从自由意志与命运决定论之间的复杂张力，到近乎单向度的权力关系，汉堡重排2008年版《女武神》。 By Wang Tianyi 12 November 2026 When 2026年10月18日下午 Where 汉堡州立歌剧院（Staatsoper Hamburg） Who 指挥：奥默·梅尔·韦尔伯（Omer Meir Wellber） 导演：克劳斯·古特（Claus Guth） 舞台设计、服装：克里斯蒂安·施密特（Christian Schmidt） 灯光：米夏埃尔·鲍尔（Michael Bauer） 戏剧构作：赫拉·巴特尼希（Hella Bartnig） 齐格蒙德：马修·纽林（Matthew Newlin） 洪丁：安特·耶尔库尼察（Ante Jerkunica） 沃坦：德里克·韦尔顿（Derek Welton） 齐格琳德：维达·米克内维丘特（Vida Miknevičiūtė） 布伦希尔德：卡米拉·尼伦德（Camilla Nylund） 弗里卡：安娜·基西尤迪特（Anna Kissjudit） 汉堡州立歌剧院爱乐乐团 What 克劳斯·古特于2008年至2010年间在汉堡州立歌剧院执导了瓦格纳《尼伯龙根的指环》四部曲。本乐季，剧院将其中的《女武神》作为独立剧目复排上演。 汉堡州立歌剧院《女武神》剧组谢幕 摄影：王天艺 记一笔 去看一场瓦格纳，多少需要一点赴约的决心。毕竟，动辄五个小时以上的演出时长，若遇到不合心意的创作，实在难免如坐针毡。带着这种回避型依恋，我坐进汉堡州立歌剧院，却在《女武神》的前奏曲响起时便为之一振。在去年出任歌剧院音乐总监的奥默·梅尔·韦尔伯指挥下，音乐从一开始便紧凑饱满，毫不拖泥带水。层层叠加的风暴动机迅速铺陈开来，将《指环》四部曲序夜《莱茵的黄金》中早已埋下的悲剧宿命重新唤回。 大幕拉开，灯光聚焦于一块略微倾斜的平台。一桌二椅与一堵可移动的白墙，勾勒出一个略显寒俭的小户型居家空间。饰演齐格蒙德与齐格琳德的演员分别定格在桌前与厨房中，直到一名身着黑衣、戴着黑框眼镜的男子从平台前方走过，逐一伸手指向他们，两人才仿佛重新获得生命，开始行动与演唱。直到第二幕，我们才得知，这位黑衣男子正是由德里克·韦尔顿饰演的万神之王沃坦。这一开场埋下的伏笔暗示，眼前这个看似平凡的日常世界，实际上也受制于某种尚未显露真容、却已不容抗拒的意志。 这一幕中，无论是舞台空间的尺度，还是布景与演员的调度，都呈现出小剧场话剧般的灵活与自然，使人物间的情感互动显得亲密、私人而富有现代感。尤其是齐格蒙德与齐格琳德几次默契地交换目光，又匆忙移开视线，让人想起塞林格笔下的那句“Love is a touch and yet not a touch”：爱意恰恰在这欲触未触的张力中流露。洪丁归家后，也立刻察觉到妻子与来客之间的异样。男低音歌手安特·耶尔库尼察以低沉却高傲的唱腔，揭示出洪丁虚张声势之下脆弱的男性自尊。 齐格蒙德与齐格琳德置身洪丁家中，沃坦现身于舞台前景，唤起人物行动。除特别注明外，本文剧照均拍摄于2008年的演出 Photo: Monika Rittershaus 那堵白墙则随着剧情推进几度移位，简练而流畅地划分并串联起画内与画外、室内与户外、世俗与神话的多重空间。维达·米克内维丘特饰演的齐格琳德，声乐表现无可指摘，肢体语言却略显程式化；饰演齐格蒙德的男高音马修·纽林声音清亮优美，情感表达则稍欠层次。然而，在与洪丁决斗的前夜，当齐格蒙德苦苦寻求父亲曾许诺在危难之际赐予他的宝剑时，纽林以两声孤注一掷的“Wälse! Wälse!”将绝望与力量推至极致，颇有“力拔山兮气盖世”之势，令人叹为观止。 第二幕的舞台则回归全幅展开的空间，呈现出一间二十世纪中叶风格的办公室，桌面与地面上散布着白色建筑模型。墙面上，绿色与大地色的布料拼接出一幅地球俯瞰图。相比于大卫·麦克维卡（David McVicar）2025年2月在米兰斯卡拉歌剧院呈现的那颗被铁链束缚的地球，古特版的诠释更凸显出沃坦试图通过精密计算与协调来维系世界秩序的控制论式治理理想。 舞台中央，沃坦若有所思地摆弄着桌上模型中的人偶。细看之下，模型中的房屋与三个人物，正对应着上一幕的场景；舞台左侧的双层建筑模型，则预示着第三幕中女武神姐妹们的居所。这些视觉符号将过去、现在与未来环环相扣，呼应着瓦格纳在《指环》四部曲中以回溯与预示交织而成的叙事结构。沃坦手中的模型因而也构成了整部作品的隐喻：他试图像摆弄人偶一样安排每个人的命运，却逐渐发现，自己同样无法摆脱这套秩序的反噬。 沃坦的办公室 Photo: Monika Rittershaus 随后，沃坦的女儿、女武神布伦希尔德手持一根长棍，从窗口钻入。她身着练功服般宽松的白色衣裤，站在一人多高的窗台上，以女武神标志性的“Hojotoho”唱段亮相。相较于其他版本，这一形象少了几分飒爽，多了些许憨直。原定饰演布伦希尔德的艾莉森·奥克斯（Allison Oakes）因病缺席，剧院请来几乎唱遍瓦格纳剧目的明星女高音卡米拉·尼伦德接演。或许是受狭窄而高耸的窗台所限，她在这段演唱中的气势稍显收敛，尤其是高音部分。随后，沃坦的妻子弗里卡登场。这一场景延续了第一幕自然主义的情感表达：夫妻二人围绕齐格蒙德的命运展开交锋，言语间却颇有世俗家庭纠纷般的琐碎与无奈，为神话角色赋予了难得的日常质感。女中音安娜·基西尤迪特以略带戏剧感的咬字和收放自如的唱腔，精准拿捏了弗里卡骄矜而坚决、却不至咄咄逼人的姿态。 舞台再次回到人间，跟随逃亡的齐格蒙德与齐格琳德兄妹来到深夜的荒原。第一幕中作为生活空间的平台此时被吊起，低悬在两人头顶，成为风雨中的庇护。或许受过于空旷的舞台所限，二人的对唱稍显寡淡。相比之下，布伦希尔德与齐格蒙德的“死亡宣告”对唱却克制而庄严，令人想起温克尔曼论及古希腊雕塑《拉奥孔》时的名言：“高贵的单纯，静穆的伟大。”这一刻，舞台反而承载起某种古典悲剧般的庄严分量。 第二次长达半小时的中场休息结束时，夜幕已然降临。第三幕一开场便令人愕然：破败而阴郁的空间宛如苏联时期的精神病院，四组双层铁架床逼仄地并置其中，空气中仿佛弥漫着陈腐的铁锈气息。这里的设计延续了导演克劳斯·古特对铁架床这一意象的偏爱：在2021年英国皇家歌剧院的《耶努法》(Jenufa)与2023年纽约公园大道军械库的《替身》（Doppelganger）中，他同样借助铁架床，营造出一种高度同质化、却又危机四伏的集体生存空间。 沃坦来到八姐妹的住所 Photo: Monika Rittershaus 在这里，布伦希尔德的八位姐妹身着款式相同的淡蓝色娃娃裙，跪坐在铁架床上铺。原作中她们高呼“Hojotoho”、策马扬鞭的经典登场，却被改写成以床铺充作坐骑、宛如过家家般的戏仿。古特在演后谈中解释，八姐妹被设定为沃坦为建立新世界秩序而培育的英雄；不过他也坦言，如今自己对这一幕的设计并不十分满意。无论是布伦希尔德带着怀孕的齐格琳德前来求助，恳请姐妹们给予庇护，还是沃坦追踪而至，对布伦希尔德大发雷霆，八姐妹始终表现得惊恐而怯懦，实在难以令人相信她们竟是沃坦寄予厚望的未来英雄，反倒使他的愤怒显得格外暴戾而突兀。音乐中的英雄气概、导演构想的世界观、舞台设计与人物表演，在此似乎各行其是，难以构成一个自洽的整体。当八姐妹推着各自的双层床退场，舞台重新归于空旷，父女告别的对唱终于找回了久违的亲密与真挚。舞台侧光在对侧墙面上投下两人的身影，随着二人情绪的起伏，影子亦此消彼长。这一古典而富有表现力的舞台技法在这里显得恰到好处，整场演出也在这人性的弧光中落幕。 为了将瓦格纳于一个多世纪前创造的史诗空间转译至当代舞台，古特似乎采取了两种不同的处理路径：其一是将其日常化，其二是将其反乌托邦化。前者促使他收束舞台空间，使神话人物在复杂情感与世俗欲望的交织中变得亲近可感。无论是第一幕暗流涌动的三角关系、第二幕中沃坦与弗里卡近乎日常夫妻般的争执，还是第三幕中沃坦与布伦希尔德充满深情的对白，原本关乎神权、契约与命运的宏大冲突，都被转化为人物在爱、责任与自身意志之间进退两难的伦理困境。 后者则将神话世界改造成一个充满规训、暴力与权力控制的压抑空间：相爱却仿佛失去自主意志的齐格蒙德与齐格琳德、生活在惊恐之中的女武神八姐妹，以及权力体系中心的沃坦，叙事重心也由个体之间具有能动性的情感纠葛，转向沃坦试图通过精密的规划与控制，维系现有秩序、逃避既定命运反噬的努力。由此，《女武神》原本存在于自由意志与命运决定论之间的复杂张力，也被压缩为一种近乎单向度的权力关系。 尽管存在这些舞台叙事上的龃龉，瓦格纳的音乐仍在乐团的精彩演绎下牢牢抓住了我，并总能在恰当的时刻带来直抵内心的感动。我想起我的德语老师常常在黑板上写下一个结构复杂的句子，带着我们像解方程式一样，逐一配平其中的词性、词格与句法关系。大功告成后，他便会带着几分得意说道：“Deutsch ist Mathematik”（德语就是数学）。瓦格纳的音乐，尤其是《尼伯龙根的指环》，亦如同一场遵循着严密而复杂的内在逻辑的数学推演。而导演剧场（Regietheater）对这套体系的每一次重新诠释，或许都是一场自由意志与既定命运之间的较量。汉堡版《女武神》所呈现的种种矛盾，恰恰也发生在这场较量之中。 Writer Wang Tianyi

作曲比赛第一名李汉瑞与评审会主席陈银淑合影 © Anne-Laure Lechat 2026年日内瓦国际音乐比赛（Concours de Genève）作曲组决赛昨晚在维多利亚大厅（Victoria Hall）举行，中国香港25岁作曲家陈星逸（Sing-Yat Chen），凭作品《Shattered sky / remaining land》获得第三名及5000瑞士法郎奖金。年仅20岁的韩国作曲家李汉瑞（Hanurij Lee）则以作品《Stuff #1》夺得首奖及15000瑞士法郎奖金，并囊括全部六项特别奖，包括由公众投票选出的观众奖。来自巴西的Rafael Marino Arcaro凭《invention in language of child, op.22》获得第二名及10000瑞士法郎奖金。 评审团由韩国作曲家陈银淑（Unsuk Chin）担任主席，成员包括日本作曲家细川俊夫（Toshio Hosokawa）、芬兰作曲家Magnus Lindberg、美国作曲家Augusta Read Thomas及瑞士作曲家Katharina Rosenberger。陈银淑表示，三位决赛者的作品在音乐风格和个性上各不相同，都展现出想像力、技巧与热情，令评审团难以取舍。最终选择李汉瑞，是因为评审团认为他的作品代表着未来音乐的可能性：技术精湛、格外优美，也能够为任何音乐会节目带来丰富的色彩。她特别提到，李汉瑞虽然年纪尚轻，却已展现出非凡才华与巨大的发展潜力。 陈星逸（右二）与两位作曲选手等待评审公布作曲比赛结果 摄影：张璐诗 陈星逸的《Shattered sky / remaining land》从美国艺术家James Turrell的Skyspace光艺术装置获得灵感。Skyspace以建筑顶部的一个开口框取天空，让观众在室内观看天空与光线的变化。陈星逸由此联想到童年在美国密歇根州（Michigan）度过漫长冬季后，阳光终于穿透天空的瞬间。作品亦以佛教轮回（samsara）为思考线索，将这种既脆弱又带着痛感的光线体验转化为声音：音乐从低音单簧管一段细微的独白开始，声音逐渐裂变，最终走向噪音；其中的裂纹与断裂，也呼应了宋代汝窑瓷器釉面上的冰裂纹。陈星逸是作曲家兼钢琴家，作品常将文学、科学与视觉艺术融入声音景观，对不同事物之间的对立与张力尤其感兴趣。 李汉瑞的创作则是另一种切入。他目前在韩国艺术综合大学修读作曲，创作上不着重通过音乐表达某种明确的概念或叙事，而是探索乐器本身的声音可能性，以及不同乐器之间的音色关系。《Stuff #1》属于他持续创作的一个系列，最初源于他对苏联赫鲁晓夫楼（Khrushchyovka）重复而相似的居住空间的兴趣，以及人在这种环境中逐渐被磨平的个体感受。不过，这次作品的气氛有所不同，灵感来自灰尘、毛发，以及一个毛茸茸的身影轻轻点头的画面。重复仍然是作品的重要元素，却不再只是结构上的安排，更像是积聚在老旧室内空间里的感官残留。 李汉瑞表示自己喜欢从日常生活、偶然遇见的事物中寻找创作灵感，比如他为钢琴家任奫灿创作的钢琴独奏曲《Round and velvety-smooth blend》，标题便取自偶然看到的一张饮料标签。他此次获得的六项特别奖，除了观众奖，还包括青年观众奖、学生奖、Nicati-de Luze奖、Basel Sinfonietta奖及Primeurs Musicales奖。后面三项均附带委约及演出机会：Nicati-de Luze奖将委约他创作一首七至十分钟的独奏乐器或声乐作品；Basel Sinfonietta将演出他的作品；Primeurs Musicales则委约他创作一首弦乐团短篇作品，于2027年秋季的音乐节上演。 本届作曲比赛共收到来自46个国家、年龄介乎9至39岁的作曲家提交的188份申请，创下历届新高。参赛者须创作一首为至少40人编制的交响乐团作品，时长12至16分钟，不设独奏者或电子系统。 今年日内瓦国际音乐比赛办到了第八十届，比赛首次将作曲组决赛与指挥比赛结合举行。三位指挥组决赛选手Gabriel Pernet、Jacobus De Jager及Mats Thiersch，分别执棒瑞士罗曼德管弦乐团（Orchestre de la Suisse Romande），演绎三位作曲组决赛者的作品；每位指挥选手也要指挥贝多芬《埃格蒙特序曲》。昨晚德国23岁指挥Mats Thiersch的演绎获得全场喝彩，令人期待他在本周五（13日）第二轮、也是最后一轮决赛中的表现。 今晚比赛现场，香港指挥家叶咏诗（Wingsie Yip）也在现场观赛。她是本届指挥比赛评审团成员之一，我们两天后也将对她进行专访。指挥比赛最后一轮将于11月13日举行，三位入围者将继续执棒瑞士罗曼德管弦乐团，演绎指定交响乐曲目，最终得奖名单亦将在当晚公布。 创办于1939年的日内瓦国际音乐比赛今年迎来第80届，是国际音乐界历史悠久的赛事之一。比赛除了颁发奖金，也为得奖者提供后续职业发展支持，包括为期两年的巴黎经纪公司Sartory Artists服务、国际演出巡演、个人指导及新作品委约等。其中一位得奖者还将获得与乐团合作录制专辑、由La Dolce Volta唱片公司发行的机会。

