Ian Pace is one of the UKs leading performers of contemporary piano music. He is renowned for his ability to tackle the most demanding contemporary scores, including, in 2001, the first performance of Michael Finnissy's 5 1/2 hour long 'The History of Photography in Sound'. He has commissioned and premiered a huge number of new works by some of the worlds leading composers. He is also a writer and thinker on music and co-authored 'Uncommon Ground, the music of Michael Finnissy' (Ashgate Publishing, 1997)
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Ian Pace
| Tell us something about your background.
Well, I was born in Hartlepool, in the North of England, started learning the piano at the age of six, went to study at Chetham’s School of Music at age 10, where I was for the next eight years (somewhat mixed feelings about my time there, but which opened my eyes to lots of things, which I’ll return to in a bit). My first major musical enthusiasms were Beethoven and Wagner; soon afterwards I discovered some records of Cage and Stockhausen (see below). I studied piano, percussion and composition at Chetham’s, and got interested in lots of other things in my teens, including radical politics and rock music.
I’d like to answer this question by going into more detail about convictions that stem from this period, and are much developed in my mind nowadays (or at least their nature is something I feel more able to articulate). I hope you’ll excuse the digression! During this period, certain things became very intuitively clear to me. Above all was the degree of snobbery and condescension associated with the classical music world, coupled with all the concomitant effects upon conception and performance. Chetham’s is a particularly bad place in this respect (or at least was in my time, I’m not sure if it’s changed now), full of aloof, quasi-suave, guru-like teachers who were worshipped by their students as founts of superior wisdom, mostly as a result of numerous carefully cultivated affectations both in personality and performance. I could see instantly how false and meaningless this culture was, but also its potency. To this day, I remain acutely aware of the manifestation of these qualities in the music world, and attempt to evade them if it is at all possible.
Let me see if I can elaborate on these things more specifically. For me, the most powerful aspects of music are a combination of its immediacy and its relevance. The meaning I apply to the former category might be misunderstood: I do not mean this in the sense of music’s appealing to some ‘lowest common denominator’, which might imply a maximum eschewal of ambiguity or anything else that might invite or require a more active and personalised response (rather as Clement Greenberg defined kitsch). I am instead contrasting some notion of immediacy against a wilfully applied mystification, in the sense of music’s (or any art’s) deliberately setting itself at a remove from the listener (this does happen frequently), distant from real concerns and emotions as they might be understood by non-specialist-musicians. Immediacy to me doesn’t imply any compromise with respect to content (which includes the ways in which content is made manifest by particular stylistic means – for example the use of sotto voce to convey a sense of distance), but it is in opposition to meaningless aloofness. By this I refer to a sense that music can be deliberately rendered aloof from the field of alive experience, instead aspiring to culturally-derived qualities of bourgeois ‘good taste’. These almost by definition serve to render the work inaccessible to those who haven’t been taught how to appreciate such things. I felt very strongly that this latter attribute was ever-present in common notions about music subconsciously accepted at Chetham’s, and could elaborate on how this dictates particular modes of performance (and composition). Such musical attitudes and their results are frequently praised as being ‘aristocratic’, in the sense of the musicians (and consequently their work) ‘not being like us’. From my political perspective, that which is ‘aristocratic’ or at least shows allegiance to such a class, is that which perhaps most deserves to go the way of the last Russian Tsar (or any other monarchy!). J
It’s important to point out how I don’t see these qualities as being an intrinsic feature of certain music, for example that of Debussy, which makes extensive use of blurrings, murmurings, half-presences, shadows, etc. These aren’t idle affectations on Debussy’s part, as distinct from any number of neo-impressionistic composers; on the contrary they are intrinsic to the content of the music. Debussy represents an ambivalent and mysterious emotion clearly. Someone like Thomas Adès, on the other hand, represents a rather banal emotion, or no emotion at all, in a deliberately mystificatory manner that serves no purpose other than to create a halo of ‘artiness’ around the work.
Another thing I discerned pretty early on was the extent to which, for the most part, there was a convention by which a lot of highly dissonant pitches and harmonies should be played down, whether or not they function as passing notes, in such a way that they act as decorations around a basically ‘harmonious’conception, never really disrupting that. This is and was not how I see dissonances in Beethoven or much other music. While most are resolved in some sense, their effect is something that to me can endure beyond such a momentary musical closure. These sorts of particularly English conventions seemed a strategy to ‘tame’ the music, as if to make it ‘behave itself’, somewhat akin to asking black people to keep a low profile in white society, tolerable only in a tokenistic respect without being respected as individuals with wills of their own. I notice how different approaches are in this respect in jazz in particular. Often the weaker beats will be stressed, the dissonances accentuated, etc. Now, for a variety of reasons there isn’t space to go into here, I do actually believe that the ‘classical’ mode of performance as we know it is a relatively recent thing, deriving above all from the withdrawal of performers from music of their own time as a central part of their activity. Some of the attributes now more often associated with more popular forms would, I believe, have been found in a lot of performance in the 19th century and beforehand – it is the need to re-invent this music as part of an imaginary museum that has necessitated this more recent approach. What is worst is the extent to which these approaches are ever more dogmatically applied to contemporary music (especially that by older composers who are seen to have earned their place in the ‘great tradition’). I don’t want to be dogmatic in asserting the validity of the reverse by any means – that itself would be another form of over-indebtedness to convention – just to suggest we should look critically and dialectically at these things.
In the sort of musical environment I was brought up in, music was seen as appealing to ‘eternal truths’, and the like, something timeless, beautiful in an ahistorical manner, etc. This is total nonsense, I think, and does no justice to the music concerned. Above all, such conceptions say nothing about how engaged the best works of whatever era was, about their inner dialectic with conventions, the very qualities that made such works able to assert their individuality. Now, there are various attitudes performers can take to such things. It is sometimes a bit too easy and didactic to consistently underline such things as radical modulations or harmonic shifts, by means of accentuation, rhetorical pauses, ritardandos, etc. These aspects exist in some sense in the music anyhow and make some sort of intrinsic sense within their context, not just as isolated events to be foregrounded at all times so as to create a particular didactic sub-text. I sometimes find it a bit tiresome when I hear performances that are trying to ‘tell you how to listen’ in such a preachy manner. But submerging these in such a way that never disturbs a pre-imposed sense of totality is equally problematic I think. There are other means beyond these extremes, not simply a compromise but actually also some form of inner dialectic between the various manifestations of performance ideologies in this respect. This is what I find most exciting to explore.
