I have long regarded Andy Ford as one of the most deeply intelligent human beings I know, and one of the best. My admiration only grows when I read a transcript of his recent contribution to the Senate Select Committee. Andy is one of those rare individuals who is able to help you to think more clearly. In these times, advocacy of this quality is gold dust.
Thanks, Andy, and bless you.
“I’d like to say something about how the ABC – specifically ABC radio, but also ABC online – helps to create and sustain and support musical communities around Australia. I’m talking about audiences, obviously, but also communities of musicians – and that’s at every level. I think that we’re about to lose some very important planks in that support with the removal of some specialist music programs from RN and Classic FM.
You always hear the expression ‘the music industry’, and I never really know what that is. I think if you were to ask most musicians, they wouldn’t feel they were part of an industry. As a composer, I feel more like a cottage gardener. My work is mostly pretty solitary. And even when musicians form up into bands or orchestras, they’re still making individual contributions – you know: they study alone, they practise alone. The same goes for listeners. We might be sitting in the middle of an audience with 2000 other people, but our experience of a song or a symphony is essentially a private matter.
As individual musician and listeners, then, we depend on institutions for information and commentary and a sense of community. Institutions such as libraries and newspapers; universities and conservatoria; and above all, I think, public broadcasting. And ABC radio is especially important in this regard –Triple J and Classic FM, ABC Jazz . . . and Radio National, which offers the broadest range of musical experiences I can imagine. Often you’re hearing music you can’t easily hear anywhere else, especially on RN; and significantly, you’re hearing it presented knowledgably. ABC Radio – whether it’s coming live out of the transistor in your kitchen or you’re listening online or to a podcast – isn’t just a purveyor of music; it’s also a guide to that music.
You’re also hearing Australian music – not enough of it on Classic FM, not in my opinion – but more than you’ll hear anywhere else. And you’re hearing Australian performances by Australian performers.
Now among the hundreds of thousands of listeners around the country are the musicians of tomorrow. It’s more than forty years ago, but I can still recall the eagerness with which I listened to the radio as a child. I remember hearing certain pieces of music and finding out about them. And I remember my excitement at hearing new pieces – music so new that it was being played for the first time. This is the kind of excitement that’s felt by young listeners to New Music Up Late on Classic FM. And it’s an example of what we’re about to lose. Well, I don’t think we can afford to lose it.
I also want to say something that tends to get overlooked. The ABC has traditionally been not just a curator of our musical culture, but also an entrepreneur. Once upon a time it had orchestras, choirs, even a dance band. But even with those gone, on a small scale and at a local level it’s continued to be a partner, recording concerts and making studio recording. These have diminished over the past twenty years, and the result isn’t just a loss for radio listeners. A lot of small concerts that were once possible because of a modest recording fee from the ABC, no longer happen at all. The fee might have been only $200 or $300, but it provided a safety net for, say, a young string quartet. Audiences miss out, and musicians lose a meagre supplement to their mostly meagre incomes. And by putting new music online only – as is proposed with New Music Up Late – instead of on air, you reduce composers’ royalties to a fraction of what they were. And they were never that much.
By cutting funding from the ABC, you also cut funding from musicians and from music itself.”
A good night’s sleep on a long-haul flight is still a novelty for me, and as we start the descent into Zürich I’m grateful to the ingenious flat-bed seats provided by Swiss Air. I can’t say I dreamt of chamber music but there was pleasant, if vapid, in-flight music, and memories of past journeys to Europe, each one having the sense, like this one, of being a point of transition. When I was twenty, I left Australia for the first time, also from Melbourne, also headed for Vienna. Then, it was to study at the Konservatorium der Stadt Wien with Professor Zettl; now, Keith and I are the elders, listening out for what the youngsters have to say to us in music. It strikes me now, as always, as as much a privilege as a responsibility. Prompted by conversations recently had at CMA and among playing colleagues, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it is we might be ‘listening for’. It’s a question I’ve often been asked, and one to which I never feel I’ve given an adequate answer, perhaps because my thinking has never been fixed, as it still is not. More on this anon.
