A mammoth trip

30 March 2009

A couple of weeks ago I got back home for the first time in 5 weeks, to be greeted, of course, by a mound of post as well as all the emails I hadn't got around to dealing with while I was away. I'm only now through this backlog and able to give you an update on what has been happening.

After Iceland I went on to play at the opening of the Melbourne Recital Hall which turns out to be a wonderful place: beautifully designed, excellent acoustics, and 2 great pianos. Piers Lane chose them, and as I was talking to him about it I remembered the one time I chose a piano for a hall - the Horsecross in Perth. That is really a tough job because pianos sound completely different in a small-ish factory room compared to a hall. I learned this to my cost the first time I had to choose a piano for a recording - I went to Steinways and picked out a wonderful, colourful, ballsy instrument which in the recording venue turned out to be much less powerful than I expected. So three days of very hard work followed.

It was a strange experience to play in Melbourne during the recent fires; it was clear people were preoccupied and it makes you question the value of what you are doing. On September 11th 2001 I was due to give a house concert for some friends in London and after seeing these incredibly surreal images on television of planes flying into skyscrapers I really had to ask myself if it was possible to play, and for people to listen. In the end, we decided to continue with the concert and I think it a decision which everyone thought in retrospect was the right one: it turned out to be a very joyful shared experience, in spite of, or maybe even because of the context.

There followed a week in Japan with the NHK symphony, a wonderfully disciplined orchestra. Japan is one of the few places in the world left where you really struggle to get by without speaking their language. That doesn't particularly bother me - I actually quite enjoy the challenge of making myself understood - but I had a salutory experience going to a restaurant without menu where you just order from all the ingredients laid out in front of you. The food was rather good, and before the bill came the waiter showed me their photo album of previous diners - Sting, Britney Spears, Daniel Craig, Christina Aguilera, Brad Pitt etc. etc. I got a bit worried at this point. The bill ended up being just over £100. Still, I heard about someone who went to a hostess bar in the same area, had a few drinks with one of the hostesses, and ended up with a bill for £1000, so maybe I got off lightly.

The final concert of the trip was in Singapore, an old friend of an orchestra which a few years ago happily (for me!) gave up its associate principal clarinet to be my wife. I met up with Jeannie there because she had a concert herself, and then we went on to have a brief holiday in Cambodia and Thailand. I have to say that Cambodia is one of the most extraordinary places I've ever been to. Most famous is the 12th century temple of Angkor Wat which is astonishing, utterly ancient and even alien (and strangely reminiscent of Gaudi, I thought). Hardly less impressive are many other temples scattered around the Siem Reap area. It is impossible to be unaware of the great poverty there and on a trip to the 'floating village' (exactly what it sounds like), we were taken to a shop where you can buy items for the local school at outrageous prices, even by western standards. You then get taken to the school where you hand the items out to the children. I found this a very morally dubious enterprise: the shopkeeper is cheating the children out of the extra supplies they would receive if a fair price was charged, and us tourists are made to feel like heroes handing out measly packets of nuts or pencils to the kids when the main thing we're doing is interrupting their education. Still, it was actually a very valuable experience - to give something directly to people who have so little makes it much harder to ignore the fact that they are the same as you. It is very difficult to take in the reality of economic inequalities around the world, I think, and that experience forced me think about these things in a new way.

Iceland

07 February 2009

I just got back to the UK from Iceland, where I was playing Messiaen's Turangalila Symphony with the Iceland Symphony Orchestra and Rumon Gamba. This trip really brought me to a state of high excitement, more so than any country I've visited for years. It's hard to say exactly why, but it has something to do with barren places - I find them very fascinating and somehow nourishing. To be in the middle of a wilderness with very little to look at is one of my very favourite places to be. I think it must be partly that the lack of visual stimulation is a very calming thing; maybe also that one's significance (or lack thereof) comes into sharper focus when confronted with such a landscape. Why is feeling insignificant desirable? To me it cuts to the core of what it is to be human - to learn the truth about yourself that you are merely one of countless millions, that you are not worth any more than anyone else, this is a terrible, perhaps unbearable assault on one's pride. Maybe this is particularly true for performers, for whom each concert is a confirmation that we are indeed special - we have all of these people clapping and cheering for only us, it must be true! I believe this is one of the great pitfalls for any performer - the danger of thinking one is special. I think it is the antithesis of what music should be about: a performer sharing his feelings and implicitly saying, 'This is what it is to be human, this is what we share'. But to try and maintain, or even reach this state is a constant battle, for me at least. One of the greatest performances I ever heard was Mario Joao Pires playing the Schumann concerto at the Edinburgh Festival a few years ago. It was a performance that was far from perfect and rather underpowered, but what shone through was a profound humility, and that touched me in a way that I had only experienced listening to Clara Haskil's recordings. I went to meet her after to tell her how deeply touched I had been by her playing and she seemed genuinely surprised and grateful that someone would enjoy her playing.

