昨晚，钢琴家王羽佳与由爵士小号手温顿·马萨利斯（Wynton Marsalis）创办并率领的林肯中心爵士乐团（Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra，JLCO）首次合作，在爱丁堡国际艺术节的亚瑟厅（Usher Hall）举行世界首演。爵士钢琴巨匠的作品、十位编曲家重新为大乐队编配的全新版本，以及由温顿·马萨利斯与王羽佳共同策划和特别挑选的曲目，构成了这场音乐会的骨架；而共同体感与游戏精神，则让它真正活了起来。 开场就是戴夫·布鲁贝克（Dave Brubeck）节奏俏皮的《土耳其蓝色回旋曲》（Blue Rondo à la Turk），埃内斯托·莱库奥纳（Ernesto Lecuona）《非洲-古巴舞曲》（Danzas afro-cubanas）第六首《假面游行》（La comparsa）让色彩继续明亮起来；奥斯卡·彼得森（Oscar Peterson）的《不可能》（L’Impossible）和艾灵顿公爵（Duke Ellington）的《D大调沉思》（Reflections in D）则给王羽佳留下了更充分的独奏空间。她当然依旧以惊人的速度、精确度和爆发力展现了钢琴家的技术，但在这些密集音符的炫技之下，可以感受到一股钢琴家打开内心、将信任投入到音乐的松弛和暖意。JLCO的大乐队将王羽佳紧抱于切分音的摇摆中，同时有点能领会她昨晚对我说的：喜欢这样带着共享、共创气氛的合作。演出结束后她又提醒了我，大伙儿一起“嬉戏”的感觉十分重要。 8月12日晚，王羽佳在爱丁堡亚瑟厅连演两场 © Andrew Perry 炫技独奏少不了阿特·塔图姆（Art Tatum）的《虎尾巴》（Tiger Rag），此次由JLCO重新编排的版本此前从未现场演出，其技术要求极其惊人。首场一小时出头的音乐会，以埃罗尔·加纳（Erroll Garner）沉浸、扎实、富于律动的《秋叶》（Autumn Leaves）结束。 在此次首演前夕，我们与王羽佳约在爱丁堡她下榻的酒店里，单独聊了将近一小时。话题有深有浅。今天先整理其中一部分较为轻快的问答，也作为即时问卷The Riff Questionnaire的开栏文章。 王羽佳谈音乐与生活的深度访问，我们将在她登台伦敦逍遥音乐节最后一晚前推出，敬请期待。 温顿·马萨利斯与林肯中心爵士乐团 © Andrew Perry 最近让你特别开心的事 还是音乐给我最大的快乐。 我一会儿马上要去听音乐会了。我比较高兴的，就是这些比较新颖的事儿。对我来说，我原本以为这个过程会很久，因为整个过程确实很长。去年夏天我们就开始谈了，然后一点一点地推进。一共十首曲子，差不多一个月一首，他们把编曲一个个寄给我。然后我自己也会听爵士，就是潜移默化地听，但是真正的排练直到前天才开始，所以就觉得既慢又快。这跟我日常弹琴的节奏很不一样。一般像协奏曲或者重奏这些比较常规的东西，我都知道怎么准备，这个就有点恐怖，但也很令人兴奋。 前一段时间我刚弹了一个拉丁音乐。两年前，泰迪·艾布拉姆斯（Teddy Abrams，美国指挥家、作曲家、钢琴家）带我去听拉丁音乐，我们在柯蒂斯的时候就是很好的朋友。我觉得他们对音乐、对生活都有一种热爱，所有情绪都从音乐里透出来，很直接，很有感染力。我就被感染了，然后我就想，什么时候能跟他们一块儿弹就好了。后来实现了。 对我来说，这些就是好音乐，没有界限，不是爵士音乐，也不是古典音乐；大家在台上也不是说每个细节都需要精确与完美，只不过是一起乐在其中。 像古典音乐一般都是独奏、或者协奏曲，包括我自己也是独奏音乐家，所以会有一种比较孤立的感觉。但这个不一样，它是很social（有社交性、共同参与感）的。我们一块儿排练，大家一块儿写音乐、一块儿编曲。我比较喜欢这样。 我还很喜欢之前跟大卫·霍克尼（David Hockney）在伦敦Lightroom的沉浸式展览David Hockney: Bigger & Closer (not smaller & further away)，那对我也是一种启发，我在里面弹了30秒钟的布列兹。 还有最近VR的沉浸项目（Playing with Fire），是把我的现场演奏和VR沉浸式艺术结合在一起。我其实花了很长时间录制，都是我现场弹的，然后再把这些演奏放进VR的媒介里。对我来说，它不是把音乐变成另外一种东西，而是提供了一个不同的方式去感受音乐。 这些新的尝试、新的音乐会让我很开心，但也很容易被误解。大家好像总是希望先给它下一个定义，似乎先定义了，才能去理解。但如果你暂时还不明白，我觉得应该先去享受它。定义其实没必要。 让你不太开心的事 从生活上来说，我的老师加里·格拉夫曼（Gary Graffman）在圣诞期间走了，后来MTT（Michael Tilson Thomas，迈克尔·提尔森·托马斯）、大卫·霍克尼也走了，还有我的朋友Gary，他总是来看我的演出。所以真的就觉得，好像是一种代际变化。以前我要有什么生活上的事情，human side（作为人的那一面），我会跟他们一起聊天。但是他们一个一个都走了。MTT从我17岁开始，一直到30多岁，他看着我长大。他不说话都能明白我，像是有心灵感应似的。现在这样的人越来越难找了。 喜欢的爵士乐 听爵士乐我觉得有点像读村上春树的小说。它会把你带到另外一个地方。我也不知道那算不算逃离，或者躲避。但是会把你引到一个你原来没有想到的地方。 我喜欢很多不同的爵士，基斯·杰瑞特（Keith Jarrett）、戴夫·布鲁贝克、斯坦·盖茨（Stan Getz），迈尔斯·戴维斯（Miles Davis），如果我想放松的时候就没那么喜欢，基斯·杰瑞特的《科隆音乐会》（The Köln Concert）是我最喜欢的。 很喜欢沙利文·福特纳（Sullivan Fortner），他非常厉害。还有Art Tatum。Art Tatum是神。我也喜欢布拉德·梅尔道（Brad Mehldau），他也弹古典，我去过他的音乐会，他和伊恩·博斯特里奇（Ian Bostridge）演出《冬之旅》。他也很喜欢福雷。 关于星座 我是水瓶座，我是个怪人（笑）。以前信过星座，但我觉得现在看清楚了点，因为世界上的人肯定多于12种。 最喜欢的放松方式 Spa。你知道吗，我的精神动物是水豚，它们就经常泡在spa里。有一段时间它们在网上特别火，特别可爱。我还特地去过一些水豚咖啡馆，看到真的水豚，原来那么大一只，还是照片上更好看。去南美的时候，我也每次都会去动物园看水豚。它们真是史上最zen的动物。 理想的住地 我现在住纽约。但明年我是维也纳金色大厅的驻厅艺术家，实际上从今年秋天就开始了。我会弹巴伯、巴托克和普罗科菲耶夫。所以就是，以前那些（曲目）我还在走。我当然也还是很喜欢皮埃尔-洛朗·艾玛尔（Pierre-Laurent Aimard）这样的演奏家。那是完全不一样的，不是转换了，只不过是拓宽了一些，也希望是加上了一些。只不过现在夏天稍微……你知道的（笑）。当然是两个事儿。拉丁和爵士都是新的，VR也算是新的，这些都是新的。 最想念北京的—— 四合院。我的父母还住在北京。 回国不演出时喜欢做的事 逛街、看电影。我也喜欢上海、深圳、香港。中国每个城市都很不一样。其实我还有很多地方没去过，比如我还没去过四川。我还想看看西安，那么迷人，唐诗、宋词，这些东西都很吸引我。中国真的有很多宝藏。 旅行愿望清单 事实上，我从十六岁开始就在外面生活和演出，到现在已经二十多年，感觉对欧洲和美国有点厌倦了，欧美我去过了大多数城市，我还想去新西兰、东南亚、埃及、非洲。那些地方我都没有真正去过。 旅行时喜欢看—— 我喜欢巴黎，我喜欢博物馆，喜欢吸收营养，也喜欢在公园里逛逛，看这个城市。爱丁堡我来过几次，这次待得最长，但（我自己的）时间最少。 最爱的食物 我天天想吃中餐，太喜欢吃了。但是国外的中餐和中国还是不一样的。 最近的歌单 我喜欢说唱，它很raw（原始、直接），有一种很好的能量。我就是喜欢听，也没听懂唱的是什么。我有一个很长的播放列表，里面有很多法国香颂，有点轻盈、忧郁的那种，比如弗朗索瓦丝·阿迪（Françoise Hardy），还有塞尔日·甘斯布（Serge Gainsbourg）。 你感觉最亲近的作曲家 舒伯特，一如既往，我也一直爱听肖邦。 假期是—— 我不太能理解的概念。如果我在一个很好的地方，不是天天演、不是很忙，那对我来说还好。但因为我需要音乐去生存。如果有20天假期，我会疯掉，我会想我要干什么。 当然我也想要假期；但我又怎么知道，三年之后我是不是想演出？这就是古典音乐有时候很疯狂的地方。你可能两年以前就已经要开始准备一个演出了。但我想说的是，紧张的是旅途：要过安检、面对很多很多的人，真的很有压力。但我通常没把弹琴本身看成是工作，所以我干嘛要休假？ 关于接受采访这件事 我现在已经不再接受采访了，因为我真的害怕所有的话都会被误解。

When 2026年8月11日 Where 皇家艾伯特音樂廳（Royal Albert Hall） Who 洛杉磯愛樂樂團（Los Angeles Philharmonic） 指揮：古斯塔夫·杜達梅爾（Gustavo Dudamel） What 杜達梅爾帶領洛杉磯愛樂樂團，演出貝多芬《第六交響曲「田園」》和托馬斯·阿德斯（Thomas Adès）的《但丁第一部：地獄》（Dante – Part 1: Inferno）。 古斯塔夫·杜達梅爾在2026年逍遙音樂節 Photo: BBC/Chris Christodoulou 記一筆 身為即將在2025/26樂季結束之後卸任的洛杉磯愛樂音樂總監，杜達梅爾今年夏天一點也不安靜。他先是執棒英國愛樂樂團（Philharmonia Orchestra）錄製由影帝安東尼·霍普金斯（Sir Anthony Hopkins）創作的古典音樂專輯《人生如夢》（Life is a Dream），然後再現身世界盃足球決賽的中場演出，指揮經典搖滾與體育場名曲《Seven Nation Army》。 而在睽違超過20年之後，洛杉磯也在他的帶領下重回皇家艾伯特音樂廳。今年的逍遙音樂節（BBC Proms）已經進入第四周，倫敦又將邁入新的一輪熱浪，每天音樂廳內的演出依舊熱火朝天。而當貝多芬《第六交響曲「田園」》F大調開頭的奏鳴曲式流瀉入逍遙音樂節標誌性的內場站票區，觀眾彷彿也隨著音樂緩步走進鄉間風景裡。 杜達梅爾以他一貫熱情洋溢的氣勢，詮釋貝多芬這部描寫自己對自然景致熱愛的作品。第一樂章弦樂密集，木管樂器則恰如其分的帶出到達鄉間的輕快感受。今晚洛杉磯愛樂樂團的音色流暢明亮，以歡樂的速度為底色，仍舊穩穩掌握了貝多芬筆記中對自然和音樂「河愈大，調愈沉」的觀察感受。 或許是杜達梅爾和洛杉磯愛樂的知名度，吸引了更多的普羅大眾。上半場演出樂章中間屢屢有觀眾鼓掌，聽起來卻也像是發自內心的喜悅感受。杜達梅爾仿佛不太介意，也更加契合了逍遙音樂節的親民風格。 托馬斯·阿德斯登台向樂手致意 攝影：王郁婷 觀眾還沒有從上半場的風聲、鳥鳴、溪水潺潺和驟雨初歇中走出來，就被下半場色彩濃烈的《但丁第一部：地獄》帶入另外一個世界。《但丁》是編舞家偉恩．麥奎格（Wayne McGregor）和英國作曲家托馬斯·阿德斯聯手打造的芭蕾舞作品，分為地獄、煉獄和天堂三個篇章，為紀念詩人但丁逝世700週年，於2021年首演於倫敦皇家歌劇院。 2023年洛杉磯愛樂以現場演出《但丁》的錄製專輯，奪下第66屆葛萊美獎「最佳管弦樂表演獎」，因此即便阿德斯在上週末已經親自指揮國家青年管弦樂團（National Youth Orchestra）演出《第二部：煉獄》，卻也更顯得今晚的《第一部：地獄》意義非凡。 《地獄》編制龐大，尤其以各種特殊打擊樂器如棘輪（ratchet）、鐵砧（Anvil）、鐵琴和管鐘營造出不屬於人間的那些尖銳，詭麗的奇特音色。阿德斯筆下的《地獄》是對李斯特《但丁交響曲》和《但丁讀後感》的改編與致敬。在音樂裡，李斯特擔任了引路人維吉爾（Virgil），讓阿德斯在21世紀重塑但丁。 600多年前的詩作《神曲》就此復活，今晚的引路人是杜達梅爾，我們行經阿德斯筆下充滿失重感和戲劇張力且群魔亂舞的地獄。觀眾忍不住在十二首《盜賊—被爬行動物吞噬》極度高亢的全奏結尾時鼓掌喝采，卻隨即被緊接在後的終曲《撒旦—在冰湖中》帶入冰冷絕望的世界。 而阿德斯就坐在觀眾席裡，時而閉上眼睛聆聽，時而揚起嘴角看著5000多位聽眾跟著音樂最後幾小節沉靜下來，如同詩人終於爬出地獄，終得仰望繁星。

Wham! in Beijing I bought a ticket to Wham! Ten Days in China because I wanted to see Guangzhou (formerly known as Canton) as it was forty years ago. In 1985, Wham! became the first Western pop group to perform officially in China, giving concerts in Beijing and Guangzhou. I was too young then to remember either Guangzhou, my home city, or Wham!’s visit. A few years later, when I was in primary school, I would often hear, in the early evening on my way home, long passages of saxophone drifting from a window somewhere. It was Careless Whisper, and it became my earliest memory of Wham!. By then the duo had already split up, but the afterglow of their visit to the city lingered. I later moved to London and gradually found myself farther and farther from Guangzhou. When I saw that this documentary was being released, I went to the cinema without hesitation. Directed by British filmmaker Mike Christie, the film opened in London cinemas last month and will later be broadcast on British television. The documentary does not rush to take us to the two Chinese cities. Instead, it begins by answering a question: why did Wham! come to China in the first place? Andrew Ridgeley, one half of the duo, narrates the film, taking us back to the Cold War at the very beginning. This was not an ordinary tour, but a carefully conceived commercial strategy. Their manager, Simon Napier-Bell, had come up with a bold idea: make Wham! the first Western pop group to perform officially in China, attract international media attention, particularly from the American press, and use the trip to help the group break into the US market. At this point, I thought back to 2008, when I was working for a daily newspaper and met Simon when he came to Beijing to promote his memoir, I’m Coming to Take You to Lunch: A fantastic tale of boys, booze and how Wham! were sold to China. The interview was many years ago, and I remember little of what we discussed. But hearing Andrew tell the story at the beginning of the documentary brought something back to me: when Simon talked about the China trip then, he spoke mostly about strategy, publicity and the market. Wham! Ten Days in China itself has a curious and complicated history. In 1985, to document the trip, Wham!’s management invited British filmmaker Lindsay Anderson to travel with the group. Anderson was not a music-documentary director, but a major figure in the British Free Cinema movement. He had won the Palme d’Or at Cannes in 1969 for If.... His interest had always been in society, people and reality, rather than pop stars. At one point in the film, we hear him say, “Wham! might not be that good...” What really persuaded him to join the trip was China itself, a country that had only recently begun opening its doors to the West. From the beginning, Anderson was not trying to make the documentary Wham!’s management wanted. After completing If You Were There, Andrew recalled that when he first watched it, he found it “as dull as dishwater”. They had wanted a film about Wham! in China; Anderson