The Dactylion

by Georg Predota  June 20th, 2018

The opening decade of the 21st century is once more gripped by a passion for musical virtuosity. Countless young and aspiring musicians—frequently supported and driven by overzealous parents—are vying to study at the most prestigious conservatories and with the most esteemed teachers around the world. To the music historian, this kind of narcissistic frenzy is nothing new, as the rage for keyboard instruments at the beginning of the 19th century reached ever-new levels of insanity. Teacher invented a whole series of mechanical devices—more reasonably called torture devices—that could supposedly help a budding virtuoso achieve even greater finger agility. And Henri Herz patented one such contraption, called the Dactylion in 1836. Mind you, Herz was one of the most famous virtuosos and popular composers in Paris of the 1830s and 40s. He engaged in extended concerts tours to Russia, the United States and South America, and to supplement his income he kept an enormous stable of willing piano students.

The dactylion was specifically designed to loosen and strengthen the fingers of would-be virtuosos. It was made up of two parallel wooden bars. The first was fixed to the front of the keyboard and guided the hands. The second wooden bar, placed parallel to the first, had ten rings. These rings, one for each finger, were attached to springs that could be adjusted to give greater resistance. Apparently, the device just flew of the shelves!

A good number of musicians, however, were rather skeptical from the beginning. The pianist Friedrich Kalkbrenner introduced François-Joseph Fétis, the first director of the Brussels Royal Music Conservatory, to the Dactylion. “It seems,” Fétis remarked, “that the Dactylion is only good for catching mice.” No, replied Kalkbrenner, “Monsieur Henri Herz made it for catching fools.” Robert Schumann was highly critical of Herz’s compositions, claiming that this music “exemplified the hollow state of the Parisian virtuosos.” But we also know that Schumann developed rather severe hand problems in the mid 1830s. Nobody knows if he actually bought a Dactylion, but he certainly made a contraption, probably based on the Dactylion that isolated one finger at a time. All that venom and spite against the Parisian virtuosos might, after all, have been the result of having been made a fool!

In Touch With Unsuk Chin

 by Frances Wilson  June 21st, 2024

As the 75th Aldeburgh Festival – founded by Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears – gets underway, we spoke to Korean-born composer Unsuk Chin, one of the festival’s Featured Artists.

Unsuk Chin © Priska Ketterer

Who or what are the most significant influences on your musical life and career as a composer?

The most formative influences are probably those from childhood when the senses react to everything around them in a more ‘holistic’, immediate approach. Then, there was the time of my studies: immersing myself in European avant-garde music in the early 80s was vital, as I had before that known ‘Western’ musical history only until Stravinsky’s Violin Concerto. Conversely, the experience of studying with Ligeti, who denounced the avant-garde, requested utterly original music of excellent craftsmanship from himself and his students, asking me to throw away my prize-winning works, was a pivotal moment. Indeed, moments of crisis and subsequent attempts to find a way out are essential moments and threshold experiences.

The excellent Danish poet Inger Christensen wrote that the major influences on her work were creative stumbling blocks, irritations that, in the long term, made her question and develop her approach. For me, such a moment was when I worked, in the late 80s, and after a writer’s block of almost three years, for a couple of years at a studio for electroacoustic music. Through this, I could re-evaluate the essential elements of my compositional approach and expand the basis of my music. Another significant experience was, in the 90s, longer stays in Bali, where I studied Gamelan music – the acquaintance of a different tradition of great refinement and quality deeply rooted in the society was a discovery.

What have been the greatest challenges of your career so far?

That was to realise my childhood dream of becoming a professional musician and fighting my way out of difficult circumstances – in the 1960s and 1970s, South Korea was a poor post-war country on the periphery, and it was not easy to start as a female Asian composer in Germany.

What are the special challenges and pleasures of working on a commissioned piece?

Without a commission or deadline, I would never compose a work. One needs much pressure from the external world to get through this crazy process. I don’t have any work in my drawer. Writing a new piece is a very demanding process and can take years. I wouldn’t go for it without external pressure and the adrenaline rush. At the same time, I would never accept a commission with conditions that don’t fit into the musical thoughts and goals I am working with during a specific period.

What are the special challenges and pleasures of working with particular musicians, singers, ensembles or orchestras?

I always choose very carefully which commissions I accept. One has to prioritise. It almost needs to be a compulsion: if I don’t have an idea what to write for a certain instrument or concept, I won’t do it. For example, I wrote my First Violin Concerto in 2001 and was convinced I would never write another one. But then, when there was a possibility to write for Leonidas Kavakos, I reconsidered, and the work, 20 years later, is very different from the first one.

Of which works are you most proud?

