Christopher
Painter – interviewed by Peter Reynolds
What are your strongest musical memories
from your childhood?
I’m told that my first musical experiences would have been pre-birth,
which sounds awfully pretentious. My mother, who was confined to bed when she
was in the last stages of her pregnancy, spent her time listening to
Shostakovich’s symphonies. Apparently, when I was a baby, to get me to sleep
they would play me recordings of his symphonies and then I would go to sleep! I’m
still very fond of Shostakovich’s music and return to it frequently.
So you
came from a musical background?
My mother was a writer, short stories mainly, and a
journalist. My dad was a sportsman and worked for the railway, and later, the
local steelworks. But there was always that Welsh thing about the importance of
culture. My great-grandfather on my mother’s side, Thomas Owen David, was a poet and a composer. I
still have some of his poetry but the majority of it and all the compositions
were lost when my grandmother gave it away for war salvage.
There
was an extraordinary degree of culture in rural Wales in those days.
Yes. My great-grandfather died at a very young age and I can
understand why. He would work in the steelworks all day and then sit up all
night writing poetry or music. He wrote in the English and Welsh languages (writing in a particularly elegant and grammatically correct Welsh) and was a member of the Gorsedd of Bards under the name Owain ap Japheth. There was an awareness that work was what you
needed to do to get by but that culture was the important thing. There was also
the Welsh thing of always striving to better oneself.
So, was there much cultural activity in Port Talbot when you were
growing up?
Oh yes. There was, and still is, a great deal of artistic
activity – literary groups, amateur dramatics, brass bands, choral societies
and artist’s groups. There was a lot of amateur music-making going on and I was
able to try out many things. We were very lucky in that we had free
instrumental tuition in school – I tried out several instruments, including the recorder, ukulele and violin. Fortunately, I ended up deciding I wanted to play
the trumpet which was probably the best move I ever made. It brought me into contact
with Walter White, from Ystradgynlais, who started out as my trumpet teacher
and later went on to become my classroom music teacher. He not only pointed me
in the direction of the local brass band (I still play in brass bands now) but
encouraged me to take music seriously, I have a great deal to thank him for.
So is
that how you began to compose, through that teacher?
Yes. There was a prevailing ethos that music isn’t in
a vacuum. You don’t just play it or you don’t just write or talk about it, try composing and conducting it. We used to get pieces performed in school and this
encouraged us to be adventurous. I wrote a lot of brass quintets and pieces for
the local brass band that I played in. I’ve still got a Requiem that I wrote
when I was about fourteen! Severely sub-Verdi!
So you
were writing, really, from your early teens?
Yes. We also had a magical store cupboard in the music
room which was full of recordings and scores and I remember taking records
home. One could just help
oneself. One was very privileged if told that one could just go
there whenever one wanted to. One didn’t have to have permission and I remember
taking records home. Also, we had quite a record collection at home. Again, we were
fortunate in those days that there were a lot of local record shops. I don’t
think there’s one classical record shop in Port Talbot, now. Or one shop where you could even buy classical records.
So you were obviously at a good school…
There was a very strong brass tradition, so my original
influences were brass and one was encouraged to write. I was expected to
conduct school assembly every morning, so I had the experience of actually
having to get up and do it as well.
What kind of things were you listening to at that kind of stage?
I was heavily into Berlioz and started to find Stravinsky and Britten. I
didn’t formally study for ‘A’ level; I chose double maths and physics and was
going to be a civil engineer and actually got a place in Swansea to study civil
engineering. Just before I left school, the economics teacher came over to me
and actually talked me out of it - saying that he had turned his back on music for a 'safer' career and had constantly regretted it. That summer, I went on a brass band course at
Marlborough College (I had been several times before) which was led by Edward
Gregson. I had composition and conducting lessons with him and he reinforced
the advice to follow a career in music. So I went back to school for an extra
year, did my ‘A’ level and, on the recommendation of Walter White, went to
Cardiff University, partly because in my third year I heard a lot of Hoddinott
records and wanted to study with him.
So, in
fact, it was Hoddinott being Professor at Cardiff that led you to Cardiff
University.
What kind of Hoddinott pieces were you hearing before you came to
Cardiff?