had made something closer to a film about China. That version was never released. Wham!’s team later reused the same footage to make Wham! in China: Foreign Skies, a film more heavily focused on the concerts, backstage scenes and the group itself, which was released in 1986 during Wham!’s farewell concert period. For more than three decades, If You Were There remained officially unreleased, while Foreign Skies gradually became the version people knew. George Michael did not want to revisit the Wham! years repeatedly during his lifetime, and he also opposed the release of If You Were There. It was only after his death that things began to change. In 2024, the British Film Institute screened If You Were There publicly for the first time, with Andrew and the estate of George Michael both supporting its release. Around the same period, director Mike Christie went back to the original footage shot in 1985, added new interviews with Andrew and other Chinese and British participants, and created the documentary we see today. It is not a new edit of If You Were There and Foreign Skies, but a return to the original footage from forty years ago, telling the story of those ten days once again. For Wham! fans, or those who experienced 1985 themselves, the previously unseen original footage, restored and shown on the big screen for the first time, is precious in itself. The concert scenes from Beijing and Guangzhou are equally valuable. Together with the preparations backstage, rehearsals, press conferences and fragments of the two men travelling around China, they make those ten days forty years ago feel suddenly concrete and present. But what I was watching for was Guangzhou forty years ago: the hand-painted, poster-like portraits of George and Andrew hanging on the exterior wall of the Sun Yat-sen Memorial Hall, with the neat Chinese characters “威猛乐队” — “Wham!” — printed across the poster; the Pearl River flashing past, narrow streets and lanes; and George and Andrew kicking a football with a group of local young men on the lawn outside the Memorial Hall. I found myself constantly trying to work out what the surrounding landscape looked like. There are plenty of lighter moments in the film. On Beijing’s Wangfujing Street, the two walk into a record shop, much like any band today might go “record shopping” while touring an unfamiliar city. But the film quickly cuts to another side of the trip: Hongqi limousines -symbol of status and political importance, reserved for senior officials and foreign dignitaries, the Great Wall Hotel -one of Beijing’s landmark international hotels, built to accommodate the growing number of foreign visitors as China opened its doors to the outside world, official government banquets and receptions hosted by the British Embassy. A Western pop group coming to China in 1985 was clearly more than a matter of cultural exchange. Wham! in Beijing Surrounded by crowds in department stores and by the media, the two look somewhat awkward, but remain unfailingly polite. Before the banquets, they repeatedly lower their heads to read over their prepared speeches; when the time comes to speak, they conduct themselves with considerable poise. In Guangzhou, a traditional Chinese massage therapist gives George Michael a massage. He is covered only by a thin sheet, occasionally lifting his head to look around, his expression full of curiosity, smiling as he says, “It’s very relaxing.” Throughout the film, the Chinese side is deeply formal about the visit. Whether in the official reception, the banquets or the traditional massage, everything reflects the way China welcomed guests in those days. George and Andrew, meanwhile, are two young men in their early twenties, and at times they seem a little out of their depth. After the Guangzhou concert on the final night of the trip, George Michael tells the camera that although much of the journey had been difficult, he feels privileged to have performed for “those people”, helping to open their ears and eyes. For him, “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything”. At this point, I felt a lump in my throat. “Those people” made even the English friend sitting beside me frown. There is no denying that the reappearance of the Beijing Workers’ Gymnasium and Guangzhou Sun Yat-sen Memorial Hall concerts is visually striking: the direct collision between the stage and the audience remains astonishing to watch. The memories of musicians Wang Di, Cheng Fangyuan, Cui Jian, DJ Paul and others also offer a genuine record of the impact Wham!’s arrival had on young people at the time. Some recalled that before then they had barely known what a live pop concert could be like; others described how, after the concert, it felt as if the whole world had changed. I have no doubt those feelings were genuine. Wham!’s arrival did have symbolic significance at the time, and it genuinely influenced a generation of young people — inspiring Cui Jian to make his own rock music, for example, and prompting Paul to become what he describes as “China’s first Western pop music radio DJ”. There is nothing wrong with the documentary focusing on George and Andrew’s experience of travelling through China; after all, this is a documentary about Wham!. But if we return to the commercial strategy outlined at the beginning, China was from the outset part of that strategy: a backdrop for generating publicity and helping Wham! break into the American market. Forty years later, in the retelling of the trip, that instrumental view does not seem to have disappeared entirely. These precious images are ultimately folded into a one-way narrative of “giving”: music comes from one side, transformation happens on the other, and the people receiving it are left mainly as recipients of change. When the documentary finally frames those ten days around the idea that Wham! came to China to “open the ears and eyes” of a generation of young people, it falls back on a familiar narrative of civilisational enlightenment: China becomes the side waiting to be enlightened, while Wham! is cast as the enlightener. The feeling is not unfamiliar to me. Ten years ago, I interviewed conductor Daniel Barenboim in London, and that same evening went to hear him speak at a memorial lecture for Edward Said. He recalled conducting Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony in Ghana, saying that the local audience of course did not understand the symphony, but that they could nevertheless feel a great humanistic statement simply by being there. During the lecture, he also called for the finest European orchestras to perform more often in places that “do not have music”. I remember my heart sinking at the time. Said spent his life criticising the Orientalist narrative in which the West cast itself as the bringer of enlightenment. He and Barenboim had co-founded the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra and co-authored Parallels and Paradoxes. Against that background, hearing Barenboim, sitting on that stage, offer his own version of “bringing music there” was all the more striking. Sitting in the cinema years later, I suddenly saw the connection: a pop singer in his early twenties and a world-renowned conductor were, in very different contexts, drawing on a remarkably similar narrative. China in 1985 was not a blank page waiting to be written on. Before Wham! arrived, there was already a Chinese popular music scene, a youth culture of its own, and a long musical tradition. Young people in post-reform China certainly wanted to know more about the world, but that desire should not be confused with ignorance. That is perhaps why I can better understand Lindsay Anderson’s decision about where to point his camera. Wham!’s team wanted a travelogue about Wham!; Anderson repeatedly turned his camera towards the streets and ordinary people instead. It reflected a more open-minded way of looking at China. He could not, of course, escape the exoticising gaze of a Western filmmaker looking at China in that era. But at least he had the curiosity to explore, and the willingness to look beyond Wham! and engage with the country around him. There was, at the very least, a curiosity about what else was there to see.