Somehow I have drifted far from Iceland! Suffice to say, the trip lived up to all my expectations. I found the people marvellous - thinking, positive, down-to-earth. Before the Messiaen, the concert began with a premiere of Þuríður Jónsdóttir's flute concerto, played by Mario Caroli. I have to say, I loved this, both for the tremendous performance and for the rather beautiful piece which seemed entirely it's own thing; unpretentious, with wonderful colours and a very savvy structural sense. Both conductor and orchestra were doing the Messiaen for the first time and I was extremely impressed. They have been nominated for a Grammy this year, by the way. In the end, though, the highlight was a night trip to one of the hot springs in the middle of nowhere. Swimming in 38 degree water with the air temperature minus 11, under the moon and stars, this was something unforgettable.

NEWS: TIPPETT CD NOMINATED FOR BBC MUSIC MAGAZINE AWARDS

23 January 2009

Working with Dietrich Henschel

16 January 2009

Last Tuesday I performed Schwanengesang with Dietrich Henschel at the Wigmore Hall. This was the first of a series of concerts with music from the end of Schubert's life, the others comprising the piano trios, the last 3 sonatas, and the late piano duets (these will happen in the next couple of years). It's the first time I've 'headhunted' a musician to work with: when I decided on this project I didn't know who the singer would be. In the process of listening to many CDs, Henschel stood out for me as a musician with a sensibility I felt I could strongly relate to - his focus seemed to be very much about musical line and structure, and I also liked his willingness to take his voice to extremes. I'm very opinionated about other musicians - I think it's maybe unavoidable when one is passionate about making music - and one thing that often puts me off singers is an over-preoccupation with beauty of sound. To me it's clear that music often is not beautiful. I remember once rehearsing the Poulenc Sextet and asking the oboe player to play a particular note with a really ugly sound - it seemed to me the right effect. But it was almost a physical impossibility for him to do this, so strong was his mindset (and presumably training) about 'always making a beautiful sound'. To me this is a great shame because it severely limits what you can communicate.

To cut a long story short, I am very excited by this collaboration. We sadly only had one concert together; it would have been nice to do the programme a few times and get really comfortable performing together. But regardless of this, the process of rehearsing was so absorbing for both of us that I strongly suspect we will be performing together for years to come. He is a musician whose approach to music I profoundly respect and I have the sense there is a lot we can learn from each other.

Rachmaninov preludes recording

09 January 2009

Back in August I recorded the complete Rachmaninov preludes and it was quite an amazing experience: I've never felt so free and uninhibited in a recording session. Strangely (or maybe not?) I was quite depressed the night after the final day of recording - I felt so strongly how much expressive possibility there is in this music and how impossible it is to really capture that on record. You have to choose between many wonderful options - if only you could have them all at once! So for the first time I saw an inherent sadness in recording: there is so much I want to say with these pieces and some of those things can't coexist in the same performance. To put it rather melodramatically, it's like having to choose which of your children you keep. Maybe if I had children I wouldn't dare to make such a connection, but I think it's common for musicians to have such a strong connection to music that it really feels a part of them, and so to reject some aspect of the music can feel like a betrayal.

All the editing is done now, and I'm relatively happy with the results. I can't ask for more: when I hear one of my CDs for the first time I always hope to be overwhelmed by the music as I was when I played it, but I think this really is impossible. I listen too analytically, and too aware of the possibilities in the music that I missed. Maybe some day I'll be able to listen as if it's someone else playing; then it would probably be much easier to be objective.


Here are the liner notes which I wrote for the CD. It comes out in May.

"Recently as I was exploring a book shop I saw the banner 'Tragic Life Stories' over an entire wall of books. I laughed, but I could have cried, and not in the way the authors presumably hope. What a bizarre phenomenon this is, the sudden emergence of a genre of writing which apparently delights in describing personal misery at its most heart-breaking.

"Why do I mention this? Well, I adore Rachmaninov's music - there are few composers who speak to me more directly. Yet I know a number of musicians, including some whose opinion I greatly respect, who think his music shallow, even cheap. I have a suspicion that for some of them, the music is a bit like one of these stories - not so much emotionally explicit as manipulative, calculated to draw the maximum sympathy from a credulous audience. (At least, this is what appears to underlie the famous entry in the 1954 Grove Dictionary which laments Rachmaninov's 'artifical and gushing tunes'.) It may be a tempting response to a composer whose music fit seamlessly into the classic film Brief Encounter, but the charge doesn't really stand up to scrutiny: listening to Rachmaninov's piano playing, one hears a clarity and emotional discretion which is the very antithesis of such sensationalism.

