Late Playing and Some Late Players
Individuality. Can we have it in an orchestra? Does my job demand creative self emasculation? Does a good performance consist of 85 players all thinking and feeling in wonderful accord, gazing in dewy-eyed anticipation at the conductor, aglow for precise instructions?
From the tone of that intro you'll know what I think. But let's thrash it out a little –this topic is at the heart of my business. I've been at it (the business) for some while, and if I had my time over again, I'd be at it over again. Do I seem like a sort of creative blank sheet of paper? Were all those teenage years of dedication to my vocation, burying myself in isolation with my 'cello, distressing the neighbours, were those years carried forward on an irresistible wave of........well what......a windless flat calm of zero ideas waiting for the breeze of someone else's inspiration? Did I yearn to be a sort of human dictaphone? Too often I've read or heard players, usually soloists or chamber players being led on by their interviewer, presenting orchestral playing as some sort of dumb alternative to real music-making. Do I feel like some dumb defaulter, for ever condemned to a life of restriction and limitation, a self selected musical prole? Well, I was never going to become a soloist or leading chamber music player, even if that was my childish pipe dream. We all have to play, and play well, but whatever area we play in, what is ingredient "X", that element that makes you, our audience, want to pay good money to come and hear us? The skill and craftsmanship that go into ensemble playing may be the same for all of us but the symphony orchestra, by its sheer size, presents a load of unique and almost intractable problems that chamber musicians and small orchestras don't have to deal with. A wee anecdote. The late (I can say this now because he can't bite me back) was with us as 'cello soloist in s Schelomo. One of the 'cello section was off ill, and the orchestral showpiece, Strauss' Don Juan, was also being rehearsed. He sat in at the 6th seat (we were only 6 in those days!), and, believe it or not, he was flummoxed. There are many facets of orchestral technique to master, and just getting the notes doesn't get you far. Next, you've got to know when to play them, and that's elusively difficult when there are about eighty other opinions vying for position. Any aspiring conductor would be dead on the starting block of his career if he thought that we do it together just because of his stick. Frequently the whole band does something which is as inexplicable and mysterious as the synchronous wheeling of a flock of birds. There's an indefinable magic in there somewhere, and I'm not even talking about ingredient "X" yet. Another anecdote about a 'late' soloist. The great French 'cellist was with us to play the ¶Ù±¹´ÇÅ™²¹°ì. Now, he had bags of ingredient "X" – he even gave up a promising career in boxing to be a 'cellist. This time he was with us he seemed constitutionally incapable of playing exactly with us or the conductor. It was cat-and-mouse – at the end of the spectrum. Whatever we did to adjust, he promptly readjusted, bar by bar, note by note, throughout the whole performance. An exciting performance! Maybe he was missing his boxing? An orchestral player doing that wouldn't last past the first coffee break. (Incidentally, when I was a student I had an inspirational master class on Schelomo with him.) But this, the 'when' of it all, is only just one aspect of our technique, and it's very different for each of us depending on the instrument you play and where you sit. When you've worked out just when you've got to do it, if you ever do, what about engaging all your soul and passion in what you're playing, throwing off the reins, going for the jugular? Would you, in the audience, notice if we didn't play like that, if we just played like a synthesiser? And when do you engage all that passion and projection? And when do you simply stand back holding the door open for your colleagues trying not to be noticed? Another anecdote. The late was doing a telly series with us, of master classes and performances of piano concertos. Brydon Thompson, also late, was conducting, and, by the way, he had the most brilliant stick technique I have ever seen. The solo piano parts have many passages which are just rippling accompaniments for ravishing solos from the principal wind players, and our principals played them appropriately ravishingly. Bolet wouldn't, or couldn't, listen and adjust to the phrasing of these soloists. He just played, magnificently relentlessly, along his absolutely pre-ordained path to the bitter end of his beautifully crafted rippling bit, seemingly oblivious to the 'tune'. Bear in mind that every orchestral soloist in each orchestra with which he played during his extensive international career would need to create a "spontaneous", inspired and personal version of the melody – that also had to run exactly on Bolet's tramlines. Which of those tasks demands the most artistry? And what about the conductor, stuck in the middle? Brydon (usually called Jack) Thompson, never one to hide his feelings or eschew expletives, began to question his own sanity during those sessions.
