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    Only 5 Fingers Playing Piano, but the Sound of So Many Hands

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    When Nicholas McCarthy was 15, he telephoned a local music school to ask about taking piano lessons and mentioned that he was disabled, having been born without a right hand.The school principal didn’t take the news well. “How will you even play scales?” McCarthy recalled her saying, dismissively, before hanging up.Now, some 20 years later, McCarthy is set to prove anyone who doubted him wrong — and in a high-profile way. On Sunday at the Royal Albert Hall in London, McCarthy is the star name for a concert at the Proms, Britain’s most prominent classical music series.In front of thousands of spectators in the hall, as well a live TV audience, McCarthy, 36, will perform Maurice Ravel’s bravura Piano Concerto for the Left Hand, using the grand piano’s sustain pedal to elongate the bass notes while his hand leaps around the keyboard.“Ravel’s really created an aural illusion,” McCarthy said. “Everyone might be thinking, ‘Bloody hell, I’m only seeing five fingers playing, but I’m hearing so many hands.’”Nicholas McCarthy will perform Maurice Ravel’s Piano Concerto for the Left Hand at the Royal Albert Hall in London on Sunday.Hayley Benoit for The New York TimesWe are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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      ‘The Forest of Metal Objects’ Premieres at the Met Cloisters

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      It was the hottest day of the year, and young musicians from the University of Michigan were staying cool in a 12th-century Benedictine cloister that, reconstructed indoors, let in the summer sun while a chill blew in from vents around their ankles.But they wouldn’t be inside for long. Those players, from the University of Michigan Percussion Ensemble, were rehearsing “The Forest of Metal Objects,” which premieres on Friday and is designed to travel through the Met Cloisters, the hilltop museum of medieval art and architecture, with the performance ending outside in the lush garden of the Cuxa Cloister.Before they went outdoors, though, the piece’s composer, Michael Gordon, had notes about how the percussionists were handling makeshift instruments constructed of small chains and jingle bells. “The first time you shake them, let’s make it playful,” he said. “But maybe the second time is about discovery, and then as we slow it down it becomes more serious.”Players rehearsing “The Forest of Metal Objects” at the Met Cloisters in Upper Manhattan. The site-specific composition from Michael Gordon premieres on Friday.Clark Hodgin for The New York TimesThe players were also receiving direction from Annie-B Parson and Paul Lazar, founders of Big Dance Theater, who had choreographed each movement within the cloister, such as picking up the chains and processing to the next room, with some of them standing on steps to form a corridor for the audience.Lazar didn’t know how many steps he could fill with performers without getting too close to the centuries-old sculptures at the top. “Does this work?” he asked a member of the museum’s curatorial staff who was observing. He was told to leave a couple of steps’ worth of space between the musicians and the art, and he happily obliged.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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      Does It Matter How a Cello Is Held? It’s a Centuries-Old Debate.

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      Historical response to the cello endpin, which anchors the instrument to the floor, has alternated between acceptance and pushback.Picture an orchestra. How are the cellists holding their instruments? Chances are, in your mental image, they’re playing with endpins — the pointy-tipped metal rods that anchor the cello to the floor and raise it to a comfortable playing height.Musical instruments, like technologies and fashions, adapt to the changing times. These days, playing the cello with an endpin is considered the default, but it hasn’t always been that way. Before endpins became standard, cellists often played by gripping the instrument between their calves, a position that requires strength and finesse.Even today some cellists opt not to use an endpin. At Trinity Church’s holiday performance of Handel’s “Messiah” in December, the cellists cradled their instruments between their legs for the three-hour performance — no small feat of endurance. Uptown on the same night, the New York Philharmonic was playing the same repertoire. Those cellists used endpins.This divide between Baroque cellists (like Trinity’s) and modern players (like the Philharmonic’s) is often explained by a generalization: Cellists after 1850 or so used endpins, whereas before 1850 they didn’t. And so, cellists playing earlier music in a historically minded way often forgo an endpin.But the history of the endpin is far more complicated, having to do with issues of gender, disability and plain stubbornness. Valerie Walden, author of “One Hundred Years of Violoncello,” writes that the endpin, throughout its history, has had “decidedly amateur or womanish overtones and professional musicians probably regarded it as an affront to their male pride.”Some of this may have to do with what musicologists call the “interface” between cello and thighs, an area often sexualized, which seems to be a major source of cellists’ anxiety both historically and today. But the endpin’s story is also about cellists not wanting to change their ways, even when they would benefit from something to lean on.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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      Foday Musa Suso, 75, Dies; Ambitious Ambassador for West African Music