2026年爱丁堡国际艺术节开幕演出 © Andrew Perry “共同站起。我在这里。向更高处看，向更远处看。我们将蒸蒸日上。” 8月8日，美国爵士乐手温顿·马萨利斯（Wynton Marsalis）创作的《共同站起》（All Rise）在爱丁堡亚瑟音乐厅（Usher Hall）担纲2026年爱丁堡国际艺术节（Edinburgh International Festival，EIF）的开幕夜演出。这部1999年受纽约爱乐乐团委约创作的作品，由美国林肯中心爵士乐团、苏格兰皇家国家管弦乐团、爱丁堡艺术节合唱团以及杰森·马克斯·费迪南德歌手团等200多位音乐家，在指挥詹姆斯·加菲根（James Gaffigan）的率领下共同呈现。 林肯中心爵士乐团随后转入一段新奥尔良爵士，合唱团随着节奏摇摆；紧接着，苏格兰国家青年爵士乐团的行进乐队从侧面的通道进入，绕场一周，最后把这场派对带到街头。一场交响乐开幕式由此变成了一场爵士庆典。 “共同站起”也是本届EIF的主题。本届艺术节于8月7日至30日举行。艺术节总监妮可拉·本内黛蒂（Nicola Benedetti）在几个月前接受采访时曾表示，这一主题既呼应马萨利斯的作品，也是一种“文化行动”，回应当下生活中弥漫的犬儒主义与过度消费主义。 2026年爱丁堡国际艺术节开幕演出 © Andrew Perry 今年又适逢美国《独立宣言》发表250周年，EIF将呈现艺术节历史上数量最多的美国艺术，涵盖音乐、舞蹈、戏剧和歌剧。本内黛蒂表示，许多艺术家正在尝试“重讲美国故事”，重新面对自由、创造力、偏见与虚伪之间的矛盾，以及迁徙、融合和不同文化相遇所产生的复杂能量。 在美国主题之下，爵士乐成为今年艺术节的一条鲜明线索。成立40年的林肯中心爵士乐团今年首次以驻节乐团身份亮相EIF。8月11日晚，乐团将演出艾灵顿公爵（Duke Ellington）的《黑人、棕色与米色》（Black, Brown and Beige）。这部1943年首演的作品从非裔美国人的历史与音乐传统出发，是艾灵顿最重要的大型作品之一。 8月12日，林肯中心爵士乐团还将与钢琴家王羽佳合作，在亚瑟音乐厅带来两场演出。这是EIF委约的世界独家项目，两场分别于18时和21时举行，王羽佳将与马萨利斯及林肯中心爵士乐团共同探索古典钢琴与爵士大乐队之间的可能性。 从交响乐与爵士的相遇，到美国黑人音乐传统，再到爵士与当代古典演奏家的碰撞，爵士乐也将继续出现在艺术节总部The Hub。这里今年仍是EIF跨界音乐与实验项目的中心，爵士、电子音乐与俱乐部文化将在深夜节目“深夜时光”中交汇；艺术节还首次将爵士方向纳入“明日之星”计划，为年轻爵士音乐家提供国际舞台。 2026年爱丁堡国际艺术节现场 摄影：张璐诗 今年EIF的美国主题也延伸到音乐之外。艺术节将与苏格兰经济学家亚当·斯密曾居住的潘穆尔楼合作，首次在国际范围呈现来自美国阿拉巴马州蒙哥马利遗产博物馆的展览，由美国律师布莱恩·史蒂文森（Bryan Stevenson）主持，讨论种族优越论、奴隶制度、私刑与种族隔离，并审视苏格兰在这段历史中的角色。展览将在爱丁堡大学历史悠久的普莱费尔图书馆举行。 皇后音乐厅室内乐系列今年则向去年去世的钢琴家、思想家阿尔弗雷德·布伦德尔（Alfred Brendel）致敬。史蒂芬·奥斯本（Steven Osborne）、皮埃尔-洛朗·艾玛尔（Pierre-Laurent Aimard）和保罗·刘易斯（Paul Lewis）将分别带来从舒伯特、贝多芬到利盖蒂的三套曲目。 票务方面，EIF继续推出“试试看”计划，所有演出均提供10英镑门票；今年还有5万张30英镑以下的门票，以及超过2000张面向年轻音乐家的免费门票。

When 2026年8月9日上午11时 Where 伦敦皇家阿尔伯特大厅（Royal Albert Hall） Who 汤姆·费瑟斯通豪（Tom Fetherstonhaugh）指挥幻想乐团（Fantasia Orchestra）、BBC歌手（BBC Singers）担任合唱。 What 路易斯·普里玛（Louis Prima）《歌唱，歌唱，歌唱》（Sing, Sing, Sing），哈里·贝克（Harry Baker）改编；Radiohead《金字塔之歌》（Pyramid Song），西蒙·海尔（Simon Hale）改编；卡罗琳·肖（Caroline Shaw）《八声部帕蒂塔》（Partita for 8 Voices）第二乐章《萨拉班德》；德沃夏克《捷克组曲》（Czech Suite）终曲、拉尔夫·沃恩·威廉斯《音乐小夜曲》，罗伊·道格拉斯（Roy Douglas）改编；梅雷迪思·蒙克（Meredith Monk）《熊猫圣歌 II》（Panda Chant II），逍遥音乐节首演；艾灵顿公爵（Duke Ellington）《不摇摆无意义》（It Don't Mean a Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing)），哈里·贝克改编。 Why 2026年逍遥音乐节（BBC Proms）唯一的“放松版逍遥音乐会”（Relaxed Prom），当天下午又演了一场。 放松版逍遥音乐会现场 摄影：张璐诗 记一笔 这几年，逍遥音乐节里出现越来越多“降低观演门槛”的场次：电影音乐、游戏音乐、爵士、流行、摇滚，以及专门为家庭、儿童和不同需求观众设计的演出。今年更有首次出现的“前卫摇滚逍遥音乐会”（Prog Rock Prom），把创世纪（Genesis）和迈克·奥德菲尔德（Mike Oldfield）的作品交给管弦乐团演奏。去年逍遥音乐节有41场售罄，约四成观众是第一次来看，其中降低门槛、跨越音乐类别的音乐会，往往也是卖得最快的场次。 今日这场将卡罗琳·肖、德沃夏克和Radiohead的作品放进同一场，又是一个很有代表性的例子。这肯定不是古典音乐纯粹派适宜进入的演出，当然，古典音乐纯粹派大概也不会有兴趣进入。我也不否认自己看到这场演出的第一感觉：“放松”这种用词真不太酷，而且一看就晓得是刻意降低门槛。然而冲破了这一层偏见，放开胸怀真正听起音乐来，还真有点意思。 改编Radiohead的作曲家西蒙·海尔 Photo: BBC/Mark Allan 台上奏乐，台下满场小娃娃毫无压力地跑动、叫唤。尤其到了纯人声表演的节目，小朋友们也很自然地跟着张口，咿咿呀呀起来。多么慷慨无私的乐团。 就连Radiohead那么历来象征纠结和阴郁的音乐，也进入了这片松弛的浪潮。《金字塔之歌》开头，带着不协和和弦走向的颤音琴先浮出来，随后管弦乐慢慢进入。Radiohead原曲本来就有丰富复杂的和声，实在适合管弦乐配器。负责改编的西蒙·海尔是英国作曲家、编曲家和键盘手，长期游走在流行、爵士、电影音乐、音乐剧和管弦乐之间，曾与比约克（Björk）、贾米罗奎（Jamiroquai）等音乐人合作，并凭音乐剧《春之觉醒》（Spring Awakening）的管弦编曲获得托尼奖。在《金字塔之歌》上，他没有将Radiohead古典化，而是把原曲已有的和声色彩层层打开。弦乐、木管、铜管和BBC歌手的人声一同进入，构成饱满而丰富的层次。 《金字塔之歌》的立意本身，也让BBC歌手的人声有了圣咏的味道。原作者兼原唱汤姆·约克（Thom Yorke）受到古埃及关于死亡与死后世界的意象启发，写下河流、小船、天使、天堂，以及时间交错的想象。写死亡，却没有恐惧；写渡向另一个世界，却异常平静。 BBC歌手 Photo: BBC/Mark Allan 然后，这样一首关于死亡、天堂与超度的歌，目测成了满场小宝宝的摇篮曲——在父亲肩头轻轻摇摆，在母亲怀里微晃，形成一幅奇异的画面。站票区，不少一家子就地坐下，就像在公园里野餐。有的小朋友干脆横躺在座位上，也没人埋怨。 《音乐小夜曲》这样毫无思虑负担的消遣音乐，直接使人联想到逍遥音乐节创办最初的样子。“Promenade concert”本来就来自18世纪伦敦的消遣花园（Pleasure Gardens）。夏夜在户外，人们在园子里散步，有时停下来听音乐，然后继续散步；或者社交、跳舞。音乐会并不要求大家正襟危坐。 今日这场逍遥音乐会，就有点回到原初之感。整场音乐会完全消除了音乐厅的规矩，直接鼓励很多带着婴儿来的家长们。整场音乐会都可以随便进出大厅，可以随便发声，无论多大音量都没问题，还可以随便动起来。首尾的大乐队风格音乐也就相当自然，令人闻歌起舞。放开心胸来看，有张有弛的Proms，大概才是“逍遥音乐会”能够理直气壮地称得上“全球最佳古典音乐节”的真谛。

Read in English 昨晚，指挥家帕沃·雅尔维（Paavo Järvi）率领BBC交响乐团（BBC Symphony Orchestra）登上逍遥音乐节（BBC Proms），携手希腊小提琴家列奥尼达斯·卡瓦克斯（Leonidas Kavakos）演出柴可夫斯基《D大调小提琴协奏曲》，并指挥丹妮·霍华德（Dani Howard）铜管协奏曲《讯号》（SIGNAL）世界首演，以及斯克里亚宾的《第二交响曲》。 两周前，我在爱沙尼亚与帕沃进行了第三次单独交谈。继2022年在苏黎世、2024年在爱沙尼亚2之后，我们再次见面，地点仍是在爱沙尼亚滨海小镇的帕尔努音乐厅（Pärnu Concert Hall）。两年前一进门，帕沃先教我如何快速地剥一枚豌豆；两年后回来，他递过来一碗刚摘下来的蓝莓。 在西斜的房间里，两把小电扇开着，交谈从我几天在音乐节上看他与乐团排练贝多芬《第六交响曲“田园”》开始。帕沃回忆自己在帕尔努度过的童年夏天、每次驶过帕尔努河大桥时“回到家”的感觉。当谈及大卫·奥伊斯特拉赫故居时，他提到为什么保留老建筑、老街区和历史记忆，对一座城市是那么重要。话题随后转向爱沙尼亚恢复独立三十五周年。一个只有一百三十多万人口的国家，为何能拥有如此丰富的音乐生活？帕沃分享了他对文化、教育、艺术与国家发展的理解，也谈到欧洲当前的安全局势，以及战争给音乐家带来的思考。我们也讨论了俄罗斯文化与俄罗斯音乐、肖斯塔科维奇作品的历史背景，以及今天的年轻音乐家是否还能真正理解这些作品所承载的时代经验。 接着，帕沃谈到父亲尼梅·雅尔维（Neeme Järvi）对自己的影响、他眼中当代指挥艺术面临的变化，以及指挥教育最重要的是什么。他还分享了对即将出任伦敦爱乐乐团（London Philharmonic Orchestra）首席指挥兼艺术顾问的期待，并推荐几位值得关注的爱沙尼亚作曲家。随后聊到与中国青年音乐家的合作，以及爱沙尼亚节日乐团（Estonian Festival Orchestra）在今年10月即将展开的首次国内巡演。 本次对谈也制作为一期播客：伦敦有耳｜即时作客3：在波罗的海边，与帕沃·雅尔维聊天（London Ears | The Riff Residency 3: Paavo Järvi）。请在小宇宙、喜马拉雅、网易云、Apple Podcasts和小红书上搜索“伦敦有耳London Ears”收听。 （以下文字根据录音整理，但并非逐字逐句记录） 即时Riff对话帕沃·雅尔维： 失去与历史的联系，就是走向终结的开始 LC=张璐诗 PJ=Paavo Järvi 帕沃·雅尔维与列奥尼达斯·卡瓦克斯在逍遥音乐节 Photo: BBC/Chris Christodoulou LC：这几天我一直看你排练贝多芬《第六交响曲“田园”》，就在想，这部作品会不会特别容易让你想起这里、想起帕尔努？上次你告诉我，不管身在世界哪个城市，只要一回到这里，就会立刻觉得到家了。演奏这部作品的时候，也会有这样的联系吗？ PJ：会。帕尔努对我来说意义非常特别，因为我童年最美好的回忆都在这里。小时候，每年六月、七月和八月，我都会在帕尔努度过整整三个月，那时候暑假很长，整个夏天都是自由的。这里的自然景色、鸟鸣、水边，还有那种无拘无束的时光，都已经成为帕尔努很鲜明的象征。而这些，也正是贝多芬“田园交响曲”里的精神。 LC：让你一回到这里就立刻觉得“到家了”的会是某一种食物，或者某个景色吗？ PJ：塔林是我出生的地方，我们从塔林开车过来，车程大约一个半小时，快进到帕尔努的时候，会经过一座桥。每一次，只要看到那座桥，我就会觉得自己回到童年了。 LC：是哪一座桥？ PJ：其实就是一座很普通的桥。小时候，它在我眼里特别大，现在再看，却觉得很小，就像很多童年的东西一样。那座桥横跨帕尔努河。每次车子驶过去，我脑子里都会冒出同一个念头：“终于到了，假期开始了。” LC：我还记得两年前来这里时，特地去看了大卫·奥伊斯特拉赫（David Oistrakh）的夏日故居。这次我又去了，发现房子已经修缮过了。 PJ：对，不过门口的纪念牌还在，还是同一栋房子，只是状况比以前更好了。 大卫·奥伊斯特拉赫帕尔努故居 摄影：张璐诗 LC：上次你说过，帕尔努最珍贵的地方，是这里生活的样子跟三十年前差不多。有没有什么，是你担心未来会慢慢消失的？ PJ：有，而且几乎是不可避免的。我们总想留住记忆里的东西，但生活会继续，城市也会发展，建筑也是一样。看看这些漂亮的木屋、公园，还有充满魅力的老建筑，再看看今天新建的房子，就会发现，它们已经属于另一个时代。现在大家越来越讲究成本和效率，却越来越少重视美感。 这并不是帕尔努独有，而是世界各地都在发生的事情。所以，保护那些已经存在的建筑非常重要，不能任由它们为了商业利益而被拆掉。因为你无法重新造出一把古老的小提琴，也无法重新建造一座老歌剧院，同样也无法复制一栋伟大的老建筑。它们真正珍贵的，不只是外观，而是它们来自某一个时代，本身就是历史的一部分。 如果失去了这些，我们也就失去了与历史的联系，而那，就是走向终结的开始。我们必须记住自己的历史，并让它存在于每天的生活里：我们吃的食物、住的房子、唱的歌，这些都是文化的一部分，也让我们知道自己是谁。 LC：你祖母在你童年时教你的爱沙尼亚歌曲，你到现在还记得吗？ PJ：有，当然有，而且有很多。小时候，我常常和祖母一起在帕尔努散步，那时候我大概四五岁。她总会带着一本小小的蓝皮歌本，里面全是歌词。我们一路走，一路唱，几乎把歌本里的歌都唱遍了。 我到现在还记得那些歌词，也记得那些旋律，因为她总是一句一句教我，然后再一起唱。其中很多都是非常古老的爱沙尼亚歌曲，那时候其实已经很少有人唱了。也正因为这些歌，我仿佛和她的童年建立了联系。因为这些歌也是她小时候跟着自己的父母学会的。这就是传统延续的方式。 LC：那后来，你给自己的孩子唱什么歌？ PJ：很多都是祖母教我的那些歌。我把她教给我的很多歌，又教给了我的孩子。 LC：能举一个例子吗？唱的是什么？ PJ：不会，我可不会现在唱给你听（笑）。不过我记得其中有一首，是一个女孩寻找自己当水手的哥哥。她站在岸边，看着一艘艘船驶过，心里一直想着：“我的哥哥在哪里？希望他一切平安。”很多都是这样带着一点淡淡忧伤，却又非常美丽的歌。当然，也有各种各样不同的题材。过去的人，会把人生中重要的事情写进歌曲里。有些歌讲的是快乐，有些讲的是悲伤，也有一些讲的是心碎。 帕尔努音乐厅 摄影：张璐诗 LC：今年是爱沙尼亚恢复独立三十五周年。你经历过离开，也经历过回来。今天的爱沙尼亚，是不是已经成为你当年希望看到的样子？ PJ：今天已经是一个完全不同的世界了。我们拥有受过良好教育的人民、民主政府、高度发展的基础建设，改善的公路系统、美味的餐厅、发达的资讯科技和无线网络。人们开着漂亮的车，住在舒适的房子里。这些，都是苏联时代曾经摧毁的一切，而我们花了三十多年，才一点一点重新建立起来。 然而令人痛心的是，这一切也许只需要两天，就可能再次被毁掉，重新回到他们所谓的“俄罗斯世界”。他们每天都在威胁我们，而我们花了三四十年，才建立起今天这样的生活，一个建立在文化基础上的社会。