从鲁道夫·布赫宾德均质化的贝多芬演奏，看上海大歌剧院的开幕盛况。 By Ma Guanghui 11 November 2026 Read in English When 2026年11月9日 Where 上海大歌剧院申厅 Who 钢琴：鲁道夫：布赫宾德（Rudolf Buchbinder） 柏林国家歌剧院管弦乐团（Staatskapelle Berlin） What 贝多芬《第一钢琴协奏曲》《第五钢琴协奏曲》 Why 上海大歌剧院开幕演出季 从地铁后滩站走向上海大歌剧院 摄影：马光辉 记一笔 从上海地铁7号线后滩站1号口出来，沿济明路一路向北，大约步行15分钟，路过海拔4800厘米的著名景点双子山，再往前，上海大歌剧院的建筑逐渐进入眼帘。但却丝毫不见其标志性的折扇形台阶。与期待中的惊艳的台阶形成反差的，是这一侧普普通通的盒状玻璃外墙。直到绕着建筑走过半圈，双折扇才终于露出真容。对于乘坐地铁前来的观众来说，这或许算是一种视觉上的“欲扬先抑”？ 上海天气突然转凉，室外不宜久留。走进大歌剧院，白色的墙面、地面与三个演奏厅外墙的红色形成鲜明反差，视觉上倒是暖和了些。进入申厅，色调又转向偏深的黄褐色，一股“古典”气息扑面而来。 上海大歌剧院申厅 摄影：马光辉 布赫宾德手下的贝多芬也是如此，在色谱中偏向中度的黄褐色。他以一种“均质化”的方式处理贝多芬，这既体现在音量上，也体现在强弱对比和情绪变化上。无论是《第一钢琴协奏曲》第二乐章的抒情线条，还是《第五钢琴协奏曲》第三乐章的狂欢，音量与情绪都被某种程度地平均化，钢琴演奏也就自然在乐团的衬托下起起伏伏、遮遮掩掩，缺少有机呼应。《第五钢琴协奏曲》第一乐章开头的钢琴华彩段，或许是贝多芬五首钢琴协奏曲中最为特别的一段。其间涵盖的内容之丰富，反而给了钢琴家在“混乱”中塑造个人性格的自由。借助动态对比，演奏者可以在大波浪中构建属于自己的小波澜。布赫宾德选择以四平八稳的方式应对这场小混乱。即使发声偶尔显得浑浊，他的手指在快速跑动中依然保持着精确度。但这并不能改变贝多芬在他的演绎中被平均化的事实。 不弹琴时，布赫宾德侧身坐在琴凳上，面向乐手，用左手打拍子，或者在相应的拍点上，重点提示木管、铜管或打击乐。只有极少数时候，他才会起身。因此，在这样一个信息传达有效性成疑的情况下，乐团实际上进入了一种“半自动驾驶”状态。对于拥有450年历史的名团，以及贝多芬这样的正典曲目来说，自动驾驶应该不是太难。尤其当晚台上乐手约50余人，规模更接近一支大型室内乐团。这种演奏方式也更接近莫扎特、贝多芬时代的协奏曲传统：音乐家通过聆听、观察和相互回应建立整体演奏，而不是完全依赖一位指挥统一控制。乐团首席在其中自然承担了相当重要的协调工作。在布赫宾德有限的身体动作无法触及的地方，首席卖力地晃动身体，承担起沟通的职责。 台上50余人，但柏林国家歌剧院此次上海行出动了三百余人。重头戏当然是由克里斯蒂安·蒂勒曼（Christian Thielemann）指挥的理查·施特劳斯歌剧《玫瑰骑士》，这两场贝多芬钢琴协奏曲音乐会，夹在三场《玫瑰骑士》中间。上海行之后，柏林国家歌剧院还将前往日本和台湾巡演，曲目则完全不同。《玫瑰骑士》自然是上海独有的歌剧项目，贝多芬全五首钢琴协奏曲也是上海独有。这是让欧洲同行们艳羡的上海大歌剧院超豪华开幕演出季。同期登场的还有威尼斯凤凰歌剧院、马林斯基剧院、王羽佳与马勒室内乐团，以及美国芭蕾舞剧院。短短两个月内，众多国际顶尖艺术团体相继登上这个全新的舞台，展现出上海这座城市的雄厚实力。 从上海大歌剧院红厅二楼露台看向室外的折扇台阶 摄影：马光辉 与这种盛大并行的，是一种谨慎的试运营感。它体现在很多细节上：比如，标志性的折扇形台阶只接受不定期的付费预约参观；又比如，只有持票观众才能进入剧院内部。这些安排与建筑本身所呈现的开放性，以及剧院理应具有的公共属性之间，存在着某种天然的冲突，好像运营的方向还未得到确认。演出层面同样如此。盛大的开幕之后，如何维持可持续运营，让三个大厅都能持续吸引观众，或者逐步建立起自己的歌剧制作能力？或许开幕演出季之后的那个春天，这个问题会迫在眉睫。 当然，这些都是一家雄心勃勃的新剧院在开门之初必须面对的问题。在理念与现实之间，在艺术与商业之间，当然，也在艺术家与观众之间。 Writer Ma Guanghui

A look at Shanghai Grand Opera House’s ambitious opening season, featuring Rudolf Buchbinder’s Beethoven concertos with the Staatskapelle Berlin, and the contrast between the theatre’s international ambitions and the uncertainties surrounding its long-term artistic and operational direction. By Ma Guanghui 11 November 2026 阅读中文版 Coming out of Exit 1 of Houtan Station on Shanghai Metro Line 7, it takes about 15 minutes to walk north along Jiming Road. Passing the famous Twin Hills, which rise to an impressive 4800 centimeters above sea level, the Shanghai Grand Opera House gradually comes into view. Instead of the signature fan-shaped staircase one might expect, this side of the building presents an unremarkable box-like glass façade. It is only after walking halfway around the building that the double fan finally reveals itself. For those arriving by metro, perhaps this amounts to a visual exercise in delayed satisfaction? The weather in Shanghai had suddenly turned colder, making it less appealing to linger outdoors. Inside the opera house, the white walls and floors stood in sharp contrast to the red façades of the three performance halls, lending the interior a somewhat warmer feel. Entering Soar Theatre, however, the palette shifted towards darker ochre and brown tones, immediately evoking a distinctly classical atmosphere. Walking from Houtan Metro Station toward the Shanghai Grand Opera House. Photo: Ma Guanghui The Beethoven performances by Rudolf Buchbinder were much the same: rendered in shades of mid-range ochre and brown. He approached Beethoven in a somewhat homogenized manner, evident not only in his dynamics but also in the contrasts between loud and soft passages and in the shaping of emotional expression. On the evening of 9 November, whether in the lyrical lines of the second movement of the Piano Concerto No. 1 or the exuberance of the third movement of the Piano Concerto No. 5, both volume and emotional intensity seemed to have been levelled out to some extent. The piano part consequently rose and fell almost passively against the orchestral backdrop, at times retreating into it, with little sense of interplay. The opening of the first movement of the Emperor Concerto is perhaps the most distinctive passage in Beethoven’s five piano concertos. The sheer variety of material it encompasses gives the pianist considerable freedom to establish an individual character amid its apparent disorder. Through dynamic contrasts, the performer can create smaller waves within the larger swell. Buchbinder, however, chose to navigate this brief turbulence with composure and an unwavering sense of equilibrium. Even when his tone occasionally became muddy, his fingers maintained their precision in rapid passagework. Yet none of this altered the fact that Beethoven had been somewhat homogenized in his interpretation. When not playing, Buchbinder sat sideways on the piano stool, facing the orchestra, beating time with his left hand or cueing the woodwinds, brass or percussion at particular moments. Only on rare occasions did he stand up. Given the questionable effectiveness of such gestures in conveying musical information, the orchestra was effectively left in a state of semi-autopilot. For Staatskapelle Berlin, with its 450-year history, and for canonical repertoire such as Beethoven, this was presumably not too difficult to manage. With just over 50 musicians onstage that evening, the ensemble was also closer in size to a large chamber orchestra. This approach to performance, moreover, has something in common with the concerto tradition of Mozart’s and Beethoven’s time, when musicians relied on listening, observing and responding to one another to create a cohesive performance, rather than depending entirely on a conductor to exercise centralized control. The concertmaster naturally assumed a particularly important coordinating role. Where Buchbinder’s limited physical gestures could not reach, the concertmaster compensated with more emphatic bodily movements, taking on much of the responsibility for communication. Shanghai Grand Opera House, Soar Theatre. Photo: Ma Guanghui Although there were just over 50 musicians onstage, Staatskapelle Berlin brought more than 300 people to Shanghai. The centrepiece of the visit was undoubtedly Richard Strauss’s Der Rosenkavalier, conducted by Christian Thielemann. The two Beethoven piano concerto concerts were scheduled between three performances of the opera. After Shanghai, Staatskapelle Berlin would continue its tour to Japan and Taiwan, with an entirely different programme. Der Rosenkavalier was a production exclusive to Shanghai, as was the complete cycle of all five Beethoven piano concertos. This was the kind of extravagantly ambitious opening season at the Shanghai Grand Opera House that its European counterparts could only look upon with envy. Also appearing during the same period were Teatro La Fenice, the Mariinsky Theatre, Yuja Wang with the Mahler Chamber Orchestra, and American Ballet Theatre. Within just two months, a succession of leading international companies and artists took to this brand-new stage, demonstrating the considerable resources and cultural ambitions of Shanghai as a city. View of the fan-shaped steps from the second-floor terrace of the Harmony Hall at