Walter White pointed me towards the
orchestral works and I just loved the sound world. The most notable works were The Sun the Luminary of the Universe, Third Symphony and Variants, whilst the Fifth Symphony just knocked me sideways; one
of the pivotal pieces. One could really hear the planning and the piece’s
integrity.
And what did you get from Hoddinott when you went to him?
I didn’t get to study with Hoddinott until I returned
as a postgraduate. My initial, undergraduate, study was with Timothy Taylor who
went through the basics with us and then I spent two years studying with
Richard Elfyn Jones who taught me to handle material more efficiently and
economically and helped me to attempt extended forms. It was only after my B.Mus that I went on to study with "The Prof".
What kind of pieces were you writing as an undergraduate? Had they moved
from your school days or were you discovering lots of new things at that time?
I was trying everything and anything, to be honest. I
was very lucky in the year I was in college, we had a lot of good performers
and a lot of people wanted to play new music. I was lucky to have a number of
friends who were good players and would come and say “Write us something”. So
it was a chance to write for odd combinations, or for established ensembles.
Was postgraduate study a good experience for you? What did you get from
your sessions with Hoddinott?
When I came to study with Hoddinott I had to think a
lot harder to justify what I was doing and tutorials were very intense but also
enjoyable. Hoddinott focused my mind on what I was doing and encouraged me to
be much more critical of my work and to concentrate on the minute details.
So Hoddinott focused your mind on the integrity of the
material?
And slowed me down, because I used to write very, very
quickly; I was very fluent and I could write pieces easily but there was very
little substance to them although they helped to develop my technique.
Alun
Hoddinott himself was a very facile composer, in the best sense, but he worked
it all out in advance. It’s interesting that he should have slowed you down.
Yes. Even when copying his music, I couldn’t keep up with
him. In our lessons he’d comment, “Why have you put those notes here? If you
can’t explain why they’re there, they shouldn’t be there.” And it was that
process that slowed me down to condense what I was doing.
So that was actually a milestone, really, in terms of developing your
technique?
He’d say, “Well, if you want to do this seriously,
then you have to approach it seriously”. There was much more emphasis on the
thought behind it. I think he believed, at that stage, that putting notes on paper wasn’t difficult; it was the thought behind the notes which was
important.
And the
professionalism of being a composer?
Yes. If you take something on, you do it and it’s always done to the highest
standards, and you behave properly. One of his maxims which has stuck with me:
“There’s no such thing as a good or bad composer, there are just those who give
up.” You keep at it. If you believe in what you’re doing, it doesn’t matter if
other people say it’s no good, as long as your faith in your technique is good.
What happened after university, in terms of your development as a
composer?
I basically sat in my flat
and worked, and didn’t get a piece played for ten years. I naively thought
“Right, if I start writing, people will start playing it” – I learnt a very
hard and useful lesson there! There were at least thirty pieces, all now
destroyed, I started but never finished. I just thought “There’s no point!
Nobody’s going to be playing this!” I also, at that time, preferred the big
form, rather than chamber music, so I was writing pieces that wouldn’t get
performed.
What got you out of that cul-de-sac into writing
again?
I had a
very uncomfortable dinner with Alun and Rhiannon (Hoddinott). And I had two hours of
brow-beating from the two of them about wasting my time, and “What the **** do
you think you’re doing?” They challenged me to write a small work so I wrote a
carol and that got me back into the swing of it. Also, a Lower Machen Festival
commission also came in - the first thing I actually had performed publicly,
for ten years.
How do you view things these days? Do you have a
forward plan, or do you think in terms of responding to commissions as they
come along?
Both,
in a way, and they’re linked. In the past, I’ve tended to want to write big
pieces. I’ve been trying to write big orchestral pieces and I’ve been lucky in
the last three years: I’ve had two played. My big ambition was to get a BBC
commission but I’ve realized that it is not the be all and end all. I'm not very good at getting out there and getting commissions and find the promotion side of being a composer very difficult. I either do very little or go about it in a very heavy-handed and clumsy way. I have a number of pieces that I want to write but no idea how to get them commissioned so I tend to wait until I'm asked and hope that commissions fit in with my plans.
What about the composition process itself: how does a piece begin? Is
the process a very long one, or does it actually happen quite quickly?
