MARTIN LOVETT
Martin Lovett was one of the great characters in British musical life. It seemed to me when I was growing up that almost everyone I met knew him – and that they all loved him. Because my father had been involved with members of the Amadeus quartet before the group was even formed – he had shared a tent, or room, with Norbert Brainin and Peter Schidlof when they were all interned on the Isle of Man during the early stages of the second world war – our musical circles coincided quite closely with those of the Amadeus; and therefore I was accustomed to hearing regular gossip about all four members of the quartet and their doings and sayings.
What characters they were! Peter Schidlof I never knew, sadly, but the other three were inimitable, and wonderful. Martin was the only English member of the group – though I think that English/Jewish is probably a better description. He used to delight in telling Jewish jokes, which he did marvellously (there are even clips of him doing so on Youtube; worth watching, not just for the joke-telling, and the jokes themselves, but also for the chance to hear his deeply characterful, recognisably London-Jewish way of speaking – somehow both constantly amused, and deeply warm); and he loved, when married to his first wife Suzanne Rosza, to play the part of the complaining Jewish husband. He once called me, and grumbled: ‘I’m about to sell my cello, and Suzy says that she wants to hear it played properly before it goes. What do you think of that? A nice thing for a wife to say.’ Of course, the love underlying the complaints was obvious. (And what a wonderful character she was too! One story I remember clearly: our mother died in 1998. A few days later, my sister Annette happened to see Martin and Suzy, and Annette broke the news to them. Suzy looked at her severely. ‘You’re joking!’ she exclaimed. ‘We were supposed to play cards next week!’)
There was a kindness, a total lack of pomposity – its very opposite, in fact – in Martin that was so attractive. If he ever mentioned the achievements of the quartet (such as the time when he told me, in passing, that their recording of the Beethoven quartets had sold some 2 ½ million copies!), it was in a matter-of-fact tone, tinged with an element of surprise. He had very strong musical opinions, and some very interesting ideas, about both major issues and minor details (there’s one note in the Haydn D major concerto that I always add now, following his suggestion); but he never offered them as revelations from a maestro, merely as passing observations from one musician to another.
He was quite a salesman too! I ended up buying my Montagnana cello from him without knowing quite why or how. Well, I’m glad I did; but his patter was quite impressive. As a buyer too, I’m sure he could be extremely persuasive. Once I was – for some reason – at an electronics store in North London, examining some personal mini-TVs, then a complete novelty. Suddenly in walked Martin and Suzy! I showed him some of the little TVs, explaining how they worked. Martin got quite excited – so excited, in fact, that he forgot who I was. He looked at me with guarded enthusiasm. ‘What sort of price can you give me on this?’. I had to remind him that – for the moment, anyway – I was actually a cellist, not a TV salesman.
Musically, alas I hardly ever heard the Amadeus quartet, and when I did, was too young for it to make much of an impression. My loss – they must have been mesmerising. As a cellist, I don’t think that Martin was ever a virtuoso; but he always played with impeccable musicianship, a natural approach that was so refreshing, honest and satisfying. I did hear him play in two marvellously memorable concerts with Norbert in post-quartet years, both at the Wigmore Hall. One was a performance of Schumann’s G minor trio with the pianist Gunther Ludwig. Both he and Norbert had learned the trio especially for the Schumann festival which I mounted in 1989. The concert was magnificent! It was a piece I knew well; but their approach was quite new to me, and utterly convincing – a revelation, in fact. The other was a Beethoven trio with Murray Perahia – also very special.
I picked up a little hint of what might have been Norbert and Martin’s off-stage relationship at the beginning of that latter concert. Norbert was about to start while Murray was still opening his music; Martin glared at him fiercely, and waved in a way that somehow implied that he was always having to do this, to save the day. (I can’t remember whether he managed to stop Norbert, though.) One heard stories about all sorts of quarrels – even leading to occasional fisticuffs! – during quartet rehearsals; but there was also obviously a deep affection between them too. (I remember Martin, who was also a talented artist, showing me a really touching portrait of Peter Schidlof that he’d painted after the latter’s death.) They did make strenuous attempts to hide that affection, however. Another story involving my sister Annette: in Aldeburgh one summer, she found herself, for some reason, at a cinema with Martin and Peter, sitting between them. As the film started, Peter leaned over and whispered: ‘So good to have you here – it’s so boring being alone with Martin.’ Two minutes later, Martin leant over and whispered: ‘So good to have you here – it’s so boring being alone with Peter.’ I’m sure it’s a routine they’d perfected over the years.
So Martin is gone, after some years of ill-health (though he still gave the occasional lesson, until surprisingly recently). He leaves us with a host of happy memories; he will be missed, by all lucky enough to know him – but above all, he will be celebrated.