我们有交响乐团，有歌剧院。全国只有一百三十多万人口，却拥有四座歌剧院、五支职业交响乐团，几乎每一座小镇都有音乐学校。我们的歌唱节是欧洲规模最大的文化活动之一，也可能就是最大的。我们拥有优秀的作曲家、出色的音乐节，还有来自世界各地的年轻音乐家。 这一切之所以能够实现，是因为我们终于不用再为了生存而不断挣扎，不再生活在压迫之下，可以把时间、精力和资源投入真正重要的事情。文化并不仅仅是艺术，也不仅仅是音乐。文化是教育，是饮食，是阅读，是绘画，是自然，也是我们思考的方式。所有的一切都是文化。 LC：我们第一次交谈是在俄乌战争爆发后不久。当时你已经谈到，对于爱沙尼亚这样的小国来说，这场战争带来的威胁是真实存在的。这种紧迫感在今天是否更为强烈？ PJ：我只能坦白说，我认为我们正站在一个极其危险、甚至可能引发灾难的历史时刻。俄罗斯显然正在失利，很可能会做出极其愚蠢的决定。我认为在绝望之下诉诸最极端的暴力，并非完全不可能。因此，我们必须竭尽一切努力，避免事情发展到那一步。 因为人的生命不是玩具，人类也不是可以拿来赌博的筹码。最重要的永远应该是人的生命和尊严。如果只是为了实现某一个军事目标，就把大量平民视为所谓的“附带损害”（collateral damage），那不仅是野蛮，更是一种犯罪。所以，我真心希望，那些领导世界大国的人能够拥有足够的智慧，看清事情最终可能走向哪里，从更大的格局去思考，并坚守原则。 LC：这些年来，欧洲对于俄罗斯音乐家和俄罗斯作品的态度，也发生了一些变化。你仍然相信，文化能够跨越人与人之间的分歧吗？ PJ：我想先澄清一点，因为很多人把这个问题过于简单化了。我对俄罗斯艺术家没有任何意见，我也热爱俄罗斯文化，我成长的地方离俄罗斯很近，对我来说，俄罗斯音乐家一直都像兄弟一样。但是，当一个人生活在像今天俄罗斯这样的制度之下——事实上，很长一段时间以来都是如此——这样的社会会腐蚀人。有些人会选择离开，有些人则会想尽办法留下来，在体制内尽可能正常地生活。为了做到这一点，他们不得不压抑自己的信念，甚至违背自己的道德，因为另一种选择可能意味着更大的危险。 所以这从来都不是非黑即白。我个人对俄罗斯人没有任何敌意，事实上，俄罗斯文化是我生命中非常重要的一部分。像拉赫玛尼诺夫，对我来说几乎就是一位神一般的人物；还有穆索尔斯基、柴可夫斯基等等，他们留给世界的是无比珍贵的文化遗产。 但是，这里有一个非常、非常重要的区别，而我认为很多人没有真正理解。纵观历史，尤其是在上一个制度中，俄罗斯一直利用艺术作掩饰：一方面，他们将几百万人送进古拉格劳改营；另一方面，则把莫斯科大剧院芭蕾舞团送到伦敦演出。这样，全世界的人都会说：“一个拥有这么伟大音乐家、芭蕾舞团的国家，怎么可能做出那么可怕的事情？”他们非常清楚艺术能够塑造国家形象，因此也非常善于利用艺术去做掩护。 还有另一点。今天我们所崇敬的那些俄罗斯作曲家、艺术家，如果你认真去读他们每一个人的人生，就会发现他们几乎都活得极其痛苦，有人自杀；有人被流放西伯利亚；有人被迫离开祖国。普罗科菲耶夫离开了。肖斯塔科维奇几乎是在一种内心流亡的状态下生活，并不断写出反抗体制的音乐。斯特拉文斯基离开了。 LC：阿沃·帕特也离开过， PJ：对，还有很多很多人，比如陀思妥耶夫斯基，如果你真正去读他们的故事，你会发现，他们留下的关于俄罗斯的作品都没什么太正面的。很多人的命运，本身就是那个时代最真实的见证。因此，我一直认为，不能把俄罗斯文化、俄罗斯音乐家和今天的现实简单混为一谈。 说到底，俄罗斯音乐家依然是我的同行，是我的兄弟；俄罗斯音乐，对我来说依然无比重要。但在战争仍然持续的今天，人们也必须重新思考，应该如何面对这些作品，以及它们在当下意味着什么。我相信，等到战争结束、责任得到历史和法律的清算之后，人们才能重新回到艺术本身。 LC：我想接着问两个问题。第一，现在二十来岁的年轻音乐家，他们成长的时代和你这一代完全不同，他们没有亲身经历战争，也没有经历冷战。如果今天他们演奏肖斯塔科维奇，你觉得他们真的能够理解他的音乐吗？ PJ：这是一个非常好的问题。真正伟大的作品，经得起时间的考验。一个作曲家是否伟大，其中一个标准就在于，即使听众完全不了解作品背后的历史，它依然能够作为一部纯粹的音乐作品成立，依然能够打动人，这就说明它本身具有伟大的价值。肖斯塔科维奇当然也是如此。如果你了解斯大林时代、了解古拉格、了解那个时代发生的一切，再去演奏他的作品，毫无疑问，你会有更深刻的理解，也会有更丰富的表达，因为他的音乐里确实写进了那个时代的经历和创伤。但与此同时，他的音乐写得实在太好了。他的作曲技法、他的天才、他的掌控力，都足以让音乐本身去讲述一个强而有力的故事。即使听众不知道历史背景，也依然会被其中蕴含的力量所触动。就像我们今天听马勒，我们其实并不了解他内心的具体念头，但我们仍然能够感受到那些情绪，并且把它们理解成一种普世的人类经验。当然，对于像我们这样的人来说，情况还是不一样。我们的祖父母曾经被流放西伯利亚，我们与那段历史有一种非常个人的联系，因此，我们和肖斯塔科维奇音乐之间的关系，也会更加直接。 LC：你小时候还见过肖斯塔科维奇呢。 PJ：对啊，就在帕尔努。 雅尔维父子与肖斯塔科维奇的合影 受访人供图 LC：我还想问一个关于你家人的问题。这几天，我一直看着你和父亲、哥哥一起工作。我在想，这些年来，你有没有发现自己跟父亲越来越像？ PJ：（笑）这件事说起来有点可怕，但确实是真的。有时候，我会突然发现自己说了一句话，然后心里想：“这听起来简直就是我父亲会说的话。”我父亲有时候也会看着我，然后说：“你知道吗？你现在看起来跟我哥哥一模一样。”他的哥哥已经过世了，比他大十三岁。所以，人与人之间确实存在一种很奇妙的血缘联系，或许是基因，也或许是成长环境使然。有些事情就是会不知不觉发生。你会突然意识到，自己说话的方式、表达的习惯，都越来越像自己的父母。这种联系是无法逃避的，而我一点也不介意，我觉得这样很好。 LC：在你的音乐生涯里，有没有刻意去寻找属于自己的道路？或者说有没有刻意提醒自己，不要太像父亲？ PJ：恰恰相反。我一直希望自己能够尽可能像他。我之所以这么说，是因为他在我刚开始学习的时候，是一位非常出色的老师。他教我的，不只是一些宏观的音乐观念，也包括许多非常具体的指挥技术。而我一直努力的，就是把这些技术真正掌握好。我花了很多时间，希望自己能够在这些技术层面也达到炉火纯青的程度。 所以，我从来没有刻意去寻找“属于自己的道路”，因为我知道，仅仅因为我是一个不同的人，我就肯定会走出属于自己的路。我本来就是父亲和母亲共同孕育出来的另一个个体，而我母亲本身就是一个完全不同的人。我生在不同的年代，我比父亲矮，也比他瘦（笑）。所有这些都意味着，我不可能变成另一个他。因此，我从没觉得需要刻意做些什么来证明自己和父亲不同。我的目标一直都是努力做到像他一样优秀，因为在他所擅长的事情上，真正能够达到他那种水平的人，并不多。 LC：“希望自己像父亲一样优秀”，具体指的是什么？ PJ：我们正处在一个有点奇怪的时代。今天的古典音乐界，出现了一个挺有意思的现象。至少在我看来，真正意义上的指挥艺术，正在慢慢消失。如今，人们已经不太讨论指挥本身，而更像是在讨论一种技能。很多时候，一位优秀的小提琴家，或者其他演奏家，学一点指挥，就开始站上指挥台了，大家也觉得，这就是指挥。但我认为，两者之间还有很大的区别。没有任何一位器乐演奏家，仅仅因为演奏得好，就自然懂得如何指挥。真正的指挥，需要经过长期、系统的学习。 当然，那些音乐家本身都非常优秀，他们拥有出色的音乐能力，也受到观众和同行的尊敬，所以他们获得了很多机会，而且往往也能把音乐做好。但那和成为一位真正的指挥家，还是两回事。像卡洛斯·克莱伯（Carlos Kleiber）、我父亲、里卡尔多·穆蒂（Riccardo Muti）、丹尼尔·巴伦博伊姆（Daniel Barenboim），他们首先就是指挥家。而今天很多人，其实是演奏家，同时也指挥。他们因为拥有出色的音乐素养，加上同行愿意支持，也能够完成很多工作。只是，在我看来，这和传统意义上的指挥艺术，并不是同一回事。 LC：前几天晚上，你父亲突然走上台，临时指挥了一曲（柴可夫斯基《胡桃夹子》里的《花之圆舞曲》），那个画面特别动人。 PJ：是啊。（笑）他就是忍不住。 LC：这种情况并不常见吧？ PJ：这个“指挥学院”每年举办一次，他这次完全是临时起意，突然说：“我想指挥这一段。”然后就真的走上去了，就是这么即兴。 LC：每年在雅尔维指挥学院（Järvi Academy），你都会指导很多年轻指挥。你刚才提到，现在真正学习指挥艺术的人越来越少。那么，在这里，你最希望教给他们的是什么？或者说，你最希望他们学到的什么东西，是你觉得今天越来越缺乏的？ PJ：我觉得，首先要让这些年轻人明白，大师班能够提供的，其实只是另一种看问题的角度。我并不真正了解他们，所以反倒能够站在一个相对客观的位置，从一点距离之外，看见他们身上一些比较明显的问题，希望能够指出来，也帮助他们开始调整。 但如果要谈我认为最重要的事情，也就是音乐本身、作品的诠释、乐谱的研究，在这里其实没有足够的时间。每个人上课的时间都很短，而参加大师班的年轻指挥又很多。所以，我更多是在指出一些非常具体的问题：这个人需要先解决呼吸的问题；那个人不要一直晃来晃去；有人左手几乎没有真正发挥作用；有人需要学会和乐团建立眼神交流；还有人需要开始思考长线的乐句，而不是只顾眼前几小节。 这些都是我能够告诉他们的东西。所有课程都会录像，他们以后还可以回去重新看，再继续思考、继续练习。但如果真的要培养一位年轻指挥，那完全是另一回事。至少要每周上两次课，要有曲目一起学习、一起研究总谱，更重要的是，一起讨论音乐。我说的是讨论音乐，而不是技术。技术当然必须认真学习，但它应该和音乐一起进行，而不是取代音乐。 遗憾的是，大多数年轻指挥并没有这样的学习条件。更遗憾的是，很多教他们的人，本身也未必真正具备这样的经验。于是今天这个老师这样说，明天另一个老师又说另一种方法；今天试这个，明天又改成那个，最后越来越困惑，不知道究竟应该相信哪一种。 雅尔维父子三人在帕尔努音乐节 Photo: Taavi Kull LC：明年你将出任伦敦爱乐乐团的首席指挥。同时，你也还会继续担任苏黎世市政厅乐团和不来梅德意志室内爱乐乐团的职务，你心目中伦敦爱乐的声音该是怎样的？ PJ：首先，伦敦爱乐本身就是世界最优秀的乐团之一，这一点毋庸置疑。不过，乐团所谓的“声音”，其实都是由演奏的曲目塑造出来的。如果我们谈的是勃拉姆斯，那么德国乐团之所以拥有大家熟悉的那种勃拉姆斯音色，并不是天生如此，而是因为他们一代又一代不断演奏勃拉姆斯。像卡拉扬，每一年都会演勃拉姆斯的四部交响曲，以及大量德国浪漫主义作品，还有布鲁克纳。长期下来，这种声音自然就形成了。但今天已经是另外一种时代，尤其像伦敦爱乐，他们的曲目跨度极大，从巴赫、亨德尔这些巴洛克作品，到当代音乐，几乎什么都演，中间所有时期的作品都要兼顾，而且都希望尽可能符合各自的风格。正因如此，不只是伦敦爱乐，今天世界上很多优秀乐团都形成了一种非常灵活的能力。 当然，他们演奏巴洛克音乐，不可能像启蒙时代管弦乐团（Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment）那样彻底遵循历史演奏法；他们也不可能像不来梅乐团那样，对古典主义风格掌握得那么深入，因为那些乐团长期专注于这一类作品。所以，对我来说，每一位作曲家都会要求不同的声音，而我的工作，就是根据眼前的作品，不断去调整乐团的声音，尽可能接近作曲家的世界。伦敦爱乐最吸引我的一点，就是他们能够非常快地转换不同的风格。我记得第一次和他们演奏俄罗斯作品时，真的很惊讶。他们能够马上进入那种声音和色彩，而那和德国浪漫主义、波希米亚的作品，都是完全不同的语言。这种适应不同作品、不断转换风格的能力，正是我最欣赏他们的地方。 LC：不少爱沙尼亚作曲家的作品在这届音乐节上演。除了大家都熟悉的阿沃·帕特之外，如果有人想进一步认识爱沙尼亚当代作曲家，你会推荐哪些名字？ PJ：我也说不上为什么，但爱沙尼亚一直都有特别多优秀的作曲家。人们如果喜欢阿沃·帕特，当然可以继续听他的作品。但除了他之外，还有莱波·苏梅拉（Lepo Sumera）、埃尔基-斯文·退尔（Erkki-Sven Tüür）、托努·科尔维茨（Tõnu Kõrvits）、海伦娜·图尔韦（Helena Tulve）……这些都是很重要的名字。 除此之外，还有很多年轻作曲家。这几天在音乐节上，你已经听到了埃维琳·塞帕尔（Evelin Seppar）的作品，今晚我们还会世界首演她的新作；还有埃莉丝·哈利克（Elis Hallik）以及很多其他作曲家。现在我们还有一个计划，准备录制一张爱沙尼亚年轻女性作曲家的作品专辑，大概会收录五六部作品。我觉得，支持女性作曲家是一件很重要的事情。 当然，还有爱德华·图宾（Eduard Tubin）这样的经典作曲家，他是真正的交响乐作曲家；还有海诺·埃勒（Heino Eller）、阿图尔·伦巴（Artur Lemba）、韦利奥·托尔米斯（Veljo Tormis）。优秀的作曲家实在太多了。只要开始对爱沙尼亚音乐感兴趣，就会发现还有很多值得继续探索的作品。现在，也有越来越多年轻作曲家正在成长，而我们希望，这个音乐节能够成为他们第一次被世界发现的地方。 LC：昨晚那首打击乐作品，图宾那首，非常有意思。 PJ：我们其实已经和爱沙尼亚节日乐团录过这部作品，不过录的是原版。这次由打击乐四重奏演出的版本，我觉得也非常精彩。 LC：我很喜欢，而且作品背后的历史也很有戏剧色彩，总谱当年就放在谱架上，塔林遭到轰炸时被烧毁了，对吧。 PJ：是的。图宾就像是我们自己的西贝柳斯，是爱沙尼亚最重要的交响乐作曲家之一。二战期间，他被迫离开爱沙尼亚，后来一直生活在瑞典。他后来一直没法回到祖国，因为前苏联将他视为敌人。那部作品的总谱就在轰炸中烧毁了。后来，人们根据幸存下来的乐队分谱，才把整部作品重新整理出来。 不过，我印象更深的还是音乐会开场那首双小提琴作品。 LC：哦，托努…… PJ：对，托努·科尔维茨。我非常喜欢那部作品。它写得非常漂亮，构思也非常出色。我特别喜欢它那种简单，同时又充满原创性，极具说服力，我完全被它吸引住。我们真的有很多优秀的作曲家。 LC：我觉得那部作品还有一种很温暖的气质。 PJ：是的。他的音乐很浪漫，同时又有一种非常特别的和声语言，刚开始听的时候，你会觉得，等一下，这是不是写错了？但继续听下去，你就会发现，不，这就是他想要的效果。慢慢地，你反而开始期待这些和声出现，因为正是这些地方，让音乐有了最特别的味道。 LC：音乐节是不是几乎每年都会委约新作品？ PJ：对，几乎每一年都会。去年我们就委约了一部手风琴协奏曲，是为克谢尼娅·西多罗娃（Ksenija Sidorova）创作的。 苏千寻与帕沃·雅尔维在帕尔努音乐节 Photo: Tõiv Jõul LC：这些年，你合作过很多年轻的中国音乐家。和爱沙尼亚的同龄人相比，你在他们身上有没有看到一些特点？ PJ：中国真的有很多非常优秀的音乐家，其中很多人不仅是我的好朋友，也是紧密合作的音乐伙伴。比如下个乐季，我会和芝加哥交响乐团（Chicago Symphony Orchestra）以及郎朗一起，在一周之内演出贝多芬五首钢琴协奏曲。我们也即将和王羽佳合作新的录音。还有，我必须得说，我对苏千寻（Paloma So）印象非常深刻，我觉得她是真正在崛起的新一代音乐家，不仅技术出色、富有音乐性，又有思想。 LC：她年纪轻轻，已经很有深度。 PJ：我同意。当然还有左章，以前也来过这里。还有一些华裔音乐家，比如成长于加拿大的刘晓禹。我的中国乐手朋友真的很多，而这在今天的音乐世界已经很平常了，美国大多数的乐团，以及欧洲许多乐团，都有很多来自中国的音乐家。 LC：今年秋天，爱沙尼亚节日乐团第一次到中国巡演，曲目已经定了吗？ PJ：基本已经确定了：西贝柳斯《第五交响曲》和勃拉姆斯《第一钢琴协奏曲》，此外，我们当然也会带去一些爱沙尼亚作品，包括阿沃·帕特和埃尔基-斯文·退尔的音乐。 录音中，帕沃·雅尔维提到亚历山大·康托罗夫（Alexandre Kantorow）将担任中国巡演钢琴独奏，最终巡演阵容以官方公布为准。