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      A master of the kora who worked with Herbie Hancock and Philip Glass, his career was powered as much by experimentation as by reverence for tradition.Foday Musa Suso, a griot, kora virtuoso, multi-instrumentalist and composer whose work with artists like Herbie Hancock and Philip Glass helped thrust West African musical traditions into conversation with the world, died on May 25 in his native Gambia. He was 75.The percussionist Stefan Monssen, a mentee of Mr. Suso’s, confirmed the death, in a hospital. He did not specify a cause, but said Mr. Suso had been in ill health in recent years after suffering a stroke.Mr. Suso was born into a long line of griots, the caste of musician-storytellers who are traditionally responsible for retaining oral histories in the areas of West Africa where the Mande languages are spoken. He traced his lineage back to Jeli Madi Wlen Suso, who is said to have invented the kora centuries ago by attaching 21 strings and a cowhide to a large calabash gourd.Mr. Suso was the rare musician who learned to play in the various regional styles of griots from around West Africa. In a tribute published in Gambia’s major newspaper, The Standard, Justice Ebrima Jaiteh of the country’s high court wrote, “Jali Foday was more than a musician, he was a living archive, a teacher, and a symbol of continuity in a rapidly changing world.” (The honorific “Jali” refers to Mr. Suso’s status as a griot.)And yet Mr. Suso’s career was powered as much by his will to expand as by reverence for tradition.He added three bass strings to his kora’s traditional 21, allowing him to hold a steady beat and make its sound more danceable — and therefore more appealing to young listeners in the 1970s.He wrote many of his own compositions. He also learned to play more than a dozen other instruments, including the balafon (an African predecessor of the xylophone), kalimba (also known as the thumb piano), nyanyer (a one-stringed violin-like instrument), ngoni (an early West African banjo) and talking drum. After moving to the United States, he began experimenting with electronic instruments as well.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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      In the Age of the Algorithm, Roots Music Is Rising

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      Billy Strings and Chris Thile were singing an old song called “Rabbit in a Log” at the Telluride Bluegrass Festival. Clouds of weedy smoke rolled up to the stage from below, and thunder echoed from the surrounding mountain peaks as the crowd of 7,000 nodded blissfully and trance-bopped in Dead-show fashion.Listen to this article, read by Eric Jason MartinThe song, also known as “Feast Here Tonight,” is about extracting a rabbit from a hollow log when you don’t have a dog (you’ll need to fashion a brier snare), cooking it over an open fire and finding a place to lay your weary bones for the night. So it’s about the techniques and outlook of the hobo, redolent of atavistic physical competence and the unforgiving facts of life. Like a lot of old-timey music heard in our disorienting present, it sounds like equipment for living, shaped and road-tested by hard times. Bill Monroe, the main force behind the merger of Scottish fiddle tunes with blues and gospel that came to be called bluegrass, recorded the song in the 1930s, but its roots extend back to earlier folk traditions in the South.It carries a considerable payload of history, and it also offers an occasion to shred. Billy Strings, who is already regarded at age 32 as an all-time great flat picker, grimaced in concentration as he laid down dense, twisting skeins of guitar notes. Thile, who is known as a wizard of the mandolin able to play anything with anybody, was all smiles and seemed to do everything without effort: impossibly swift runs, chordal washes, daring harmonic touches. Billy Strings told me later that his immediate reaction to hearing Thile warm up on mandolin backstage was “I better get some coffee.”But Billy Strings was the main attraction. Born William Lee Apostol, he is one of the biggest names in the world of roots music and still getting bigger. He consistently sells out arenas, and it seems just a matter of time before he moves up to stadiums. He has been wildly successful in attracting fans of all ages, including devotees of jam bands, heavy metal and other genres beyond the roots-music scene. He told me, “I’ll throw in some diminished runs for metalheads; you know, put some horns on it,” referring to the devil-horns finger gesture favored by fans of heavy metal, who lap up the ominous minor sound of diminished chords.Billy Strings, whose marquee turn with Thile opened the Telluride festival last June, was one of a cohort of youngish, proven-yet-still-rising stars who converged there that also included Molly Tuttle, Charley Crockett and Sierra Ferrell. They are all big fish in the expanding pond of the roots-music scene who have been testing the vaster waters of the mainstream — showing up all over late-night TV, movie soundtracks and music awards shows. Endlessly in demand as guest stars on other artists’ songs, they are both generating and riding the cultural momentum as American popular music makes one of its regular cyclical swings back toward acoustic instruments and natural voices, the values of community and craft and a heightened sense of connection to the soulful experience and hard-won wisdom of those who lived in the past. Like crafting and sewing and other embodied competences also making a comeback, music handmade by flesh-and-blood humans on instruments made of wood and metal has acquired special added meaning. It offers a strong contrast to the disembodied digital reality that more and more of us inhabit more and more of the time.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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      How the Cowbell Gave Latin Music Its Swing