I go over these sorts of points continually because I’m concerned to examine precisely why classical music as so widely perceived as a twee middle-class phenomenon, particularly in Britain. I realise this is less true elsewhere, certainly in continental Europe, where there still exists some notion that culture is something to do with people’s lives and the society as a whole (I’ll say more about this later in response to another of your questions).
In Britain, it seems only two alternatives are commonly articulated: either that music should be an elite, rarefied activity that can only by ‘understood’ if one has special knowledge, training, education. or that music should aspire to the qualities found in the most heavily commercialised outpourings in more popular genres. I find this a false dichotomy, between wilful elitism pertaining to the means of communication rather than the content, or simple submission to the demands of short-term entertainment. Call me an old idealist if you like (or an old romantic, or an old modernist – these three things are not so different in my book!), but I suppose I still believe in some notion of music’s potential for universality, or at the very least in its potential to be meaningful to those outside of a small elite set who ‘know how to listen’. Just because the avant-garde were exploring new forms of musical experience doesn’t mean that the experiences themselves are only meaningful in terms of the specific techniques for bringing them about. Schoenberg was very clear about this, actually denying in a letter to Rudolf Kölisch there was much to be gained from identifying the series in one of his pieces. But there has been, as I perceive it, a profound loss of faith in contemporary music’s communicability to a wider audience, and to be honest I think a fair number of composers nowadays don’t really care. No composer should have to compromise in terms of whether what they are communicating is arcane or unusual (to be able to do so is their perogative, I believe), but slipping a few ‘clever’ quotations in to be greeted with grins of recognition by the musically literate, or other sorts of tonal or popular allusions to assert one’s credentials of accessibility, is the worst of all possible worlds, I feel.
To create good jazz, or good popular music, which has more than a transient cultural impact, is very difficult indeed – the characterisation of all products in this field as ‘entertainment’ by some classical musicians is too simplistic. It’s true that popular musics have to operate within some boundaries circumscribed by the entertainment industry (as the possibilities for the dissemination of such work exist primarily according to the dictates of the mass market), but the best work manages still to retain some real identity and purpose that goes beyond simple surface novelty (also demanded by the market). So when I make a distinction between ‘art’ and ‘entertainment’, it shouldn’t be seen as identical with a distinction between ‘high’ and ‘low’ culture.
To this day, I do believe that I can honestly say that many deep-seated musical feelings come as much from listening as a teenager to Hendrix or Captain Beefheart or Public Image Limited as they did from listening to Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, Brahms, Debussy, etc., during the same time. I’m a little reticent saying this, having seen how commonly various musicians mention such things in an attempt to gain street-cred. It would be ridiculous to attempt to imply some imitation of stylistic aspects of the former category when I play, aspects which are deeply rooted within personalities coming from a very different sort of social and cultural background from myself. It’s more a question, for me, of trying to understand how this sort of music communicates itself, what it communicates, and thus somehow attempting to learn from those things when working within a different musical field. A lot of affective categories that are common to ‘classical’ performance would be meaningless in these other contexts.
In my text-music piece for speaking clarinettist and speaking pianist, “…quasi una fantasmagoria Op. 120 No. 2…” I tried to engage with some of these questions. I made a list of some of the sorts of rather contrived theatrical gestures that various performers use to woo a middle-class audience (sometimes making lists of such things at concerts I was at), as well as other musical ‘expressive’ tropes. In the piece, I have the clarinettist, in between playing, describing such things (in caricatured fashion!) in a flat, almost incomprehending voice, whilst never actually doing them. His spoken text is then gradually infiltrated by another narrative, of a traumatic event which he describes as if it were part of his own life (based loosely on a true story I heard about, modifying it in a way that attempted to relate both to 19th century tales of unrequited love (as found in various lieder cycles) and vaguely to some events in Brahms’s life, purely personal interests here not of any great significance to the work as a whole). So you have the contrast between the canned ‘emotions’ that he describes, as if having been instructed to do them, and this very harrowing story that might be causing him profound emotional consternation. I’m fascinated by the discrepancies between the outward personae that people project and what else might lie within, especially the ways these things clash. I suppose I’ve always felt that music-making at best involves an attempt to communicate the inner qualities, but a number of performances I hear aren’t like that at all, instead creating a contrived outward musical and theatrical exterior to hide behind (the same is true of numerous actors). Anyhow, the pianist has a quite different part, in which he plays with books under his arms so as to cause physical discomfort (as some teachers would prescribe) whilst describing in rapturous but demented tones some imaginary piano teacher (actually based on a real figure, but whose name I’m not going to mention! – nothing like any teacher I ever had) who has an almost dominatrix-like hold over him. This eventually leads to disillusionment and bitterness on his part.
Let me return to your initial question! After Chets, I went to Oxford, where I did a maths degree; after that I went to the Juilliard School in New York on a Fulbright Scholarship to work with Gyorgy Sándor, who I’d known I wanted to study with since age 17 or so. I had at that time discovered his book On Piano Playing, which to this day I believe to the most vital book of its type on approaches to the instrument and the human performing mechanism. I had a wonderful time studying with him (notwithstanding the fact that we disagreed quite vehemently on such things as contemporary music and period performance, two of my principal interests nowadays) – he’s an inspiring and immensely generous figure, whose élan for life and vitality remained undiminished at around age 80. Whilst I wouldn’t remotely want to play Mozart, Beethoven and some others in the way he does, I was and still am bowled over by the incredible conviction, unforced personality, joy, ferocity, lyricism and much else in most things he plays. His approach to the keyboard allows for the widest possible spectrum of attack and touch, together with vast possibilities in terms of types of legato (of which there are many), phrasing, articulation, more so than in most other schools of piano playing I’ve known. These are things I’d like to feel I picked up very much from Sándor.
How did you become interested in Contemporary Music?
