In a sense,
Benjamin Britten was a composer three times over: the genius who wrote the
notes, the pianist who played as only a composer can play, aware of the music's
structure and conjuring up the sound of the orchestra, and the conductor making
music sound as though the ink were still dry. From the young man's hair-breadth
daring brilliance through all the operas, songs of all kinds and instrumental
pieces through to the last delicate look backs in tenderness. He could make
magic at the keyboard in such a way as to cause Gerald Moore declare that he
was the best accompanist there was. His playing at those operatic programmes
where his Verdi was so compelling or the time when he played the opening bar's
eight repeated chord of C minor of Fauré's Elégie before Fournier entered made
one hold one's breath in sheer wonder. As a conductor he could raise a storm in
The Hebrides that was shatteringly dramatic whilst his Mozart G minor Symphony
was tragic in the extreme (with all possible repeats it took nearly
three-quarters of an hour – heavenly length).
Ben was a competitive
chap: he wanted to be the best, he was modest in a way but sought to be the
best. Generally, he was the best, even running the Aldeburgh Festival
(how many other administrators could read a balance sheet as well as an
orchestral score?) He was a good driver of fast cars (a sparky Jensen previous
to a more sedate Rolls), he played tennis well with a vicious swerving serve
that could only be received in the netting, he played croquet and even Happy
Families (although Shostakovich won on his Christmas visit to Aldeburgh – I
think Ben must have allowed his guest to win). On the other hand Ben admired
people who did things as well as himself, in different fields mind you, as
witness his duets with Richter or Rostropovich, Vishnievskaya. There has never
in musical history been a love-match that produced so much music as Ben wrote
for Peter Pears, at least eight song cycles and ten operas – from Grimes in
1945 to Death in Venice in 1973. The preponderance of subject matter relating
to the corruption of innocence and sympathy for the oppressed must have had a
lot to do with Ben's own experience, mainly because he was a homosexual. It may
have been that he was always looking back to his childhood years.
Britten
believed his task was to write music for the living, to be useful to his fellow
beings. Like Mozart, most of his music was composed with certain voices or
instrumentalist in mind. he tailored the notes for the singers, for example,
knowing which were the best ones wide, intervals or narrow, which parts of the
voice 'spoke' best, was the singer better at quick music or slow; all the
individually of the original singer is so much encapsulated in music that it
amounts almost to a portrait of their particular voice. The music composed
especially for Fischer Dieskau, Vyvyan, Baker, Mandikian, Vishnievskaya,
Ferrier and Pears above all, still sounds like those singers even when others
perform it. Britten also knew exactly how any instrumentalist was going to
produce any note he wrote for him or her; which finger, methods of bowing,
blowing, striking, pedalling, which string; you ignore his written indications
at your peril. (By the way, none of this means that it is easy to perform: it
is always possible though). Did he ever make a boo-boo in his
orchestration? Just once, and he joked about it, it was so rare: he wrote a low
note for the piccolo in Billy Budd which is off the instrument's range.
Ben had charisma.
He had the manner of a diffident prep school master, (clothes to match – a
sports coat, grey bags à l'anglaise), speaking voice beguiling which the
microphone distorted, it came out a bit like Prince Charles. He could charm you
if he wanted something or liked you; but the charm would switch off if he
didn't, or thought you might be hostile. There is too large a list of favourites
who suddenly found that they were what he himself called 'corpses'. They were
perhaps sacrifices to his career. But that was a dark side to his character.
There were a
couple of years when Ben would not work with the London Symphony because one
day a couple of double-basses laughed at a newspaper joke while they had
nothing to play for a few seconds. He thought they were laughing at him.
His conducting
was serious and penetrating; the heart and soul of the music was revealed.
It was curious
about Peter's voice. With the consummation of their affair in the States, it
changed, no longer that of a typical English choir tenor but, as some old
friends pointed out, uncannily like the singing voice of Ben's mother. (Any
comment, Dr. Freud?)
Perhaps Ben had
one skin less than most of us. That might account for his sensitivity, his
touchiness, maybe his genius.
Is the best of
his music inspired by words? Not only are they impeccably set but they are set
with an imagination that enhances and re-creates the original writer's spirit,
style and imagery. He often chose words that you would think impossible to put
to music or that would be destroyed in the setting. The only love duet, man and
woman, occurs in The Prince of the Pagodas – wordless of course.
It was said
that he turned down a knighthood but he was later awarded the Order of Merit
and the first peerage ever awarded to a musician. He was happy to chum up with
the Royals but that may have helped him to sleep nights in a country where, for
most of his life, homosexuality was a criminal offence.
What a blessing
it was to have lived at a time when it was possible to hear Britten play,
conduct and produce a steady stream of wonderful new music!