阅读中文版 Just two weeks before returning to the Royal Albert Hall to conduct the BBC Symphony Orchestra at the BBC Proms alongside Leonidas Kavakos, I met Paavo Järvi once again in the Estonian seaside town of Pärnu. It was our third one-on-one conversation since 2022, following earlier interviews in Zurich and at the Pärnu Music Festival. The festival was in full swing. Days were packed with rehearsals, concerts, teaching and the countless demands that come with running an international music festival. Yet there was nothing hurried about Järvi. The late-afternoon sun poured into the west-facing room, making it uncomfortably warm despite two small electric fans humming quietly in the corner. Fresh from rehearsing Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, he settled into his chair with the calm assurance of someone completely at home. Watching the rehearsals throughout the week, I found myself wondering whether conducting Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony here carried a different meaning. The conversation that followed ranged from childhood memories and cultural identity to architecture, war, Russian culture, music education and the future of conducting. You can also listen to our conversation on the podcast platforms. Leonidas Kavakos plays Tchaikovsky with Paavo Järvi at BBC Proms Photo: BBC/Chris Christodoulou A conversation with Paavo Järvi LC = Lucy Cheung PJ = Paavo Järvi Home LC: I’ve been watching your rehearsals of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony these past few days. Does conducting this piece here remind you of Pärnu? Last time we spoke, you told me that no matter where you’ve been in the world, as soon as you come back here, you instantly feel at home. PJ: Pärnu has a connection because the best memories of my childhood were here -the three months of June, July and August every year—were spent in Pärnu. We had long school holidays, so those were free months. There’s something about this idyllic nature, free time, birds singing, water... all of that somehow is very symbolic of Pärnu. And that’s also, of course, the Pastoral Symphony of Beethoven. LC: Is there a particular moment that immediately tells you you’re home? A certain place, a view, or even a particular food? PJ: When I come from Tallinn, where I was born, Pärnu is about an hour and a half away by car. Just before entering the city, there’s a bridge. Every time I see that bridge, I feel like I’m back in my childhood. LC: What kind of bridge? PJ: Just a very simple bridge. When I was a kid, it seemed so huge. Now it seems small, like everything. It crosses the Pärnu River, and every time we drove over it I thought, “Now we’re finally on vacation.” History LC: The last time I was here, two years ago, I went to see David Oistrakh’s summer house. I went back again this year and saw that it had been renovated. PJ: But they still have the plaque on it. It’s still the same house. It’s just in a little better shape. David Oistrakh’s summer house in 2026 Photo: Lucy Cheung LC: Last time you told me that one of the things you treasure most about Pärnu is that life here still feels familiar, that you can still find traces of the town you knew thirty years ago. Is there anything you fear it might lose over the years? PJ: Yes. I think there is almost an inevitable sense of trying to hold on to something that you remember. But life goes on. Things develop, and architecture changes. If you look at these wonderful wooden houses, the parks and the old architecture—which is so specific and so endearing—and then look at the modern buildings that are being built today, they clearly belong to a different world. They are much less imaginative, much more cost-efficient, and not as beautiful. Like everywhere else in the world, people are becoming more efficient in what they build, and they put much less emphasis on aesthetic values. So it’s very important to preserve what has already been built, and not allow people to demolish it because they can make more money. You cannot build an old violin. You cannot build an old opera house. You cannot build a great old building. The value is not only in its beauty, but also in the reminder that it came from a certain moment in history. Otherwise, we lose connection with our history. And that’s the beginning of an end. We need to remember our history and have reminders of that past in our everyday life—the food we eat, the buildings we live in, the songs we sing. Those are the things that make us special. Songs LC: Are there still songs your grandmother taught you that you remember today? PJ: Absolutely. Many, many. When I was four or five years old, my grandmother and I used to walk around Pärnu together. She always carried a small but thick blue songbook full of lyrics. We would sing every song in it. We knew all the words and all the melodies because she sang them, and I sang along. Many of them were very old Estonian songs that nobody really sang anymore, even then. In a way, they connected me to her childhood, because she had learned those same songs from her parents. That’s how tradition develops. LC: What did you sing to your own children? PJ: A lot of the same songs my grandmother taught me. LC: Can you remember one? PJ: (Laughs.) No, I’m not going to sing for you. But I remember one song about a girl looking for her brother, who was a sailor. She watches the ships and wonders, “Where is my brother? I hope he’s all right.” There were songs about many different things. Some were sentimental, some joyful, some painful. Songs were a way of immortalising important moments in life. Pärnu Concert Hall Photo: Lucy Cheung Estonia LC: This year marks the 35th anniversary of Estonia’s restored independence. You experienced both leaving and returning. Has Estonia become what you hoped it would become? PJ: It is a different world now. It is a wonderful place with highly educated people, a democratic government, highly developed infrastructure, wonderful roads, great restaurants, IT, Wi-Fi. People drive fantastic cars and live in beautiful homes. This is everything the Soviets managed to destroy. We have managed to rebuild it in thirty years. The tragic thing is that it takes two days to destroy it all and bring back the so-called Russian world. They threaten us every day. It takes thirty or forty years to rebuild a