At age 9-10 I discovered some records of Cage and
Stockhausen in my local library, which were revelatory (I think they were of
the Cage Concerto for Prepared Piano and Orchestra, and Stockhausen Kontakte,
Gesang der Jungeling, and Momente). I knew nothing about how
these pieces were put together, or what they were ‘supposed’ to signify at this
time, they just simply grabbed me from the beginning. Essentially it all
continued from there – my next big enthusiasms in the contemporary field were
for Xenakis, Nono, Ligeti and for a while some Reich. Other things including
Kagel, Berio, Lachenmann, Feldman, Ferneyhough, Finnissy, Sciarrino and lots of
others came a little later. Few people at Chetham’s had much interest in or
knowledge of new music, whether staff or students, so it was essentially an
interest I pursued on my own. Obviously I know the work of these composers and
many others a lot more deeply nowadays, though I feel that’s as much a result
of simple continued listening as anything else. Some enthusiasms have ebbed and
flowed (some music is very exciting at first but the impact doesn’t always
last) – I blow very hot and cold about the music of Scelsi, for example, but
most of them have remained. Whilst interested in various composers sometimes
considered marginal figures, I suppose my tastes gravitate mostly towards a
relatively standard canon of post-war European and American music. I don’t
really believe this canon (or earlier ones) is a wholly arbitrary construction,
whilst accepting that some canons should be re-examined over time.
Over the years you have had a great deal of involvement with the music of Michael Finnissy. What attracts you to his music?
When I first heard his English Country-Tunes, it was
a revelation – here was an English composer who wrote music that somehow spoke
of an England I could recognise (far removed from the picture-postcard reality
or polite social conventions that I perceived in much else written in Britain).
This wasn’t a stable reality, nor one untouched by sexuality, passion,
violence, and so much else that lurks beneath the surface of British society
however much people try to hide it. I find these qualities in Beethoven,
Schumann, and many others as well. I know a number of composers in Britain had
a similar experience when they were at the first performance of Finnissy’s
ensemble piece alongside at the end of the 1970s, including James
Dillon, Richard Barrett, Richard Emsley, James Clarke, all of who for a while
afterwards showed an influence of this apocalyptic music (though at the very
time when Finnissy himself was changing direction!). It’s hard to describe
quite what an impact this sort of music can make when you’ve never heard
anything like it before, nor realised it was possible within such a culture.
Anyhow, as you say I’ve had much involvement with Finnissy’s
music, but my various perspectives upon it have changed quite a bit over the
years. I’m writing more about the music at the moment, specifically a monograph
on the History of Photography in Sound, and trying to engage more
critically with the work than has perhaps hitherto been the case. I’m also
writing at length about the implications of differing perspectives upon the
work in terms of performance practice. I sort of feel the need to wear two hats
with regards to Finnissy’s music, one when trying to play it convincingly, the
other when writing about and trying to maintain some degree of objective
critical distance. The two things can and should feed off each other, of
course, surely performing and musicology ought to be interdependent practices.
There are complex issues involved which I’ll try to
summarise here. At the time I first began to play Finnissy’s music I was most
interested in the late romantic pianistic tradition, both its literature
(Rachmaninoff, Scriabin, Busoni, Godowsky, Grainger, Sorabji, etc.) and performers,
but also equally in the modernist work of Stockhausen, Nono, Kagel, Xenakis,
Cage and numerous others. Finnissy more than anyone else seemed to find a way
to bring these very different musical movements together. On top of this I also
felt strongly a conflict, a battle between extremes, between on one hand a type
of yearning for a very English lyricism, even a nostalgia for a distant,
idealised world, and a much more hard-edged European critical sensibility on
the other hand. So much of the tension in Finnissy’s work comes from a sort of
epic battle between seemingly irreconcilable extremes. And though these battles
have taken different forms over the years in his work, I don’t think the
tensions have subsided. That’s very much how Finnissy is as a person, either
passionately embracing something or violently rejecting it, with little middle
ground. It doesn’t exactly make for calm, peaceful or even reflective moods,
but it certainly produces a good deal of very exciting music. It’s a
temperament I can relate to very strongly.
His Gershwin Arrangements, which I think are amongst
his most important works, exemplify these traits, more so than sometimes
realised. On one hand they can easily be interpreted as simple homages,
slightly more elaborate and chromatic than the originals, even decorative. For
those of his ‘modernistically’ inclined admirers these works were problematic
for these perceived reasons, and seemed something of a retreat from the blazing
and uncompromising earlier music. But I think the pieces go much deeper than
that. As with most of his music, what counts is less the idioms he inhabits
than the ways in which he makes them his own (which are substantial). The inner
parts or even the accompaniments play a quite fundamentally different role to
those in the bare original texts (or even compared to some of the particular
performances of them that he alludes to). They are murky, highly chromatic,
often subverting the implied tonality of the melody (which is something that
Schumann and Brahms did as well, though not to the same degree) and as such
assume a life of their own that is much more important than simple ‘filling’.
The rhythms sometimes push forward or hold back by the use of rhythmic
distortions from the basic pulse. Sometimes a recognisable melody is submerged
within a more mysterious texture, sometimes it’s presented incessantly, almost
parodistically. A tonic resolution such as that at the end of ‘Embraceable You’
seems to me have quite an ironic quality. In essence, he offers startling new
perspectives on the originals. The pieces in the first book especially have a
rather bittersweet quality and, to me, a frequent sense of estrangement and
sadness. One person once described as like hearing them from outside the window
of the room where they are being played, another as like ‘a tired pianist
sitting in a lounge trying to recapture an old dust-ladened flame, Casablanca?’
in my recording (though this wasn’t necessarily a complement!). That’s very
much how I conceive of them.
I think one can see a dialogue at place in this work,
between outlooks of nostalgia and a recognition of its futility, every bit as
much as is the case in English Country-Tunes. These pieces can suggest
new ways of conceiving the earlier works as well (the same is true with respect
to the recent music of James Dillon, I find). Finnissy seems to be searching
for some way to bring his arguably modernistic concerns to bear upon material
so pregnant with implications as that of Gershwin.