the Shanghai Grand Opera House. Photo: Ma Guanghui Yet alongside all this grandeur, the theatre’s operations still carried a palpable sense of caution, almost as if it were in a prolonged test-run phase. It manifested itself in various details. The iconic fan-shaped staircase, for instance, is accessible only through paid reservations offered on selected dates. Likewise, access to the interior of the opera house is restricted to ticket holders. Such arrangements seem to sit uneasily with the openness suggested by the architecture itself, as well as with the public character that an opera house ought to embody. It is almost as if the direction of its operation has yet to be fully determined. The same questions apply to its artistic programming. Following such a spectacular opening, how will the theatre sustain its operations over the longer term? How can all three halls continue to attract audiences? And can the institution gradually develop the capacity to produce its own operas? Perhaps by the following spring, once the opening season has drawn to a close, these questions will become all the more pressing. Of course, these are challenges that any ambitious new opera house must confront as it opens its doors: between vision and reality, between art and commerce, and, naturally, between artists and audiences. Writer Ma Guanghui

Composer Nitin Sawhney joined us for The Riff Questionnaire before Orbiting Orbital premiered in Oxford. By Lucy Cheung 08 November 2026 阅读中文版 Last night, I travelled to Oxford for a rather unusual world premiere: Orbiting Orbital, a project conceived by British composer Nitin Sawhney. Inspired by Samantha Harvey’s Orbital, winner of the 2024 Booker Prize, it brings together Sawhney’s newly composed oratorio Drifting and images of the Earth captured by photographer Mary McCartney. The premiere took place at the University of Oxford’s Stephen A. Schwarzman Centre for the Humanities. A composer, producer, multi-instrumentalist and DJ, Sawhney has forged a career spanning Indian classical music, jazz, flamenco, electronic music, drum and bass and orchestral composition. His work also extends across film, television, dance, theatre and video games. He has composed more than 70 film and television scores, including Midnight’s Children, Mowgli: Legend of the Jungle and What’s Love Got to Do with It?. His musical collaborations have included Paul McCartney, with whom he co-wrote the track My Soul for his album London Undersound, and Pink Floyd, whom he joined for their 2022 charity single in support of Ukraine. He has also worked as a DJ at London’s Fabric. In 2017, he received the Ivor Novello Award for Lifetime Achievement, followed by a CBE in the 2019 New Year Honours. In 2024, he took on another rather different role as a judge for the Booker Prize. It is this ability to connect with people across different creative worlds that has brought such an extraordinary gathering of artists to Orbiting Orbital. Samantha Harvey (right) with Antony Gormley's drawings projected on the screen Photo: Oxford Atelier The novelist Samantha Harvey is at the heart of the project. Sawhney first encountered Orbital while serving on the 2024 Booker Prize jury. For this production, Harvey has written six new pieces of prose, each of which Sawhney has responded to with a miniature musical composition, alongside the larger oratorio Drifting, inspired by the novel itself. British sculptor Antony Gormley, who has known Sawhney for many years and collaborated with him on previous projects, also contributes to the production. British sculptor Antony Gormley, whose public works include the monumental Angel of the North and the rooftop installations of Event Horizon, has also contributed six specially selected drawings to the production. His work frequently explores the relationship between the human body, space and the natural world. The photographs are by Mary McCartney, daughter of Paul McCartney. Sawhney once travelled with her to the Greek island of Delos, where she photographed the landscape. Some of the images featured in the production came out of that collaboration. The musical programme draws on several strands of Sawhney’s own career. It revisits material from Beyond Skin, his Mercury Prize-nominated album, and brings together musicians from his Glastonbury band with the London-based Fantasia Orchestra, conducted by its founder and artistic director Tom Fetherstonhaugh. The orchestra, known for its adventurous approach to repertoire and collaboration across musical genres, previously performed Radiohead’s music at the Relaxed Prom. Another highlight is Breathing Light, from his 2001 album Prophesy. The piece grew out of a visit Sawhney made to Nelson Mandela in Johannesburg. It incorporates Mandela’s words, “We are free to be free”, before giving way to a tabla-led drum and bass passage that gradually brings the room to life. There is also a personal connection behind the inclusion of Blade Runner Blues, from Vangelis’s original soundtrack to Blade Runner. Sawhney has invited his old school friend James Taylor, keyboard player with the James Taylor Quartet, to perform it. James Taylor at the keyboard Photo: Pablo Strong The 2024 Booker Prize jury was an extraordinary experience for Sawhney, not least because of what happened on the very day they were due to meet. On 1 March, he suffered a heart attack that morning, just as the panel was scheduled to gather. Over the following seven months, he and the other judges read 156 books. It was a demanding task, he recalled, but one he thoroughly enjoyed. Many of the books explored personal identity in different contexts, but Orbital stood out to him from the beginning. He found it transcendent in a way that set it apart, provoking thought, reflection and meditation without ever becoming didactic. Its language was beautiful yet remarkably unadorned, while its reflections on climate change, humanity and our relationship with the planet never felt like an argument being forced upon the reader. Having since met Harvey and spent time with her, he has come to recognise a shared approach to creativity. Neither wants art to become a form of escapism. “I don't want to make work that is escapist. I want to look at the world around me,” he said. What he particularly admires about Orbital is that it offers a quiet celebration of the planet and humanity without telling readers what to think. He also sees something deeply cathartic in Harvey’s writing, something that comes from an authentic place. “I always want to make music that