society based on culture. We have orchestras. We have opera. For a country of 1.3 million people, we have four opera houses, five orchestras, a music school in every small town, one of the biggest singing festivals in Europe, wonderful festivals, great composers, and young musicians coming from all over the world. All of this is possible because we no longer have to fight for survival or live under oppression. We can put our resources into the things that matter. Culture is everything. Culture is not just art and music. Culture is education. Culture is food. Culture is the quality of thinking. Books. Paintings. Nature. It’s all culture. Russia, Culture and War LC: Over the years, attitudes in Europe towards Russian musicians and Russian music have changed. Do you still believe culture can bridge differences between people? PJ: I think I need to clarify this whole situation with Russian artists. I have nothing against Russian artists, and I love Russian culture. I grew up close to Russia, and Russian artists are like brothers to me. Living in a totalitarian system, as Russia is now—and has been for a long time—corrupts people. Some people leave. Others try to find a way to live reasonably well within the system. To do that, they suppress their beliefs and their morals because the alternative can be much more dangerous. So I understand that it is not so black and white. Personally, I have no issue with Russian musicians, and I have no problem with Russian culture. In fact, I worship the great Russians. Rachmaninoff, Mussorgsky, Tchaikovsky—they have given the world an extraordinary cultural treasure. But now comes the important—and very, very important—distinction that people have to understand. Throughout history, but especially during the Communist period, Russia used art as camouflage. While millions of people were being sent to the Gulag, they sent the Bolshoi Ballet to London, and everybody said, “Look. Anybody with such wonderful musicians and such wonderful ballet couldn’t possibly be doing horrible things.” They knew how to use art as a cover for their crimes. The other thing is this. If you read the individual histories of the artists whose music and art we admire today, you see how horribly they lived. Some killed themselves. Some were sent to Siberia. Some had to leave. Prokofiev left. Shostakovich lived in an inner exile and wrote anti-Soviet music. Stravinsky left. LC: Arvo Pärt left. PJ: Arvo Pärt left as well. Many, many others. If you read Dostoevsky, if you read all these stories, what do they actually say about Russia? You’ll find there’s very little that’s positive. They all tell you what a horrible place it was, what a horrible culture it was. And they were the sons of that culture. They knew. So one has to be very, very careful not to generalise. Having said all of that, Russian musicians are my brothers. Russian music is something very close to me, and I have no problem whatsoever with it. But at the moment, when somebody is literally bombing civilian homes every single day—when people are dying in their own bedrooms—we have to start thinking about how much we want to elevate Russia through its beautiful arts. When the war is over, and those responsible have been held accountable for crimes against humanity, then we start playing Russian music again. Shostakovich with Neeme and Paavo Järvi Shostakovich LC: I have two questions. The first is about younger musicians. Compared with your generation, their experience of war is completely different. When they perform Shostakovich, do you think they can really understand his music? Because it’s such a different time. PJ: That's a very, very good question. The real test of a great piece is whether it still works as a piece of music. If it is still powerful, even when people don’t know what it is about, then it’s a great composer. With Shostakovich, of course, it would be a better performance and a more meaningful experience if you know about Stalin, the Gulag, the repression, and everything that happened at that time—everything that Shostakovich writes about. But his music is so well written. His genius and his mastery are so extraordinary that somehow the music itself tells a powerful story, even to people who don’t know the history. Take Gustav Mahler. We don’t really know all of his inner thoughts, but we can guess. Somehow it becomes universal. But for people like us, whose grandparents were sent to Siberia, it’s different. We have a much closer personal connection to that music because we have a much closer connection to the people who survived—and to those who didn’t. LC: You also met Shostakovich when you were little. PJ: In Pärnu. Becoming My Father Throughout the festival, I watched Paavo working alongside his father, Neeme Järvi, and his brother Kristjan. One evening, Neeme unexpectedly walked onto the stage during the Järvi Academy concert to conduct The Waltz of the Flowers from The Nutcracker. LC: Watching you work with your father and your brother these past few days made me wonder whether you’ve become more like your father over the years. PJ: It’s scary, but it’s so true. Sometimes I find myself saying something and I think, “That sounded exactly like my father.” Sometimes my father looks at me and says, “You know what? You look exactly like my brother.” His brother died many years ago. He was thirteen years older than my father. Somehow there is this strange genetic connection. You can’t escape it. And I have no problem with that. I think it’s great. LC: In your own musical career, did you ever consciously try to find your own path? Did you ever try not to become too much like your father? PJ: No. Quite the opposite. I always tried to be as much as possible like my father. He was a very good teacher in the beginning. From very broad musical ideas to very specific conducting technique, he taught me so much. I always tried to master that technical side as well as he did. I never tried to find my own path because I knew I would be different anyway. I’m a different person. I’m the child of my father and my mother, who is completely different. I’m shorter. I’m thinner. I was born in a different time. So it was never really an issue. My goal was always to try to be as good as he is, because there are very few people who are as good as he is at what he does. LC: When you say “as good as he is”, what exactly do you mean? PJ: Today we are living through a rather strange moment in history. The art of conducting, as far as I can tell, is in danger of disappearing. Now conducting is often seen as a