"I cannot dismiss all 'Rachmaninophobics' so easily, and there is an issue here which interest me: what does it mean for music to have depth? Compare Rachmaninov's music to Schubert's, and it seems to me clear that the latter contains much greater complexity of emotion. Schubert's late works in particular blend innocence, violence, sublime playfulness, humility, dread, and innumerable other emotions in the most potent fashion; as a result, there are very many ways of understanding his music depending on how one balances these conflicting elements. With Rachmaninov there is one element which dominates: a sense of melancholy to which his music returns again and again. Correspondingly, there is less ambiguity to the music. Does this make it less deep, less meaningful? I think the better response is to say it is less complex, because Rachmaninov expresses more profoundly than almost anyone else what it means to feel hopeless, to long for what is unattainable; the depth of feeling is, to me at least, unquestionable. This helps me make sense of the antipathy some have towards Rachmaninov's music. The more ambiguous a piece of music is, the more likely we will find personal meaning in it. If, however, we are directly confronted with a rather depressive musical world, it is understandable that some will find that threatening, self-indulgent, or else simply uninteresting.

"I am overstating the case to make my point. Rachmaninov's music can contain a wonderful variety of mood, as these preludes clearly show. Still, it is worth asking how many pieces here reflect a truly positive, outgoing frame of mind. Even the most sunny and ebullient, those in Bb, C, E and Ab major, all have their moments of inwardness, the last three of these ending with a kind of retreat into privacy. I think this is a telling instinct in music which is otherwise so open, suggesting that the pull of introversion was difficult for Rachmaninov to overcome.

"Tragic Life Stories notwithstanding, it is possible to write an account of a difficult life which transcends the details of abuse or neglect (as Frank McCourt's Angela's Ashes triumphantly shows). I think there is a real sense in which Rachmaninov's music tells us such a story. It may be dominated by the pain and sadness of his life but it expresses much else besides, and when we reach the astonishing climax of the final prelude, I find it impossible not to be deeply moved that a man like Rachmaninov was capable of creating such a rich and life-affirming gesture."

A month of Messiaen

15 December 2008

For the past month I have played virtually nothing in concert except Messiaen - the Quartet for the End of Time in various places, Turangalila Symphony in Munich, and the Vingt Regards sur l'Enfant-Jésus in London. Strange to say, given how physically demanding this music is, but for me it has been like a kind of holiday, because I find I need to give the music virutally no thought before playing it. Of course, it wasn't always like this, and certainly over the years I have thought a lot about these pieces, but compared to most other music there are very few interpretative decisions to make about Messiaen's music - once you decide on the speed and the basic mood much of it simply works itself out.

I do feel a particularly strong connection to this music. Sometimes I'm asked after playing the Vingt Regards whether I am religious. I used to be deeply religious (and even imagined I could have become a minister) but am no longer. The connection I feel is more to do with the great range of the music, from the deepest calm to the most enormous energy, even violence; I feel these extremes in myself.

So it has been a month of many satisfying concerts, with some wonderful colleagues: playing the quartet with Kari Kriikku, Viviane Hagner and one of my closest friends, Alban Gerhardt, and working with the marvellous Jun Maerkl and the Munich Philharmonic. But most satisfying of all was a performance at the Wigmore Hall on Saturday of the Vingt Regards, a mammoth work for solo piano which lasts over 2 hours without a break. Giving a concert is a bit like playing a slot machine - there are many elements which are out of your control, like the spinning reels, and you have to hope at least most of them land in your favour. On Saturday it felt like I hit the jackpot. The hall is of course marvellous, the piano had great range, colour and beauty, I felt absolutely relaxed, and the audience was unbelievably attentive and concentrated. I felt many things after this concert: principally, I felt like king of the world, I felt humbled by what the audience contributed by their attention, and I felt sad it had to end. It is a strange transition moving from such a rapt state of mind back to everyday life and it helps to have some company in the hours following a concert. So I went to a Turkish restaurant with my manager, Emma, a good friend from Hyperion records, Mike Spring, and a great Australian conductor (are there ANY unpleasant Australians, by the way?) Matt Coorey. We ordered 3 Healthy Meals to share. There was no option for an Unhealthy Meal.

The joy of hotel rooms

05 December 2008

It's 1.45am in Munich and I can't sleep. Hotel rooms can be depressing places at times.