Continuing this, a few days later in our snug hotel, with the magnificence of the Rathaus between us and the city centre, we have been mulling over our second audition session, which was held yesterday at the Haydn Institute, only three streets over from the Johannesgasse, where I reacquainted myself with the aforementioned Konservatorium. Now that we have heard eight groups — two piano trios and a string quartet played in Melbourne; two quartets and three trios in Vienna — there are indications of what will be on offer in Melbourne next year during the international competition. There is also a strong sense of privilege and responsibility, and an even greater feeling of deeply affecting emotional connection. These are, after all, so very much like the people we were, twenty or thirty years ago — eager, hopeful, nervous, in love with music and wanting more than anything to be a part of it for life. Except that, when I was their age, I was all in for a solo career. There is something specially moving about hearing young people who, already in their early twenties, are devoted to the beauty of musical sharing, which is at the core of chamber music.
At this stage, then, Keith and I are keenly listening, and I am making copious notes in my (I like to think) fashionable little Moleskine notebook, pending more leisurely late-night discussions over a handy Glühwein or two. It’s a hard life.
I was thirteen years old when I first heard the name Peter Sculthorpe. The school orchestra was introduced to his Sun Music II, still one of Peter’s most modern-sounding works and an almost incomprehensible aural and technical challenge for us, and a bit of a stretch for me as a novice cellist. It already struck me at the time as inhabiting the same imaginative world as the sere and eerie reddish brown outback scenes of Russell Drysdale, rather than the more hedonistic Streetons and Conders I was infatuated with then, and it had a haunting aura that has stayed with me ever since.
I love his music, but coming to love it was a gradual process. In 1981 I was selected to premiere his Nocturnal, an austere and enigmatic piece (which Peter soon withdrew) that revealed its secrets only when it was recast as the beautiful piano concerto the following year. But it didn’t matter. I was already hooked, and started to collect and learn everything I could find, including Mountains, a test piece for the Sydney Piano Competition. We began to correspond, and I had the temerity to ask Peter to write a piece for me, emboldened by his evident and genuine interest in younger colleagues, and what I sensed to be, correctly as it turned out, a rare generosity to share his time and ideas. It took a while, and I had to be patient, because Simori didn’t emerge until 1995. It was worth the wait, of course.
I wish I had known him better. Over the years, we met at festivals, concerts, recording sessions, parties, exhibitions, film screenings. My favourite times, though, were just going to Woollahra for lunch and a play of the piano, especially when we looked at the folders of juvenilia which Peter had kept unpublished but which held tender and affectionate memories for him. The other times I would say I treasure are the idyllic yet strenuous days and nights at Dartington Hall in Devon, where Peter was guest composer during the summer school and festival, valued both for his music and for his entertainment value, particularly after midnight, when charades might or might not have taken some very imaginitive turns.
I’m still getting my head around what it means that he is gone, but am very proud to have known him a little, and very happy to have discovered his music so early and to have had it in my life and fingers. It’s a unique and magical body of work and Peter was an extraordinary artist of genius to have given it to us.
A brief piece written for Limelight Magazine, May edition. I’m publishing it here as I can’t seem to locate it anywhere in that journal.
My second piano trio A Book of Lullabies began life as a song for mother and child, a setting of a well-known folk tune from Tokyo, known as ‘Lullaby in Edo’ (Edo eventually grew into modern Tokyo), for a young Japanese friend, Tomoe Kawabata-Ito, who had recently been blessed with a lovely little boy, Ryutaro. Contemplating its haunting simplicity gave me great pleasure, so I kept writing, selecting six further lullaby-like melodies from around the world. Soon, I had a virtual ‘lullaby odyssey’ that began in Australia with the indigenous ‘Maranoa Lullaby’, made famous by the extraordinary aboriginal tenor Harold Blair, followed by ‘Nina Bobo’ from Indonesia, ‘Kun Mun Kultani Tulisi’ from the epic Finnish poetic collection, the Kanteletar, ‘The Skye Boat Song’ from the Scottish Highlands (the ancestral home of clan Munro), ‘Iesus Ahatonnia’, otherwise known as ‘The Huron Carol’ from North America and the Zulu lullaby ‘Thula Mama’. Each of the songs tells a fascinating story, and more than one involves an expression of great sorrow and pain. The author of the ‘Huron Carol’, for example, was a Jesuit missionary, Jean de Brébeuf, who wrote the hymn for the Hurons amongst whom he lived and worked, in their native language. He earthly fate was finally to be tortured and more or less boiled alive during the Iroquois invasion and annihilation of the Huron nation in 1649.
