Kristjan Randalu: How Do You Prepare for the Unprepared？
Ahead of his performance at Ronnie Scott’s on 5 November with Greek bassist Petros Klampanis and drummer Ziv Ravitz, pianist and composer Kristjan Randalu speaks to The Riff Magazine about his musical journey, his ECM album Absence, his reimagining of Schumann’s Dichterliebe, and the ideas and collaborations that continue to shape his work.
 | By Lucy Cheung 02 November 2026 |
“Making Choices, Eliminating Other Possibilities”
LC = Lucy Cheung
KR = Kristjan Randalu
LC: Perhaps we could start with Estonia. You were born there before moving to Germany. What are your earliest musical memories of Estonia?
JR: The foundation of my musical memories is that both my parents are professional classical pianists. The piano was always around, as was practicing. It was simply a natural part of growing up. I also attended many of my father’s performances and was taken to concerts from a very young age, practically as a toddler. So one of my earliest memories is simply getting used to sitting still and listening to music.
LC: Do you remember a particular piece or performance from that time?
JR: Perhaps the experience that later connected me to jazz was hearing a student of my father perform Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. It is essentially a notated classical composition, but it has those jazzy harmonies. I remember being struck by them. Compared with the standard classical and Romantic repertoire, they sounded intriguing and different. That was a very clear musical trigger for me.
LC: But you were classically trained?
JR: Yes. I started with classical piano as a child and played classical music exclusively. Then we emigrated to Germany, where I continued my classical studies. At the same time, I was surrounded by pop music in the media — MTV, the radio and so on. It felt as though there were two separate worlds: practicing classical piano on one hand, listening to popular music on the other. Quite early on, I developed the motivation to make my own music. I wanted to create something, experimenting with sequencers, computers and keyboards, and trying out different sounds.
LC: Where did that desire come from?
JR: I don’t think there was anything particularly unusual about it. Even as a child in Estonia, I remember thinking: let’s form a band. It seemed like something exciting to do. The turning point came when I began experimenting with my own music and a long-term musical collaborator and friend suggested that we should play it live. We formed our first bands at school and started performing original material.
That presented a different musical challenge. I was used to playing demanding classical repertoire, taking part in youth competitions and giving recitals. Suddenly I found myself in a musical setting where technical accomplishment was perhaps less emphasised, but I realised that I lacked the flexibility and practical experience needed on the instrument. That was when I began getting more deeply into jazz.
People often say that Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue was the crucial record for them. It wasn’t for me. In the early 1990s, the recording that made a real difference was Chick Corea Elektric Band’s Inside Out. It is very polished and brilliantly played music, and it had a major influence on the direction I wanted to take.
LC: Did that change later on? Did you eventually return to Miles Davis, or did Chick Corea remain your main influence? How did your musical interests develop from there?
JR: When I finished high school, I had already decided not to continue with classical piano education but to study jazz instead. I first went to Stuttgart in Germany, then briefly to the Royal Academy in London, before returning to Stuttgart. Eventually I went to New York and studied at the Manhattan School of Music.
Being in such jazz-intensive environments, particularly in New York, meant that I was confronted with the history of the music and all its influences. Miles Davis might not have been my starting point, but at a professional level you inevitably have to engage with that music, both harmonically and rhythmically.
Looking back at the contrast between the Miles Davis world and the Chick Corea Elektric Band, I became interested in how they approached rhythm: how loose or strict it could be, how quantised or precise, and how differently music could be expressed. That understanding came later. Miles himself went through so many stages and had so many different musical identities.
I see myself primarily as an acoustic player
LC: I’m thinking particularly of Miles Davis’s electric and more popular music period in the 1980s. Did you ever feel drawn to bringing electronic elements into your own jazz music? Was that something you disliked, or was there a particular reason you chose not to pursue it?
JR: I did experiment with sequencers, computers and programming music myself at a very early stage. I remember one particular day when I spent practically the whole day trying to program a sound. At some point I realised that I had already spent most of my life playing the acoustic piano. I felt that I had reached a certain level of control over the instrument and understood its details and nuances.
It became a question of choice: did I want to spend the whole day looking at numbers and trying to perfect an electronic sound, or did I want to touch the acoustic instrument? I love its physicality, its vibration, and the way you can control every detail through touch. I still find that fascinating. With a piano, you can have the same instrument on stage, but in the hands of different players it can sound like a completely different instrument.