comes from catharsis first, not from anything else. It has to start there, otherwise it doesn't feel like art. It doesn't feel genuine.” Nitin Sawhney at the guitar Photo: Pablo Strong His initial response to the novel was a piece of electronica, which he played to Harvey and which she liked. But on returning to the book, he felt he wanted to create something that could better capture its scale: the sense of awe at the universe we inhabit, the planet we call home and our shared humanity. He was also drawn to the space Harvey leaves in her writing. “There is space in her work, in between the words. Sometimes there is a lot of space. And there is also space in between the words that you can feel musically.” For Sawhney, music is the most natural way of responding to other art forms. “I've spent more time playing music than I have speaking,” he said. “So it's a much more honest response for me to take Samantha's work as a provocation for me as a musician and composer than to comment on it directly in words.” He describes music as “the purest of languages”. The heart attack also changed the way he experienced the novel. When I asked whether the experience had made its reflections on the fragility of human existence particularly personal, he agreed. “After the heart attack, I felt everything more deeply. And I think I also was much more present-minded.” He described Orbital as a perfect companion to his recovery, its perspective on the planet and human life resonating with him in a way that few other books had. Stephen A. Schwarzman Centre Photo: Lucy Cheung The venue itself was another highlight. Designed by Hopkins Architects, the Stephen A. Schwarzman Centre for the Humanities opened to students and staff in October 2025, before launching its public cultural programme in April 2026. At its heart is the Great Hall, a four-storey atrium crowned by a timber-lined dome beneath a glass and steel roof. There is something almost celestial about the space, with its interplay of natural light, timber and glass. The Centre is already attracting major names: Yo-Yo Ma’s solo recital in the 500-seat Sohmen Concert Hall on 2 May 2027 has sold out. Here is Nitin Sawhney’s edition of The Riff Questionnaire. What is the first sound you remember from childhood? My mother humming. She would hum these beautiful Indian melodies, and they stayed with me. The first thing I remember is how light her tone was. It made me feel very happy. Which piece of music do you wish you had written? Wow, that's a big one. I guess one piece of music I wish I'd written is Guajira de Lucía by Paco de Lucía. I grew up playing a lot of flamenco, and I just think it's an extraordinary piece of music. His virtuosity as a flamenco guitarist was something I grew up trying to emulate as much as I could. I was in awe of Paco de Lucía, and I was very, very sad when I heard he had passed away. But there are so many pieces that impress me for different reasons. All the spaghetti Western work of Ennio Morricone, all the scores Bernard Herrmann did for Hitchcock films, and a lot of music by Massive Attack. Teardrop is still one of my favourite tracks by any band. Which living musician would you most like to have a conversation with or invite to dinner? Joni Mitchell. I grew up listening to her a lot, particularly the album Blue, which was fantastic. I think she was very honest and true to her experiences. As a lyricist, she was fantastic, as well as being a great singer with an incredible voice. She just had a beautiful spirit. She's someone I'd love to have a conversation with. And it's actually probably possible, because my publisher also publishes her. So maybe one day I'll ask if it's possible to talk to her. What is the most misunderstood thing about music? I think people misunderstand its relationship with the world we live in. Music comes directly from, and contributes to, the world we live in. Some people make music or evaluate music for the sake of music. But I only feel music has value when it comes from experience and catharsis. What quality do you most appreciate in a musical partner? Openness. What quality do you most appreciate in a friend? Openness. Is there a sound you cannot bear? My own voice trying to sing. I hate my voice so much when I'm trying to sing. That's why I work with other singers. I can sing a bit, and I'll do it if I have to, in order to get an idea down. But I hate listening to it. What sound could you never tire of? Water. Whether it's rain, the ocean waves, or just water in any form, it has an incredibly calming effect. It also connects with my feeling that our whole life is like spray on the ocean waves. I feel the sound of water reflects that. What is your idea of perfect happiness? Actually, a world without borders of any kind. I don't just mean geographical ones. I mean between people. If you hadn't become a musician, what would you have become? Possibly a writer, possibly a painter. I'm interested in all forms of creativity. I'm writing a book at the moment, which not many people know about. I also used to love drawing and painting a great deal, so I would probably have wanted to pursue that. I also studied law and I'm qualified as an accountant, but I did that because it's kind of what Asian kids do, to keep their parents from worrying. What is something about you that might surprise people? Some people might be surprised that I used to write comedy and that I acted as a comedian. I also acted on stage with Akram Khan. If you were stranded on a desert island, which three bodies of music would you take with you? All the works of Debussy. All the works of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. And Joni Mitchell's album Blue. Writer Lucy Cheung