How I play them is sometimes very different from how he
himself interprets them (which is itself not a fixed quantity – as with
Stravinsky or Boulez, his interpretations and musical priorities have changed
substantially over time), or that of various other interpreters (which is often
as different again). I’ve been performing some of them quite a bit again
recently, trying new approaches, moving away from a relative equilibrium
between parts which was my earlier attitude, something I found created a sense
of precariousness and latency, towards different strategies of voicing,
sometimes foregrounding particular inner parts that interest me.
Using found musical reference, in a recognisable form is a
tricky and perilous business. Listeners seem in my experience to latch onto the
tonal references, find comfort when encountering something familiar. The impact
made upon the listener by the ‘return of an old friend’ (as was described by
one critic in the context of the Verdi Transcriptions) can very easily
supersedes any more individually distinctive concerns, pushing them strongly
into the background. The appearance of a quite sumptuous quote from Berlioz’s Romeo
et Juliette in the first piece from the History of Photography in Sound,
or the use of a left-hand tonal melody in the Ernani transcription, do
tend to have this sort of impact, I’ve found when gauging listeners’ reactions
– certainly many seem to identify these as emotional high-points. My strategy
when first playing the History was to try and present the passage in
question in a rather distant and more ‘objectivised’ manner, with sparing use
of pedal, and a greater concentration upon the other parts than the found
melody. Playing it on subsequent occasions to Finnissy, I’m not sure he liked
this, so I changed it, making it a little more expansive and resonant, though I
still find it difficult to be convinced by this moment in the piece in that
manner – there’s something questionable when such a high-point in terms of
warmth derives primarily from the fact that the melody and style in question
weren’t created by the composer.
This was similar to a strategy I tried in the recording of
the Gershwins. I was also searching for all the other elements I felt to
be more ‘modernistic’ in the way I describe above and in my response to your
first question – the moments of discontinuity, fragmentation, emotional
instability and volatility, the ironies, sometimes bitter, the opacity caused
by the dense interweaving of contrapuntal writing, etc. While calling these
things ‘modernistic’, I do believe they have a long history in music, way
before what’s now considered the modern era (and ‘modernism’ is to me more of
an attitude than a style, and as such has existed for numerous centuries). I
suppose a more ‘romanticised’ approach (in the sense that the term ‘romantic’
has come to mean nowadays, which I have argued elsewhere constitutes a quite
different conception from that of the early romantics, expressing a politicised
aesthetic of upheaval at the time when the bourgeoisie were a revolutionary
class) would tend to foreground the melodic line, stress organic continuity,
treat the rhythmic complexities more as rubato to be smoothly integrated
into the basic line, flexibilities in the pulse rather than
interruptions or discontinuities, play the more dissonant pitches as passing
notes. The result could be lush, exotic, but ultimately not a lot more than
comforting and diverting, at least to my ears, not ‘asking the difficult
questions’ that I believe the music does. Even occasionally some of Finnissy’s
own performances (depending on the mood of the occasion, these things can
change substantially as I said before!) did strike me in this way. It interests
me how his playing (sometimes of the same works) in the 1980s and early 1990s
had a much more hard-edged and ‘objective’ quality on the whole (I have a tape
of him playing the first book of the Verdi Transcriptions that’s quite
startling in this respect!); nowadays it’s become more fluid, rounded, less
angular, even in some of the same pieces. There are major exceptions to these
general trends, of course, but it remains fascinating to me to see how the
texts (which I know Finnissy would say have a life of their own after they’ve
been committed to paper) seem to be so continually reinterpretable in different
circumstances.
Interpretation, as I see it, is at heart a process by which
one ascertains which aspects of a work of music the performer believes to be
most vital and relevant, and attempts to articulate these in particular. I
would describe this as a type of ‘prioritising of information’; most important
works contain more potential qualities within them than could probably ever be
elucidated by a single performance or recording, so the interpreter makes
priorities according to aesthetic choices. During the period from about
1996-2001 when I was most deeply involved with Finnissy’s music, a common
perception from both traditionalists and radicals alike was of the recent music
in particular constituting a retreat, a final acceptance and thus reaffirmation
of some rather conservative English ideals. For the traditionalists this was a
reason for celebration, for the radicals a reason for scepticism. Certainly I
remember arguing most vehemently the case for Finnissy’s modernity against some
of those composers at one time deeply influenced by his work who now saw it as
rather marginal and provincially English. Of course Finnissy most definitely is
English, as is any English composer (I’m sure anyone from abroad can see this
instantly, just as we in the Anglo-Saxon world can immediately identify a
French composer, say), and there’s no reason why this should be seen as a bad
thing. But I think there is a level of self-reflection about this sort of
‘Englishness’ in Finnissy’s work, one of the things that makes his music deeper
than that of some others. Anyhow, during that period I suppose my priority was
to make the most of those attributes of the music that I thought resisted such
an easy conceptualisation. In many ways I still feel the importance of this,
sometimes more so than ever, but I’m also now interested in a particular type
of dialectical engagement with the music’s traditionality and its simultaneous
refusal of that very aspect.
There are those that would charge Finnissy, drawing as he
does on such a wide range of musical reference and semi-quotation, with being a
cultural tourist? While this is certainly true of many of Finnissy’s lesser
imitators, who swell the ranks of the fringes of the new music scene in London,
indeed of a great many younger composers in Britain today, I’ve always felt it
to be an unfair characterisation of Finnissy himself. This is an issue I’m
trying to grapple with in the monograph I’m writing on the History.
There are a few occasions, including some in the History, where I think
Finnissy’s resort to stylistic allusion becomes a bit too easy and manneristic,
especially in a piece such as the Seventeen Immortal Homosexual Poets
(taking a Greek folk-song to characterise Kavafis, etc.). While the
self-characterisation in the music is multi-layered, complex and deep,
portrayals of others sometimes don’t go much beyond the level of stereotype.