I came to realise that I had stumbled into writing what would become a piano trio for my friends, the delightful Jo and John Strutt, who had commissioned such a work as way of celebrating their sixtieth wedding anniversary. All three of us love a good tune, so seven of them seemed about enough. The only one that didn’t make it into the final piece was the delightful ‘Flower Drum Song’ from China, written for pianist Andrea Lam (who was initially bemused by the subject matter: a wife at the end of her tether because of a husband with the irritating pastime of banging on a flower drum). That certain folk melodies endure and are loved and passed on by whole communities is well documented, although the reasons why are subtle, mysterious and fascinating. Over the years, I have often wondered what it is about great music that needn’t be complex to be profound, or difficult to be challenging, or obscure to be thought-provoking. So, in this work, I aimed to keep all of the materials simple, so as to reflect and stay true to the nature of the songs themselves, while suggesting the haunting aura of the eras and situations which gave rise to them. In the final version, the trio begins with an introductory passage based on a figure from ‘Nina Bobo’ (which replaces ‘Maranoa Lullaby’ as the opening movement) and ends with a similar, complementary return, during which the pentatonic Maranoa melody transforms into the similarly diatonic Indonesian one, suggestive of the wishful notion that in music it might be more possible than not to understand each other and find a natural and common humanity in song.
The trio receives its Sydney premiere at the Independent Theatre, North Sydney on May 20 at 11am. It’s a Musica Viva Coffee Concert and will be recorded for broadcast by ABC Classic FM.
Two weeks ago, a dinner was held at the University of NSW to celebrate the enormous contribution made by Emeritus Professor Roger Covell AM, outgoing Artistic Chair of the Australia Ensemble. Music was played, including Roger’s own Fanfare, a choral serenade from the Burgundian Consort led by Sonia Maddock, and a movement from a Haydn Symphony from the Australia Ensemble. Old friends were reuinted, wine and food were enjoyed and speeches were made, not least the speech made by the guest of honour, in the form of “a few brief words”, in Roger’s inimitable style.
Having joined the ensemble in 2000 after a year’s exchange with the previous pianist David Bollard in 1998, I am still a relative newcomer at a mere fifteen years of service, or fourteen if you insist they be consecutive. Such a period pales in comparison with Roger’s 47 years of service to the university and, listening to his speech, which covered aspects of his career at UNSW from the beginnings of the music department, through the years of UNSW Opera, to the formation of the Aus Ensemble and beyond, I was struck by how much I hadn’t known. Among the tales, generously and humorously embellished by Roger, was the tribute paid to former Chancellor of UNSW Gordon Samuels, also a former Governor of NSW, between whose sassy and delightful wife and daughter I was fortuitously seated at dinner. Much has always been made of the role of Roger and Murray Khouri, founding clarinettist of the ensemble, who conceived the notion of a resident musical group and advocated for its inception, but Roger was explicit in his praise for the role of Gordon, who worked the university ropes to ensure that it happened, for which we can all be grateful. So often, valuable ventures in the arts and other fields can grow or wither, depending on the efforts of one or two gifted, insightful people of energy and integrity. That this happened in 1980, and was subsequently supported and nurtured, can be largely attributable to Roger and Gordon, although there are many other people to thank for their generosity over the years. The fundraising efforts of the UCommittee were extraordinarily generous, as were the contributions of members of our now defunct advisory committee, who gave of their time and expertise without exception, freely and enthusiastically.
