The timpani looks as if it were forged for the artistic elevation of soups. Its expansive, gleaming copper bowl tilted jauntily to a side and the drumhead stretched taut over its opening suggest hidden depths of bouillon--of boiling meats and vegetables. The common name for the timpani is, not surprisingly, the kettledrum. Originally a military instrument, primitive versions of the timpani were slung over the backs of horses in cavalry units and, aside from their practical uses in battle, often served in processions and other public events as a sort of status symbol.

However, despite a historical background of blustering and banging, the modern timpani is an intensely subtle instrument. Depending on the music being played, a timpanist will use from two to five drums, each a different size and in a different register. Each individual timpani can be tuned up or down during the actual performance, so the percussionist actually has a significant melodic range. Formerly, this tuning was done by carefully twisting the screws holding down the drumhead but most timpanis today are constructed to be tuned with a pedal. This is quicker and allows one to tune two timpanis at once. This has dramatically expanded the role of the timpani in the modern orchestra and indeed as a solo instrument.

Kris Gauksheim '01 and Adam Beaver '00 play the timpani in the Harvard-Radcliffe Orchestra. I spoke with both of them before a rehearsal earlier this week. They started studying the timpani in grade school. Neither of them said exactly why they were first drawn to the instrument, but they both agree that there is a sort of adrenaline rush associated with the timpani's wildly expansive dynamic range. Beaver points out that he gets to play everything from the gentle, dying heartbeat in a requiem to great, rolling sforzandos where he "comes in like the hand of God," a not unsatisfying experience. Ganksheim also admits that he enjoys the timpani's central role in the orchestra--it's a crucial element, providing at once a rhythmic backbone and melodic counterpoint.

But even with the innovation of the foot pedal, playing the timpani remains a delicate and complex job. Each timpani is different, and in addition, each spot on the taut drumhead has a slightly different tuning, tension and response. And the tuning is still an uncertain science, performed with the orchestra in full swing around the timpanists. They have to find the perfect pitch despite the tooting and sawing of their neighbors and without losing track of the conductor. If you see them stooping over the drumhead during the concert as though they were whispering into a gargantuan ear, that's because they are testing their tuning. They're singing the pitch softly into the drum, and if it sings back, they know they have it right. A great deal of care goes into this process: as Beaver wryly put it, "If the hand of God comes in a half-step off, it's not too impressive."

Because the timpani is often so dramatic an element, composers tend to use it sparingly. It's not unusual for Beaver and Ganksheim to sit counting off seventy measures of silence. This doesn't seem to bother them, however. They feel that this downtime helps foster a healthy, laid-back community of percussionists. And of course, if they get hungry they can always cook up a delicious ragout. Ha.

This Saturday at 8pm in Sanders Theatre HRO will be playing a program of Mozart, Dvorak and Yannatos.