good skill set to have. A violinist learns a little conducting, stands in front of an orchestra, and people think that is conducting. It’s not even close. No instrumentalist automatically knows how to conduct without really studying it. But because they are wonderful musicians, because they are admired by audiences and by their colleagues, they are given opportunities, and they can manage. But a real conductor... people like Carlos Kleiber, my father, Riccardo Muti or Daniel Barenboim—those were conductors. Many musicians today are instrumentalists who also conduct. That is different. Neeme, Kristjan and Paavo Järvi at Pärnu Music Festival Photo: Taavi Kull Teaching Conductors LC: Every year at the Järvi Academy, you teach many young conductors. You mentioned earlier that the art of conducting is disappearing. Is there something you hope to teach them here that you think is missing today? PJ: What happens in this Academy—and in masterclasses in general—has to be very clearly understood by the students. This is an alternative point of view from somebody who doesn’t know them very well. From a little distance, I can look at them objectively, point out certain obvious things, and hopefully help them fix them. If we’re talking about what I find most interesting—music, the interpretation of music, studying scores—this isn’t the place to do it. Everybody has very little time, and there are a lot of conductors. But I can tell one person to figure out how to breathe. Another person needs to stop moving around. Someone has a very dysfunctional left hand. Someone else needs more eye contact with the orchestra. Another person needs to think about long-term phrasing. You can point out certain things and give them information they can continue to work on later. Everything is filmed, so they can always go back and watch it again. But if you really want to create a clear path for a young conductor whom you teach regularly, that’s something completely different. You need at least two lessons a week. You need real repertoire to study. Most importantly, you need to discuss music. Not technique. Technique has to be taught just as seriously, but in parallel with music. Most of them don’t have that. And unfortunately, many of the people teaching them are not really qualified. So they hear one thing from one teacher, something completely different from another, and they become confused. They don’t know which way is the right way. London Philharmonic LC: You’re going to take over London Philharmonic next year. At the same time, you’ll continue your work with Bremen and Zurich. What kind of sound do you hope to shape with London Philharmonic? PJ: London Philharmonic is really one of the great orchestras of the world. The sound of an orchestra is always shaped by repertoire. If we talk about the great German orchestras and Brahms, that Brahms sound came from playing Brahms over and over again. Karajan conducted the Brahms symphonies every year, together with Beethoven, Bruckner and Richard Strauss. Over time, that sound became part of the orchestra. Today’s world is different. London Philharmonic performs everything—from Bach and Handel to contemporary music. Everything in between has to sound authentic. As a result, many orchestras today have developed a certain understanding of different styles. Of course, they don’t play Baroque music the same way as the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment. And they don’t approach Classical repertoire in quite the same way as the Deutsche Kammerphilharmonie Bremen, because those orchestras specialise in it. One works with the sound according to the composer that’s in front of you. That’s what one tries to do. London Philharmonic is such a fantastic orchestra because they can switch styles so naturally. I was amazed the first time I conducted Russian music with them. It requires a completely different colour from German Romantic music, or even Czech repertoire. One of the reasons I’m so excited about working with London Philharmonic is exactly that versatility. Estonian Composers LC: This year’s festival has featured quite a number of Estonian composers. Apart from Arvo Pärt, whom everybody knows, which other Estonian composers would you recommend to someone who wants to explore Estonian music today? PJ: We somehow have such an abundance, and such riches, of composers. I’m not even sure why. If you love Arvo Pärt, then listen to Arvo Pärt. But after Arvo Pärt, there’s Lepo Sumera, Erkki-Sven Tüür, Tõnu Kõrvits, Helena Tulve. Those are the big names. Then there are many younger composers. During this festival you’ve already heard Evelin Seppar, and tonight we’re giving the world premiere of her new piece. There’s also Elis Hallik, and many others. We’re also working on a recording devoted entirely to Estonian women composers. There will be five or six works on the album. I think it’s important to encourage women composers. Then, of course, there are composers like Eduard Tubin, a great symphonist, Heino Eller, Artur Lemba and Veljo Tormis. There are so many good composers here. Once you become curious about Estonian music, you’ll discover there are many people to choose from. And many younger composers are now beginning their careers, and we’re trying to make this festival a place where they can first be discovered. LC: Last night I really enjoyed the Tubin piece Kratt—the percussion work. PJ: Yes. We actually recorded it with the Estonian Festival Orchestra in its original version. This percussion version was brilliant. But what impressed me even more was the first piece for two violins. LC: Tõnu Kõrvits? PJ: Yes. I love that piece. It’s beautifully written and beautifully conceived. I was completely taken by its simplicity, its originality, and how convincing it is. We really do have a lot of good composers. LC: I thought it was quite warm as well. PJ: Yes. Listen to Tõnu Kõrvits in general. His music is romantic, but he has a very interesting harmonic language. At first you think, “Wait a minute. This can’t be right. This must be a mistake.“ Then you keep listening and realise, “No, that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.” And after a while, you begin waiting for those moments, because they’re what give the music its spice. LC: Does the festival commission new works every year? PJ: I’d say almost every year. Last year we commissioned an accordion concerto for Ksenija Sidorova. We’ve already recorded it, and it’s now available on CD. You can also find it on Spotify under my name or the Estonian Festival Orchestra.