It’s a slow process. I find once I’m past the first
page, it’s OK. I have a tendency always to want to write the big opening. I’m trying
to consciously move away from that and be happy to write a slow opening or a
quiet opening. Just to write exactly what I think I should be writing, not what
I think will please. I’m well along the road back from serialism, because I did
get into total serialism at one point, which was useful at the time. It didn’t
have a good future though. Once you’ve done it, I don’t think you can keep on
being so prescriptive. So I use elements of serialism and adapt them.
But it does provide a backbone and way of moving notes
around the page I suppose.
Since I’ve been teaching I can see students thinking
in the way I used to. I used to have in mind who might analyse my music. I
thought “You have to do the right thing because somebody’s going to go through
this and look at it” and then you get to a point where you think “I don’t
really care who analyses it: that’s what I want to write”.
What about writing a piece? Do you write for a set number of hours a day, or is the
process more piecemeal?
Are you
influenced at all by external stimuli, or are they always purely musical ideas?
I remember seeing a harp piece, I think, based on Lake Vyrnwy.
Yes. I got very hung up on
Lake Vyrnwy and was influenced by its folklore. It’s a fantastic part of the
world. I can understand how all the folklore has evolved up there when one sits
in the forest there watching the birds, especially when it gets dark. There are also external stimuli in the piece Toward
the Light which I wrote for the Royal Welsh College of Music & Drama
Symphony Orchestra here. It came out of a walk from Birling Gap to Eastbourne over
the Downs along the edge of the cliffs past Beachy Head. It was a terribly foggy day and a boat had been blown up onto the cliffs and smashed.
That made a big impact on me, and the whole piece is this journey, really.
Things like that affect me. Poetry and painting also affect me to a certain
degree and I have been greatly influenced by the poetry of Vernon Watkins too.
I prefer to write straight
into full score and rarely sketch. I tend to have a structure in mind before I
start. But it’s not set in stone. I know roughly where we’re going. It’s just
getting the balance right and as I go through I’m continually going back
through the score and adjusting the structure.
We just talked about you going back over pieces. When
a piece is finished and performed, do you go back and revise, or is it finished
by then?
One thing that was said to
me, certainly by Alun, and I seem to remember by Tim Taylor as well, was that
the time it takes you to revise a piece, you could write a new one. So don’t
get bogged down with continually revising. I do go back sometimes and look at things.
But you could tinker forever, going back and forth.
And are you a piano composer or a desk man when it comes to composing?
A desk man: I can’t play the piano to save my life but
I do try things out.
Verticals and things?
Yes, and just to see if
things work. I forced myself very early on to hear things in my head rather
than rely on the piano. This has, unfortunately, become more difficult since I
developed tinnitus.
Do you ever play your score back on the computer?
I try not to. I got into a
habit of doing it, and I suddenly realised I was destroying a lot of stuff that
was actually going to work. I’ve started to preach to all my students: “Don’t
play it back on the computer!”
Your music suggests a pre-occupation, to my mind with
classical forms. Do these the classical forms of the past, the traditional form
of symphony, concerto and so forth, play a big part in your music?
They have done. I had an
e-mail about three years ago from somebody from an American contemporary music
group saying they’d looked at my website, and they’d looked down my list of
works and they said “You write sonatas and quartets. Are you sure you shouldn’t
be dead!” Fair enough! There was a fairly heated exchange of e-mails, but I
thought, “That’s charming!” I don’t agree with the sentiments, but part of the
point was well taken.
Or are you one who has been trying to move away from those forms, in a
sense?
I’m
starting to. I think it’s a confidence thing. Again, when I first left college,
I felt: “Well, you have to write a symphony, you have to write a quartet in the
style of...” And if you’re going to call it a quartet, then you write the four
movements. As time goes on, one starts getting more and more confident and one thinks “I can write a quartet but it doesn’t have to be a
four-movement quartet with a scherzo and so forth.
Logically, if you think of it that way: there is no reason to follow the form
because no-one ever has. The form has evolved. I like the idea of sonata form.
My ultimate preference is continual variations. I like the idea of: “I’ll start
there, and that will evolve right through the piece”. You may not recognize it
by the time you get two-thirds of the way through, but it is based on the
original.
It’s like a bit of material working for you.
I love puzzles. I love
working out puzzles. I love working out how things come together. To a certain
extent, I approach composition like building a puzzle. You get your building
blocks and you ask “How can I manipulate these to get me from here to there?”
When I can really get down to doing that, I really enjoy it.
