 |
 ...with Yehudi Menuhin
1984 |
...with Rostropowich
1992 |
 ...with Yehudi Menuhin 1995 |
In the summer
of 1989, at the age of 15, I first encountered the music of Alfred Schnittke.
I was at a summer school in northern Germany when a fellow student performed
the Violin Sonata No 1 in a concert, the work, which you will hear on this
disc; but in its original version for Violin and Piano. From the moment I
heard it, I wanted more than anything to play this music. The violinist was
playing from a hand-copied score, barely legible, and I remember approaching
him after the concert and begging him to let me copy the parts.
The following year, on the same summer course, but this
time under the guidance of my new teacher, Zakhar Bron, I was the student
performing this same work in concert. That evening began my true "love
affair”with Schnittke’s music.
During the following year I dived into every work of Schnittke I could find.
Fortunately, there exists a huge amount for violin. After the 2 violin sonatas
(there is now a 3rd) came the piano quartet, string trio, piano quintet,
then the concerto grossi and, finally, the violin concertos.
In July 1991 I performed the Sonata No 1 across Germany
in concert. At the end of the penultimate concert, news reached me that Schnittke
had died suddenly of a stroke. I had heard that he had already suffered a
stroke in 1985 but had quickly recovered. The huge sense of emotion and sadness,
coupled with the disappointment that I had never had the chance to meet him
and talk to him was overwhelming.
As it turned out, reports of his death had been an exaggeration
- perhaps mischief-making by his old enemies, the departing KGB, who had
so long scorned his music. He was alive.....barely. As Alexander Ivashkin
says in his excellent book on Schnittke, "it was a haemorrhage of the
cerebellum........but again, his recovery was miraculous, and by 20 September
he was back home, refusing all demands that he receive rehabilitation
treatment.” Obviously something as trivial as death was not going to
deterr him from writing music! He was left with some paralysis and speech
impediment, however, but he was all the more determined to compose.
The coma resulting from Schnittke’s first stroke,
in July 1985, had been the source of inspiration behind the completion of
his Viola Concerto, according to its dedicatee, Yuri Bashmet. As Bashmet
told me, Schnittke had confessed to "going too far” in the Concerto,
and had in his own words, payed the price.
In August 1992 I was joined by the pianist Alexei Lubimov
and other colleagues to perform an all-Schnittke concert of chamber music
in Switzerland. The concert was recorded by Swiss Radio, and armed with the
tape of the broadcast, I set off on a freezing November evening to meet
Schnittke. Until then, every attempt I had made to make his acquaintance
had been a failure. I had tried agents, publishers, musician friends, all
of whom were very secretive about his whereabouts. It was as if he had obtained
a Salingeresque quality.
I was well aware that he would have his reasons for this,
but barely eighteen, I was filled with so many questions. There was one
co-incidence in my favour. We were both living in Hamburg, and it is this
simple fact which ultimately caused our paths to cross. At a dinner party
one evening, I overheard some people boasting that a famous composer lived
in their apartment building. I should add at this point that Hamburg is curiously
well-endowed with eminent composers, including Ligeti and Gubaidulina, however,
my ears pricked up! I soon realized that they were indeed talking about
Schnittke, and taking my courage in my hands, I asked them where they lived.
As they could offer me no phone number, the next evening
I found myself standing nervously in front of his door. I rang the bell,
and the door flung open to reveal a blonde lady, whom I recognised as
Schnittke’s wife, Irina. In a timid voice, I introduced myself, apologising
profusely for the rude and in particular unannounced intrusion, and asked
if I might have a word with the Professor! To my astonishment, I was immediately
ushered in with a huge smile, and there, standing before me, was a short,
slightly arched figure, who held out his hand and send simply, "Schnittke”.
I remember his piercing eyes, which seemed to stare right through me. For
at least a minute I was totally dumbstruck. Schnittke took my arm and showed
me, with some considerable dificulty, into his living room. I explained that
I was a violinist and a great admirer of his music. I handed him the cassette
of the chamber music concert from Switzerland, and he immediately glowed
at the mention of Alexei Lubimov, demanding news of his old friend. I said
that I would be immensely grateful if he would listen to the tape and tell
me if he thought we had grasped the style and conviction of his music.
He wanted to know everything about me, exactly what of
his I had performed, when and with whom.
I had a particular question about the use of the harpsichord in the orchestral
version of the Sonata No 1, versus the piano in the chamber version. I remember
his becoming very flustered as he struggled to remember exactly which work
I meant. It was a very poignant moment, particularly because he apologised
every few seconds. We spent the next 2 hours in deep discussion, after which
time, noticing he was becoming very tired, I excused myself and left. To
my delight, he asked me to telephone him a few days later. This was the beginning
of a series of meetings and lengthy discussions with Alfred Schnittke which
took place in Hamburg between November 1992 and March 1994.