When Roger dropped his bombshell earlier this year, we were both surprised and unsurprised. Such a long time with us has left an indelible mark, and I will miss the gravelly, considered tones at meetings as we were gently advised, chided, congratulated, questioned, prodded and, from time to time, bemused. A hard act to follow, that one. So, we do not intend for it to be followed, exactly, and have split Roger’s former role into two: Publications Specialist, who will produce all of our programmes and supporting literature; and Artistic Chair, who will take responsibility for chairing the artistic processes, including programming and artistic review, among other things.
Change is good, but we are all nervous of it until it doesn’t feel so much like change any more.
Happy Christmas, all .
A bit of a flurry of activity lately, what with Australia Council grants to be applied for and a 2014 diary to fill. It’s been a while since I did anything about getting my Arthur Benjamin series with Tall Poppies going again, so I’m pleased to say that we have put together a programme and gathered a gang of magnificent colleagues to record a new disc next year. Grant outcomes are notoriously difficult to predict, so it’s possible that, should we not be successful, I will be looking to setting up a Pozible fundraiser. Somehow, the thing will happen: to that end, I am determined.
For those who haven’t been subjected to my enthusiasm for Arthur Benjamin (1893—1960), let me give the background, in brief. ‘Benjy’, as he was known to his friends, was a Sydney-born, Brisbane-educated pianist and composer, who left for London in 1911 and, after fighting in the First World War, made a career first as a distinguished pianist and teacher, and gradually established himself as a composer. During the 1930s, he worked alongside his former piano pupil Muir Matheson at Gaumont, producing a substantial body of film music. Scores from this period include both ‘Scarlet Pimpernel’ films, along with Hitchcock’s first version of ‘The Man Who Knew Too Much.’ For an extensive biography, I will upload the one I wrote for my defunct website.
In previous projects, I recorded most of his piano music, with the exception of an early ‘Novelette’ and the late ‘Etudes Improvisées’, both of which I will be recording for the current project. The second disc was devoted to chamber music with piano, featuring the sonatinas for cello and violin, the viola sonata and other works.
For this third CD, we collect the songs (to be sung by the bewitching Sara MacLiver), remaining piano pieces and two early chamber works, held by the British Library in manuscript. Benjamin’s earliest surviving major work is the ‘Clarinet Quintett in C minor’ [sic], dating from 1914. The manuscript shows evidence of having been used in performance, although I have no details of the event, but the piece has not been performed, in any case, for great many years, and remains unrecorded. In typesetting it, as I am doing right now, for a performance by Cathy McCorkill and strings in our Australia Ensemble series next year, I am loving its Brahmsian ardour, its more ethereal Elgar-like touches, and enjoying getting to know a younger and developing Benjy, having become used to his more refined and slightly more taut and wizened later style. Cathy will record it with a quartet comprising four of my favourite players: Natsuko Yoshimoto and Wilma Smith (violins), Imants Larsens (viola) and David Pereira (cello).
Finally, an intriguing Sonata in E minor for violin and piano, a work he wrote while interned in Karlsruhe camp during the final year of the war. After repatriation, he returned to Australia in 1919 and 1920, before settling back in London for almost the rest of his life (he spent most of WWII in Vancouver). It was then that he performed the sonata in Brisbane, Sydney and Melbourne, to at least one admiring review. 2014 will be a bumper year for the sonata, which has not been heard for almost one hundred years. A performance on May 11 at next years Canberra Festival, although not qualifying as the Australian premiere it is claiming to be, will be a very welcome addition to an imaginative programme of music written during the time of war.
The other project? Oh yes… My three piano trios. Each will be recorded by the ensemble for whom it was written. Having recently premiered my second trio ‘A Book of Lullabies’ at the Huntington Festival, I’m glad to confirm that my colleagues Dimity Hall and Julian Smiles have agreed to record it next May. It was commissioned, along with my third trio ‘Ein Altdeutsches Liederbuch’, by the lovely John and Jo Strutt, who were at Huntington for the premiere and who are a pleased as punch that my friends Helena Rathbone (of the Australian Chamber Orchestra) and Howard Penny (of ANAM) will join me to premiere and record it in 2014. The series was set in motion back in 2007 by Chris Marshall in Christchurch, who commissioned my first trio ‘Tales of Old Russia’, which was extensively toured by the Eggner Trio in 2011.
Roll on 2014!