Nevertheless, it has been a stimulating and varied day, in between performances of Messiaen's Turangalila Symphony with the Munich Philharmonic and Jun Maerkl yesterday, tomorrow and Sunday. I started learning Stravinsky's Concerto for PIano and Winds; met out of the blue Tim Busby, an old colleague of Jeannie from Singapore; received the 1st edit of my CD of Rachmaninov preludes which I am avoiding listening to (the first listen is often rather painful); and went to one of the most disappointing concerts of my life, the Herbie Hancock Sextet (the Gasteig acoustics are far too resonant for jazz, on top of which the playing was simply baffling and self-indulgent, to my ears at least. I didn't even make it to the end of the first half). On top of this, I just finished reading Sophie's World which I enjoyed greatly and was mildly disturbed by, for reasons I can't go into so as not to spoil it for those of you who haven't read it.

So what do you do with a surfeit of stimulation at 1.45 in a Munich hotel? Apart from write a blog post, that is. I have nothing else to read, I hate watching TV late at night, and there's no space to do Tai Chi in the room. I could look for creepy-crawlies in the bed (I had to move rooms because the first one had a minor infestation - that's a first for me) but that just breeds paranoia. I can get a bit phobic about insects. Soon after I met Jeannie we took a trip to Glen Coe and when we went to bed in the guest house I discovered there were a few midgies in the room. Well, those buggers can smell me from 500 metres so I spent the next 20 minutes squashing them against the walls. And Jeannie still married me! Enough rambling.

Britten recording magazine article

16 November 2008

Like buses, you wait months for a blog entry then 2 come along at once. This is an article I was asked to write for the German magazine 'Piano News', talking about the experience of recording Britten's works for piano and orchestra.



"Recording is a fascinating and deeply stimulating business. I know some people have a 'moral' problem with it, as if it's fundamentally dishonest to create a composite performance out of many different takes, but I've never shared that view. Stephen Hough has a good line about it - the difference between concerts and recording is similar to the difference between acting in the theatre and in film. In both cases, the latter option utilises much more sophisticated technical means to create an idealised end-result. The danger in recording is that any sense of spontaneity and inspiration can be lost in the process, but equally much can be gained - one is able to reflect in great detail on the effectiveness of each musical gesture in one's interpretation with an intensity that is difficult to find in any other context. One of the strange things about being a musician is the difference between how the music feels when you play it and how it sounds in the auditorium, and I find it is almost inevitable when I hear a recording of one of my concerts that I am shocked by many things - how fast or slow something sounds, how I misjudged the pacing here or there, how much better this passage sounds than it felt, how much worse that one.... When I finish a recording, I am always left with a greatly deepened understanding of how to show directly to the listener what I feel about the music. This is both exhilarating and, frankly, a little horrifying ('how could I have been so ignorant about the music before?').

"Normally I bring an idea for a record to Hyperion to consider but in this case it was the other way round - they suggested to me the complete concertante piano works of Britten. I don't learn music very quickly so I'm quite choosy about what I take on, but immediately this was a project which excited me: I found so much interest, character and beauty in these works which are so seldom played, even in Britain (I don't remember seeing even one of them programmed). The concerto is a marvellous piece, full of energy and colour and contrasts, utterly exhilarating to play. Young Apollo has a wonderful lightness of touch and some great effects. But best of all is Diversions which, to me, is something of a masterpiece. How is it possible that a work so inventive, touching, witty and serious remains virtually unknown? Perhaps the answer is simple - it's a nightmare to learn. Written for only the left hand, at times one has to virtually defy the laws of physics to fit everything in. And there is your right hand sitting in your lap doing nothing; that's really cruel.

The recording process was a little unusual for me in that I had a cold which peaked on the first day in the studio. This day passed in something of a haze with my brain struggling to connect to my fingers. At times like these, one is very reliant on one's producer to assess the quality of what is being played, and I'm lucky to have made all my records with one of the best in the business, Andrew Keener, a man with great ears, musical instincts, and human understanding. Andrew has got me through many less-than-ideal situations and this time was no different. The remaining days of recording were much happier. I have worked with Ilan Volkov often and have great respect for his serious, insightful musicianship and prodigious technical skills. Likewise, I have a long and happy association with the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra. I think they were the first professional orchestra I ever worked with and I've had many friends in its ranks, not least my sister-in-law. I think everyone was aware that we were making a great record and by the end there was the closest thing to a party atmosphere as I've experienced in the recording studio. The best thing of all, though, was going to the pub afterwards, buying a beer, and staring vacantly at the wall. After three days of the most intense concentration, this feels like the most blissful thing in the world."

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