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      When life gets loud, let the rhythm get louder.Ran-kan-kan: Long before I could name the source of my excitement, my body responded to the strident signature of Latin dance music. The cowbell strikes like a drum but rings like a horn, the high pitch piercing through salsa’s dense thicket of overlapping patterns. Just when I feel myself drifting from the dance-floor herd, the cowbell summons me back to the rhythm’s raw nerve. Musicians call this function el amarre, from the Spanish amarrar — to fasten, to moor, to seal the deal. A paradox, maybe, that the instrument that brings all the others in line should incite the most euphoric feelings of freedom. I’m already sweating through my silk, so why resist the cowbell’s erotic revelation? When the fever reaches a certain pitch, complexity must give way to relentless repetition — one just-right note, catechized precisely like a prayer. Eso es. Just like that.Prayer, I learned recently, might be the right metaphor: The cowbell we know today is a direct descendant of instruments that spread through West Africa with the early iron-making technology of the Bantu migrations, and that continue to structure the diaspora’s ritual music, from the double-mouthed agogô of Yoruba bembé ceremonies to the triangular ekón of the secret brotherhood known as Abakuá. Like a god, the bell lays down our shared timeline. The sharp attack puts you in your place — enter here, act now — amid the din of drums and dancers. The job of the bell, I’ve been told, is to stay steady.Maybe that’s how these timelines survived the apocalyptic chaos of the Middle Passage. When diverse captives converged on the Caribbean, they sought out substitutes for the instruments they no longer had the freedom to craft. In Puerto Rico, they fashioned bomba drums from rum barrels; in Cuba, they turned the humble wooden crate, used to pack salt cod, into the cajón, whose special resonance later found a place in Spanish flamenco. Soon enough, free people of color gained access to forges for smithing bells from scratch, so I sometimes wonder if it was not only necessity but sheer virtuosity that compelled musicians to play most anything: hoe blades, machetes, paint cans and, yes, ranchland cowbells, struck with the handles of decapitated hammers.In New York City, the improvisations continued: Fania’s Johnny Pacheco stalked the carts in Central Park to steal the copper cowbells hanging from the horses’ necks. Eddie Palmieri, salsa’s founding father, told me how the drummer Manny Oquendo would take his cracked cowbell to a body shop for repair: “What is it with the cowbell?” the welder, used to mending fenders, finally asked. “Well,” Oquendo grunted, “that’s what gives the swing to the band.” By the 1950s, Latin music had become big business, so it’s no surprise the cowbell was perfected and mass-produced right here in the Bronx, by a Puerto Rican auto mechanic named Calixto Rivera: first in his apartment, then, after noise complaints, in a workshop behind Yankee Stadium. If you don’t make the cowbell by hand, Rivera once told The Times, “it doesn’t go coo-coo — it goes blegh-blegh.”We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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      AriAtHome Walks the Streets, Making Beats (and New Friends)

