It had been a busy and intense time, both shortly before and during the week of the rehearsals for the piece. As Gavin works meticulously and very detailed, it was only after last Christmas that I received the first notes. It struck me that Gavin had fulfilled all expectations – the piano was treated purely as a melodic instrument. Quite a difference with most contemporary composers, who in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries value the instrument for its percussive qualities in the first place! Although the piano part did not look directly as a traditional virtuoso type of music, I was immediately challenged by how to make a keyed instrument such as the piano, without possibilities for portamento playing, pure legato playing or vibrato, sound like a stringed instrument. On top of that, as with music such as by Mozart, it seemed that every note became very intense, in the context of its sparsity.

Gradually I received more pages, and it was clear that the piano part remained as intense the full 28 minutes. No large outbursts of notes, but the role of a guide, leading the orchestra and the choir into new territories of sound colours, landscapes, all passing by in a floating way, as if in a dream. Indeed the poetry by the Scot Edwin Morgan, sung by the male choir, added to this almost unreal feeling by its mystical descriptions of foggy natural scenes. The slow pace of the piece contributed to its static, almost processional character.

In rehearsal

At the first rehearsal, which was without the choir, the beauty of the notes which I found on the pages, turned out to be as beautiful when actually sounding. Although the piece indeed had a very tonal feel, it was far from consonant at times – something which became clear especially because of the absence of the choir. There were even sections where the strings would create a seemingly disjointed tapestry of unrelated singing sound, mildly chaotic, reminding of the works by Charles Ives, or perhaps even Xenakis. However, the incredibly soft dynamics at those spots somehow concealed its radicalism, especially after the choir joined. In the end, within the context of the piece, it seemed to sound just in another world of subconsciousness, hardly to be noticed, but silently being very present.

With the première on Friday, Gavin joined our rehearsal on Thursday. He had a busy day – having to get up at 3.30 AM to be in Holland at 9.45 AM, with a full day schedule ahead. His presence at the rehearsal made a lot of difference – a few tips of advice, such as having more sense of rubato playing in the piece, suddenly brought it into a new daylight for me, and for the orchestra. It very much contributed to its dream-like, floating atmosphere.

Gavin Bryars and Ralph van Raat in recording

After the rehearsal, Gavin and I quickly jumped in my car to drive to the concert hall of the Conservatory of Amsterdam, where we would record his piano duo piece “My First Homage” for CD. This recording will ultimately be joined, amongst others of his piano works, by the Concerto. Some intense hours later we were finished, which meant that Gavin and I had to rush to another part of the building, where he would give a lecture for the composition students of the conservatory. The two hours that followed brought a unique light on the metier of composition, and gave a deep insight into Gavin’s musical world and ideas. The day was closed by a dinner together, which was a good opportunity to wind down, gain new energy for the next day and even think of future plans.

That Friday was the big moment. In the well-occupied concert hall of Utrecht, Gavin’s Concerto sounded for the first time, in presence of the composer, Susan Rivers from the Borletti-Buitoni Trust, and Sarah Osborn from music publisher Schott. I think that this was the best performance since the rehearsals, as the adrenalin of all musicians made it more intense. Luckily there was a live radio broadcast, which made it possible for me to immediately listen it back afterwards, to conclude which spots or aspects of the piece could still be improved for the concert the next day. However, this performance generally went well and quite a large portion of the audience gave a standing ovation to Gavin and the musicians. A little party belongs to a first performance, and this was organized, making Susan, Sarah, Gavin, I and many others drink a good glass of wine (and Diet Coke) afterwards!

On Saturday, we did the second performance. This time I had heard the recording, and the conductor and I looked at some spots to once more rehearse before the concert. It was quite important to do this, as this performance was to be recorded live for CD. It certainly had still improved upon the previous performance, and the great acoustics at the concert hall in Amsterdam helped the balance between piano and orchestra a lot. After the performance, audiences again were very enthusiastic. It was a great honour for me that this time, David Hoskins and Graham Johnston from the BBT had come all the way from the UK, especially for this occasion. The day was concluded with a very nice dinner in Amsterdam with Gavin, David and Graham with their partners, and my girlfriend, closing off a period of four years in which a seed had grown into a full-grown organism.