Where in particular I break with Finnissy’s self-conception
of some of his music, including the History, is with respect to the
importance of its referentiality. Much of the music he sources is highly
obscure; engaging with that on the level of actual recognition (either of
specific source or stylistic attributes) is something that’s only ever going to
be accessible to a select few. The sorts of ‘latent narratives’ that underlie
the works may be of interest to musicologists (of which I’m one, of course) and
composers, but I’m not convinced they are necessary to a full appreciation of
the work for listeners. If in this respect they were absolutely necessary, that
would place severe limits on the music’s wider cultural relevance. I know that
isn’t how Finnissy sees things, but I find that viewpoint elitist in a most
negative sense. For me they aren’t anymore fundamental than say the various
forms of superstitious or religious numerologies are in Bach or Schoenberg or
Messiaen. Or the hidden ciphers in Schumann. I suppose I’m concerned with the
wider meanings of a work of music as they might manifest themselves to those
other than specialists and devotees. Obviously parallels can be made with
reading the multi-allusive works of Joyce or Pound or others; one could argue
that (within reason) these works stand or fall to the extent they are
potentially communicative ‘in themselves’ (about which I’m ambivalent, and not sure
whether I’d like to assert this as a criteria). But literature is different to
media like music, abstract visual art and dance which are able to bypass a
second-hand semantic level. I come to judgements about Finnissy’s work to the
extent that it can work in this way, which I do believe to be the case.
I was listening recently on the radio to a performance of
Finnissy’s Wild Flowers for two pianos, in which everything seemed
nicely gauged, balanced, timings not too long or too short, dynamics running into
each other, same was true for shifts between material, clusters rounded off,
played with a ‘nice sound’, and thinking how different a ‘Finnissy’ this is to
the one I admire. How that conception relates to Finnissy’s changing
perceptions of his own work I can’t say, but to me it seemed to turn what I
perceive as a lacerating, sometimes terrifying and also deeply sensuous piece
into a version of English landscape painting (even if of a more exotic subject
than is usual). It interests me how for a lot of English tastes everything has
to resemble some sort of visual image or landscape. Thinking about this helps
me identify more clearly precisely what it is that excites me at best about
Finnissy’s music, the sense in which to my mind it resists certain pre-given
expectations, roaming far and wide towards a much more transcendent vision.
Richard Barrett described once how so much British music dealt with social
pleasantries, whereas Finnissy’s work appealed to him because he seemed to be
‘laying himself bare’. That’s very much how I feel as well. He doesn’t simply
adhere to typical English ideals of organic, non-dialectical continuity and
‘closure’; his work is much more edgy, incorporating so many things that can’t
simply be reduced to a mere functional role in terms of the grand design.
Actually these qualities seem to have become more rather than less pronounced
in the more material-specific works since around 1980; in various earlier
pieces such as As when upon a trancèd summer night, Offshore, all.fall.down
or even alongside to an extent, the finer details, whilst not arbitrary,
are quite generalised and for the most part simply colour in the wider
structural and dramatic procedures. With the introduction of a more
quasi-thematic approach later on, there seemed to be a greater dialectic at
play between outward thematic development and external macroscopic procedures.
Attaining a workable balance between these distinct musical attributes is one
of the hardest things when playing the music, trying to avoid the pitfalls
either of a lack of dramatic and structural focus and tightness on one hand or
of too-great anonymity of the inner material on the other.
Maybe there is sometimes a certain wilful ‘artiness’ in some
of Finnissy’s music that can become manneristic and a little pretentious (as
with many of his programme notes as well!). At best, his stylisation can serve
the purpose of somehow heightening the emotional effect by a process of
quasi-irony (as you find in Genet and Pasolini, say, aestheticising depravity);
though occasionally an all-purpose stylisation can overwhelm the content,
reducing to little more than a few blips on the surface. There is a recording
of the Strauss-Walzer in which I feel this very deeply, with ample use
of pedal, flattening out of most discontinuities and inner drama, leaving just
a decorative surface which sounds closer to the sort of kitsch that I expect
from the likes of Thomas Adès or other British middle-of-the-road composers.
How much this is to do with performance, how much to do with composition and
conception, is something I’m a little ambivalent about in the context of these
particular works.
In a review of the book Uncommon Ground which I
co-authored and co-edited at the time of Finnissy’s 50th birthday,
Arnold Whittall fairly criticised the fact that the authors rarely questioned
Finnissy’s own way of seeing things. I know for myself that I see the music
differently when I’ve analysed the sketches, interrogated the
beneath-the-surface network of music reference, etc. But as I said before,
nowadays I’m trying more to consider how the music comes across to someone
without that prior knowledge, how the work stands up regardless of those things
that would perhaps never be apperceptible from mere listening alone, even for
those with a wide musical knowledge. That said, I do describe the sources and
the nature of their transformation in my writings on the music, but less to
‘explain’ than to demystify. As with Ferneyhough’s most outwardly
complex music, some are in awe of Finnissy’s work simply because of the wealth
of the detail; I simply want to enable analysts and critics to move beyond that
rather superficial level. If you know the character of Morris Zapp in David
Lodge’s campus novels, he has a project to write a definitive multi-volume work
on Jane Austen, attempting to cover the novels from every possible angle so as
to hopefully put an end to the burdgeoning industry on her work. But he finds
this to be futile as, in his words, ‘every decoding is another encoding’. This
is a predicament I’m well aware of!
What excites you about a piece of music - what keeps you interested?
Often a quality of excess. I don’t mean simply lots
of notes or many complex rhythms, etc., rather a sense that music ‘exceeds’ the
expectations that might be placed upon it. Music that makes me hear things
differently, that explores emotional trajectories lying beyond other
experiences I’ve had, music that deals with real intimacy or vulnerability even
in ways that are uncomfortable, music that stimulates thoughts, ideas, through
the listening process. Music that looks anew at the medium within which it is
working, music that actually questions the received tropes of ‘expression’ as
we know them, or that questions the particular reified constructions of the
‘masterpiece’ ideal (feminist criticism has questioned this, and the cult of
the ‘great composer’ - rightly so, even if I don’t necessarily share some of
the conclusions).
But more than any of these things,
I might say music that demonstrates a quality of empathy. It’s very
difficult to locate precisely how this comes about, but I feel confident that I
know it when I hear it. I’m talking about a perception I get when I feel that
the composer (or performer) in question somehow communicates worldliness,
thoughts for others, a sense of inhabiting a world outside of the confines of
their own psyche, all those other most humane qualities, without resorting to
emotional manipulation. How to put this? – maybe I find it more convincing when
a composer is prepared to ‘present’ a subjective vision in their music, and
allow their audience the dignity of engaging with it in whatever way they see
fit, rather than attempting to calculate the desired response.