Stephen Hough — British pianist, composer and writer, and Artistic Director and Chair of the Jury of the Leeds International Piano Competition — joins us for The Riff Questionnaire. By Lucy Cheung 09 November 2026 阅读中文版 Applications for the 2027 Leeds International Piano Competition closed on 31 October. When I spoke to Stephen Hough recently, he told me that the competition had received more than 800 applications, over twice as many as for the previous edition. Almost half came from East and Southeast Asia, and the applicants had proposed 127 different concertos by 80 composers. “I don't think I could name you 127 concertos,” he remarked. This is the first competition under Hough’s direction as Artistic Director and Chair of the Jury, and he is introducing a number of changes, including the removal of prescribed repertoire for the first time in its history and raising the upper age limit to 35. These are not simply changes to the rules. They reflect his thinking about music education, the development of young musicians, and what a piano competition should really be about. Earlier this spring, I met Hough outside a little juice bar on a street corner near his home. We sat there and chatted for over an hour. It was a rare gap between concerts for the pianist, composer and writer, something of a frequent flyer, who was also preparing to give talks about his memoir, Rough Ideas – the title, of course, playing on his surname, Hough. Among the subjects we discussed were the pressure on young musicians to achieve success early, and the tendency to measure their potential by competition results and public recognition. Hough is strongly opposed to the idea that if someone has not achieved something significant by the age of eighteen, they are unlikely to amount to much later in life. Everyone develops at a different pace, he believes, and young musicians should not be labelled too early. He also worries that some young musicians become so preoccupied with competition results and public recognition that they forget why they first took up an instrument: because they loved music. At Juilliard, where he teaches, he once met an eighteen-year-old student who immediately asked which competition he should enter. Hough asked him, “But do you want to win?” The student looked surprised. He went on: “Do you want to play 80 to 100 concerts a year? Do you want to be travelling all year round? Is this the lifestyle you want?” For Hough, entering a competition also means thinking seriously about the career that might follow, and whether it is really the life a young musician wants. Hough has not been in London for some time, so when I spoke to him again recently, it was over Zoom. He was in Sydney, having just finished dinner. As he appeared on screen, I recognised the Zoom background he had been using for the past few years: Roy Lichtenstein’s Whaam! “It's like Beethoven. It makes a real impact,” he said. We will share the full conversations with Hough, from our meeting in London to our more recent exchange online, during next year's Leeds International Piano Competition. For now, here is a selection of questions from The Riff Questionnaire. What is your idea of perfect happiness? I think perfect happiness comes when you're not looking for it. And maybe when you're trying to make other people happy, you find happiness yourself. Which quality do you most admire in others? Honesty. In a musician, I think a sense of being direct, so that there's no artifice there. Honesty would probably be the most important thing. What would your ideal day look like if you had absolutely no work to do? I'd have a large, long breakfast, reading, then I'd go for a walk. Then I'd like to do some work. I don't like to have any day of my life when I do no work at all, but it would probably be writing. So composing, a little bit of work. Possibly a light lunch, maybe a little nap, maybe a massage. See some friends, another walk. I'm thinking of holiday days, which I don't get very often, but I can enjoy the day just going by, and I'm very happy with just letting everything unravel. What is your greatest extravagance? In the past, I bought quite a lot of very expensive hats. I'm talking really, like, $700 or $800 handmade hats. I've still got them, but I don't wear them as much any more. So that's probably still that extravagance. But probably the really ongoing one is that I eat out every day of the year. I never cook at home. I think that is an extravagance because I spend a lot of money doing that when, if I had something in the fridge, I could rustle up a meal. But there we are. Who are your heroes in real life? I don't really have any heroes as such. But I'm interested in people who are not in the public eye. I meet a lot of very famous people all the time. I'm working with famous conductors and meeting colleagues and other writers. But actually, the people who impress me most are sometimes very ordinary people, people who bring joy to other people's lives. You could be working at a supermarket checkout and actually have a greater impact on someone's life than I have playing a concert at the Sydney Opera House. For me, as an artist, this is a very important way of being brought back to reality. We have people telling us all the time that we do wonderful things: “I really love your playing”, “I heard your recording and it was wonderful.” And I think we can get terribly caught up in that. It's very nice, and I'm grateful when people say nice things, but it's also a lot of nonsense. I also think of the people here in my hotel who are cleaning my room. In a sense, my heroes come from unexpected places. I always want to keep the door open. We're all here on this planet, you know, doing the best we can, sometimes in very difficult circumstances, and I think it's important not to forget that. If you could invite someone from history to dinner, who would it be? I'd love to have dinner with Liszt, I think. Although I'm not so good at having dinners one to one, because I'm actually quite shy. We'd need to have somebody else there. Just me and Liszt, I'd be really intimidated. I love his music. He's the most important person in any pianist's life because he really created the modern piano with its technique. Him and Chopin. I'd say Chopin too, but I think Chopin might not be such a nice man. He was a bit self-absorbed. Liszt was a very open-hearted, generous kind of man. And I'd love to go to Mass with Liszt. That would be a real treat. We could go together to St Peter's in Rome and sit together, me and Liszt. Is there a piece of music you love deeply but would never want to perform in public? At my stage and my age now, there are lots of pieces that, if I were thirty years younger, I might play. Some obscure ones, like Kenneth Leighton's Second Piano Concerto. There's an unusual one for you. I'd love to play more Medtner. I don't think I'll play very much more, although I am thinking of learning one of the sonatas, actually. Fauré – I love Fauré. Quite a lot of big chamber works that I might not be able to play in the future. But it would be the Hammerklavier. I wish I'd learned that when I was twenty. It's too late to learn that now. The same with some of the big concertos. I wish I'd learned more concertos when I was young. That would have been very useful professionally. I've got a lot of other things going on in my mind