There is another angle on this, though. When I joined the profession there was a different culture. We played more music, with less rehearsal, there was a higher proportion of less than adequate conductors (oops, un-PC), there was a higher proportion of older and more experienced players in all orchestras, and so we didn't expect or need, or always get, much help from conductors. While I was a student at the Royal College of Music I learnt some lessons the hard way from . Sorting out the nitty gritty was just not his thing. A famous woodwind player piped up and asked him, "Is there a rit there, Sir Adrian? (i.e. are you slowing the music down?)" To which he got the stentorian reply from behind the big bushy moustache and beedy eyes, "Call yourself a musician and ask a question like that!?" He conducted here regularly. Once he seemed less than usually bothered about rehearsing (i.e. playing a definitive preview .....?), it was Beethoven 6 that day. He wasn't even going to touch the slow movement at all (a great relief to the first desk of 'cellists who have to play a knuckle-wrenching duet throughout the movement), but the new principal oboist hadn't played it before, and so she, justifiably concerned about her solos in the aviary bit at the end of the slow movement, franticly called out, "Please, Sir Adrian, I haven't played this before....." , and was cut short with a brusque, "You'll love it, my dear". , a self confessed grump, who's not late and might bite me back, conducted and trained us for years. His frequent reply to a request for more clarity was, "I'm sure your innate musicianship will show you what to do". Once, he even retorted to a principal string player (now late, but I won't divulge his name), "Don't show off your ignorance!"
I've just mentioned three conductors who had superb stick technique. I had an interesting experience of (the late), which will surprise those of you who know of his reputation, not least for turning up seriously late for rehearsals. I'll risk your censure......Q: What's the difference between Gibson and Radox bath salts? A: One bucks up the feet, and the other......! The first time I encountered him he came to the College to conduct three student premières, including one by the precociously talented John Tavener. We were an ad hoc orchestra, formed for one three hour rehearsal followed immediately by the performance. I doubt if he'd invested much time, if any, in learning those scores. He turned up on time, forgot his baton, conducted with a pencil, and was completely clear and helpful to us all as we foundered in the difficulties. We were very inexperienced and needed maximum help just to get enough basics to avert a disaster. He demonstrated top-of-the-range stick technique. We'd never seen anything like it. When I came to Scotland and discovered what a reputation he had for total lack of clarity, I was astounded. But that's exactly it. He could, but never would, dictate to experienced musicians, because he knew full well that the essential things would be better with more of the player's own personality invested in the music. Inevitably, it all got spiced up with anger and unprintable mutterings flying in both directions! Amongst the most overwhelming musical experiences of my life were doing Fidelio, Butterfly and Jenůfa with him. Visceral music-making – but a nightmare if you were looking for tinned pea predictability.
I was playing in a quartet once. We had been working on a programme for months, and we couldn't get a little turn of phrase in a Beethoven quartet right. How much should we wait and give poise to this phrase? We talked about it, all watched each other, breathed together etc, did all the usual things, and still it didn't feel right. We couldn't make it convincing. I suggested that we all close our eyes at the difficult corner, and just play what we feel. It was perfect every time, absolutely together! There. That's it. The Atom of Delight (to borrow from ). The Zen archer's arrow took itself to the bulls-eye! Try and define it, let alone measure it. Probe it and you've lost it. How many hours (years) of my life have I spent listening to conductors, often being needled on by players, trying to talk their way to that elusive point – with inevitable futility?
The relentless pressure to make CD quality performances every time we play has led to an atrophying of spontaneity in players and conductors, and a greater reliance on just those prescriptive instructions for which I was conditioned to be scared to ask. There are many things that we have to do the same as each other, but doing them the same certainly doesn't mean that we're excused using our own individual heart and soul (and mind) – that's ingredient "X" – then the more we do that the more obvious it is that at the end of the day we're all different anyway. But there are many places where differing is fine, and will even enhance the overall effect. But if we start arguing about exactly where that differing might be appropriate, we won't ever agree (not ever, believe me), and so we'll end up needing that Dictaphone approach anyway...... Maybe it's best if we just don't have enough time to fuss. Life's like that.
Anthony Sayer, Cello
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