That world draws me much more than electronic music. And I think the decision remains the same today. It is a matter of choosing what to focus on. To go deeply into something and really understand its details, you have to make choices and eliminate other possibilities. Becoming an expert in sounds, programming, effects and electronics is an entirely different universe. I absolutely enjoy working with people who are experts in that field, but I see myself primarily as an acoustic player.
LC: You’ve studied in several different places, including London. How much were you influenced by the formal education itself, and how much by the environment — the people around you, the music you listened to and the cities you lived in? Did the intensity of the jazz scene in New York have a particular impact compared with Stuttgart or London? And how does that relate to your life in Estonia now?
JR: When I started studying jazz, I was already playing the piano at a professional technical level. I also had a wonderful teacher in Stuttgart, Paul Schwarz, who was very open and encouraging towards personal creativity. The emphasis was on making music rather than studying jazz history and treating jazz as a style, almost as one might approach classical music.
In New York, the education was much more structured and school-like, with very specific requirements and things you were expected to accomplish. But in all these environments, I would say the greatest influence came from the colleagues and musicians studying alongside you. They create a small ecosystem and, eventually, a scene. Many of these people remain your musical partners for life. You spend years together, get to know one another very well, and build lasting relationships. I think that is one of the greatest benefits of a good school: it brings together very good students and creates an inspiring environment.
New York is unique as a city, particularly in terms of the choice of music you can hear on any given evening. London was also very influential for me. I attended many classical concerts here because, at least at the time, there were inexpensive last-minute student tickets. I took full advantage of that.
LC: When were you in London?
JR: In 2001–02. I came as an exchange student in the autumn and left in the spring, so it wasn't even a full academic year. But I think that is one of the great advantages of major cities: they offer so much culturally, and you can absorb an enormous amount of information. The same is true of New York, even more so when it comes to the availability of jazz performances.
These intense environments attract highly motivated people and musicians working at a high level. That is what creates the inspiring situation.
Estonia, by comparison, is a very small country, with a population of around 1.3 million. Yet it has a very active music scene and a diverse jazz community. There are musicians playing traditional jazz, others working in very contemporary directions, and others drawing on folk music. You can study jazz at university level, and there is an active jazz union organising concerts across the country. For such a small population, the density and diversity of musical activity are remarkable.
LC: You mentioned your Estonian roots. When I speak to musicians such as Ambrose Akinmusire, they often talk about the sources they return to when composing. I wonder how your Estonian background enters your music. Do you sometimes find yourself drawing on sounds or musical experiences from your childhood that might distinguish your work from that of someone who grew up in New York, for example?
JR: I’m not sure I can identify something that is specifically Estonian. If we look at the musical traditions of Estonia, including classical music, they have also been influenced by other cultures. Historically, musicians went to St Petersburg to study, which was the major centre nearby. You could ask how much of that tradition was influenced by Rimsky-Korsakov, for example. It is difficult to define a classical musical language that is uniquely Estonian.
More specifically, though, from the beginning of my involvement in jazz I was interested in asking where the sources of the music came from. Rather than simply taking American standards — which were already popular music a century ago — as the natural starting point, I looked for Estonian songs, including traditional and popular songs, that I could use as source material. I have returned to them on many occasions.
When I write music, however, I don't necessarily think about whether something is Estonian. I think the creative process involves a great deal of elimination. We are surrounded by so much information, particularly now that everything is constantly accessible. It becomes more a question of excluding things.
I was already questioning the idea of swing when I began writing my own music. On a superficial level, one might say that European jazz is based on even eighth notes while American jazz swings. That is an oversimplification, of course, but swing is rooted in African American musical traditions. Coming from northern Europe, I wanted to understand my own relationship to that tradition rather than simply taking it for granted.
I have also become increasingly hesitant about the term “world jazz”. For me, jazz was initially the category that offered a way to make creative music in a practical sense: to compose my own music and perform it myself. In the classical world, I felt I would be playing music written several hundred years ago, concentrating on the details of what a great composer intended and trying to find the correct way to perform it. That didn't motivate me as an exclusive direction for my future.
