Notes on piano music, listening, and practice, shaped by a love of blues, jazz, and classical traditions.
Scott Joplin is often introduced as the “King of Ragtime,” but that title can obscure how unusual and ambitious he really was. Joplin was not just writing popular piano pieces; he was trying to build a serious, composed American piano tradition that could stand alongside European classical music, while remaining rooted in African American rhythm and style.
Born in Texas in the late 1860s, Joplin grew up in a period where opportunities for Black composers were extremely limited. He learned the piano, travelled as a performer, and eventually settled in Sedalia, Missouri, where he studied music formally and began publishing his works. His Maple Leaf Rag (1899) became a huge success and helped define the ragtime style: steady, marching left-hand patterns combined with syncopated, dancing melodies in the right hand. It is carefully structured, almost architectural, but it swings in a way that feels natural and alive.
Listening to Joplin at the piano is striking because of this balance between control and freedom. The forms are precise, almost classical, but the rhythms lean forward, pulling against the beat. In many ways, Joplin sits at the point where European piano tradition meets what would later become jazz and blues. Without Joplin, it is hard to imagine stride piano, early jazz piano, or even some aspects of minimalist classical music.
Joplin’s real ambition, however, was to be recognised as a large-scale composer. He wrote extended works, including ballets and the opera Treemonisha, which he considered his masterpiece. Treemonisha was self-published and barely performed during his lifetime. Joplin struggled to find support for this music, and his hopes for serious recognition were largely unfulfilled while he was alive.
There is a quiet tragedy to Joplin’s story. His ragtime pieces were hugely popular, but the music he cared most about was ignored. In his later years he experienced serious mental health difficulties and died in relative obscurity in 1917. It was only decades later, in the 1970s, that his music was rediscovered, performed widely, and recognised as foundational to American music, culminating in a posthumous Pulitzer Prize.
For pianists today, Joplin is more than a historical curiosity. His music shows how rhythm, structure, and personality can coexist at the keyboard. Listening to Joplin is like hearing the piano at the moment it becomes modern — disciplined, rhythmic, and deeply human.
Not everyone has an hour a day to practice the piano. Most students don’t — and that’s completely normal. The good news is that ten focused minutes can be genuinely effective if you use them well.
The key is intention. Instead of trying to cover everything, pick one small goal. That might be a difficult bar, a tricky chord change, or a short phrase that needs shaping. Work on that single thing slowly, with full attention. Even two or three careful repetitions are more valuable than running through an entire piece on autopilot.
Slow practice is especially powerful in short sessions. Playing something at half speed, listening closely to tone, rhythm, and balance, builds control far more effectively than playing it fast and vaguely. If time is tight, slower is almost always better.
Another useful approach is “hands separate.” Spend a few minutes on just the left hand or just the right hand. This can reveal problems you might not notice when playing hands together, and it builds confidence quickly.
Finally, don’t underestimate listening. If you don’t have time to sit at the piano, listening to a recording of your piece, or to great pianists in the same style, still counts as musical practice. It shapes your ear, your sense of phrasing, and your musical instincts.
Ten minutes, used thoughtfully, can move you forward. Consistency matters more than duration, and small, regular sessions often beat long, irregular ones.
This week, I’ve been spending time with two records rooted firmly in the New Orleans piano tradition; music where rhythm, touch, and personality matter as much as notes on the page.
The first is Blues from the Gutter (1958) by Champion Jack Dupree. Dupree’s playing is raw, direct, and unpolished in the best possible way. The piano isn’t trying to be elegant — it’s driving the music forward, locking in with the groove and telling stories. There’s a looseness here that’s worth listening to closely: the timing flexes, the touch varies, and the feel always comes first. It’s a reminder that great piano playing isn’t about perfection, but about commitment to sound and rhythm.
Alongside that, I’ve been listening to Professor Longhair’s Jumpin’ Live (Chicago ’73). If Dupree represents grit, Longhair represents joy and complexity disguised as fun. His playing blends blues, Caribbean rhythms, and rolling left-hand patterns that feel almost orchestral. The grooves are infectious, but underneath them is serious coordination and control. This is piano music that moves; physically and emotionally.
I like sharing records like these with students because they open up a different way of thinking about the piano. You don’t need to play this music to benefit from hearing it. Just listening, to the groove, the touch, the way the piano sits inside a band, can change how you approach any style, classical included.
New Orleans piano reminds us that the instrument is as much about rhythm and feel as it is about harmony and technique. That’s something worth carrying into every kind of playing.