And what turns you off ?
Music that obviously ‘plays to the
gallery’, especially that which cynically employs tried-and-tested clichés
whose effect is well-known, to make a ‘big splash’. Alas I’ve heard all too
many pieces like that. Music that has a megalomaniac quality, that creates a
portentous grandiosity without much in the way of inner self-reflexivity. Music
that just latches onto the current fashionable tendencies. Music which somehow
communicates only reified abstract concerns, with little sense of a deeper
subjective motivation. One might reasonably ask how I can reconcile this latter
idea with an interest in the music of Cage, say. I’d suggest that for all the
non-intentionality and anti-subjectivity in Cage’s music, I still get,
powerfully, an impression of how in love he is with this world of sounds that
he presents. Somehow his work maintains a humane quality in that respect.
Many of the more challenging pieces you play, for example, works by Ferneyhough or Richard Barrett, presumably require a considerable amount of preparation. Do you think the audience needs to "prepare" for such work as well?
No I don’t, not in the sense that
I think they need bring specialist knowledge and training for the reasons I
mentioned above; simply a degree of open-mindedness to music’s possibilities is
required. If one is looking for music to wash over, to entertain, to titillate,
‘tickle and seduce’ (to use the parlance of one radio presenter) in whatever
manner, I’d say forget it. Those qualities don’t interest me much in music or
any artform, nor do the types of performances which spoon-feed the audience.
That is often at the heart of a certain type of received ‘musicality’, the use
of various rather mannered rhetorical devices to telegraph harmonic shifts,
modulations, etc. The foregrounding of one voice above others in a contrapuntal
texture (which itself relates, I believe, for the need of some dogmatic sense
of hierarchies which has wider social implications) operates in a similar
manner. By no means whatsoever, though, would I advocate some ‘just play the
notes’ or ‘let the music speak for itself’ approach (neither is possible, I
believe). With regard to Ferneyhough, the first work of his I heard was the Second
String Quartet in the fantastic, electrifying first recording by the
Arditti Quartet. This immediately struck me through the violence of its
expression, the sense of fantasy, the labyrinthine trajectories through
different states of mind (sometimes simultaneously), the passion in the music.
All these thoughts and emotions communicated themselves most vividly on a sonic
level to me. I didn’t know much else about the music, how it was constructed or
anything like that, nor do I think that matters particularly. But for all the
vehemence of expression in the music (it amazes me when people think it’s
‘inexpressive’; if anything the expression is almost too much to take!), I
still found it allowed me the dignity of engaging with it in my own way,
stimulating rather than circumscribing the imagination.
As a listener, I suppose I look
for the type of music and performance that allows me some opportunity to
interact in a non-passive manner, to reach my own personal conclusions and
responses in a sense, rather than being lulled into submission. Thus I try
nowadays to create something like that in performance.
What do you see as the role (intended and actual) of new music in the modern world?
That’s a very big question! Often
bypassed by many in that world too easily – it is important! Let me see if I
can sketch an outline answer to it, perhaps speaking in more general terms
about contemporary culture? What I certainly don’t think new music is
about is the promotion of the ‘inner worlds’ of a few choice people, who by
definition are of a more elevated importance than everyone else. On the
contrary, I try to approach all music and culture as something ‘in the world’,
and try to relate it to that wider world around it, not just to the individual
creator’s particular sense of priorities. Can a work of Xenakis or
Lachenmann or Sciarrino or Barrett potentially have some meaning to a manual
labourer, or a single mother on a sink estate? I think it can, I really believe
that, without necessitating that they take an idolising fascination in the
personalities behind it. Without remotely wanting to diminish the significance
of the subjective component of artistic creation (on the contrary, I think it’s
paramount), I believe the resultant work is ultimately of far greater
importance than the personalities behind it or even their particular
intentions.
Let me put it this way: Culture
with a capital ‘C’ (in the sense of the products of individual labour that we
generally refer to in this sense) exists in a broader cultural (with a small
‘c’) arena. That broader culture, at any particular time and place, comes with
all its own attributes, in terms of forms of general cultural practice in
speech, human behaviour and interactions, ways of finding pleasure outside of
working hours, styles, fashions and so on, either those market-promoted or
those arising more spontaneously through localised cultural practices, ways of
thinking (dominant ideologies) that are prevalent in the mass media, etc.
Culture with a capital ‘C’ can either simply reflect these values, ideologies,
aesthetics in a passive manner (that’s essentially what entertainment does,
hence why it’s reassuring), or it can look beyond them. The possibility of the
latter is one of the things that keeps a society alive, and I think it’s
important to preserve the conditions that make this an available option. In
musical terms, that has to do with some of the virtues I mentioned above,
expanding perception and encouraging ‘critical listening’, perhaps (after all,
we’re bombarded by music and sounds during most of our awake hours), in the
sense of encouraging listeners to question the ways in which music is used to
manipulate (you’ll find that in any shopping mall) and as such hear things
differently and with more acute forms of perception. Discovering new sounds or
their combinations, or new forms of temporal experience, sharing new types of
emotional or other experiences and sensations.
But let me also try and address
why I think this question is important, indeed vital. We live in a time, in the
Western world, where subsidy for new music and contemporary culture (an essential
prerequisite for anything that doesn’t answer first and foremost to the laws of
the market) is under attack and decreasing all the time. A market-driven
culture can just about handle hallowed celebrations of the works of the
established great men (focussing attention on the personalities more than the
work), but has little use for a continuing challenging and searching culture
driven by younger figures. Without some notion of the importance of culture
over and above entertainment (whether or not given a highbrow gloss), what
arguments do we have to support the maintenance of such subsidy, other than
those from a self-styled elite on the basis that a select few are ‘better’, and
as such deserve privileged treatment? Those in the wider world wouldn’t accept
this, I believe, and why should they?
How do you go about programming your concerts?