Of course, jazz also has its stylistic definitions and traditions — swing, blues and American standards — and I respect and relate to them. But in my own creative process, I want to deal consciously with harmonic, melodic, rhythmic and sonic elements, choosing what I want to include rather than accepting things automatically.
What I Like Doesn't Always Fit the ECM Aesthetic
LC: Do you associate yourself with the Scandinavian jazz aesthetic, particularly the spacious, minimal sound often associated with ECM? I grew up in China, and during my teenage years I became familiar with many ECM recordings. That distinctive sound, and the Scandinavian jazz around it, made a strong impression on me.
JR: ECM has been an enormously influential label, particularly with Manfred Eicher's continuing vision and direction. It certainly influenced me. There are specific recordings I remember very well. One that comes to mind is the Peter Erskine Trio with John Taylor on piano. Later, I had the opportunity to meet John Taylor several times. He was teaching in Cologne at the time, and I travelled there to play a duo with him.
When people talk about the ECM sound, they often describe it as spacious. Technically, there is frequently a lot of reverb, and the music can be atmospheric and less rhythmically intense. But I have always been drawn to rhythm — odd metres, combined metres and rhythmically dense music. That has been part of my musical world from the beginning, even if it isn't necessarily the focus of the ECM aesthetic.
I have also been involved in different projects and productions, and some music simply doesn't fit that aesthetic. Those projects have to be released elsewhere. ECM is a very particular vision, ultimately shaped by one person, and that is what makes it such a unique label.
LC: Did Manfred Eicher produce Absence?
JR: Yes. We were together in the studio, and it was a very collaborative process. The material changed quite a lot during the recording. We made structural decisions, shortened some sections, added introductions or opened up spaces. The process was actively directed, and Manfred was involved in the music itself, not simply deciding whether to release it.
It had taken me quite a long time to reach the point of recording the album with him, so I was mentally prepared to let go. I think that is necessary in such a situation. As a composer, you have to be open to the music changing and becoming something different from what it might have been if you had gone into the studio by yourself.
LC: Did you compose most of the tracks?
JR: I brought the basic material and compositions, yes. But the contributions of Markku Ounaskari on drums and Ben Monder on guitar were invaluable. They were crucial creative parts of the music as a whole.
LC: I particularly like Partly Cloudy. I can listen to it again and again.
JR: That's great. If you're familiar with the music, it's interesting to compare the different versions, particularly Partly Cloudy and Sisu. I recorded a later album titled Sisu, where you can hear the compositions in a form closer to how they were originally intended.
The difference is particularly clear in Sisu. The version we recorded as a trio for Absence is essentially just a snippet of the whole composition. The main section of the original piece was not included. Musically, it went in a different direction: it was very rhythmically dense and didn't fit the overall aesthetic of that particular recording.
LC: Where did you compose those pieces? In Estonia?
JR: Yes. For more than a decade now, I've been able to spend time in the Estonian countryside. It has become my creative home. When I have something to finish, perhaps against a deadline, I know I can sometimes put it aside until I arrive there. Once I'm in that environment, I can get into the work. It has become a space where I can create.
Rewriting Schumann, Without Feeling the Weight of the Canon
LC: Let's talk about the Schumann and Schubert projects. How did those projects come about, and why did you decide to work with this repertoire at that particular point?
JR: It is something that had been waiting for many years. Decades ago, I used to perform Lied repertoire with a classical singing partner. We worked on Schumann, Schubert and Wolf, among others.
LC: What do these songs mean to you personally?
JR: I think it is quite simple. Something in the melody or harmony triggers something in you and stays with you. With Dichterliebe, for example, it began with one particular song, Wenn ich in deine Augen seh’. That was the starting point. I had an idea for that song, and eventually it became a challenge: I felt I had to do the whole cycle. I had ideas for a few other individual songs, but not for the complete work. So I decided to go through all sixteen songs.
With music that is partly improvised and free, I also think it is important to record it and preserve it in some form. Recording it allows you to complete a process and move on.
The Schubert project came about through the bassoonist Martin Kuuskmann, who suggested that we work on Schubert songs together. I wrote new versions, not of the entire Winterreise, but of a selection of songs. Conceptually, the two projects went in a similar direction: reworking this repertoire through contemporary arrangements and improvisation.