now, really, and writing music is taking a much bigger part. In fact, this morning, or this afternoon, I think I've now finished my Requiem. I haven't shown it to anybody. I've sent it off to a conductor friend who offered to look at it, just to look at the orchestration and things like that. It's very nearly finished. It's been almost two years writing that. I want to do that. That's what I want to spend all my extra time doing: writing more music. If you could possess one skill you don't already have, what would it be? Speak Chinese. My languages are so bad. I would love to be able to go to China and speak to people in their own language. And also to read the literature, the poetry particularly. I've read some Chinese poetry in translation, alongside the characters, with explanations of what was going on and the images, and I find that whole world fascinating. But it's basically closed to me because I obviously can't understand the language. I can't remember which poem it was. It was a very interesting book that someone gave me, and it was a famous old poem from hundreds of years ago. I think there were twenty different translations of this poem. It was a very short, aphoristic poem. I was fascinated because every one of the English versions was completely different, but they were all translations of this one Chinese poem. I thought what's interesting about Chinese poetry, which is different from Western poetry, is that the reader really has to be a poet. You read that poetry and you are part of the process of the poem, which is beautiful, really. You're very active, and that's what I want audiences to be. I don't want audiences just to sit back and let the sound wash over them. I want them to reach forward and listen actively. If you were stranded on a desert island, which three bodies of music would you take with you? If I had a piano on a desert island, I might take Bach's Preludes and Fugues, because I've only learned a few when I was a student. I never played any Bach professionally, so I think that would be a good opportunity to do that. Also Chopin's Études. I've played a handful of them, but it would be nice to do them all because they're so great. What else? Maybe the complete keyboard music of William Byrd. I've played a few of those pieces, but there's certainly plenty there to keep me busy. What has been your favourite journey? Coming to Sydney for the first time was really an eye-opener because I'd never been before. This was in 1991. I arrived at the airport here at eight o'clock in the morning, and it was the most gorgeous sunny day, a summer day. I fell in love with Australia from that moment. And here I am, talking to you today from the same city. So maybe I would say that. Writer Lucy Cheung

英国钢琴家、作曲家、作家斯蒂芬·霍夫，同时也是利兹国际钢琴比赛的艺术总监兼评审团主席，做客即时问卷。 By Lucy Cheung 09 November 2026 Read in English 今年早春时，我曾经约下英国钢琴家、作曲家和作家斯蒂芬·霍夫（Stephen Hough），在他住处附近的街角果汁店外面坐了一个多小时。当时见面，是“空中飞人”霍夫在几场演出之间的空隙，同期他还在忙着准备为自传《Rough Ideas》作讲座，书名里的Rough与他的姓氏Hough也藏着谐音梗。 那时利兹国际钢琴比赛的新任命还没有宣布，但我们的话题中也聊到了音乐教育、年轻演奏家的成长，以及当下音乐圈对成功的急切追逐。霍夫很反感一种观念：如果一个人在18岁之前没有取得显著成就，似乎就意味着此后再也不会有多大作为。他以自己的经历为例，提醒人们每个人的成长节奏不同，不应该过早给年轻人贴上标签。 他也谈到另一种令他担忧的现象：有些年轻人太早开始追求比赛成绩和公众认可，以至于忘记了最初拿起乐器，是因为喜欢音乐本身。在茱莉亚学院任教时，他曾遇到18岁的学生，一见面便问应该参加哪一项比赛。霍夫反问：“但你想赢得比赛吗？”学生显得有些惊讶；霍夫接着问：“你想过这样的生活吗？每年演出八十到一百场，全年都在旅行？这是你想要的生活吗？”他指出，比赛不只是争夺奖项，更重要的是年轻演奏家是否真正了解自己想走的职业道路。 今年夏季，霍夫被任命为下一届利兹国际钢琴比赛主席，并推动了一系列赛制改革，包括首次取消规定曲目，将参赛年龄上限提高至三十五岁。如今报名已经截止，他告诉我，比赛共吸引了八百多名报名者，是上一届的两倍有多；其中近一半来自东亚和东南亚地区，而参赛者提交的协奏曲曲目达到127首，分别来自80位作曲家。他接着说：“你让我罗列127首协奏曲，我都列不出来呢“。 谈到开放曲目时，他说希望年轻演奏家来到利兹时，不要觉得自己是来接受一场考试，也不是像参加奥运会一样，必须逐项通过技术考验。“来为我们演奏几场独奏会吧，向我们展示你是谁、你擅长什么，以及你喜欢演奏什么音乐。”他希望听到能够真正打动人的演奏，而不是让评委看到“谁能弹得更快、谁的八度更准确”。在他看来，音乐如果不是对个人个性与灵魂的表达，便失去了意义。 霍夫将到上海登台。最近，我又约他聊了一次。他已经很久没在伦敦，于是这次是网上视频。连线时，他人在悉尼，刚吃完晚饭，屏幕一打开，出现的是他这几年都在使用的Zoom背景：罗伊·利希滕斯坦（Roy Lichtenstein）的画作《Whaam!》，他说这画面“很有冲击力，类似贝多芬的音乐所带来的强烈效果。” 与霍夫的两次对谈内容，我们将留待明年利兹国际钢琴比赛期间与各位分享。今天先发布一组霍夫的即时问卷。 你心目中的完美幸福 真正的幸福往往出现在不刻意寻找的时候。也许，当你努力让别人快乐时，自己便会从中找到幸福。 他人身上你最欣赏的品质 诚实。对音乐家来说，我觉得还要有一种直接、不矫饰的特质。诚实大概是最重要的。 如果有一天完全不用工作，你理想中的一天是—— 我会先悠闲地吃一顿很长的早餐，一边吃一边看书，然后出去散步。接下来，我还是想做一点事情。我不喜欢一天到晚什么都不做，可能会写写东西，或者作曲。然后吃一顿简单的午餐，睡一会儿午觉，也许再做个按摩，见见朋友，之后再出去走走。 我想的是那种度假时的日子，只不过我很少有这样的机会。我很享受看着一天就这样慢慢过去，不用刻意安排，让一切顺其自然。 你最大的奢侈 以前我买过不少非常昂贵的帽子，都是手工制作的，每顶要七八百美元。我现在还都留着，只是已经不像以前那么常戴了。不过，真正一直延续至今的奢侈，大概是我一年到头每天都在外面吃饭。我从来不在家做饭，这确实是一笔不小的开销。其实，如果冰箱里有点东西，我完全可以随便做点吃的，但我就是喜欢在外面吃。 现实生活中，你心目中的英雄是—— 我倒没有什么特别的英雄。不过，我很感兴趣的是那些不在公众视野中的人。我经常接触名人，和著名指挥家合作，也认识不少同行和作家。但真正让我印象深刻的，有时反倒是一些很普通的人，尤其是那些能给别人带来快乐的人。你可能只是在超市收银台工作，却有可能比我在悉尼歌剧院演奏一场音乐会，对某个人产生的影响更大。 对我来说，作为一名艺术家，记住这一点尤其重要，它能让我回到现实。我们总是不断听到别人的赞美：你的演奏真好，你的录音真棒。这些话当然令人高兴，我也很感激，但人很容易沉浸其中。说到底，这些赞美并不是最重要的。 我也会想到酒店里那些为我打扫房间的人。某种意义上，我心目中的英雄往往来自意想不到的地方。我希望自己始终对每一个人敞开，不要忽略身边的人。我们都生活在同一个星球上，努力过好自己的生活，有时也要面对非常艰难的处境，最重要的是不要忘记这一点。 如果可以邀请一位历史人物共进晚餐，你会邀请—— 李斯特吧。我很喜欢他的音乐。不过，我其实不太擅长跟人单独吃饭，因为我这个人挺害羞的。如果只有我和李斯特两个人，我恐怕会紧张得不知所措。我整个童年都是一个人在卧室里度过的，这种经历多少也影响了我今天的性格。我更喜欢三四个人，或者五个人一起吃饭。这个世界上，能让我在一对一相处时完全放松下来的人，其实没几个。 至于为什么选择李斯特？他是每一位钢琴家生命中最重要的人物，因为他和肖邦一起，真正创造了现代钢琴演奏及其技巧。当然，肖邦也有同样重要的地位。不过，我觉得肖邦可能不是一个特别好相处的人，或许有点自私，也有点自我中心。李斯特却是一个非常豁达、慷慨的人。我很想和李斯特一起去做弥撒，也许就在罗马的圣彼得大教堂。我们可以坐在一起，就我和李斯特。想一想都觉得很美好。 有没有一部你特别喜欢、但还没公开演奏过的作品？ 其实有很多。如果我年轻三十岁，可能会想去演奏不少不同的作品。其中有些比较冷门，比如肯尼斯·莱顿（Kenneth Leighton）的《第二钢琴协奏曲》。我也很想多弹一些梅特纳的作品，虽然我想自己以后应该也不会演奏太多，但我最近在考虑学习他的一首奏鸣曲。我也很喜欢福雷的音乐。还有不少大型室内乐作品，我觉得自己还不至于老到完全没有机会再演奏它们，所以以后再看看吧。 最让我遗憾的还是贝多芬的《“槌子键”钢琴奏鸣曲》。真希望自己二十岁的时候就学过，现在再开始学，已经太迟了。还有一些大型钢琴协奏曲也是如此。我年轻时其实应该多学一些协奏曲，那对职业发展会很有帮助。 不过，现在我脑子里还有很多其他事情。作曲已经占据了我生活中越来越重要的位置。事实上，就在今天，我想自己终于完成了《安魂曲》。这部作品我写了将近两年，还没有给任何人看过。今天我刚把它寄给一位指挥家朋友，他之前主动提出可以帮我看看，主要是配器方面的问题。现在已经非常接近完成了。我希望接下来能把更多时间用来写自己的音乐。 如果可以拥有一项自己目前不具备的技能，你希望是—— 会说中文就好了。我的语言能力实在太差了。我很希望有一天再到中国的时候，能用当地语言和大家交流，也希望能够读懂中国文学，尤其是诗歌。我读过一些中国古诗的译本，当时是把英文译文和汉字原文对照着看，还有书中对诗歌意象和画面的解释。我觉得那个世界非常迷人，但因为不懂中文，一直无法真正领略其中的奥妙。具体是哪首诗，我现在已经记不清了，得回头找找。那是一本很有意思的书，别人送给我的，里面选了一首几百年前的著名古诗，竟然附有二十种不同的英文译本。那首诗非常短，可能只有四个字，也可能是一首非常精炼、近乎格言式的小诗。我当时觉得特别有意思：明明是同一首中国古诗，译成英文之后，每个版本却完全不同。 我感觉中国诗歌很特别的一点是，读者自己也必须成为诗人。读诗的过程，其实也是参与创作的过程。这是一种很美妙的体验，读者并不是被动地接受，而是主动参与其中。我希望听众聆听音乐时也能如此。我不希望他们只是坐在那里，任由声音从耳边流过，而是希望他们主动投入其中，真正用心去聆听。 如果流落荒岛，你会随身带上的三部音乐作品 如果岛上有一架钢琴，我可能会带上巴赫的《前奏曲与赋格》。我还是学生的时候只学过其中几首，后来在职业演奏生涯中从来没有正式演奏过巴赫。所以，这倒是一个很好的机会，可以把它们好好弹一遍。另外，我会带上肖邦的《练习曲》。我只弹过其中几首，如果有机会把全部作品都学一遍就好了，因为它们实在太了不起。第三部，也许是威廉·伯德（William Byrd）的全部键盘作品。我也只演奏过其中几首，但剩下的作品已经足够让我忙上很长一段时间了。 你最难忘的一次旅行 第一次来到悉尼，对我来说真是一次大开眼界的经历。那是1991年，我早上八点抵达机场，迎接我的是一个阳光明媚、天气美好的夏日。从那一刻起，我就爱上了澳大利亚。 这么多年过去了，而我今天又在同一座城市里和你聊天。所以，我想答案就是悉尼吧。 Writer Lucy Cheung