I think the Piano Concerto by Gavin Bryars takes on a unique place in piano concerto literature. First of all, because it has a rather uncommon orchestration of piano solo, orchestra and choir. Second, because the piano takes on a role which is quite radical: virtuosity is not anymore defined by playing as many notes as possible, but by another element which I think is, at times, overlooked by musicians and composers: that of complete ‘control’ over the instrument. Control, in my opinion, not only means being able to control technically difficult passages, but also means being able to play just a few notes as one wishes, i.e. with the right colour, tone, intention and dynamics. I think the concerto is challenging, because one cannot hide himself or herself in technical display. Here it comes down to playing relatively few notes in such a way, that they start to mean something, and that they move people. Gavin asks for an intrinsic way of music making, which is averse from musical acrobatics. Especially nowadays, in which very flashy television and radio make many people used to needing just very short attention spans, this piece forms an interesting counterpart, which we generally are not used to anymore.

The reactions of reviewers to this work have been very different and opposite. In general, I think this can be interpreted as a positive sign, as most radical works in the past have generated the most extreme reactions. Some newspapers praised its gripping melodic lines and the dream-like qualitites; others have turned down its melodiousness, calling it simple and comparing it to 19^th-century music. I personally think that especially the latter reaction is caused by a misunderstanding. It seems almost a Pavlov-like effect that whenever a composer nowadays chooses to use consonance as a basis for his tone language, a (denouncing) comparison is made with the old masters. It also happens to other composers, such as John Tavener or Arvo Pärt. This notion of comparison may be valid when listened to in a superficial way; after all, indeed the same tools (consonances) are used. However, when listened to with a more open attitude and especially open ears, one can discover that although consonances are used, they are used in a completely different way and with a different intention than the traditional composers did, two centuries ago. In this postmodern period, composers have about three centuries of music to absorb, and it is hard to reason why they would have to deny most of the roots of Western musical history, based on tonality. We are still enjoying Beethoven, Liszt, Strauss and Mahler, why suddenly turn down the new lyricism as an expression of aspects of today’s world? I very much think that Gavin’s music is music of our own time, of our present-day feelings and experiences. He uses both known and new sounds to express his own message, and to evoke the mystical world of the contemporary poetry. Although seemingly accused of being old-fashioned by some, I think his choice of style is very radical nowadays, in that very sense.

Additionally, indeed one could object to the piano not having a traditionally significant role. However, it is as interesting and valid, in my opinion, to see another approach to music, different to what is usually expected. Personally, I am in favour of any style – whether it be Boulezian, Cageian, or Chopin – as long as a musical work has its own meaning. It makes the world of music very rich to have it all available!

Celebrations after the concert in Amsterdam

I am very happy that the Borletti-Buitoni Trust has supported the birth of the work, and that they continue supporting traditional music, new music, established artists and upcoming artists. It is the hard work of people such as Susan, David and Debra, and all the others who are associated with it, who keep the spirit of classical and newly composed classical music alive. For sure, The Solway Canal will give me the great opportunity to play with the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra, who immediately expressed their interest in the piece. Also, the cooperation with Gavin will continue in the future, as new projects are talked about. I am honoured that, besides the Concerto, the composer has actually dedicated his newest piano solo work to me, and also this work is a great lyrical counterpart to other great works in an oppositely ‘complex’ style. Long live the Borletti-Buitoni Trust, long live the many musical flavours and moods available today, and long live music itself!

A BBT film with Gavin Bryars and Ralph van Raat, made at their first meeting in 2006, is available here.

At times, I am stupified by certain elements in life, or experiences, which seem to keep coming back. It almost makes one think that coincidences do not exist….Such as aviation – my dream as a kid to become a pilot. Well, admittingly, how unpredictable life can be, by choosing a career of a pianist instead….However, while at times absent, somehow I kept getting confronted with this interest.

