STEPHEN FRY'S
OF CLASSICAL MUSIC
INCOMPLETE amp; UTTER HISTORY
Actor, director, novelist and writer, it seems there is no end to the talents of Stephen Fry. Most recendy, he has appeared in Absolute Power on Radio 4 and BBC 2, hosted the BBC 2 quiz show QI and has been enjoyed on Classic FM's The Incomplete amp; Utter History of Classical Music with Stephen Fry. His film credits include Peter's Friends, A Handful of Dust and Oscar Wilde in Wilde and his radio projects include Loose Ends, Frybeat and Saturday Night Fry. As a writer, Stephen's TV credits include Not the Nine O'Clock News, Mastermind, Saturday Night Live and A Bit of Fry and Laurie. His first novel, The Liar, was published in 1991 and was on the bestseller lists for several months, and he has since followed with more bestsellers: Paperweight, The Hippopotamus and his autobiography Moab Is My Washpot. Adding to his string-laden bow, his directorial debut, Bright Young Things, his own adaptation of Evelyn Waugh's Vile Bodies, was released to critical acclaim in 2003. Tim Lihoreau is a music graduate from Leeds University and is creative director of Classic FM. He worked as a professional pianist before joining Jazz FM in 1991 and then Classic FM in 1993. He is the author and producer of the radio series Classic Tales and The Incomplete amp; Utter History of Classical Music with Stephen Fry, and he has won two Sony Radio Academy Gold Awards and four ntl Commercial Radio Awards for his work. He is co-author of Classic FM's Pocket Book of Classical Music ax\A Pocket Book of Quotes. Recendy, Tim has moved in front of die microphone as one-third of Classic FM's Mark, Tim and Annie. He lives near Cambridge with his wife and three children.
AS TOLD TO TIM LIHOREAU
PAN BOOKS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
FOREWORD
I'd like to thank Classic FM's Managing Director, Roger Lewis, for the opportunity, the time and the never-ending encouragement to work on the Incomplete amp; Utter History, as well as Darren Henley for both the original idea and the generous support. Also at Classic FM, a big thank you to Kate Juxon for all her help, as well as Gues Pearman and Jo Wilson. A huge thank you to my commissioning editor, Emma Marriott, who, from day one, has given me nothing but support and encouragement on this project. I'd also like to express gratitude to the copy-editor Christine King and designers Sean Garrehy and Jonathan Baker. Finally, I'd like to give a big thanks and a sloppy wet kiss to Siobhan, Millie, Daisy and Finn, for letting me have so much time in 'the den'. Love 'n' thanks.
] vcryday and sublime. That's what it is. yjohann Sebastian Bach is quoted as once saying, 'It's easy to play.? iv musical instrument: all you have to do is touch the right key at the i if.lii time and the instrument will play itself.' To some extent, I agree with him. I'm pretty sure I could master the techniques necessary to be lord over, say, a recorder or a mouth organ. I could press the right buttons, probably, and who knows, maybe even manage 'Frere Jacques' before long. The part over which I almost certainly hold no dominion, though, is the part that happens both before and after you've touched the piano key or covered the recorder hole. The bit that says, 'Play this not only now, but like this.' Then says, 'And phrase it like this.' Even, 'and draw this out of the note to make people subconciously think back to that part of the tune three bars kick.' That's the bit that reminds me that, yes, Bach did have his flutter tongue firmly in his cheek.
The Greeks knew this. They had their nine Muses, each shedding a light on one particular area of 'mousike' - that is the art of the Muse, eovering not just music and dance but all areas of arts, science and, generally, learning. Hence, words like music and museum (even mystery) have an original connection to the works of the Muses. I sometimes wonder if it's a knowledge of this that intimidates me so much in the area of music. At school, one of my greatest regrets was my inability to produce
any two notes, in order, which could be said to resemble a tune. One note? Fine, I could produce one note with the best of them, possibly not a very nice note, admittedly, and occasionally attractive to passing wildlife, but nevertheless, a note all the same. It was only when I had to produce two or more notes, in succession, in tune, that I had any problems. Serious problems, actually, hence I tended to shut up, to not join in, to mime even. My music had charms to 'seethe' the savage breast, if you like.
So, at an early age, it was decided to leave it to the experts, let them get on with it. They seemed to be doing a good job. And besides, there was one branch of music at which I excelled. I think I'm not being unduly immodest if I were to say many thought I showed early promise in this area. Indeed, sometimes, so accomplished did I become in this particular musical discipline that I more than momentarily considered taking it up professionally. The area I'm talking about, of course, at which I consider myself of Olympic standard, no less, is… listening.
Listening to classical music. I could do it, in the words of Voltaire, 'jusqu'a ce que les vaches viennent a la maisorC. And how right he was. My favourite composers to listen to are Mozart and Wagner, but I have a quite extensive listening repertoire beyond them. Don Giovanni, though, is a work that I can come back to again and again and, like a favourite journey at the end of which you arrive somewhere special, I discover new things every time. Always finding something new. Similarly with Wagner. I have long since managed to separate the rather grisly man and his music. Richard Wagner was far from pleasant and his racial and political views, unpleasant to begin with, have been coloured by the cordial relations his descendants had with Hitler. But by their fruits shall ye know them, the works of Wagner are as antifascist as could be, espousing as they do, love over power.
This book is aimed at those who love listening to great classical music. It is, as I will remind you at various stages along the way, an incomplete book. It does not cover many of the things that it should do in order to merit the title Stephen Fry's Complete amp; Utter History of Classical Music. Hence, we decided against that moniker, ingeniously arriving at one that both suggests and hints at it, while at the same time completely bloody contradicting it. Brilliant. A stoke of genius I'm sure you'll agree. It is also full of opinions, some of them mine,?..»mc of them not. It is full of suppositions, of flights of fancy, of musi-i.il mind trips and, indeed, of complete Tosh. In fact where I do shamelessly resort to making it up, I've taken the liberty of inserting the symbol © for Tosh, just so as not to confuse too much. Also, in?»u In not to put you off too much, I have put some of the ephemera explanations, asides, what have you - into footnotes, so that a reader in.1 hurry might be able to skip on. As a result, it is a very personal book, which, if it does nothing else at all, will convey some of the personal enthusiasm the author holds for his subject. Also, from time to time, I'll take a peek into the current affairs of the age, to see just what was going on when the great composers were, well, composing. While music is, in essence, abstract and needs no knowledge brought to it, either of music or of history, it is fascinating to see what events wore shaping the world while the composers lived. Developments in history, art, philosophy and science profoundly affected composers, so iluring the course of this book contemporary moments, some trivial, some seismic, are mentioned.
It's not just Mozart and Wagner that rustle my bustle, though, I hasten to add. In fact, I have often stopped and wondered, while we were listening to the seemingly endless hours of live concerts and CD recordings of the works of the Great Composers in order to make this book, just exactly which one I would have liked to have been.
Beethoven is the most obvious choice after my top two. He may not have been able to hear at all, towards the end, but his capacity to feel was second to none. What attracts me about Beethoven is that idea of'everyday sublime' again. Picture Beethoven, if you will for a moment, in his room in the Schwarzspanierhaus. His run-down old Graf piano is behind him, totally… well, knackered, from his attempts to beat it so hard and be able to hear it. On the shambles of a desk in front of him, next to his ear trumpet, are numerous books written and over-written with stilted notes, in which his guests had had to write their conversations. There are also sad leftovers of food, broken coffee cups, spilt candle wax - in fact it looks more like a student's bedroom than that of a man whose name would live for years through the genius of his music. Everyday, squalid even. Yet sublime.