Steven Isserlis

So – another angel from the music world has left us, this time at a ridiculously, tragically young age. Lars Vogt was larger than life in so many ways. He was tall and strongly built – although somehow more cuddly than imposing; his voice was loud, his laugh even louder – often startlingly so, in fact; his passion for music was absolute and voracious; and as a person, his warmth was simply, irresistibly overwhelming. He had an engulfingly strong effect on everyone he knew; it was impossible not to love him – well, that was only fair, because he himself radiated so much love.

Like many people, at least in the UK, I first heard of Lars when he came second in the Leeds competition, where he was championed by Simon Rattle. It was not until some time later, though, that I met him; I can’t remember the circumstances, but I do remember being struck by the difference between what I’d imagined from seeing him performing on TV, and the reality of his presence. On TV, he’d looked quite severe, I thought; in person, he was unbelievably friendly, ready to break into that alarming laugh of his at a moment’s notice; he somehow reminded me of a large, affectionate, bright-eyed dog, wagging his tail hopefully. In short – he was adorable. (And possessed of a strikingly wide mouth, which he himself thought was like that of Wallace, of Wallace and Gromit; maybe he was right – see illustration…)

We played together a few times, which was always memorable – never more so than during the times I participated in his festival at Heimbach. It was a truly wonderful festival, with the most celebratory of atmospheres – a gathering of close friends who were there just to have fun, and to make (marvellous) music together. And this atmosphere emanated chiefly, of course, from Lars, who was at the centre of everything – whether being the life and soul of the dinner-table, or having to be comforted while crying his eyes out after a performance of (say) a Schubert string quartet, or bringing his unique musical charisma to every piece he played. These festivals derive their characters from those who run them; I have never felt more festive joy than at Heimbach. (A particularly nice touch came at the end of the festival, when Lars and friends would jump onto the dining-table and break into a rousing chorus of Queen’s ‘We are the champions’!)

Then the news came, a few years ago, that Lars had been diagnosed with a particularly serious cancer. We were all shocked and horrified; it seemed that he might even die soon – too awful to contemplate. But then – he didn’t! Not only did he confound his doctors’ expectations by living: he went on with his concert life (when lockdowns permitted) just as intensively as before, if not more so, playing, conducting, organising, and even stepping in for other artists. The words ‘cancer victim’ just did not apply to him – he wouldn’t let them. And he felt, and was helped by, the affection swarming around him; as he wrote in an email: ‘It really does feel amazing to be thought of by so many people with whom I’ve shared wonderful experiences.’

Because of Covid, we hadn’t met for far too long; but last November we finally got together for dinner at a Japanese restaurant in London. I was slightly apprehensive: would he be distressingly ill? Would he be drastically changed? I needn’t have worried; he was absolutely his old self, full of energy and joie de vivre – and with an astonishingly healthy appetite, wolfing down vast quantities of sushi with huge enjoyment. Of course, we talked about his various ailments – there were others on top of the cancer; but it wasn’t the slightest bit depressing – quite the opposite. It was so wonderful to see him – and to meet his wife Anna, who obviously adored him (and of course the feeling was quite mutual!). The next night I went to his concert at the Wigmore; and again, he was absolutely his old musical self – or if anything, on even better form than before. We went for more sushi afterwards; once more, the poor sushi didn’t stand a chance, disappearing down his throat at an almost alarming rate. Two memorable evenings.

I saw him once more after that, also at a concert at the Wigmore – this time an all-Schumann programme, including some of Schumann’s late declamations, strikingly recited by Lars’ oldest daughter, Isabelle. This time Lars seemed less well – at the dinner afterwards, he had to keep excusing himself; it was worrying. But when I Facetimed him a couple of days later, to check up, there was the cheerful, hearty Lars again, having bounced back. Extraordinary.

We hoped – unrealistically, as it turned out – that this pattern would continue, with the healthy episodes increasingly outnumbering the crises until a proper cure was found; but it was not to be, of course. The last time we Facetimed, he was in bed – not gloomy (at least, not showing it), but admitting that the disease had come to a ‘hard point’. Still, he didn’t give up. Just before he died, he was undergoing a new, quite experimental (I think) treatment. I wrote to ask how it had gone; in what would be his last email to me, written exactly three weeks before his death, he wrote: “Started today! … slept most of day as the premedication knocks you out.

But… might be an illusion, but I have the feeling I’ve got something positive working in me….
Hope …
Xxx”

But then – there was silence… And all too soon I heard from the Tetzlaffs (Christian and Lars were inseparable friends) that the end was near. Unbearable news.

Lars leaves three daughters – as well as his beloved Anna – and a huge community of grieving friends around the world. The trouble with a person who sheds so much light during their life is that when they’ve gone, they leave a comparable amount of darkness. But Lars – we forgive you! Thank you for everything – and may your laugh be now resounding around heaven, fluttering those angel wings…