When I have the freedom to choose
a programme entirely myself (which isn’t so often, but that’s fair enough), I
look for interesting new ways of combining works (sometimes old and new) so
that particular juxtapositions can throw new light on how we perceive any of
the works in question. I’m always looking for works from the past which
anticipate concerns of the present, for this reason. Sometimes I put together programmes
with a certain ‘theme’, for example the ‘Text and Music’ concert I did with
Carl Rosman (in which we presented a wide variety of works from the 19th
and 20th century that combined spoken text with music, often on
political themes, trying to connect the melodramas of Schumann and Liszt with
the darkly ironic quasi-cinematic world of Kagel, or the text/music works of
Rzewski and Finnissy, or even the works combining spoken phonemes with notes,
by Globokar), or my ‘Meta-Piano’ concert (where I presented numerous works that
somehow foreground the factor of ‘key noise’ (the sound of fingers on the keys)
on the piano, including those of Bussotti, Sciarrino, Kagel, N.A. Huber,
Lachenmann and others), or my ‘Modern Mystics’ concert (looking again at processes
of mystification in music, in relation to the music of Debussy, Scriabin,
Radulescu, Guerrero and others, attempting to suggest there might be a better
definition of ‘mysticism’ (to do with transcending the ‘known’) than that of
wilful obfuscation). I have lots of other ideas in that respect at the moment,
including a programme called ‘Music pro and contra globalisation’ (presenting
various works that employ a wide and diverse range of musical materials,
leaving the audience to decide which of these present some critical perspective
on the very fact of being faced by such a plethora of musical information, and
which go little further than espousing a ‘shopping mall’ aesthetic).
Otherwise, I suppose I simply pick
pieces that I think are very worth hearing, or which I’d like to think I have
something new to say about, then find some non-arbitrary context within which
to present them. The format of a concert in terms of programming (not to
mention other aspects of presentation, duration, etc.) is something which
interests me very much, and which I think offers many more possibilities than
are commonly used. How we hear one work is to some extent affected by what we
have heard before it, and this in turn affects the piece we hear afterwards.
Now, one can address this in many different ways, presenting pieces with some
common attribute so as to foreground their differences, presenting highly
distinct works to make something of the contrast between opposing aesthetic
outlooks, or constructing a programme almost like one might create a work of
music. Simply, I think, it’s worth considering the implications for listeners
of what one juxtaposes in this respect. There are many stimulating things to be
done with respect to combining music with visual art, poetry, film, etc. as
well, that create some genuine interaction rather than just idle eclecticism.
How do you respond to unsolicited work- do you give feedback? Do you ever commission new work yourself?
I get lots of works sent to me,
for which I’m very pleased, though often a bit slow in responding! Ideally, I’d
like to respond to new pieces as often as possible (it can be tricky if I don’t
feel so positive about the works in question), as I’m always genuinely
interested in what new composers are doing or trying to do. I’ve commissioned
many new works myself (with the aid of promoters, radio stations, festivals,
etc.), and hope to commission many more. It’s one of the most rewarding aspects
of being involved with new music; I’d like to think that a number of composers
have felt able or stimulated to explore wider into the ‘unknown’ when writing
for me, knowing that I’m so interested in that. I can list so many wonderful
pieces in this respect that I’ve either commissioned or premiered: Richard
Barrett’s Tract, William Brooks’ Wallpaper Pieces, Aaron
Cassidy’s ten monophonic miniatures for piano, Philip Clark’s Home,
Pascal Dusapin’s Études and À Quia, James Dillon’s The
Book of Elements, James Erber’s Abiya¸ Brian Ferneyhough’s Opus
Contra Naturam, Michael Finnissy’s History of Photography in Sound
or Recent Britain, Christopher Fox’s Prime Site, Volker Heyn’s 203,
Wieland Hoban’s when the panting STARTS, Ross Lorraine’s Tacet,
Alwynne Pritchard’s Invisible Cities, Gerhard Stäbler’s Internet 1.1,
Serge Verstockt’s Noumena II, Walter Zimmermann’s Blautwerk,
and many many more. There are still many things possible to explore more widely
when writing for the piano (including further exploration of the uses of ‘key
noise’ or the use of some disjunction between physical action and sonic result,
as actually goes back quite a while in the history of keyboard writing, as well
as more conventional concerns) that I want to encourage composers to delve
into.
What are you working on at the moment
Right at the moment I’m finishing
off the Sonata for Piano of Gilbert Amy, a neglected, even forgotten,
work, which to me occupies a major position within contemporary piano
literature. Amy expands some of the techniques and ideas used in Boulez’s Piano
Sonata No. 3, but to a much greater extent. He similarly presents multiple
trajectories for the pianist to choose between in the course of some of the
work, involving different coloured materials (six colours) with differing
characteristics in the score (which of course is very expensive to print!). The
possible structures obtainable are fascinating and quite diverse, each
presenting the individual components (which are themselves sharply
characterised, with an entrancing range of sonority, gesture and expression) in
different lights. Another movement is more pointillistic, and also involves a
high degree of structural choice on the part of the performer. How to do this
and make some sort of sense of the music is a big challenge, but one I
enormously relish. I played the piece to the composer, who seemed very pleased.
When playing some of the short staccato punctuations that occur frequently in
the piece, I offered to him a variety of different types of attack, from a
pointed ‘throwing’ motion to somewhat more cushioned ‘press and quickly
release’ type. Amy’s preference was definitely in the second region, feeling
the former to be too harsh, whereas when I’d played James Clarke’s Landschaft
mit Glockenturm I to the composer earlier that week, his preferences were
quite the reverse, for the more harsh and austere effect thus produced. Both
used the same notational conventions, demonstrating how the meaning of such
symbols can vary (perhaps some increased notational specificity in this respect
as a general rule would be no bad thing).
