This article is excerpted from the new book Making a Musical Life (String Letter Publishing, 2007), a collection of essays written by violist and longtime SFCV contributor Tom Heimberg, who passed away in November 2006. (See SFCV's tribute.)

Starting in our earliest years, most string players are trained to learn and perform previously composed works with precision and thoroughness. From beginners' pieces to the classics — from Twinkle, Twinkle to a Bartók concerto — we diligently study the score (or listen to recorded examples), practice the notes, and strive to play our pieces both accurately and musically.

This is certainly a good way to work, and I'm all in favor of it; in fact, I love it. But at times, the demands of musical life strain the resources of our preparation. At times, we are suddenly asked to do unfamiliar or difficult playing in unfamiliar or difficult circumstances.

At those times, to do our best, we have to fake it.

Tom Heimberg

In music, as in life, the ability to adjust and adapt in stressful situations has high survival value. It's unfortunate that we use the word "fake" to describe this important multilevel skill. "Fake" sounds so … fake. Like a forgery, a falsehood. But it's really much more than that.

The truth is that what we call "faking" is close to the spontaneous, improvisatory wellsprings of music. Its many forms call on all of a player's musical knowledge, spirit, and instrumental ability. The musical skills that allow a player to join an unfamiliar situation and contribute to it come from the whole range of his or her musicianship. Coping with new music, playing by ear, keeping up with an ensemble, taking cues (both seen and heard) from other players and from the music, sight-reading music that's really too hard to sight-read — all of these situations, and more, give us opportunities to fake creatively.

This article is not a comprehensive manual. Books could be written on the subject. But by offering examples taken from real-life music making, it will give a look at the kinds of situations in which good faking can save the moment. Knowing how and when to fake, recognizing when to do it — and when to lay out — is part of the skill.

Let's start with the field that I know best: classical music. This may seem an unlikely region to look to for our examples but, as we will see, there are treasures to be found. The following instance from the world of chamber music shows many aspects of high-level faking. The Kolisch String Quartet became legendary for playing its large and varied repertoire by memory. But all the members of the group admitted that the real-life urgencies of touring and playing affected performance from day to day, and that they had to find ways of covering for fatigue and memory lapses.

In a 1991 interview for Strings magazine ("Eugene Lehner at 84," March/April 1991), Kolisch Quartet violist Eugene Lehner revealed one of these methods. When asked if the Quartet ever suffered memory slips, Lehner said, "There was hardly a performance without one; the question was only how serious. The only one to whom nothing ever happened was [second violinist Felix] Khuner.

"Once in Paris — we had traveled all night and were rather sleepy — we played the Beethoven Op. 95. You know the second theme of the second movement — the viola begins, and suddenly I realized, 'For God's sake, I have to start this and I don't know how it goes, and if I don't play, there is nobody.' And then I hear Khuner playing my part. Afterwards I said to him, 'How on earth did you know I wasn't going to play?' He said, 'You idiot, you were in fourth position on the D string.' I used to play it on the open A. With half an eye, he saw that I was somewhere else on the fingerboard. That quick reaction, it's just incredible. And you know, the other two were sitting right opposite and didn't notice anything."

A great example of great faking — at the highest level. The notes were right; only the instrumentation had changed.

Playing the classics of chamber music by heart is a rare practice and might not seem relevant to most musicians. But the cited moment offers compelling instruction in what a good ensemble player needs to do: know the music, listen to what's happening, watch what's happening, anticipate what's going to happen, and prioritize what's important (in order to play the viola solo, Khuner had to leave his own part out).

In the complex way that was typical of him, Khuner himself commented on this kind of happening with an insight that was also a joke. I once heard a colleague ask him, "Felix, how on earth is it possible to memorize the second violin part of a Haydn quartet?"

"It's not possible. Absolutely not! I memorized the whole quartet and played what was missing."

"Wait a minute. 'Played what was missing'? If you did that, everyone else would have played already. You'd be late!"

"Ah no," Khuner said, raising an eyebrow. "Quick reflexes!"

The musical prioritizing that came so naturally to Khuner is a key aspect of alert faking. Orva Hoskinson of San Francisco, an experienced voice teacher and accompanist, states it clearly: "Some of these vocal accompaniments were written by composers who were much better pianists than I. When difficult passages show up, I give them three days of diligent practice. At the end of that time, if it's still not working, I start looking for what I can leave out without harming the effect."

Knowing what to leave out "without harming the effect" is an important part of doing justice to difficult or — let's face it — impossible music. Yes, impossible. Composers in the throes of creation do not often stop to ask themselves if the middle voices can play all those notes at the indicated tempo. And conductors in the excitement of performance often push a piece far beyond its indicated tempo, toward the impossible.

