmen, a cold sore. It so threw him off course that in the performance he played only a page of music – about thirty seconds’ worth – before vanishing from the hall in frustration. At times like this the accompanist feels like someone who’s painted himself into a corner. Does he carry on and whistle to his own accompaniment, in a vain attempt to persuade the judge that all is well? Preferably not. He tries to leave with dignity, while the audience shuffle their feet and mumble, and the friends of the soloist depart more rapidly than usual.

It was here, also, I first encountered that most strange of rituals: the Draw. In my naivety, I expected that the person first on the list would play first. No, sir! And nobody told me that the number playing doesn’t have anything to do with the number in the ‘Draw,’ and that the person on the door may be talking in programme number or draw number when you enquire who’s on next, and that to be drawn first is not a privilege, and last is just as bad, and that sometimes there just doesn’t seem to be anybody who know who plays when! Fortunately, this year, someone decided wisely to hold the draws earlier and we were able to sit down in our motel and figure out how I could be in three or four places at once.

This was a great relief. The previous year, in Auckland, I had been shuttled from an upstairs hall in one building to a house in a street across a traffic-congested main road and back again in order to find out where I was supposed to be. Perhaps bandsmen have built-in radars for this sort of thing. For pianists, it’s exhausting. The soloist will usually be in the right place at the right time. The pianist has a tendency to come in blowing and panting from having climbed two flights of stairs. He is then expected to look calm and collected – and remember who and what he’s supposed to be accompanying.

At least in National Comps, there are no cuts. We play the piece from whoa to go – including those nineteenth century epics that require the pianist to play the same chord twenty-nine times in a row – and then do a repeat!

In local competitions, the soloist may decide to cut this variation or that – sometimes at the last minute. Unfortunately you find the previous person who used the music has marked different sections to be cut. In the heat of the moment you ask: which cut is in? (Or is it which cut is out?)

Other bandsmen may present you with a sheaf of photocopied pages that appear to be in order; until you start to play. Worse, if they are not tacked together, down they slide off the stand and float merrily around the room to the accompaniment of the soloist’s cadenza. You hope that he’s still got another four or five fusillades to go while you grab the music and try to get it to stand up straight.

To be fair, it is only a few soloists who decide at the last minute they are going to  have a blow. Most give me at least two days’ notice!

For all these ups and downs, accompanying the quality soloists of today is an exciting business, especially when they play contemporary music. Here the accompanist is no longer treated like background music to films – ‘good if not noticed’ – but like partner. May the partnership be long and fruitful.

 

A few comments: I should have been used to having a bandsmen leave the stage before he’d finished; on several occasions over the years, singers had done the same thing to me.

And it was unfair to write as though singers in general were far less capable at their art than bandsmen. I’ve played for many top quality singers.

And if the music floated off the music stand I had only myself to blame. Back in the mid-sixties I was accompanist for a group called The Opera Quartet. We not only toured the entire country performing at up to three high schools a day, but did the occasional concert in the evening for paying audiences. At one of these, my music slid off the stand and onto the floor. The singer carried on; I scrabbled around for the music. After the concert an audience member came up to me and, without much subtlety, indicated that it was my responsibility to make sure the music didn’t go wandering, and that I had spoiled the concert. It was a tough but important lesson.