So, in a sense, it’s a bit more about manipulating
material rather than that straight-jacketing that we were talking about as
serialism and pre-plans of pre-composition, and so on.
That’s the part of
serialism that I hated. The bit I like, and still use, are sets of row
rotations. I use a lot of row rotations. I don’t do it strictly though and have
my own way of doing it. But I end up with sheets of blocks of notes but then
there’s no strict use of them. I can just use them when I want within a fairly
fluid tonal framework.
It’s more like what the Americans call “Set Theory”.
Yes. It’s a set of notes. In
one piece I ended up with 300 different sets that were all interrelated and I could
cut together. You could just pick one or two. If I write a big orchestral piece
I tend to use those row rotations.
In terms of what’s going on in music today, how would
you feel about the contemporary music scene? How do you see what’s been going
on in the last few years?
I like the diversity. I
like the fact that, for the first time, I can write what I like without
worrying that it doesn’t fit in with some current trend. I have to say, I see
some contemporary music as “Emperor’s New Clothes”. If a certain composer with
a certain standing writes something, he’s always going to be regarded as good,
and those who criticise him will be called “Imbeciles” for
misunderstanding it. But there are those who can write what they like and it
will be said “That’s wonderful!”, because it’s the thing to do, as it were.
One is perceived as being intelligent by supporting them.
How do you see the interaction between composer and
performer? Do you like writing for any particular performers, and is that quite
important in the way that it was for someone like Britten?
I think it’s great to know whom you’re writing for.
I’ve been very lucky to be able to work with performers and find out from people
what might work better or something that takes you down a really different
route. I was Ensemble Cymru’s first Composer in Association and wrote a
substantial part for the guitarist Craig Ogden as part of an education project.
I’d never written for guitar before and I didn’t have a clue. But it was great,
partly because he’s such a nice guy anyway, and took me to one side and said
“This ain’t gonna work, but if you do it this way…” Not only did it work, but I
went away and re-wrote the thing, and it completely changed the shape of it
because that opened another avenue which I didn’t realise I could do. That’s
how it should be.
How do you feel about the
opportunities for composers in Wales, today?
There are a lot of positives and negatives. Performance-wise,
there are a lot of positives but I think we have a problem in thinking we’re a
little country. We don’t have much self-confidence. We’re not very good at
telling the world how good we are.
Do you think there’s
enough promotion done inside Wales?
Frankly, no; there’s a lot
of promotion done by voluntary bodies and ensembles but our official bodies,
who are charged with doing their day-to-day work, could do a lot more. There’s
a lot of talk of new initiatives and we, as practitioners, are told that we
should be innovative, but I don’t see much innovation or support coming out of
the bodies that tell us to be innovative.
It also seems to me that
notated music using classical musical instruments is seen as being less and
less of a priority these days.
It’s an awful phrase but
“dumbing down” is an apt term for what we are doing. The kind of music I write
is seen as elitist. That makes me furious. I don’t want to be elitist; I want
everyone to listen to what I do. Rather than trying to raise the standards so
that everyone can take part in so-called “serious music”, they want us to lower
our standards then we’re accused of being elitist when we refuse. It’s not
elitist, but if you want to play the piano, you have to be able to play the
piano. You can’t just come along and open the lid and expect it to play
itself. It’s like anything. You wouldn’t call sport elitist.
No, and you have to reach
very high technical standards to be a good sportsperson.
Yes. So there’s a
disparity. There was an instance back last year where there was an issue about
raising money to send sportsmen to the Commonwealth Games. I don’t see a lot of
fuss being made about raising money to send musicians overseas, or to promote
music in communities. We have the odd nod towards it, but people don’t start
screaming and shouting that there should be more money going into music to encourage
the “ordinary person” to get involved in music, whatever the “ordinary person”
is.
But surely there are good
factors as well?
There’s a growing confidence,
and I’m very heartened by the number of ensembles that are working in Wales and
who have the willingness to perform Welsh music. I was talking recently to a
number of younger musicians starting out in their careers who want to perform
Welsh music. The more of that we get, the better, because I don’t think we’ve
had a Welsh identity for years. In the past, people have not wanted to be seen
as being Welsh and promoting their own culture; fortunately, that is changing.
Royal Welsh
College of Music and Drama, Cardiff: 1.4.03
Edited by Chris Painter: 30.12.13