I move on and try to do something new with every piece. I have removed several earlier works from my work list as I am not content with them. As for the remaining ones, I accept them, but there are also pieces to which I feel more emotional distance than others – which is unsurprising when one revisits works from several decades ago. But I can also name a counterexample – my Piano Concerto, which is from 1995 but which wasn’t much performed before the Deutsche Grammophon recording two decades later. This is a work into which I put all the energy and frenzy of my then 34-year-old self – I wouldn’t compose in this manner anymore, but I feel emotionally close to it.  

How would you characterise your compositional language?

I prefer not to, as it may make it more difficult for the listener to approach the work without prejudices. Besides, when I compose a new work, the most important thing for me is its unique shape. Of course, as a composer, you have a particular craft; you prefer certain materials and draw on compositional techniques acquired through the years. You cannot and perhaps shouldn’t avoid that. Nonetheless, it is important for me to attempt each work to be singular in character. Pablo Picasso once expressed it this way: style holds the painter captive in the same point of view, in a technique, in a formula, but he always wants to make something that is new and unknown to himself.  

How do you work?

With pen and paper. Composing is, above all, waiting — days, sometimes weeks, before the empty staves. And then, suddenly, a door opens in the head. With age and experience, one develops trust that this door opens at some point if one tries hard enough. The music is in my head. I sometimes jot down ideas, plan harmonies, etc., but for me personally, it is an abstract process without piano or other devices. It can take several years for thoughts and concepts to mature. And when the pressure is great enough, it’s like giving birth: the thoughts have to come out, then you write.

What advice would you give to young or aspiring composers?

To think carefully if one really wants to have a life as a professional composer. It is usually a back-breaking and lonely job, and the financial prospects are often non-existent. If one really wants to do it, one should, but one should be aware what price it takes.

What do you feel needs to be done to grow classical music’s audiences?

This is not easy since, nowadays, there is a tendency to think more and more in purely economic and functional categories, on top of which you have to add the quickness of modern mass media. Besides, there exists a mistaken notion that classical music would be something ‘elitist,’ which is why the notion that society should support art forms that only a small minority will engage with has lost traction. All of this does not mean that things were better during other times. However, it is concerning and a scandal that music is often no longer even considered a minor subject in schools due to very obscure claims of competitiveness and economic success – claims often made, for example, by numerous politicians. It is wrong to withhold from children the experience of art, which is one of the things that distinguishes human beings from AI, not to mention that art often provides indispensable solace and a utopia. Anyway, there are also ‘late bloomers’, audiences that can be won over with creative ideas and new approaches even if they won’t have had previous exposure to classical music; after all, the experience of great music can be a deeply emotional one. The methods and approaches used to try to develop classical music’s audiences depend on the place and context. But the main thing, I believe, is trust. Trust in quality, the hard work of serious performers and composers, the slow progress of building audiences and overcoming obstacles, an almost aggressive defence of artists’ quality and hard work, the audience’s right to hear this music, and the need for financial support of the whole musical ecosystem.

What is the one thing in the music industry we’re not talking about but you think we should be?

I doubt that such a thing exists as ‘the music industry’ – fortunately, we live in a diverse world. At the same time, of course, certain tendencies exist, but these are intertwined with societal developments. Our times are obsessed with the speed of information, packaging, and the surface, which can be problematic for developing sustainable quality standards. Also, the future of classical music institutions in many places is endangered. That leads often to market-think and occasionally to a winner-takes-it-all mentality. At the same time, fortunately, there are many niches and different initiatives. It was much more polarised in the 50 years after the Second World War: there was the established conservative music world, and then there were the rebellious circles of both the avant-garde and the early-music revival, who not infrequently fractured into warring factions. But every time has its challenges.

What do you enjoy doing most?

Playing the piano. If I need a break during an intense compositional process, I might play fugues by Bach for hours. This helps me clear my mind and persevere.

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐏𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐎 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐬

 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐏𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐎 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐬 🌠🌠🌠

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6 Violin-Like Instruments From Around the World

by Emily E. Hogstad  September 5th, 2026

The violin is one of the most recognisable instruments in the world – but it is far from the only instrument of its kind.

Across cultures and centuries, musicians have developed bowed string instruments that share the violin’s basic logic: strings, a resonating body, and a bow.

Some of these instruments predate the violin; others were built to solve problems the violin couldn’t. All of them are worth knowing.

Here are six violin-like instruments from around the world.

Stroh Violin  

The Stroh violin was invented by electrical engineer Johannes Matthias Augustus Stroh in 1899.

Unlike a traditional violin, it replaces the wooden body with a metal diaphragm and attached horn, which amplify the sound and project it outward.

