There was in the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra a brilliant violinist called Piastro, who was eventually to succeed Louis Persinger as concertmaster and later to become concertmaster of the New York Philharmonic under Toscanini. I knew Piastro well and much admired, among other brilliances, his staccato. One day I asked him how he did it. He picked up his violin and rattled off a few incisive bars. “I do this,” he said, “and this.” As a demonstration it was impeccable, reproducing exactly the staccato I found so satisfying, but as an explanation it left me as baffled as before. He did not explain for the simple reason that he could not. He could not unpick the mechanics of muscle and motion that produced his staccato – or my own, for that matter; and it was this which I needed to know. << less