Steven Isserlis

Today’s little rant has actually been prompted by something positive. I have been in the US for a bit, where I have given a couple of classes; at both, I was struck by how supportive the atmosphere was among the students, each new masterclass victim coming onstage to waves of warm enthusiasm from their fellow-students. It was lovely – and just how it should be. But it got me thinking about the nature of competition, and ambition. Without having had any conversations on the subject with either students or teachers at these events, I KNOW that there must be something of a competitive spirit among the class, no matter how much they all like each other; it would be unnatural if there were not. And that is by no means a bad thing, if it spurs the students on to higher achievements, in which they can support each other. And ambition? Well, it is a good thing to want to reach one’s full potential, and to be recognised for it. But – and here’s the rub – it has to be the right sort of ambition; an uplifting aspiration, not merely a desire for career success.

I remember an occasion when I was at college: someone accused me (well, it felt like an accusation) of being the most ambitious person he’d ever met; I was affronted. I think I’d still take that description as an insult; but with time my feelings about ambition have become more graded. I think of the great composers, almost all of them highly ambitious. I think of my favourite performers, all desirous, in their varying ways, of worldly success (whether they’d admit it or not). But the difference between the true artist and the calculating, career-driven musician (of which, alas, there are all too many) lies in the nature and quality of their ambitions. It’s fine to enjoy being appreciated and applauded (and paid!); that is human nature. A problem only arises when that desire for success over-rides the quest for musical truth. This can easily happen. Even a musician who starts out with serious intentions can be tempted, all too easily: when one knows, to take a random example, that if one plays the end of a piece fast and loud, even if it contradicts the spirit of the music, one will get a standing ovation, it can perhaps be hard to resist doing so. Or if someone – a manager, for instance – tells one to slip in a bit of crossover to one’s programmes, even if one doesn’t have a particular feel for the style of the music in question: why not, one might ask? People will like it. And after all, one could argue, one is playing for the audience; isn’t it one’s duty to make sure they have an enjoyable experience?

But that is to underestimate the music – and the audience. If we believe in the piece we’re playing, then, providing we have the instrumental means to do so, it should be possible to communicate our view of that piece, without offering any condescending cheap thrills. What the composer writes is always going to be more important than anything we superimpose on it. And if we stick to playing the music we truly understand, then we will remain true to ourselves – the only way we can feel properly fulfilled.

The less we think about the effect we’re having, the deeper that effect is likely to be on our listeners. I have felt that most clearly with unusual repertoire about which I care passionately: the Faure sonatas, for instance, or Prokofiev’s cello concerto. For many years, I hoped desperately for the audience to appreciate these pieces, and made a conscious effort to ‘sell’ the music. Mistake: people would often be unconvinced (and I would be upset). Later, I realised that it was up to the listener to decide whether or not that music was for them; my task was merely to make the characters, the shape, the harmonic journey – the story, in fact – of the music as clear as I could, communicating the results of my dialogue with the composer to the listener; and in fact, that has worked (on the whole) much better. Don’t ever apologise for something you believe in!

It is certainly not a question of ignoring the audience – that is not the point. (Even though I was dead impressed the only time I heard Bob Dylan live: we waited for ages for him to appear; then suddenly the stage was plunged into total darkness, before the lights went up again – and there he was, with his back to the audience, totally and blithely unconcerned with us. It seemed to me to be the last word in cool; but still, I don’t recommend it to classical musicians.) We have an important duty to the audience: to put them in touch with another world, the world of the music we’re playing. It is not that we are trying to be invisible; not at all. If one sees an actor on the stage, one is always conscious of their presence, of their physical appearance, of their voice; but a great actor will convince us that they have actually become the character they are playing. This is what our ultimate ambition should lead us towards – not more success, more attention, more money, nice though all these things are; we must become the music.

So I’d say: don’t be silly about your career – there’s nothing wrong with ambition per se. Be practical, and aim for whatever it is you want – so long as (and this is important) you never stand in anyone else’s way, no matter what you think of them. And of course everybody has to compromise to a certain extent, at least if they want to play in public. (If this rant sounds self-righteous, it shouldn’t; I’ve certainly no right to be.) But keep those compromises to a minimum, and ignore outside pressures as much as you can: remember that a concert should not be about you or your success – it is about something more important. A superficial approach, no matter how well-received the performance may be at the time, will never touch your listeners deeply, change their lives – and that’s what music should do.