Stroh violin or Horn-violin

This made it perfect for the early recording era, when it was difficult for recording equipment to capture the sound of acoustic string instruments.

However, it was more expensive to manufacture than a traditional violin, and once recording technology advanced, the instrument became obsolete.

The Stroh violin is largely forgotten today, but is still admired as a historical curiosity.

Electric Violin   

Electric violins are violins equipped with an electronic pickup that transmits sound to an amplifier.

The pickup is attached to the bridge, body, or fingerboard.

Electric violins don’t need to hew to traditional designs, and many don’t. It’s common to see instruments with five or more strings, frets, or carbon fibre bodies – enough differences to differentiate the electric violin as a separate instrument from its acoustic counterpart.

A traditional acoustic violin and a modern electronic violin from Marc Capuano

The electric violin’s roots stretch back to the 1920s. Jazz violinist Stuff Smith (1909-1967) was among the first to bring the electric violin to prominence. By the 1930s, they were being sold commercially.

Apache Fiddle  

The Apache are indigenous people native to the southwestern United States.

One of their musical instruments is called the “tsii’ edo’a’tl”, which, translated literally, means “wood that sings.” However, it is better known in English as the Apache fiddle.

Arizona Apache fiddle, from the Musical Instrument Museum – Phoenix, Arizona

The Apache fiddle is made from the stem of a thick-stalked plant, such as agave.

One or two strands of natural material – such as horsehair – serve as strings. The player stops the strings with their fingers and draws a bow across them.

To create more friction between the string and the bow, the player might apply sticky pine pitch onto the bow – similar to how rosin is used for violin bows.

Historically, the instrument is known for its role in Apache courtship rituals.

Pochette   

We wrote a whole article on the pochette here: https://interlude.hk/the-violin-in-your-pocket/

Pochettes (French for “pockets”) were miniature violin-like instruments that first appeared in the 1400s. They were favoured by dancing masters due to their portability.

Decorated pochette

The instrument is played tucked onto the player’s chest.

The pochette is usually tuned one octave above a violin’s range, and its sound is shriller. Its range is also notably smaller; in fact, a player can’t shift above third or fifth position without running out of string to stop.

Erhu   

An erhu is an ancient two-stringed Chinese instrument. Its predecessor instruments first appeared during the Tang Dynasty (600–900 CE).

Erhu in the Mets

Over the following centuries, the erhu evolved into a folk instrument most often seen in southern China.

An accomplished erhu player, Liu Tianhua, introduced the erhu to Beijing in the 1920s, updating the instrument and composing new music for it.

The bodies of many erhus are covered with python skin. In 2005, new regulations were put in place in China requiring documentation of the origins of the skin; today, erhu python skins must come from farm-raised pythons rather than endangered wild specimens.

The player vibrates the skin by bowing the two strings. The two strings are tuned to A and D – interestingly, the same pitches as the middle two strings of a violin.

Hardanger fiddle   

The national instrument of Norway, the Hardanger fiddle has inspired generations of composers, from Edvard Grieg to film composer Howard Shore.

The earliest surviving Hardanger fiddle was built in 1651 by maker Ole Jonsen Jaastad, who lived in the town of Hardanger, Norway.

A Hardanger fiddle made by Knut Gunnarsson Helland. Owned by Monica Skaro, who inherited it from her grandfather Knut Skaro from Geilo, Norway

Although at first glance a Hardanger fiddle looks similar to a modern violin, there are some noteworthy differences.

The fiddle has four main strings like a violin, as well as secondary strings that vibrate sympathetically when particular pitches are played.

A Hardanger fiddle also has a longer scroll and more tuning pegs (to account for the extra strings), a larger bridge designed to facilitate playing on two strings at once, and folk-inspired decorations.

The Hardanger fiddle, like many European folk instruments, has long been associated with the devil. In fact, during religious revivals of the 1800s, many Hardanger fiddles were destroyed.

In 2023, we wrote about the history of the Hardanger fiddle and how Grieg was inspired by it: https://interlude.hk/finding-home-griegs-violin-sonata-no-1/

Conclusion

From the Apache fiddle’s agave stem to the Hardanger fiddle’s sympathetic strings, these six instruments represent just a fraction of the world’s bowed string traditions.

The violin may be the version most familiar to Western ears – but as these instruments attest, the instinct to draw a bow across a string to make it sing is very nearly universal.

François Couperin (Died on September 11, 1733) The Art of Touch

 by Georg Predota  September 11th, 2026

Over 300 years ago, in 1716, the great French harpsichordist François Couperin published his famous treatise L’Art de Toucher le Clavecin (The Art of Playing the Harpsichord). It is, by all accounts, the main Baroque text on playing the instrument, and its importance was acknowledged for decades both within and outside France.