In August 1993 I performed the Concerto Grosso No 3 with
my friend, Erik Houston, at the Lucerne Festival. The concert was conducted
by Schnittke’s close friend, Saulius Sondeckis and the Lithuanian Chamber
Orchestra, who had themselves premiered the work in April 1985. It was as
harpsichordist with this orchestra that Schnittke was able to travel for
the first time to the West in 1977, and we were all very excited to hear
rumours that Schnittke might in fact attend our concert. To our huge delight,
he came, with his wife, and talked to us afterwards at length. To play his
music, with him present, was one of the most special experiences of my
life.
In Autumn 1993, I was approached by the composer, Paul
Patterson, whose aim it was to plan a festival of Schnittke’s music
at the Royal Academy of Music in London (where I was studying at the time)
in celebration of the composer’s forthcoming 60th birthday. Patterson
had heard of my acquaintanceship with Schnittke, and asked if there was some
way of persuading the composer to come to the festival, which was to take
place in March 1994. The idea was that I would act as go-between and translator.
Back in Hamburg for lessons with my violin teacher, I visited
Schnittke again. He was delighted by the invitation, and amazed that the
Royal Academy were going to perform 22 of his works. He agreed to attend
in person, but there were to be 2 conditions: first, he wanted to stay at
the Westbury Hotel, and second he wanted two further composers to be invited
to the festival, as well as having some of their music performed there. These
composers were Vassily Lobanov and Alemdar Karamanov. The latter was unknown
to me at the time, but Lobanov I knew of as the distinguished pianist with
whom the great russian violinist, Oleg Kagan had given so many concerts.
Schnittke, however, could not tell me how, or where I might contact these
two composers!
The Westbury Hotel presented no problem. But I was unsure
of Paul Patterson’s response to including two further composers in
essentially a one-man show! Not surprisingly it met with considerable resistance,
but Schnittke was insistent, saying that Karamanov was the greatest influence
on him, and both men simply had to be there. Not knowing where to begin,
I telephoned the composers Gerard McBurney and Viktor Suslin. With their
help I was able to track down both composers.
Lobanov was a relatively easy matter, living in
Saarbrücken, but Karamanov was somewhere in Russia, never having been
allowed to travel to the West. Through many hours of telephoning, and with
the help of Karamanov’s contact in England, Diana Rodell, arrangements
were finally made to bring Karamanov to the festival. At Schnittke’s
request, I was to perform works for violin and piano by Karamanov (the first
time his music had been performed in the West), and the Sonata for Violin
and Piano by Vassily Lobanov, with the composer at the piano.
At the last minute, Schnittke’s health deteriorated
rapidly. Following a performance in New York of his Seventh Symphony by the
New York Philharmonic and Kurt Masur, Schnittke stepped into a snowdrift
and injured himself quite badly. The next morning he was unable to walk.
Upon returning to Hamburg, he cancelled trips to Leipzig, Japan, Aspen,
Tanglewood, Santa Fe and, finally, London. According to Alexander Ivashkin
he regretted missing out on London most of all.
My last telephone conversation with Schnittke was in April
1994. I called him to tell him about the success of the Festival. He was
delighted to hear this, and that Karamanov had finally had the chance to
visit the West. His one displeasure was that the BBC Documentary on his life,
by Donald Sturrock, had been shown, despite his persistent attempts to have
it stopped. Shortly afterwards, I visited him for the last time, bringing
him various BBC-broadcasts from the festival, as well as the international
critical acclaim which had been accumulated for the concerts and a hand-written
letter from Karamanov.
A month later, on June 5th, Schnittke suffered his third
stroke. This time it was very severe, with a very slow rehabilitation. During
the next four years, his recovery was minimal, as my chance meetings in the
Eppendorf suburb of Hamburg with Irina Schnittke confirmed. As I write these
lines, news of Schnittke’s death reaches me again. This time, alas,
there is no exaggeration.
I am constantly asked two things. First, to describe Schnittke
in a few words. This would never do justice to so great a composer, and so
I don’t even try. Second, whether his music will last, and how it will
be viewed by future generations. On this subject, I prefer to draw on
Schnittke’s wonderful own quotation, again courtesy of Ivashkin:
"How important it is to catch up with yourself! There are enormous forces
lurking in each person, but many people die without having discovered this.
Of course it was clear that Mozart was a genius. But we don’t know whether
anybody suspected the great gifts of the young Wagner. Nobody could guarantee
a future for the young Tchaikovsky; and it was Rimsky-Korsakov who suspected
Stravinsky of having a very poor ear. Apparently, talent matures according
to its own laws, which no-one knows. That’s why the emergence of talent
is always striking.......”
In my mind there is no more striking a talent in contemporary
music, than that of Alfred Schnittke.
Daniel Hope, August 1998
 |
"Alfred Schnittke”
by Alexander Ivashkin is published by Phaidon Press Limited, London -
DM 36,32
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