Comparison might be the thief of joy, but we all take inspiration from somewhere, or someone. What makes a great musician worthy of looking up to? Should we be looking up to anyone at all? Keelan explores…
A decade ago, while doing the rounds auditioning for conservatoires as a hopeful undergrad-to-be, I was asked by a panel during the interview phase “who are some pianists and musicians you really look up to? Is there anyone you’d like to emulate?” Some names sprang to mind, but my prompt answer was “hmm, I don’t really do idols…” The panel laughed and replied “that is the best answer!” I likely still underestimate how impactful this exchange was on me to this day. In hindsight, it was profoundly validating to hear, and especially at an age when you must make a lot of critical decisions about which path to choose and follow. I got into music because I didn’t like following a path. I want to make my own path! Of course, this doesn’t mean wholly dismissing heritage and forefathers and standing on giant’s shoulders etc., but it does mean that I am determined to do my own thing with the material I inherit, moving forward.
Returning to more recent times: I appeared as a guest on the long-running Radio 4 series Great Lives, where the guest nominates a figure from history whom they believe led a great life, advocating for their ascension into a very amorphous pseudo-Valhalla of greatness. My choice was the composer Nikolai Medtner, whose music I adore and who never quite gets his due, given his marvellous output. As we explored Medtner’s biography, I found myself repeatedly confessing that, while I loved the music, I did not have much patience for the man. Frankly, he was stubborn and woefully delicate, and bereft of the broad pragmatic shoulders I like in a personality. Despite my immersion in and devotion to Medtner’s work, I could not call him a hero of mine. Nor any artist, for that matter. He clearly possessed outstanding qualities that inspire me on occasion, but to elevate him to hero-status? That’s a stretch.
Perhaps it is not in my character to have heroes or idols — I myself am too stubborn and snobbish to be a…“fan”. The philosopher and mathematician Bertrand Russell, having lived a long life and seen the worst of ultra-nationalism and political extremism, called himself “fanatically anti-fanatical”. I happen to think that this is also good practice in the art that we engage with, if only to save us from wasting hard-earned income on shamelessly abundant artist-related merchandise. More seriously, it keeps us listening critically, and promotes healthy skepticism. To have shortcomings is a precious human quality, after all. Now, don’t get me wrong — not everything is meant to be critically serious, and certainly not so in music. We play music, no? Some things are meant to be purely indulged and enjoyed. Colatura in Rossini operas, finale’s in Mendelssohn concerti, Duke Ellington’s Nutcracker Suite — the soundtrack to the videogame Doom.
It would however be flippant to reduce all music to just a bit of fun — for many of us it is intrinsically fulfilling, and a source of vital intellectual, spiritual nourishment. And that deserves sincere, dedicated and critical attention. Why does this prevent me from worshipping any particular artist whose work I admire? Why can’t I bring myself to have a proper hero?
I have great musician friends who absolutely do have heroes of their craft. A violinist friend is a zealous devotee of all things Jascha Heifetz, and in every performance, they pray to spiritually channel his virtuosic ghost. I have read pianists’ accounts fawning over the effortless perfection of Dinu Lipatti’s recordings, whose interpretations they would be content to loyally imitate themselves. Paying tribute to the remarkable gifts and talents that have come before us is a worthy cause, and also a good exercise in humility. I marvel at Bach’s modulations and counterpoint in part because I know that I cannot do this myself. In that sense, we genuinely look up to others’ work, in hope that we can learn from them. But a hero is an order of magnitude greater, and a term I get stuck on.
I have an aversion to Great Man (or Woman) theory — the idea that historical change is essentially driven by ingenious and miraculously gifted individuals. It’s easy to see how this impacts my attitude to classical music, which is often taught as a history of immense singular talents that all belong to one great lineage (“it’s a big club, and YOU ain’t in it!”) Another problem is the frequent and very hazy line between accurate history and myth-making, or as we now like to say: effective marketing. Every musician since Beethoven has necessarily also been an entrepreneur, and had to sell themselves, and the idea of themselves. They have a brand to cultivate, which is not to be confused with their actual being and work, although in order to lend ever-valuable authenticity, it is often incentivised to blur that particular line. There are often entire industries behind and around the individuals we celebrate, and I cannot help but be a little suspicious of the great deeds I read and hear about. The greater the heroics…the more suspicious I become. It takes enormous resources — time and money — to pull off the ambitious operas and symphonies and recordings we so enjoy. Where is all that coming from? Peak-classical music, considered to occur during the long 19th Century, also happened to be Europe at its most imperial. That is not a coincidence. It shouldn’t be embarrassing, or demeaning, to acknowledge the substantial privileges we inherit, legitimately or otherwise, and their role in the great works we go on to produce.
This gets to the crux of my reservations about putting any artist on a pedestal: authors are an authority, but they are not the absolute authority. The listener, the reader, the audience — they participate in a performance or work too. They also bring their knowledge to the table — a work of art is only fully realised inside the Mind. After all, falling forest trees are silent when no one is around to hear them. Forgive me if this is literally overly-heady food-for-thought, but I think it’s a crucial point when it comes to democratising the way we all enjoy each others’ work. There’s a tyrannical streak to the idea of an art or music-hero, that ultimately does them a disservice: it dehumanizes them. It can remove their vulnerabilities, making them more fiction than fact. And while fiction can be ever-so flattering…I choose Truth.