François Couperin

Couperin died on 11 September 1733 at the age of sixty-four, and the early music expert Jordi Savall suggests that Couperin was the “poet musician par excellence” who believed in “the ability of Music to express itself in prose and poetry.”

To commemorate his passing, let’s have a look at his most famous book, which contains suggestions for fingering, touch, ornamentation, and various features of keyboard technique. It also contains eight preludes and an Allemande that demonstrate his ideas about keyboard playing. 

Teaching Good Taste

L’art de toucher le clavecin

Couperin’s reasons for writing his L’Art de toucher le Clavecin are detailed in the preface. “This instrument,” he writes, “has its own peculiarities, just as the violin has its own. If the harpsichord cannot swell its notes, if the rapid repetition of the same note does not particularly suit it, then it has other advantages: accuracy, clarity, brilliance, and its greater range.”

“Above all, one must develop a sensitive touch for the keys and always have a well-feathered instrument. However, I understand that there are people for whom this may be irrelevant, because they play equally badly on any instrument.”

Although Couperin presents his treatise as something new and unique, it belongs to a growing tradition of instrumental methods. As amateur music-making became an important part of fashionable French society, learning an instrument was considered essential to education and good taste.   

When Music Learns to Speak

As Couperin suggests in his preface, the most important aesthetic idea is the comparison between musical performance and rhetoric. Reading musical notation is not the same as performing music, as it does not tell us how the music should speak. As such, the author spends much time on phrasing, punctuation, articulation, and expression.

Couperin begins with the player’s physical position and hand position. He soon turns to matters of touch, stressing “la belle souplesse” (suppleness) and the soft, flexible hands required for harpsichord playing. The search for the most perfect touch was the holy grail of harpsichordists of his time.

Feathery touch aside, Couperin demonstrates how expressive possibilities can be created through means other than simple dynamic pressure. Essentially, the performer shapes music through a subtle hierarchy of gestures and the character of individual phrases.   

Grammar of Ornament

Couperin: The Art of Playing the Harpsichord

Couperin devotes considerable space to ornaments as part of the musical language. This includes the manner of fingering and execution, and his explanations demonstrate the close relationship between fingering and musical expression. The elegance of performance is inseparable from expression.

To demonstrate his didactic and theoretical ideas, Couperin included eight preludes and one Allemande. In his 1717 revision, Couperin explains why he composed the eight preludes himself. “I must not forget to explain, before finishing this little discourse, that the method entitled L’Art de toucher le clavecin, which I have just mentioned, contains, among other things, eight preludes suitable for all ages and for all kinds of hands.”

“The fingers with which they are to be played are marked there by numbers, and I have even composed these preludes expressly in all the keys of my pieces, both those of my first book and those with which this second is filled.”  

Beyond the Bar Line

François Couperin

The first prelude in C Major serves as an instruction, while No. 2 is particularly rich in ornamentation and expressive inflexion. No. 3 in G minor is darker and rhetorically charged, with No. 4 in F Major presenting a flowing and lyrical discourse. No. 5 in A Major is bright and expansive, while No. 8 becomes more concentrated.

These preludes belong to a tradition in which the music is written without conventional bar lines. As such, they accord the performer considerable freedom in determining the rhythmic flow. They are not to be taken as improvisations, but as music that is fundamentally free in form.

The inclusion of the Allemande allows Couperin to demonstrate how technique becomes musical expression. Every individual section of the treatise is now combined in a fundamental dance of the French keyboard suite. It contains everything Couperin has been discussing, and it also serves as a demonstration of the differences between French and Italian styles.

L’Art de Toucher is the most important Baroque text on playing the harpsichord, and Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach still acknowledged it in his treatise of 1753. At that time, 37 years had elapsed, and the musical world had undergone a radical change of taste and style.

If Beethoven was German, then why did he have the Dutch "van" Beethoven instead of the German "von" Beethoven?

 

Mathias Weitz

 

Studied at Bundeswehr University Munich

“Beethoven” itself is not German either.

‘Beet‘ is Flemish and means “turnip.” And ‘hoven’ means “field.” So Beethoven should actually be called “Rübenacker” in high german.

Beethoven's family comes from Mechelen in Flanders. So the whole name is Flemish.

If you dig a little deeper, you'll find that the Beethovens themselves probably came from “Bettincourt,” which is the French name for a beet field or turnip field. “van Beethoven” thus means just “from Bettincourt”.
Beethoven's ancestors translated their name from French into Flemish, but then kept it when they moved to Germany.

And to be honest, I'm grateful for that, because “von Beethoven” sounds much better than “vom Rübenacker”.