贝托祺指挥港乐演绎马勒《第八交响曲》 11月7日、8日，香港管弦乐团（港乐）在香港文化中心演出马勒《降E大调第八交响曲》，音乐会由新任音乐总监、芬兰指挥家贝托祺（Tarmo Peltokoski）执棒。 马勒《第八交响曲》因其庞大的演出编制而被称为“千人交响曲”。此次港乐集结共565名演出者，包括乐团成员、八位独唱家及六支合唱团。独唱阵容包括杰奎琳·瓦格纳（Jacquelyn Wagner）、陈·赖斯（Chen Reiss）、邝励龄、卡特里奥娜·莫里森（Catriona Morison）、萨莎·库克（Sasha Cooke）、托马斯·卡塔亚拉（Tuomas Katajala）、里纳尔茨·坎达林采夫斯（Rinalds Kandalincevs）及沈洋。参与演出的合唱团则包括香港管弦乐团合唱团、学士合唱团、伦敦爱乐合唱团、圣保罗男女中学高级混声合唱团、英华书院合唱团及香港儿童合唱团。此次演出也标志着港乐完成马勒全部交响曲的演出。 贝托祺 2024年7月，港乐宣布贝托祺将于2026/27乐季起出任音乐总监，任期四年。在此之前，他已与乐团合作两个乐季，演出布鲁克纳、西贝柳斯、沃恩·威廉斯及肖斯塔科维奇等作曲家的作品，并于2026年3月与港乐推出首张由德意志留声机公司全球发行的唱片。 11月13日，贝托祺将首次执棒港乐年度户外音乐会“港乐·星光·交响曲”，演出地点为中环海滨。11月17日、18日，他还将与乐团演出布鲁克纳《降E大调第四交响曲》及莫扎特《C小调第二十四钢琴协奏曲》，钢琴独奏由德国钢琴家马丁·赫尔姆申（Martin Helmchen）担任。 香港文化中心现场 随后，从11月23日至12月6日，贝托祺将率领港乐展开欧洲巡演，行程涵盖西班牙、德国、芬兰和奥地利四国八座城市，包括巴塞罗那、汉诺威、赫尔辛基、慕尼黑、多特蒙德、柏林、汉堡和维也纳，马丁·赫尔姆申也将参与全部八站的演出。乐团将首次登上柏林爱乐音乐厅、汉堡易北爱乐音乐厅及维也纳音乐厅的舞台。 巡演曲目包括亨克·德·夫利格根据瓦格纳歌剧改编的《〈指环〉：管弦乐冒险》、布鲁克纳《第四交响曲》及莫扎特《第二十四钢琴协奏曲》等。钢琴家马丁·赫尔姆申将参与部分场次的演出。此外，乐团还将在赫尔辛基、多特蒙德、柏林、汉堡和维也纳演出中国作曲家姚晨为港乐创作的委约新作《团团转》，作品以大熊猫为创作灵感。即时Riff届时将在欧洲追踪港乐欧洲巡演现场。 本文图片由香港管弦乐团提供

英国作曲家尼汀·索尼做客“即时问卷”。 By Lucy Cheung 08 November 2026 Read in English 周五晚我到牛津，看了一场颇为新奇的世界首演：英国作曲家尼汀·索尼（Nitin Sawhney）制作的《绕行轨道》（Orbiting Orbital）。演出以萨曼莎·哈维（Samantha Harvey）获得2024年布克奖的小说《轨道》（Orbital）为基础，索尼据此创作了清唱剧《漂流》（Drifting），并配以摄影师玛丽·麦卡特尼（Mary McCartney）拍摄的地球影像，在牛津大学史蒂芬·A·施瓦茨曼人文中心举行世界首演。 索尼身兼作曲家、制作人、多乐器演奏家和DJ等身份，创作横跨印度古典、爵士、弗拉门戈、电子音乐、鼓打贝斯和管弦乐，也涉足电影、电视、舞蹈、戏剧和电子游戏配乐。他为超过六十部影视作品作曲，包括《午夜之子》《涉外大饭店》和《丛林之书》。他曾与保罗·麦卡特尼合作，参与平克·弗洛伊德2022年为乌克兰募款发行的单曲，也曾在伦敦Fabric夜店担任DJ。2017年获艾弗·诺韦洛奖终身成就奖，2019年获颁CBE。2024年，他还担任了布克奖评委。 萨曼莎·哈维（右）在演出现场，投影的是安东尼·葛姆雷的画作 摄影：张璐诗 这份广交朋友的本事，为《绕行轨道》聚集来了一批视觉艺术和音乐界的名人。首先是小说家萨曼莎·哈维，索尼正是在担任2024年布克奖评委时读到《轨道》，这次哈维为演出创作了六篇新散文，索尼为每篇配上音乐，另创作了清唱剧《漂流》。英国雕塑家安东尼·葛姆雷（Antony Gormley）也是索尼的好友，泰晤士河畔和城市屋顶上那些真人大小的人形雕塑，都是他的代表作。这次他挑选了几幅自己的绘画，配合有关地球、太空和孤独的影像。摄影部分由保罗·麦卡特尼之女玛丽·麦卡特尼提供。索尼曾与她一同前往希腊的提洛岛拍摄，演出中的部分地球影像便来自那次合作。 音乐方面，演出选用了索尼二十五年前获水星音乐奖提名的专辑《Beyond Skin》中的作品。他曾登上Glastonbury舞台的乐队也一同演出，并与曾在“放松逍遥音乐会”（Relaxed Prom）演奏Radiohead作品的Fantasia Orchestra合作。 另外还有选自2001年专辑里的一首《Breathing Light》。这首作品与他当年在约翰内斯堡拜访纳尔逊·曼德拉的经历有关，作品中引用了曼德拉的一句话——We are free to be free。然后响起了让全场气氛逐渐发热的塔布拉手鼓版本drum and bass。此外，索尼还邀请了学生时代的好友、当今爵士布鲁斯界James Taylor Quartet的键盘手詹姆斯·泰勒（James Taylor），演奏《银翼杀手》中的《Blade Runner Blues》。 詹姆斯·泰勒（后侧键盘手）在演出现场 Photo: Pablo Strong 首演前，索尼曾对我谈起他在两年前突发心脏病，那天原本是布克奖评审团开会的日子。他说恢复之后，自己对一切事物的感受都更深，到再次阅读《轨道》，小说中对人类生命脆弱的书写也更能触动他。索尼最初写了一段电子音乐给哈维听，后来决定创作一部能够回应小说规模的作品。他说：“萨曼莎的文字留有空间，字里行间的留白，也可以用音乐去感受。” 演出所在的场地值得一提：牛津大学新建的施瓦茨曼人文中心，由建筑事务所Hopkins Architects设计，2025年秋季开始投入学术使用，今年春季起陆续推出面向公众的艺术活动。中央大厅以木结构和玻璃穹顶构成，令人同时联想天文学和伊斯兰艺术图案。明年初夏安排的马友友独奏会已经售罄。 在此奉上索尼的一组即时问卷。 你童年记忆中最早的声音？ 母亲哼唱的印度旋律。她唱得非常美，声音轻柔，总能让我快乐起来。 你希望是自己写出来的音乐作品—— 帕科·德·卢西亚（Paco de Lucía）的《卢西亚的瓜希拉》（Guajira de Lucía）。我从小弹弗拉门戈吉他，非常欣赏他的演奏技巧。他的离世让我很难过。 另外还有埃尼奥·莫里康内（Ennio Morricone）的意大利西部片配乐、伯纳德·赫尔曼（Bernard Herrmann）为希区柯克电影创作的配乐，以及Massive Attack乐团的《Teardrop》。 如果可以邀请一位音乐家共进晚餐，你会选谁？ 琼尼·米切尔（Joni Mitchell）。我特别喜欢她的专辑《蓝》（Blue）。她的音乐非常诚实，忠于自己的经历。她是一位出色的作词人和歌手，有一种非常美好的精神气质。我的出版商与她有合作，说不定真的有机会邀请到她。 音乐最常被误解的是—— 人们以为音乐与现实世界没有关系。事实上，音乐来自这个世界，也对这个世界有所回应。只有当音乐源于真实的经验和内在感受，具有某种宣泄与释放的力量，它才真正有意义。 音乐伙伴身上你最欣赏的品质？ 开放。 朋友身上你最欣赏的品质？ 开放。 你无法忍受的声音？ 我自己唱歌的声音。每次试着唱歌，我都不喜欢听见自己的声音。我只会在需要记录一个音乐想法时唱几句，之后还是会找歌手来演唱。 你永远听不厌的声音？ 水声。雨声、海浪声，我都很喜欢。它们让人平静。生命本身也有点像海浪，始终在涌动。 对你来说，完美的幸福是—— 一个没有任何边界的世界。不只是地理上的国界，也包括人与人之间的界限。 如果没有成为音乐家，你会成为—— 作家或画家。我一直很喜欢写作，也喜欢绘画和素描。我现在正在写一本书。 我读过法律，也取得了会计师资格，主要是为了让父母放心——这大概就是亚洲孩子会做的事吧。 关于你的一件让人意想不到的事—— 我以前写过喜剧，也曾经做过喜剧演员。我还曾与舞蹈家、编舞家阿库·汉姆（Akram Khan）一起登台演出。 如果只能带三份音乐到荒岛，你会选择—— 德彪西的全部作品；努斯拉特·法塔赫·阿里·汗（Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan）的全部作品；以及琼尼·米切尔的《蓝》。 Writer Lucy Cheung

© Yuri Pires Tavares BBC爱乐乐团（BBC Philharmonic Orchestra）宣布，任命美国指挥家约书亚·韦勒斯坦（Joshua Weilerstein）为下一任首席指挥，任期将于2028年9月开始，为期五年。他将接替现任首席指挥约翰·斯托高兹（John Storgårds），后者将于2027/28乐季结束后卸任，并获授桂冠指挥称号，继续与乐团保持合作关系。 韦勒斯坦与BBC爱乐乐团早已建立了良好的合作关系。过去近十年间，他曾多次执棒乐团，在曼彻斯特及BBC逍遥音乐节（BBC Proms）的演出均获得乐评界好评。他的曲目选择兼具想象力与探索精神，既关注经典作品，也致力于重新发掘那些长期被主流音乐史忽略的作曲家。2025年逍遥音乐节上，他与单簧管演奏家马丁·弗罗斯特（Martin Fröst）合作，演出了科普兰和阿蒂·肖的单簧管协奏曲，以及艾尔莎·巴雷纳（Elsa Barraine）的第二交响曲和拉赫玛尼诺夫的《交响舞曲》。2026年4月，他在曼彻斯特指挥的曲目则包括艾灵顿的《哈莱姆》、与钢琴家弗兰克·杜普雷（Frank Dupree）合作的卡普斯汀第四钢琴协奏曲，以及德沃夏克《第九交响曲“自新大陆”》。 韦勒斯坦目前担任法国里尔国家管弦乐团音乐总监，并将于2027/28乐季结束后卸任丹麦奥尔堡交响乐团首席指挥一职。他曾执棒芝加哥交响乐团、纽约爱乐乐团、巴伐利亚广播交响乐团及德累斯顿国家管弦乐团等国际知名乐团。除指挥工作外，他也是一位经验丰富的音乐节目主持人和广播人。2017年，他受到伦纳德·伯恩斯坦音乐推广理念的启发，创办古典音乐播客《Sticky Notes》，目前节目已在185个国家和地区累计下载超过900万次。 对于此次任命，韦勒斯坦表示，自己与BBC爱乐乐团的音乐联系可以追溯至近十年前首次合作。他特别提到乐团的好奇心、投入程度、幽默感和出色的演奏能力，称双方合作的音乐会及录音经历令他深感满足，其中一些演出更成为自己指挥生涯中的重要时刻。他期待未来进一步认识曼彻斯特、索尔福德及英国各地的听众，并借助BBC的平台与世界各地的观众建立联系。 BBC爱乐乐团总监亚当·萨博（Adam Szabo）则形容韦勒斯坦是乐团理想的新任首席指挥，称赞他是一位天生的音乐沟通者，兼具魅力与同理心，能够激发乐团达到世界一流水准的演出。他尤其肯定韦勒斯坦对被音乐史遗忘作品的关注，以及他为经典管弦乐曲目带来的新鲜视角。 韦勒斯坦的上任也将开启乐团艺术发展的新阶段。成立于1922年的BBC爱乐，最初作为广播乐团而诞生，百余年来逐渐建立起鲜明的音乐个性。斯托高兹自2012年担任首席客席指挥，2022年升任首席指挥；截至2028年夏季卸任时，他与乐团的合作将超过15年，共同完成逾125场演出。双方合作涵盖北欧曲目、重要交响乐作品及当代创作，包括2019年温伯格作品《黎明》（Dawn）的世界首演，以及2025年逍遥音乐节上肖斯塔科维奇歌剧《姆岑斯克县的麦克白夫人》的演出和汤姆·库尔特（Tom Coult）《献给好奇者的独白》（Monologues for the Curious）的世界首演。

By Audrey Chan 02 November 2026 當我們試圖透過藝術想像另一種生活的可能，卻仍然沿用既有的規則與判斷方式時，我們是否也在不知不覺間重複著熟悉的秩序？藝術又能否為我們打開一個不同的想像空間，讓那些難以被理解、難以被歸類的經驗，獲得另一種表達與被接納的可能？ 兩位藝術家 Dongdong 與 Minjun，透過各自的作品《Future Visa Centre》（未來簽證中心）與《The Un-Arrived Homeland》（未抵達的故鄉），從移動、身份認同與歸屬感出發，重新思考人與制度、個體與社會之間的關係，並嘗試在熟悉的規則之外，構想另一種理解世界與彼此的方式。 Future Visa Centre, 圖片由藝術家提供 一個虛構的移民辦公室 Dongdong 在藝術家生涯中屢受簽證問題困擾。因此，她從這種限制出發，探討人的豐富、複雜性在制度的簡化與權力面前如何生存，也由此思考現有的制度結構是否能夠以不同的方式運作。 “Future Visa Centre 未來簽證中心”是一個虛構的移民辦公室，透過觀眾的參與式表演，未來簽證中心將移民辦公室的概念轉化為想像另類流動方式的空間。對於參與的觀眾，他們會由廣播介紹入場，隨後取號排隊。號碼下面有一段指令和引導，參與者需要在等待的時候閱讀這些內容，並按照指令開始做身體動作，同時想象一些和遷徙移動有關的問題。例如，想象一條不再存在的邊界。想象有什麼東西從你的指縫間穿過。這些問題不會要求他們馬上給出一個標準答案，而是讓他們在做動作的同時開始進入這個虛構的世界。 未抵達的故鄉 Minjun 過去以行動者而非藝術家的身份工作。三十多歲時，他決定出國，體驗一種不同的生活，卻也開始面對簽證、居留身份以及高昂生活成本等現實問題。這使他重新思考「理想國」——究竟什麼樣的國家是自己真正想去的，又如何抵達？也進一步追問，一個人為什麼想要離開某個社會？這些煩惱與離開的理由映照著社會的何種面貌？ 他的作品“The Un-Arrived Homeland”（直譯：《未抵達的故鄉》）是一件三螢幕影像裝置作品，其創作靈感源自於與居住在英國的韓國參與者共同舉辦的工作坊。參與者完成一系列任務，以進入一個虛構的國度。在這個過程中，他們講述了自己的記憶、當下的生活、對韓國和英國社會的體驗，以及他們渴望抵達的社會形態。在工作坊中，主持人的角色將決定參加者是否可移居成功。 兩位藝術家都從現實生活中由「系統」所帶來的限制出發進行創作，並透過參與式的形式，讓作品成為重新思考這些結構的空間。也正是在這個脈絡下，RIFF 即時對兩位藝術家進行了一次平行訪問，試圖從各自的創作實踐出發，梳理制度、個人能動性，以及想像其他生活可能性之間的關係。 AC=Audrey Chan 「我真正想去的，究竟是一個什麼樣的國家？」 AC：你們受到哪些日常生活的啟發，創作了這個作品？簽證、護照和居留身份如何影響你在倫敦的生活與創作方式？ Dongdong：在創作「未來簽證中心」之前，我剛好經歷了一次比較複雜的簽證申請。當時因為一個柏林的合作項目，時間比較緊張，且遇到德國簽證系統調整的情況，最後我選擇通過西班牙申請入境歐盟。 每次簽證申請的過程中，我都必須提供財務記錄、居住證明、工作和旅行計劃信息，以及各種各樣的文件來證明我可以進入另一個國家。所以，簽證申請並不僅僅是文件的準備，它也涉及個人的身份認同，以及不同的人如何獲得跨境流動的機會。作為一名在倫敦生活和工作並擁有特定居留身份的人，我不能總是僅僅因為有合作或邀請就隨意前往某個地方，還有另一套系統需要決定我是否被允許在那裡停留。所以我遇到“Future Imaginaries”項目時,我開始將簽證與未來的概念聯繫起來。 Minjun：在韓國，我一直以行動者而非藝術家的身分工作，而隨著時間過去，我開始想：「如果我繼續這樣生活下去，我是不是就會一直做著同樣的事情，然後這樣慢慢變老？」於是，我決定走上另一條路，去出國留學。但在這過程中，學費和住宿上投入了一大筆錢，簽證、居留身分以及高昂的生活成本等實際問題，都成為必須面對的事情；而適應一個陌生的社會，也並不容易。 在某個時刻，我開始問自己：「那麼，我真正想去的，究竟是一個什麼樣的國家？」與其去想像一個已經存在的、具體的國家，我開始想像一個自己真正想抵達的虛構國度。我也開始思考，如果仔細去看一個人為什麼想要離開某個社會，或許反而能夠從中理解一些關於他／她當下所生活的社會的事情。