LC: When I listen to your versions, I wonder whether the process is similar to improvising on a jazz standard. Did you ever feel intimidated by the classical canon, as though these works were untouchable? How did you approach the original material?
JR: I would say the process is similar, depending on how an improviser approaches the musical material. For me, it was always more of a compositional process than simply taking a set of harmonies and playing the typical jazz lines over them. That was never what interested me.
Practically speaking, the process is similar, but the material varies enormously from one song to another. The sections and forms can be extended, and they are not necessarily based on a standard jazz structure. Rhythmically, they are not typical swing or blues environments either. The challenge is to find ways of moving within those parameters, harmonically and rhythmically, while remaining flexible.
As for respecting the original or feeling a sense of awe towards it, that wasn't my focus. Perhaps I was detached enough to use the music simply as a starting point. I didn't feel the need to force changes onto something that already worked beautifully. The biggest changes are rhythmic and harmonic; the melodies remain largely intact, although they may be adjusted rhythmically.
With Dichterliebe, the original cycle lasts less than thirty minutes, whereas my version takes more than an hour in concert. The songs are so short and compact that I often feel I want to stay with the material for longer. Sometimes I would simply like to put repeat signs into the music and hear it twice.
I had a similar reaction recently when listening to some shorter Chopin pieces in concert. The material was so wonderful that I wanted to spend more time with it. If a piece lasts only thirty seconds, you can feel that it has ended almost before you've had the chance to settle into it. So extending the material and finding ways to stay inside it for longer was also a practical part of my approach.
LC: How long did the whole process take, from developing the ideas to completing the album?
JR: It wasn't a matter of starting from scratch and then finishing everything in one continuous process. As I said, individual songs had triggered ideas over many years. I had already mentioned the possibility of recording the project, but it didn't happen immediately. I went on to do other things.
Eventually, I had a deadline because I knew I was going to perform the programme live. That happened during the period of lockdowns and COVID restrictions, so it was a particular environment in which to complete the work. It is difficult to say exactly how long it took. The idea had been in my head for years, with individual songs taking shape at different times, before I finally brought the whole thing together.
LC: In the original songs, the vocal line and piano part are quite distinct, and the piano writing can be very rich in itself. Was it difficult to combine the vocal melody and the original piano writing into a single piano part?
JR: It is a nice pianistic challenge. Essentially, you have to make a piano reduction of the original, because in some songs the piano part is not simply an accompaniment; it contains quite demanding material in its own right. Bringing everything together on one piano becomes an interesting technical challenge.
Aesthetically, I've always had some reservations about certain aspects of classical singing, particularly at the extreme end of the spectrum, such as a Wagnerian voice. I respect the skill and ability of those singers, but aesthetically I feel I belong somewhere else. I love this musical material, but not necessarily the big voice that often goes with it. Much of the music is very intimate, and the combination of a huge voice with such intimate content can clash in my mind. I wanted to put the music in a context where it didn't have to relate to that cultivated vocal tradition.
LC: Did working on these projects influence your later compositions? Did the process inspire you to continue rewriting or changing classical material?
JR: The first complete recording I made based on classical material was Pictures at an Exhibition, with Dave Liebman on saxophone and piano. That was not a solo album. The Schumann recording is my most recent solo album, although I did record a solo album almost twenty-five years ago.
After Dichterliebe and the Schubert project, I felt that I had spent a considerable amount of time reworking classical source material. At this point, my focus is more on creating music from scratch rather than rewriting existing works. Pictures at an Exhibition, Schumann and Schubert were all projects that had been in the air for a very long time. It was important to find a way to bring them to completion and, in a sense, close that chapter.
The Matrix Was Just a Studio Session
LC: Could you tell me a little about the upcoming London performance with Petros Klampanis and Ziv Ravitz? What should we expect from the trio?
JR: Petros and Ziv are both connections from New York. I met Ziv more than twenty years ago, when we played together there. I also met Petros around that time, although we didn't play together then.
Petros and I have now been playing together for more than ten years. It has become a working ensemble: we perform regularly, and the album we're preparing is the fourth recording we've made together featuring his music. We're now in a transitional period between the repertoire already released and the next album, which is due out early next year.
We'll be playing mostly new music by Petros. Superficially, it's a traditional piano trio of bass, piano and drums, but the music is much more extended and orchestrated. Petros likes to experiment with additional sounds, and Ziv brings a very versatile and colourful approach to the drum set. So it is certainly not a straight-ahead jazz sound.