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      On the SoHo corner where Prince and Elizabeth Streets meet, dog walkers, errand runners and lunch breakers squinted through the April sun at the part man, part beat-emanating automaton approaching them.Ari Miller, 25, known by his artist name AriAtHome, is a New York-based wayfaring musician who turns heads with his mobile beat-making rig. Donning a get-up that looks like a cross between a Ghostbusters proton pack and a ballpark-vendor tray, he dishes out on-the-spot hip-hop, neo-soul, funk and house beats throughout the city’s streets, all created entirely from scratch without breaking stride.“I built the rig with New York City in mind,” Miller said. “When you make a good song with a stranger in the street it’s like, ‘Whoa, did we just become best friends?’”Ari Miller (a.k.a. AriAtHome) at work, with his videographer Dylan Goucher capturing the scene and livestreaming. Miller making his way up subway stairs wearing 55 pounds of gear.The guts of the machinery Miller and a friend assembled for his mobile music project.Crammed with keyboards, a looper, six speakers and a controller with dozens of knobs and faders, Miller’s Frankenstein instrument offers a buffet of drum, keyboard and bass sounds, interfaced through the music software Ableton. In the back, a mess of cables hides a Mac Mini M4, a modem and the hot-swappable camera batteries that power it all.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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      How Japanese Engineering Transformed Pop Music

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      On the morning of Monday, Aug. 18, 1969, during the last set of the Woodstock festival, Jimi Hendrix wielded a white Stratocaster to play “The Star-Spangled Banner.” His guitar solo was one psychedelic peak in a long heritage of experimentation. Almost as soon as guitars were first amplified in the 1930s, musicians began messing with their equipment to create brash tones — from poking holes in speaker cones to increase distortion to plugging into a Leslie speaker, which had horns rotating in a hefty refrigerator-size wooden enclosure, the resulting Doppler effect making the guitar sound rich and otherworldly. More

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      Larry Bell’s Vast Collection of 12-String Acoustic Guitars

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      The artist Larry Bell has amassed a vast collection of acoustic instruments, carefully stored in a climate-controlled room.In My Obsession, one creative person reveals their most prized collection.The artist Larry Bell, 85, was born with severe undiagnosed hearing loss. “I didn’t know it, and neither did my parents,” he said. Unsurprisingly, music lessons were a struggle but, when he was about 17, he saw a strange guitar hanging in a pawnshop window in Downtown Los Angeles. “I had never seen anything quite like it because it had 12 strings instead of six,” he said. “I asked the man behind the counter if I could see it. I just dragged the back of my nails across the strings, and it was a complete epiphany. I heard it. And not only did I hear it, I could feel it.” Bell, who is best known for minimalist glass sculptures that explore the properties of light and color, has been collecting 12-string guitars ever since. Hundreds hang in their own climate-controlled room in his studio in Taos, N.M. Twelve-strings are more sensitive than six-strings: They’re difficult to tune and hard to play, and that’s what Bell appreciates. “My collection is about my passion for improbable things,” he said.The collection: Acoustic 12-string guitars.Number of pieces in the collection: “Roughly 300.”Recent purchase: “I had some spare time [during the run of the retrospective ‘Larry Bell: Improvisations’ at the Phoenix Art Museum], and one of the curators drove me around to see some guitar shops. I came across a fantastic instrument made in Vietnam. The sound’s sort of a cross between a harpsichord and an organ.”Weirdest: “In my mind, they’re all unusual because 12-strings aren’t a popular kind of guitar. Years ago, I commissioned a fantastic musician to make me a 12-string guitar that was small enough to slip under the seat of an airplane.”Most expensive: “Ten thousand dollars for a McPherson [a guitar handmade in Sparta, Wis.].”Most precious: “A little Mexican instrument that was made [about 50 years ago] in a town called Paracho, Michoacán. I paid about $600 [for it] at a store in L.A. It probably cost someone $12 when it was new. As it turned out, it was absolutely extraordinary in terms of its playability. How much a guitar costs is not necessarily what determines how good it is.”One previously owned by somebody famous: “Actually, it’s just the opposite. A few musicians borrowed them and never gave them back.”One that was damaged: “They crack all the time. It’s very dry here. I have four humidifiers that run around the clock to feed these guys water so they don’t turn to dust.”Plans for the collection: “I wonder how many people’s guitars burned up in the terrible situation in Los Angeles. I’m thinking of giving the whole collection to somebody who can put the instruments in the hands of those who might need them.”This interview has been edited and condensed. More