BY JASMINE MIDDLETON AND STEPHANIE ESLAKE
If you could design any concert program, what music would you include? How about “the half-modern music that is in danger of being forgotten”?
It’s these works that Håkan Hardenberger says he wants the world to embrace. The trumpet soloist has spent his career performing and conducting music that falls in and outside the box — with many works written just for him. Some composer highlights include Toru Takemitsu, Brett Dean, Arvo Pärt, and Olga Neuwirth.
You can read more about his extensive background here, but for this interview we wanted to settle in for a chat about how and why Håkan values the presentation of music new and older — and how to stay true in the music industry.
Hi Håkan, thanks for taking the time to chat with us before you visit ANAM. I’d first like to ask you about your career so far. You have a very impressive history of performing classical works as well as new music. Why is it that you enjoy both styles, when between the two there exists plenty of discrimination among audiences?
I grew up in a family with no music, so I didn’t make the distinction in the first place between old or new, because there was no such luggage. I think if people would remain curious — rather than going to concerts with the feeling that they have to always recognise something, and keep an open mind — then there wouldn’t need to be such a discrimination between them.
For a long time, new music was played almost always with a slightly bad conscience, and in a ghetto surrounding, and I think it’s vital to program in such a way that music is music. In the old days – in Haydn’s days – it was almost only the ‘new’ that was played. And now, I think we need to mix it in a way that we open people’s ears rather than closing them.
Sometimes, the idea of “new music” can evoke in a listener the assumption that the work will be inaccessible or in some way experimental. But what have you found are some of the similarities between old and new music?
Working with composers all the time, I see common denominators in them. They all have different languages and they all have different ways of notation. However, I always find that in the end they want a result that seems at once spontaneous and that communicates.
If we look back in time, the old composers were always hands-on. They were in music, they were playing their own music, and that’s how the music came out to people. I think the good [composers] today are like that; they play, they conduct, and they’re in the clay with their hands, with a few exceptions.
Some composers can just sit at a desk and still be successful, but I think it’s rare. And if they are hands-on, they also meet the audience and see how they communicate themselves, and I think that’s vital. For a while, it was also a fashion that the fewer people that listen to it, the better the art music be, which has then created a counter-reaction where some directions are almost too flirtatious.
For a composer, it’s so difficult to find a voice that is original. After hundreds of years of music history with very good music, it’s difficult to find a new voice. But then, the trumpet is very good because we don’t have such a heavy luggage to carry; we don’t have a Brahms concerto to compete with.
So much music has been written for you. How have you found the experience of building a relationship with so many composers throughout your life and career?
I see myself almost as a vampire: it’s been my blood. I realised early on that I wanted to play as a soloist, and I also realised that if I was going to do that, one good piece – as in, the Haydn trumpet concerto – would not be enough. I also had a genuine interest. I met composers early on in the environment of Paris when I studied, and I realised that it was something that was really interesting to me.
It’s like learning a new language each time, or seeing a new landscape. You also have to discover that person a little bit, to sit down and talk, and of course listen to all of what they’ve written before and try to understand the person and where this music comes from. With every composer I’ve worked with, every story has been different; how the piece came about and how it developed.
Do you feel you’re more receptive to new music than your contemporaries?
No, I think when I was growing up the trumpet was in a very positive stage. There’s been the development of jazz that had shown the world that the trumpet could express other things that weren’t war signals or angel-like Christmas expressions; that it could be vulnerable and sensitive.
I think in that way, the stage was set. There was also the first generation of soloists, like the Frenchman Maurice André, who really took the trumpet up on the serious concert stage as a solo instrument. So, for our generation, it was really a very fruitful time […] There was a lot of ground being made technically [in the ’70s], so it was all ready for my generation to just take the fruit.
Beyond your performance of new music as a musician, you also conduct. How does this give you a deeper insight into the music itself?
I think it’s a natural progression. It’s much like being an actor again, but in this case, an actor that also turns to directing. For me, I’m not going to be another repertoire conductor. I mean, there’s enough people doing Mahler symphonies. We don’t need another one.
But I do have a big set of keys with all the composers that I’ve worked with and I’m also very interesting in programming. A lot of the power in programming is left with the conductors, so I think one of the luxuries in conducting is to put together a program with — in my case of knowing all these composers — the music I see not being played enough: the half-modern music that is in danger of being forgotten.
If we play only up to Sibelius or Alban Berg – there’s still people today saying Alban Berg is modern music – and then nothing […] then there’s a vacuum that makes it rather hard for everyday concertgoers to follow. I think it’s vital to play music from the ’30s, ’40s, ’50s, and even ’80s. Then of course, the ink is still wet, as we say.
And then I started conducting a bit and I realised I liked it; I liked the look in musicians’ eyes when something sounds good and it’s a nice feeling to help. It’s my pension insurance [laughs].
How does conducting give you a greater understanding of the music industry in which you work?
That is a very interesting point. Because, you can see it when you are a soloist; you can see how important it is that connections are made repertoire-wise, the many things that have to happen for a concert to take place, and then program discussion. You can see it from the outside, being the soloist; then when you’re a conductor, you’re a little bit closer to the central decision.
Industry. It’s kind of an ugly word, isn’t it? But it is an industry, and you are right. But at the very end, if we don’t do what we really like or love, there’s no way that we can truly convince any member of the audience. ‘Industry’ sounds all commercial, but if we only consider what the money can make happen, then we will end up with a very empty artform. I want to be able to tell honest, true stories.
When you visit ANAM, you’ll be performing alongside young musicians. What do you hope to give to them through this experience?
I really hope to give some of what I’ve learnt, and some of my energy, commitment, and the feeling of importance. Music is a matter of life and death to me.
I just did a very similar project to the one I’m doing in Australia, at Tanglewood in the United States. It inspires me to work with young people; I think we mirror off each other. If we have the sense of this importance, and we fight the cynical sides of what you rightly call an industry, then we can remain true.
See Hardenberger’s Brass Explorations at 7.30pm October 5 in ANAM, South Melbourne Town Hall. He will also give a trumpet masterclass at 10am October 2.
Images supplied. Credit: Marco Borggreve.