LC: Do you feel that your musical languages are similar, or do they complement one another? I'm thinking particularly of the way you approach Petros's compositions.
JR: I think Petros writes very melodic and harmonic music. He isn't necessarily trying to push musical boundaries from a theoretical starting point. Instead, he looks for a musical idea from which the music can develop. Being on the edge or pushing boundaries isn't necessarily the objective.
It is also not a typical swinging piano trio. Much of the music is rhythmically intricate, but I don't feel that the complexity is constructed simply to challenge the players. It develops in a more natural and interesting way.
Looking back at my own musical history, I've often found myself in situations that might seem geographically or culturally very different from where I come from. I toured with Dhafer Youssef for five years, for example. Tunisia and Estonia are almost diagonally opposite each other geographically. But you can meet on a rhythmic level. Rhythm is one of the main elements of that music, and when you share an interest in the interplay of rhythms, it becomes an interesting common ground from which to develop a musical language together.
LC: You've also worked with Kristjan Järvi. Are you still collaborating from time to time? I spoke to him at the Pärnu Festival two years ago. He seems to have an endless supply of ideas. Estonia is a small musical community, so I imagine your paths cross quite often.
JR: I've known Kristjan for many years. We first met in New York, and I later joined his Absolute Ensemble. I was part of the ensemble's recording Bach: Reinvented, and we performed together on various occasions. One of those performances was with the London Symphony Orchestra at the Barbican, conducted by Kristjan.
We've stayed in touch and occasionally meet musically, although I haven't been involved in any joint projects with him over the past few years.
LC: Did you also perform at the Pärnu Festival in the past?
JR: Yes. More than ten years ago, I performed Mozart's Double Concerto with my father and Paavo Järvi. Many years later, I took part in one of Kristjan's programmes at Pärnu, where he brought together different musical elements. The most recent occasion was also a few years ago, when I worked on some reimagined classical material. I used excerpts from Mozart's operas and arranged them for piano and strings. That was another Pärnu Festival project with Kristjan.
Paavo - We occasionally meet, but the last time we performed together on stage was more than ten years ago, for the Mozart Double Concerto. Paavo's focus is very much on the classical repertoire, perhaps with some contemporary classical music, whereas Kristjan is more eclectic in the kinds of projects he pursues.
LC: How many projects are you involved in at the moment? You have also worked on things such as The Matrix Resurrections.
JR: That kind of work isn't really a project in the sense of an ongoing musical collaboration. I'm essentially a studio musician who joins a session and records the tracks. That's the extent of my involvement.
There are, however, some longer-term collaborations that move through quieter and more active periods. We've already talked about Petros. In recent years I've also played with the Norwegian trumpeter Mathias Eick, and I've had a long-standing musical relationship with the Norwegian saxophonist Trygve Seim. Then there are the Schumann and Schubert programmes with Martin Kuuskmann, and I recently played some duo concerts with Bodek Janke, a drummer and percussionist who is probably my longest-standing musical collaborator.
I wouldn't say that I have too many or too few projects. These are collaborations in which I either work as a co-leader, as in the duo situation, or become part of someone else's music, as with Mathias, Trygve and Petros.
At the same time, I've just finished an album of my original music for orchestra and choir, which will be released next year. I've also recently completed writing an entirely new programme for solo piano.
So there is a balance between being an active performer and consciously making time to compose new material. They complement each other, but they are different processes and require different mindsets. I can't simply get on an early-morning flight and write music before soundcheck. That isn't how I work. I need to gather my thoughts and enter a particular compositional space and mindset.
LC: Are you very active in the Estonian music scene?
JR: Not particularly. As I mentioned, Estonia is very small. There are only a few major concert halls and one big festival. If you perform at one of these places in a given year, it can almost exclude other opportunities, because the market becomes saturated very quickly. I think of Estonia as home, but fortunately I have the opportunity to perform elsewhere.
LC: Where do you perform most often?
JR: Mostly in Europe, particularly Central Europe, partly because of my German background. There are exceptions. Through my Norwegian connections, I've performed in Norway quite frequently in recent years. With Petros, I regularly go to Greece. A few months ago, for example, I took part in a three-piano evening in Yerevan, Armenia. I occasionally perform in the United States, although that isn't a regular destination.