This was not generally true of the solid, steady-beating maestro Joseph Krips. Some years ago, in the theater parking lot after a San Francisco Symphony rehearsal with Krips, I was grabbed by my friend, colleague, and former teacher Harry Rumpler. "Young man," he counseled loudly as he squeezed my arm, "take advantage of this opportunity to play all the notes on the last page of La Mer. Most conductors try to do the whole page in one flick of the stick."

I did take advantage of that Kripsian opportunity. And through the years I have learned the truth of what Rumpler said about most of the conducting fraternity: They took it fast. They take other things fast, too, which leads to another important faking guideline: When everyone else reaches the end and you're not finished, stop!

Richard Strauss' works are famous for the demands they make on instrumentalists; Strauss excerpts have been on every audition list I've ever seen. And sometimes his required tempi are already too fast to be pushed. In 1989, Christoph von Dohnányi conducted Die Frau ohne Schatten at San Francisco Opera. The maestro combined his superb ear with a demanding, generally no-nonsense rehearsal style. During the first orchestra reading, we reached a very difficult passage and it sounded like breaking glass. Musicians shuffled and chuckled. "It is playable," said the maestro. "I just conducted it in Vienna. I have heard it played."

The rehearsal went on. We reached another hard passage. It sounded like splintering wood. "It is playable," said the maestro. "I have heard it." The rehearsal went on. We reached a ghastly passage that sounded like an avalanche in the Swiss Alps. There was an embarrassed silence, and then the maestro said, to much relieved laughter, "Well, maybe that's not playable."

A carpool colleague — a violinist — and I compared our philosophies of how to traverse those difficult places. He said about one of them, "When the triplets are too fast, I will play the first two notes of each group of three. That will keep the right rhythm, every note I play will be correct in its place, and my accuracy will be .666, which is a pretty good average in baseball." (I have to end this story properly, however: By performance time the orchestra sounded magnificent, as even the conductor acknowledged.)

These examples from classical music show some of the dimensions of faking. But usually when that word is used, popular and folk music come to mind. The famous line, "I don't know the song, but if you hum a few bars I'll play along with you" is part of our linguistic culture. The public assumes that musicians in general know how to do that, that it "just happens" for them.

Well, it does happen, but only after practice. No one is born knowing skills. Everyone has to learn them. And playing by ear is one of those skills.

I admit that some exceptional individuals do learn very quickly. The wonderfully versatile pianist Lincoln Mayorga told me many years ago that he had had to develop special techniques to learn to play pieces exactly as the composer had written them. "You know my ear. If I hear the chord sequence once, I can play something similar right away." This is the same man who was once asked how he could transpose difficult music so fluently when he accompanied singers. "I don't know," he replied. "My ear hears how it should sound and my fingers know where to go."

These abilities sound like magic, but they depend on many hours at the piano, where "the fingers" (read "the mind") learn where the notes are on the keyboard, and thus "where to go." The magic is always in such practice. And playing by ear can be practiced, just like everything else. By playing along with CDs, with the radio, with a television set (just imagine how many commercial jingles there are), one can get the feel of playing by ear without having to go public right away. Warming up by trying out contemporary popular tunes or standards is also a good approach.

Other knowledge about music also helps. The more you know, the better off you are. Dances are characterized by their rhythms; keep rhythmic integrity, and you're making a contribution. Songs tend toward distinctive patterns of repetition; recognize that structure, stay with it, and you're helping out. The more you know about other kinds of instruments — and their instrumentalists — the more you can foretell what's coming next just by watching other players move.

You can see this kind of listen-look-learn approach in action on Itzhak Perlman's video In the Fiddler's House (Angel/EMI Classics 77827). As he is joining in with practiced klezmer groups, Perlman's beautifully expressive face shows when he recognizes a tune, when he's puzzled by a harmony, when he perceives a structural pattern. Sometimes he even seems mildly embarrassed to be playing along without preparation, but he does it, and with bold musical momentum — also an instructive example.

It's important to recognize that what starts as faking doesn't have to stay that way. Perlman now tours the world with his well-learned program of Jewish music from Central Europe. It's the real thing.

But what about that situation we've all seen in the movies, where perfection is instant? Someone hums part of a tune, the pianist starts to play chords, the drummer adds a beat, the bassist adds a line, others join in, and in just a few minutes a big band is playing — impromptu, by ear, and flawlessly. This kind of scene is a vision of the finest faking possible.

Well, in this kind of scene the faking … has been faked! That big band was carefully rehearsed before filming. It sounds perfect because it was prepared to be perfect. Which is probably the best reminder for us to end with: Fake when you have to, but remember that it is always right to practice and be prepared.

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