I’d like to mention another piece
in particular that I’ve been working on recently. As I said before, I’m always
interested in young composers who are trying to create something genuinely new
and distinctive, and one piece in particular that’s struck me as being like
this is when the panting STARTS by Wieland Hoban, a composer in his
mid-twenties, born and raised in Britain but now living in Germany. This to me
is an incredible work, written by one who has the most acute awareness of all
the received tropes of contemporary musical expression and pianistic writing,
and is able to move beyond them without losing some sense of spontaneity. The
piece is all notated on ten staves, one for each finger, and makes the physical
choreography of the performance a prominent factor (most clear in live
performance, of course). The pianist uses ten fingers rather than two hands, as
it were. There are a myriad of detailed articulative and rhythmic interactions
between the different parts, whilst the piece maintains an acute sense of
harmonic structure. Often Wieland deliberately writes awkward fingerings, to
create a type of expressive tension through physical difficulty (most
spectacularly in a section towards the end where the right hand is ‘locked’ in
a place high-up on the keyboard, traversing a series of the same pitches with
near-impossible fingerings, almost creating a degree of indeterminacy);
elsewhere he sort of ‘decouples’ the pedalling from the rest of the action, so
it attains an autonomous life of its own in a quite unique way (very different,
say, from the work of Lachenmann in this respect). But these things aren’t just
novel ‘effects’; on the contrary, I have a sense of how each of the ‘moments’
(the piece is structured around reasonably clearly discernible blocks of
activity) is integrated into a deeper set of structural relationships.
Continually Wieland seems to be undercutting habitual perception and
expectation; of course this can turn into a mannerism of its own, as Wieland
well knows, but he manages to avoid that, I think. I get a sense of some very
real, deep and intimate expression that is trying to forge a route for itself
out from all the expressive clichés that have now attained a reified status. As
such, the expression itself is all the more ‘real’ to me. It looks forward, and
opens up all sorts of possibilities, both on a momentary and structural level,
of how one might find new dimensions for composition and piano-writing in the
future. I’m immensely proud that it was written for me. It’s also of course
hugely challenging to play – I’m working on it again at the moment for another
performance in February.
When working on and performing Wieland’s piece, I was
thinking so strongly ‘THIS is why I play new music’. It’s so incredibly
rewarding to feel one has played a part in making something genuinely new and
visionary possible. It was similar with a set of pieces called ten
monophonic miniatures for pianist by the young American composer Aaron
Cassidy written for me a few years ago, in which he explored a wide range of
new oblique techniques for striking the piano keys (some very difficult in
their sequences, and others a bit painful!) so as to foreground the parameter
of ‘key noise’, building upon some of my ideas on this subject.
What are your plans for the future?
It’s difficult to look too far ahead, as it’s so hard to
predict what will happen in the musical and wider world (and developments in
the latter undoubtedly affect the former, in my opinion)! Obviously I hope to
continue playing more new works and those I’ve already performed and
particularly believe in, especially when it’s possible to play these to an
audience outside of those in the profession. I want to find lots of new
programming possibilities, in particular combining the old with the new, and
want to keep exploring in depth new perspectives upon the more standard piano
literature. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and lecturing about this in
recent years, especially in this paper ‘Rethinking Romanticism’ that I’ve given
in a number of places, suggesting that our whole notion of what is a ‘romantic’
style is really a 20th century conception. I’m fascinated by the
period of early romanticism, when the composers of the time continued to
inhabit some classical conventions but work outwards from within those. The
very tension between these two factors is part of what makes the music so
vivid, and enables it to project out into the future (in terms of its inner
dialectics). When the classicism of this music is overridden (as I feel it is very
frequently), or conversely when the music is made to conform to reified
classical models, you lose a lot of that inner tension. The music enacted
radical operations upon conventions, characteristically of the radical
bourgeoisie of its time, when they were a revolutionary class, as I mentioned
earlier (remember that Marx spent a large portion of his output praising the
achievements of the bourgeoisie in this respect). The relationship of
individualism to genre or inherited form, and the questions of which of these
two aspects one might foreground the more in performance, is something I want
to continue to explore more and more in performances and research.
I’m also compiling a book of interviews of my own with a
wide range of leading composers and performers, attempting to talk with these
composers about wider issues than simply their life and work, engaging with
issues of culture, society, the state of new music, etc., then discuss their
work within the context of these wider concerns. This seems rather different to
the usual style of composer-interviewing, but I think so far it’s proved
productive, with some difficulties at times, though! I don’t see musicians as
super-beings, founts of superior wisdom, I see them as human beings like anyone
else, and hope to communicate something of this in the interviews, by
attempting to get them to demonstrate that they do take some interest in other
aspects of the wider world as well as their own music. This might, hopefully,
help in projecting the message that these composers’ works themselves do entail
some degree of wider engagement, contrary to what is commonly believed by those
outside the musical world. I’m also trying to assemble a book of a lot of my
writings and papers (and some new work) to do with performance and its
implications.
I started composing again in 2002 after a six-year hiatus.
At the moment, I’m mostly interested in work combining spoken text and music,
drawing upon study of other works in this genre. I wrote a big work for Carl
Rosman and I, which I spoke about earlier. I was quite pleased with this, and
it’s given me an impetus for other planned works, including a solo cello piece
that attempts to say something of musical consumerism, and a song cycle
combining modified versions of Schumann’s Frauenliebe und Leben with
numbers of my own for speaking pianist, trying to make the male figure in the
Schumann concrete, and interspersing parallel narratives to try and suggest
different ways of viewing the Schumann/Chamisso original that run contrary to
more conventionally moralistic interpretations, so that the woman in the cycle
is inextricably drawn into a circle of sexually-charged submission, masochism
that is ultimately destructive for both parties. I also devised recently a
piece using recordings of Jelly Roll Morton’s Hyena Stomp and Black
Bottom Stomp, combining these with highly explicit recordings of a woman
being caned, with live musicians joining in with the music in an (ultimately
fruitless) attempt to drown out these sounds (rather as the Nazis assembled
groups of musicians to drown out the sound of prisoners being tortured). This
was an attempt to create a Pasolini-like conception, drawing the listener into
both the eroticism and the dark irony of the accompanying music, but stretching
it to the point where it becomes disturbing. I think this came across to some
people at least, and I’m considering ways to build upon these ideas for other
pieces.
How can people find out more about you?
Look at my website (just about to be updated and then redesigned) – http://www.ianpace.com ! I’m always interested in communicating and corresponding with other composers and performers, and others with an interest in music and other cultural matters, my contact details are included on the site.
Interview by Composition:Today © Copyright 2004-2024
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