這也成為這件作品的起點。 The Un-arrived Homeland, 圖片由藝術家提供 AC：二位的作品中都演化了現有的簽證審核制度、表格及機械化的程序，當觀眾被邀請到新的世界時，這些「規則」又是如何被借用來建立新的世界觀的？又加入了哪些虛構的部分？ Dongdong：現實中的簽證系統需要通過文件來證明你的身份、出生日期、居住情況、經濟狀況、工作和旅行計劃等等。這些都是系統可以讀取、分類和驗證的信息。但在我所營造的未來簽證中心里，參與者申請的並不是進入某一個國家，而是進入一個未來的狀態，或者某種感覺、記憶、想法，甚至一些他們自己也還無法確定應該如何表達的東西。 當這個熟悉的簽證流程被用來處理這些無法被標準化的信息時，就產生了一種張力。參與者還是需要完成申請，也還是需要證明自己的申請，但他們能夠使用的「證明」不再只是文件，而是身體、動作、聲音、語言、沉默，或者其他當下發生的、具身化的表達。 Minjun：我最直接借用的元素，是簽證審查制度。儘管作品邀請人們想像一個虛構的國家，我仍希望把現實世界中某些負面、甚至帶有暴力性的規則帶入其中。因此，我聘請了一位主持人來執行工作坊，並賦予他／她簽證官的角色。我也制定了幾項規則，讓主持人可以拒絕參與者。 例如，如果參與者沒有充分說明自己目前的處境，或沒有詳細解釋自己為什麼想要移居，主持人便被要求採取較為保守的判斷，給予他們一個「拒絕」（Denial）。另一方面，如果主持人認為「我覺得這個人應該被接受」，他／她便可以抽一張卡。如果卡片上寫著「通過」（Pass），參與者就可以獲准入境。 但實際上，十張卡片中只有一張是「Pass」。即使個別簽證官對某個人抱有同情，他們最終仍然是一個更大制度中的執行者。即使他們個人希望讓某人通過，如果整套制度原本就有一套嚴格的篩選邏輯，那麼最終的結果也未必會因此改變。 The Un-arrived Homeland, 圖片由藝術家提供 「規則是一個起點，而不是用來控制整件作品的工具。」 AC：你們在營造這個世界時，是如何同其他藝術家或參與者合作呢？例如DongDong有一部分是公開招募，一部分是邀請制，和他們合作時如何協調呢？ Dongdong：我會想象每個作品進入 Future Visa Centre 之後會處在什麼位置，以及它能夠為這個空間帶來什麼。比如Ursula Pelczar的作品，本身是影像和裝置結合的形式。其中有一部分是一些看起來像石頭、但實際上是柔軟材質的物體，觀眾可以靠在上面休息。它們原本屬於一個完整的作品，但在這個項目里，只是把其中一部分帶進來，讓它們和辦公室的環境產生新的關係。還有 Pin-Yu Wu 的作品，是一個關於手和手指的裝置。它原本和觸覺、人與人之間的連接有關，但放進 Future Visa Centre 之後，我將它和現實簽證系統中的身份確認、生物識別之間的關係結合起來。還有But Why? Theatre的作品是一個網站，但隱藏在future visa centre前台的便利貼上。它看起來只是辦公室里的普通便簽，但它上面記錄了的其實是一個鏈接和訪問密碼，觀眾可以通過它進入另一個未來簽證的虛擬空間。當然並沒有太多的申請者發現這個秘密。 Minjun：在這件作品中，我透過公開招募的方式尋找參與者。不過，為了讓作品不至於完全失去最初的出發點，我確實設定了一項條件。簡單來說，我尋找的是那些在英國完成學業之後，不想回到韓國的韓國人。這項條件與作品的核心命題密切相關。作品基本上是在探問：一個人如何透過「想要離開」自己曾經生活其中的社會，重新回望那個社會。 對我而言，參與式藝術更接近於：創造一套有趣的規則或情境，然後觀察真實的人們如何在其中行動，以及會產生什麼樣的關係。即使你向每個人提出同一個問題，他們仍然會有不同的經歷與思考方式，因此產生不同的結果也是理所當然的。我認為，能夠接受這些差異非常重要。規則是一個起點，而不是用來控制整件作品的工具。 AC：對於參與者，他們又如何回應你們所創造的這一天馬行空的移民系統呢？大家什麼你們意想不到的參與方式，或者反饋嗎？ Dongdong：有的人想把二氧化碳移民到另一個星球，有的人想把大學時期參加 party 時的一些很快樂的記憶移到現在。有人想要移走一個旋轉的大腦等等。慢慢地，時間、空間、身體、記憶這些概念都會在申請過程中變得越來越豐富。 Minjun：有一件我特別記得的事情。因為我自己是從想要離開韓國的渴望出發來進行這件作品的，所以我想，我可能預設了其他參與者也會主要以負面的方式，來描述那些他們想要離開的地方。但有些參與者一方面表示自己想要離開，另一方面卻也談到了自己對那些地方的感情，以及其中一些正面的記憶。 起初，我覺得這似乎與我原先想像的結構有些不同，但我後來認為，這些回應其實拓展了作品。它們讓我意識到，離開一個地方並不一定代表你不喜歡那裡。你可以愛著一個地方，同時仍然想要離開；而我們對一個社會的感受，也可能包含比單純的喜歡或不喜歡更加複雜的層次。 AC：那觀眾有從你們的工作坊中得到一些改變系統的力量或者權力呢？這些反饋與您創作作品時的想像相比，有哪些相同或不同之處？ Dongdong：在這個作品里，參與者確實擁有很大的自主性。他們可以決定自己想申請什麼，可以把任何東西作為自己想要遷移的對象，也可以選擇任何他們認為合適的方式去表達它。但與此同時，他們最後是否能夠完成這次「遷移」，並不是由他們自己決定的。我和另一位聲音藝術家 Lois Qi 在作品中作為兩位翻譯官，根據他們的表達做出最後的決定。我們有三種結果：完全翻譯、部分翻譯和翻譯延遲。「完全翻譯」意味著我們能夠理解他們所表達的內容；「部分翻譯」意味著我們只能理解其中的一部分；而「翻譯延遲」則意味著我們現在無法理解（但這並不意味著永遠無法理解。也許下一刻，也許一百年以後，我們才會理解）。 這些決定本身其實也很有趣,因為大家都知道這個簽證中心是虛構的。它不會真的決定一個人能不能去某個國家，也不會給他們帶來任何現實層面的結果。所以一開始我並沒有想到，參與者會非常在意最後的結果。他們完成申請之後，會聚集在門口等待，也會討論其他人的結果。他們甚至會很期待自己或者別人最終得到的「完全翻譯」。 這讓我意識到，雖然這個決定在現實層面沒有任何效力，但「被理解」這件事情本身可能比我預想的更加重要。所以到後面，我和 Lois 對這個系統的判斷也開始變得比較鬆動。雖然這個結果是虛構的，但參與者投入進去的時間、身體和信息都是真實的。我們之間發生的互動也是真實的。 這個作品有意思的地方，可能不是它創造了一個完全自由的空間，而是它讓我看到，一個虛構的制度也可以產生非常真實的關係、期待，以及被理解或者無法被理解的經驗。 Future Visa Centre, 圖片由藝術家提供 Minjun：我注意到，當人們被要求非常認真地遵守一些稍微有點奇怪的規則時，他們往往會意外地覺得很有趣。起初，他們可能會感到有些尷尬或不自在，但到了某個時刻，便會開始投入那個情境。我覺得桌遊也是以類似的方式運作。那些規則在日常現實中可能完全沒有意義，但一旦遊戲開始，我們就會開始非常認真地對待那些規則。 不過，有一件事是我比較謹慎看待的，那就是在一開始就把「改變參與者」或讓參與者產生某種「賦權」（empowerment）感，設定為作品的目標。在韓國，有一個特定的脈絡稱為「文化企劃」（문화기획，munhwa gihoek）。它在某些程度上與我們所說的社會參與式藝術有所重疊，但在韓國的文化政策中，往往比起作品本身，更強調參與者改變了多少，或者他們獲得了多少集體效能感（collective efficacy）。因此，參與式計畫有時會承受一種壓力，必須為參與者提供某種特定的教訓，或促成某種正向的轉變。 The Un-arrived Homeland, 圖片由藝術家提供 「我們應該把藝術當作一個藉口，去做更多奇怪的事情。」 AC：如果藝術無法改變「系統」，那這個作品對你們來講改變了什麼？你如何定義這次創作的價值呢？ Dongdong：那天有一個參與者讓我特別印象深刻。他當天非常沮喪，有一些來自工作的壓力。他最後選擇要「移民」的其實是他當天非常糟糕的情緒。他的表達方式非常安靜，幾乎沒有說什麼，而是通過非常緩慢的動作和沉默來表達自己。在「翻譯」的過程中，我們有很長一段時間只是互相看著對方的眼睛。Lois 的聲音翻譯也慢慢進入這個空間，非常緩慢、沉靜。 在那個過程中，我覺得自己好像通過他的眼睛感受到了他的情緒。我不知道這是不是可以被稱為改變，但我覺得那一刻我們確實建立了一種非常直接的聯繫。最後在他離開之前，他說他感覺好多了。 對我來說,這可能就是我現在能夠理解的「改變」——它不是改變一個制度或解決一個很大的社會問題，而可能只是讓一個人在某一天很糟糕的時候，在這一個十幾分鐘里，經歷了一次不同的關係，或者感受到自己被理解。 他最後得到的是「完全翻譯」，也就是我們告訴他我們理解了他想表達的東西。我不知道這個結果對他之後的生活會產生什麼影響，但至少在那個具體的時刻，我覺得這個作品確實讓他的那一天發生了一點點變化。 Future Visa Centre, 圖片由藝術家提供 Minjun：藝術可以改變構成一個制度的人們的思想與態度。很長一段時間，我在韓國從事的主要是社會運動，而不是藝術。諷刺的是，我之所以開始投入社會運動，其中一個原因正是因為我認為藝術幾乎沒有能力真正促成社會變革。 我在大學裡讀的是純藝術，原本也想成為一名處理社會議題的藝術家。但因為一些個人經歷，以及我對藝術界的失望，我逐漸開始想：「也許真正能改變世界的並不是藝術，而是政治與政策。」於是，我也開始深度投入這些領域。在韓國，我曾參與國家與地方政府層級的重要政策制定，而在某個時期，我甚至親自參與了政治選舉。 但在那個領域工作了很長一段時間之後，我最終開始產生幾乎相反的想法。政治運作涉及大量複雜的協商與妥協，有時也會出現令人感到矛盾的情況。我們甚至曾經遇到這樣的時刻：為了推動某些事情，不得不採用一些原本正是我們希望改變的運作方式。政策也是以類似的方式運作。政策受到政治形塑，但同時也受到某種理性邏輯的強烈支配——例如，投入某項資源或成本之後，究竟能產生多少可量化的成果。 在這樣的邏輯之下，複雜的社會問題很容易被簡化成非常單一的問題。例如，假設有一個人正遭受嚴重的心理困境。我們可能會理解，這個問題不只與個人有關，也與社會孤立、工作條件或經濟環境等因素相互連結。但在政策的語言中，要處理這整個相互關聯的網絡是很困難的。因此，最後提出的解決方案可能會被簡化為某種可以量化的措施，例如，為有心理健康問題的人提供免費諮商。 其實，正是透過這些經驗，我才重新開始思考藝術究竟如何能夠改變世界。如果政治與政策主要是在既有制度的邏輯之中運作，那麼藝術與文化想像便可以創造一個空間，讓我們有可能在那套邏輯之外進行思考。 AC：「參與」一直是你們兩位藝術實踐的核心，尤其體現在你們的作品如何引導我們重新思考日常生活經驗，以及我們與周遭世界之間的關係。撇開我們今天討論過的作品不談，你們認為藝術能如何改變我們與現實之間的關係？即使短暫的自主行動體驗最終並未改變形塑我們生活的體制，這樣的能動性是否仍能構成一種抵抗？ Dongdong：對我來說，藝術更像是在現實裡面暫時打開一個不同的空間，讓我們有機會用另一種方式去經歷現實。比如在作品結束以後,現實中的簽證制度還是在那裡，人還是需要面對身份、邊境、工作、經濟和各種制度性的限制。但在作品發生的那一段時間里，我們可以暫時改變一些事情運行的方式。 即使我們現在無法理解一個人的表達，也可以把它放在「延遲」之中，承認我們現在還不能理解，而不是直接把它變成一個拒絕。 所以如果要說這種短暫的自主權能不能成為一種韌性，我覺得可以。但它更像是一種很小、很暫時的抵抗：不是改變現實本身，而是在現實之中打開一個縫隙，讓我們看到現實也可以暫時以另一種方式運行。 Minjun：即使人們只是短暫地經歷能動性，也非常重要。我們的日常生活在很大程度上早已被結構化。因此，人們很自然地會沿著某些既定的路徑生活，而這些路徑通常也對應著一個社會所認可的主流生活方式。問題在於，即使我們想要離開這些既定的路徑，很多時候卻不知道該如何以不同的方式生活。 這某種程度上也是一種世代經驗。我們的父母那一代，或者更早的世代，至少是在一個人們還會談論「另一種可能」的社會環境中成長的，其中許多人也曾參與各種政治與社會運動。相較之下，對今天較年輕的世代而言，人們認為人生似乎存在一個「正確答案」：你應該讀哪一所大學、從事什麼樣的工作，以及應該過什麼樣的生活，才能獲得穩定。這使得人們很難走出那些既定的道路。 但我不認為任何人在一開始就已經在腦中形成了一套完整的另類生活方式。在一個人能夠選擇不同的生活方式之前，他需要先有機會經歷不同的事物、發展不同的喜好，以及培養不同的審美感受力。從這個意義上來說，我認為藝術具有讓我們以不同方式看待世界的力量，也能讓我們更深入地觀看一個原本已經非常熟悉的世界。而只有當這些微小的經驗逐漸累積起來，一個人才可能開始想像與目前生活不同的可能，將它說出來，並且或許最終選擇那樣的生活。 所以，我認為我們應該把藝術當作一個藉口，去做更多「奇怪的事情」。 對我而言，這些奇怪的經驗並不只是單純偏離常規的行為。它們更接近一種練習：暫時懸置那些我們以為自己已經理解的現實規則，並練習去想像其他可能性。 而想像本身，也可以成為一種柔和的對峙。 兩位藝術家的創作都從「理解」與「溝通」之間的落差出發，重新思考我們如何判斷一個人、以及什麼才足以成為被理解與被接納的證據。在「Future Visa Centre 未來簽證中心」中，原本由官僚體系所掌握的判斷標準被重新改寫，真正的表達、翻譯與同理心，成為衡量一個人能否通過的依據。這也使作品在個人判斷與制度化標準之間，開啟了一個可以被重新協商的空間。 然而，兩位藝術家對藝術能否直接改變現實，或能否真正「賦予參與者力量」，都抱持著審慎的態度。他們更關注藝術如何成為一個見證事情發生的可能，讓原本難以被制度理解的經驗得以出現、被聽見，並暫時脫離既有的判斷方式。在制度之外創造想像，而想像本身，也可以成為一種柔和的對峙。當我們開始想像另一種生活、另一種規則，甚至另一種理解彼此的方式，或許也就開始看見現實並非只能如此。 Future Visa Centre, 圖片由藝術家提供 Writer Audrey Chan

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 阅读中文版 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. Kristjan Randalu Photo: Kaupo Kikkas 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. Kristjan Randalu Photo: Kaupo Kikkas 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 Ich will meine Seele tauchen. 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. Kristjan Randalu Photo: Kaupo Kikkas 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. Kristjan Randalu Photo: Kaupo Kikkas 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. Writer Lucy Cheung