Last night, a YouTube user very graciously asked me two excellent questions whose answers are long enough and valuable enough, that I decided to respond with a public blog post:
How long did it take you to arrange Rachmaninoff's 3rd Concerto?
I'd made several short, ill-fated attempts to achieve what I wanted some years ago, but only when I revived the project in February (on the 25th) did I start getting the results I wanted. The First Movement was published on April 29th, and the Third Movement was published on May 5th. The Toccata Cadenza was published on May 28th, but I hadn't been working on the project between that time (I started that section three or four days earlier). The Second Movement remains unfinished--I have it composed but not written it down: I have yet to decide if I want to try and quantify my rubatos, or not try and incorporate them into the score.
So the main work was done over the period of two months, with occassional work after that.
How much did it help you understand the piece and improve as a musician by arranging it?
It helped a great deal. It increased my understanding, appreciation, and interpretation of it.
The Rachmaninoff 3rd is extremely intricate--all of the Rachmaninoff Concertos are, but I find this one the most dense, complicated, and beautiful. The First concerto has many wonderful moments and a fantastic second movement (but sadly the concerto is always overlooked); the Second is very passionate and makes brilliant use and variation of simple motifs throughout the entire concerto; and the fourth has one of the best concerto introductions and finales ever written; but the third is entirely it's own creation. It begins with a magnificent theme and then it enters a world of virtuosity and theme mixed together to make pure music, and the only way to appreciate the nuance and creative genius in it is to carefully explore the score by constantly taking it apart and putting it back together--as Rachmaninoff did when he wrote it.
Whenever I do an arrangement, it's like the composer is giving me a guided tour of the their invention, showing me every rivet, every detail, and every idea behind it and demonstrating how all of the rather rudimentary structural elements of a piece come together to make it a masterwork. For example, I just finished three transcriptions this week of works by Grieg, Ippolitov-Ivannov, and Sousa, and each of them opened new worlds on works, I thought I knew intimately. Going through the Rachmaninoff 3rd to rewrite it, forced me to carefully study the score, and I found articulation, harmony, and subtlety that I had missed or taken for granted.
For me, when doing an arrangement, it is much harder to miss notes or articulation marks: unfortunately, as a pianist, when I sit down, I enter an "emotive" autopilot, and I usually sight-read very quickly through a piece--feeling too much and reading too little, and then, years later, I find there was a nuance in the score that I hadn't seen the first time (and then of course, I convince myself that the composer or publisher added it the piece after I had looked at it).
After, I was about one third of the way through the First Movement, I started seeing patterns I hadn't imagined were in the concerto (
Nikolai Lugansky's video for the London Philharmonia has a good introduction to these). Ironically, one of the things that brought those patterns to light was the edition I had; I was working from the Muzgiz edition from the late Soviet Union (that copy is in the public domain, while the Schrimer's edition and other are not in the US), and this edition has dozens of major errors--particularly in the orchestra part (expect an error on every other page); now this was a great problem as a arranger, because I would look down at the page and wonder how they managed to get 5 quarter notes in a 4/4 measure, which force me to always ask "what was Sergei thinking?" because I could never be sure what exactly he had written because of the errors. Studying the concerto in that light, I began to see much more ingenious layering and structure, because I had to reconstruct so much of it.
Whether it's been the Grieg A Minor Concerto, the Rachmaninoff 3rd, or Stars and Stripes Forever, writing an arrangement of any masterwork, always forces a musician to increase their skills, their understanding of theory and the composer, and their musical depth. There is no way I can do a good, sincere arrangement of a work, without immersing myself in the score with new eyes, rethinking every assumption I have about a piece. Happily, not everyone needs to become an arranger to appreciate music or improve one's musicianship--for me arrangements are the most rewarding, but I start by relistening to the best recordings of a work, even if it's a masterwork I didn't like the first time. (It took me several long attempts to enjoy the Medtner concertos, which now I can't get enough of, and it took me seven years to finally like the Prokofiev 3rd instead of always "enduring" it.) After I've listened and relistened to the best performances of a piece and compared them, then I constantly revisit the actual score: even if I have a piece memorized, I frequently review the score and see if I missed something: I try to see something new. All articulation marks, all notes, all instructions are put into a work for a specific reason, I always try to revisit the reason that something is in a work: I attempt learn the entire history and every facet of a work.