London is on the map, too, but I don't come here on a regular basis. I've had some lovely opportunities over the years, at King's Place and Ronnie Scott's, as well as smaller clubs such as the Vortex. I've also performed at the Barbican with the London Symphony Orchestra. I tend to travel more often to mainland Europe, but London remains an important place for me.
One Question for Keith Jarrett
LC: I have a few shorter questions. If you were stranded on a desert island and could take only three bodies of music — recordings or pieces, however you choose to interpret it — what would you take?
JR: One thing I keep returning to is Bach's The Well-Tempered Clavier, both books. I don't know whether that counts as one body of music or two!
Then, imagining that I might eventually leave the island and want to be able to sit at a piano and play, I would take a small book of exercises that I've recently finished and published. They are based on exercises by Alfred Cortot and Brahms, but I've made my own versions and rewritten them. I don't necessarily need written music, but these exercises are part of my daily piano practice, and I would rely on them.
And then I would still like to return occasionally to Chopin's Études, both Op. 10 and Op. 25. I think that would cover the three bases.
LC: What quality do you appreciate most in a musical partner?
JR: It can be a simple question or a tricky one, depending on whether you mean someone you spend twenty-four hours a day touring with or someone you spend two hours on stage with.
Musically speaking, I appreciate people who are rhythmically oversensitive. I mean being attentive on a micro level: where exactly are you playing the beat? Are you pushing or dragging it? Are you responding to the rhythmic nuances of the other player? That is crucial when playing together, particularly in music that isn't completely written down, where you have to create and respond to one another. Listening is an ongoing challenge and, in a way, a lesson in life. You have to listen to what the other person is doing.
If somebody is playing on autopilot, it becomes pointless. It's like a monologue, or two people talking at the same time. It's an easy trap to fall into because everyone is busy concentrating on what they think they need to accomplish musically at that particular moment. But you have to be aware that whatever you produce is audible to the other person. You expect your playing to resonate with them, to provoke a response and to lock in rhythmically. So listening to one another, including those tiny rhythmic nuances, is essential.
LC: And what about a musician you tour with? What matters most when you're travelling together?
JR: On a very simple level, respecting one another's time. There may be several lobby
calls during the day: meeting for a departure, then meeting again to go to the venue. You depend on each other. Being punctual and respecting the agreements you've made become essential.
LC: One final question: If you could invite anyone from history, living or dead, musician or otherwise, to dinner, who would you choose?
JR: That's a difficult one. I've never really thought about it because, in a way, it's a pointless question if we're talking about people who are no longer alive. But there are a few people who come to mind. I'm currently reading Winston Churchill's memoirs of the Second World War, so perhaps sitting down with Churchill and having a martini would be inspiring. Then, in a completely different direction, Steve Jobs. I'd be curious to pick his brain. And musically, someone who is still possible to meet: Keith Jarrett.
LC: What would you most like to ask Keith Jarrett?
JR: I'd be curious about how he created the space to focus on whatever musical project or programme he was working on at a particular time. More specifically, I'd like to know how he prepared for his solo concerts.
They are presented as completely improvised, but the question is an eternal one for improvised music: how do you prepare for the unprepared? It doesn't mean you don't touch the piano. So how do you prepare?
Looking at the history of his solo concert recordings, there is also a conscious structural change, from longer forms to shorter pieces. The later pieces might be less than ten minutes each, rather than thirty minutes. You can hear different musical characters: an atonal piece, an ostinato blues piece, a ballad. These are already distinct musical categories.
I'd love to know how he prepared for those improvised solo piano concerts, and what that preparation actually involved.
Kristjan Randalu was born in Tallinn, Estonia, in 1978, into a family of classical pianists. He received classical piano training from an early age and continued his studies in Germany after his family moved there, graduating from the Stuttgart University of Music and Performing Arts. He later studied at the Royal Academy of Music in London and the Manhattan School of Music in New York. Over the years, he has developed a distinctive musical voice spanning jazz and classical music, establishing himself both as a pianist and composer on the international jazz scene and as a collaborator with musicians and ensembles across different genres. In 2018, he made his debut as a leader on the ECM label with Absence. His discography now includes more than 50 albums.
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