Another one of those things, for me, is that little disc with the typical white cover, sold for just under the price of a meal at a fast-food hamburger restaurant. I mean the classical recordings by Naxos, which caused a stir in the classical music world, with its unknown pricing compared to all the full-priced fellow record labels. I remember very well that at every festive opportunity, my father asked me – let’s say from the age of twelve or so – to buy some unknown CD for me which was to be found, in his words, “inside the dedicated place in the CD-shop”. In fact, one of the recordings I bought for my father was one by some (to me) unknown composer called John Tavener.

The obviously addictive CD’s must have had some magic, as I saw myself returning to that shop more and more frequently to buy music from many different composers, not only for my father, but soon also for other relatives. As with all mysterical and unknown things, my interest grew quickly in this recording label, and soon I discovered its magic: those recordings were in reach for me also, every time my grandmother or other less-seen family member visited me and left just a little monetary gift…And at any time I heard something anywhere that grabbed me – the piano concertos by Ravel, Mathis der Mahler by Hindemith, DeFalla’s Nights in the Gardens of Spain, and much more – I bought it.

Many years later, after finishing my conservatory training, at least two things in my life came back at a positively alarming rate, and both had to do with receiving the Borletti-Buitoni Fellowship. The first was aviation – quite a few flight trips to London resulted, with approach charts on my lap, as always – and the second, yes, concerned Naxos. The recording of my first CD for that label, with the complete piano works by John Adams, was made possible through the Borletti-Buitoni Trust. So now I was there in the shop, my name engraved in a white cover – would my father have bought it ten years earlier?

At this day, again some five more years later, it turned out that the Borletti-Buitoni Fellowship had been a start of many things, and, again, things which had quietly announced themselves much earlier in my life. Amongst others, it became the start of a fruitful relationship with Naxos, as they invited me as an exclusive recording artist, which resulted into piano recordings of works by Frederic Rzewski, Magnus Lindberg, and – how could it be different, in the perspective of how things return in life – Sir John Tavener.

To my great honour and pride, Naxos of America even publishes a dedicated Artist Profile disc set this month, with my collected recordings so far. Unbelievably, for this occasion, my name has been engraved in black instead of ‘Naxos-white’ on the CD-cover – as if it was a deliberate effort to twist the phenomenon of recurrence into that of renewal of a reviving past. Furthermore, six more CD’s are planned to be recorded and published between now and 2011. One of those is a recording of Gavin Bryars’ Piano Concerto, which was commissioned with the help of…yes, one of the recurring elements again: the Borletti-Buitoni Trust. A second one consists of a recording of works for piano and orchestra by…again John Tavener, whose name I knew from my father’s CD-shelf.

Concerning the aviation element which I opened this text with: this has also returned, and in a more grand way than ever. Because of the many confrontations with air travel which the choice of a musician almost implies, and not in the least place because of the travelling which the Borlett-Buitoni Trust has enabled me to do, the old dream was refired every time again. Since a few weeks, I have succumbed: I decided to take control over coincidences myself, and decide myself on the frequency of my confrontations with aviation by way of a course (hopefully) leading to a Private Pilot License.

In earlier music, music was closely linked to life: basic tempos were usually derived from the human heartbeat, forming the origin of any other derived tempo. Rondo forms, much forgotten in twentieth-century music, were much used, perhaps because they reflected the natural flow of life in its essence. In this respect, I have not even mentioned other recurring elements, like the opportunities to actually play those great works from the earliest classical records of my youth – such as the earlier mentioned DeFalla and Ravel concertos. But to me it seems clear that, as a player of, a lover of and a believer in music, the rondo forms of the past had much truth in them; they already promised us that many elements will recur in life. I hope that my belief and trust in music is justified indeed, and that the Borletti-Buitoni Trust is one of those themes that just keep returning many, many times again.