爱沙尼亚有一个著名的“雅尔维音乐世家”：今年89岁的尼梅·雅尔维（Neeme Järvi）与长子帕沃·雅尔维（Paavo Järvi）可以说是当今国际古典乐界绝无仅有的出身同一家庭的两代指挥大家。除此之外，帕沃的弟弟克里斯蒂安·雅尔维（Kristjan Järvi）也是一位指挥家。 几周前，我再访爱沙尼亚帕尔努音乐节（Pärnu Music Festival）。这个音乐节正是起源于雅尔维家的“家族聚会”。1980年，17岁的帕沃与父母、弟弟和妹妹一同离开爱沙尼亚，移居美国。前苏联解体后，雅尔维一家陆续回到爱沙尼亚。16年前，帕沃在充满童年回忆的滨海小镇创办了帕尔努音乐节。凭借他的影响力，世界各地的音乐家也陆续到此参演。16年来的每年7月，帕沃都会在帕尔努停留一阵，与父亲尼梅、弟弟克里斯蒂安分担演出任务，白天除了与乐团排练，还为指挥大师班的学员授课。 克里斯蒂安与哥哥帕沃性格迥异。在沉浸古典音乐世界30年、执棒过世界各国顶尖乐团之后，他决定投身现代音乐，与自己率领下的“北欧脉搏”（Nordic Pulse）乐团探索电子音乐与即兴表演，以流行摇滚乐队的方式去运作一个管弦乐团。两年前，我在帕尔努音乐节看过他们的首演，一晚连演两场，门票全部售罄。2026年的帕尔努音乐节上，克里斯蒂安再度率领这支乐团，带来以“夏至”为主题的音乐会，依然相当受欢迎。 相较于正襟危坐的古典音乐现场，北欧脉搏的镭射灯光与震耳欲聋的音量称得上“叛逆”。但这也正是帕尔努音乐节最独特的地方：创办人帕沃与父亲、弟弟，加上妹妹、长笛演奏家玛丽卡·雅尔维（Maarika Järvi）都会出现在音乐节，每位家庭成员都在乐界独当一面。这样的“家庭聚会”，放眼世界古典音乐界，恐怕也是仅此一家、别无分店。 在此分享两年前我与克里斯蒂安在帕尔努的一段交谈。 帕沃、尼梅、帕沃第一位指挥老师列昂尼德·格林（Leonid Grin）以及背对着镜头的克里斯蒂安 © Tõiv Jõul 即时Riff对话克里斯蒂安·雅尔维： 古典音乐对我来说，已经进入完成时。 LC=张璐诗 KJ=Kristjan Järvi LC：我想先从这场演出的主题聊起。“Nordic Swans”可以直接理解成“北欧天鹅”吗？策划这套节目时，你的想法是什么？ KJ：不，它不是指天鹅本身，而更像一种象征，一种能够飞越我们头顶的视角。它比我们居住的这副身体更大，也更庄严。《圣经》里有一句话：“天国就在你们心中。”可人一旦进入这副身体，就很容易把自己缩小，开始只想着如何生存，如何应付眼前的一切。为什么笑佛总是在笑？因为他不是陷在这个世界里，而是在另一个高度看着这一切。他会说：“好的，也是好的；坏的，也是好的；一切都是好的。”不是因为没有痛苦，而是因为他的视角已经不同了。 所以，Nordic Swans代表的正是这样的视角。当你飞起来的时候，你不仅自己发光，也会把别人一起带到那个能够翱翔的位置。作为创作者，当你真正进入那种状态，就会理解什么是庄严、什么是尊贵。那并不是一种刻意摆出来的高贵，而是一种完整的存在状态。 LC：所以你说的其实是一种灵性？ KJ：当然可以这样理解。我刚才提到《圣经》，提到笑佛，也提到自然，其实它们讲的是同一件事，只是用了不同的语言。我更愿意把它称为意识，远比我们的身体更广阔。如果没有你，也就没有我，因为整个意识的图景，是由每一个人共同组成的。所以最后，你到底是谁？只是这副身体吗？ 真正困难的是，我们并不愿意承担这样的责任，于是不断把自己缩小，只活在身体和生存里面。我希望大家来到这样的音乐会时，能够暂时离开这种状态，重新意识到自己其实属于一个更大的整体。 LC：我看的是首演。 KJ：首演的时候，我们每个人都还活在自己的脑子里。因为没有乐谱，所有音乐都要靠记忆，所以一直在判断：节奏对不对？是不是这里该进来了？会不会出错？就像一个刚学会走路的小孩，一边走，一边担心自己会跌倒。 可是第一场结束以后，我们突然就不在乎了。有没有犯错？没关系。是不是百分之百完美？也没关系。因为我们总是在追求一种想象中的完美。传统管弦乐演奏某种程度上就像竞技体育，我们不断训练，希望把演奏控制到头脑所想象的那个完美状态。但当你真正放下这种执念，音乐反而变得更自然，也比那个想象中的完美更好。因为那一刻，我们开始像自然一样。自然从来不是整整齐齐的，它看起来充满变化，却始终完美。 LC：刚才聊的是你的理念，这些想法是怎样落实到音乐里的？整套节目是你策划的吗？ KJ：基本上。从开头两首、最后两首，到中间几首作品，都是我写的，其余部分则由乐队成员完成。钢琴手演奏的是她自己的作品，低音吉他手克莱芒·罗夫纳（Clément Roffner）也是，他们本身都是很优秀的电子音乐人，所以现场很多声音其实都是即时创造出来的。还有两位成员虽然那天没有演出，但他们也写了作品，在看直播时一直传讯息，说：“天啊，这些女孩太棒了。” 其中有一首作品几乎像trance，一直重复同一个动机。我觉得，那其实是整场音乐会真正开始的地方。整场演出讲的是人的旅程。我们来到这个叫地球的地方，开始一段叫做“人类经验”的人生，每天重复同样的事情，一天又一天，一遍又一遍。直到有一天，你突然发现，这样已经不能满足你了，你开始渴望别的东西，想寻找更深一点的意义。 也正是在那里，音乐突然停了下来。那个停顿非常重要，因为它打断了这种不断重复的惯性。接着，我开始唱《当我开始唱歌》（Kui ma hakkan，古老的符文歌[Regilaul]，爱沙尼亚最古老、最传统的一种民间歌谣形式）：一首爱沙尼亚语的歌曲。它其实很像一句梵语，一开始只是简单地重复，但当你不断唱下去，它慢慢会把你带回同一个地方：回到这里，回到现在，回到这一刻。我们总是活在过去，或者不停想着未来，可真正存在的，其实永远只有当下。 克里斯蒂安与北欧脉搏在帕尔努音乐节 © Taavi Kull LC：所以，《当我开始唱歌》之后，整场音乐会其实进入了另一个阶段？ KJ：对。因为到了那个时候，你已经不再只是听音乐，而是开始面对自己。我们生活在一个不断判断对与错的世界。从小到大，我们一直被教导什么是好的、什么是不好的，什么是成功、什么是失败，于是慢慢地，我们开始用这些标准衡量自己，也不断评判别人。可当这些声音安静下来以后，你会发现，其实很多事情根本不需要判断。 真正重要的是，把那个“我”放下。一旦那个自我不再一直站在前面，你会开始意识到，自己只是整个生命的一部分，而不是世界的中心。那一刻，你不需要再证明自己，也不需要不停地和别人比较。很多人来到这样的状态时，会觉得好像所有门一下子都打开了，因为人们终于停止了对自己的审判。 我一直觉得，自然就是最好的老师。你不会去问一朵花：“你为什么活着？”它也不会回答：“因为我要成功，因为我要证明自己的价值。”它只是开花，这就是它存在的方式。可人却不是这样。我们总觉得自己应该成为另一个人，总觉得现在的自己还不够好，所以不断追赶、不断焦虑，也不断害怕。其实真正困住我们的不是世界，而是我们自己创造出来的那些恐惧。 LC：这也是你后来成立北欧脉搏的原因吗？这个乐团跟波罗的海爱乐（Baltic Sea Philharmonic）是什么关系？ KJ：可以这么理解，不过它们其实是一件事情不断发展的过程。最早，我们叫波罗的海青年爱乐（Baltic Youth Philharmonic），后来变成波罗的海爱乐。这些年，我们完成了很多原本想做的事情，也演过很多我一直想演的作品，无论是西贝柳斯、阿沃·帕特，还是其他作曲家，我们都已经走过那段旅程。慢慢地，我开始问自己：如果继续往前走，还会发生什么？对我来说，真正有趣的已经不再只是如何诠释经典，而是还能创造什么新的东西。古典音乐当然不会消失，它永远都在那里，但对我个人而言，那已是一个完成了的阶段，我更想知道的是，下一步会是什么。 LC：你不再满足于只是演奏别人写好的作品？ KJ：我一直觉得，一支管弦乐团不应该只是等待别人把作品送到面前，再负责把它演奏出来。我们为什么不能像一支真正的乐队一样，自己写音乐、一起创作、一起排练，再把这些作品带到舞台上？北欧脉搏就是在这样的想法下慢慢形成的。虽然我们仍然使用管弦乐器，但工作的方式已经完全不同。每一个人都参与创作，每一个人都会带来自己的音乐，所以舞台上发生的事情，不只是演奏，而是真正的共同创作。对我来说，这比单纯把一部作品演奏得更准确、更完美，更有生命力。 LC：所以，你真正想改变的，其实是管弦乐团本身的工作方式。 KJ：是。我一直觉得，今天很多乐团依然沿用几百年前的模式：乐谱放在那里，每个人坐在自己的位置，把作品尽可能准确地完成。当然，这没有任何问题，我也非常尊重这样的传统。但我更关心的是，我们还能不能让这些音乐家重新变成创作者，而不仅仅是演奏者。当一个人开始写自己的音乐，他对声音、对时间、对彼此之间的关系都会产生完全不同的理解。演出也不再只是一次复制，而会变成一次真正发生在当下的事情。每一场都应该有一点不同，因为每一天的我们都已经不同了。 Philharmonic这个词，本身就会让人产生期待。观众会觉得，他们知道你是谁，也知道你会演什么。可正是这种期待，反而限制了我们的可能性。我一直觉得，人很容易被自己熟悉的东西困住。可如果你的信任，永远只建立在熟悉的事物上，你最后只会把自己拉回那个无法成长的地方。 克里斯蒂安与北欧脉搏在帕尔努音乐节 © Taavi Kull LC：布莱恩·伊诺（Brian Eno）是怎么开始跟你们合作的？ KJ：是他先来找我们的，后来我们在伦敦一起工作，建立了一套创作系统，也一起研究新的舞台语言。我负责把他的音乐重新编排成管弦乐作品，把原本属于电子音乐的声音转译成整个乐团能够演奏的音乐。有些作品原来几乎没有明显的律动，你必须重新组织它们，让几十位乐手一起呼吸，一起记住它们。 LC：这跟你们演德国电视剧《巴比伦柏林》（Babylon Berlin）的音乐，应该很不一样？ KJ：完全是两回事。《巴比伦柏林》的音乐基本都是写好的，我们照着乐谱演奏，即兴很少。但准备布莱恩的音乐会时，每一位乐手都会觉得自己真正成为了一位艺术家，而不只是坐在那里执行别人的作品。当然，它仍然是一场经过精心策演的演出，但同时又保留了现场才能发生的自由，也保留了一种属于今天的感觉。我一直觉得很奇怪，大家总是反过来思考这件事：拿着一把1925年制造的小提琴，就觉得一定要去演奏属于1925年的音乐，然后不断为这种做法寻找理由。可为什么不能反过来？为什么不能用这些乐器，去演奏属于今天这个世界的音乐？ LC：所以你一直没把自己放在传统古典音乐的框架里？ KJ：我听布莱恩·伊诺很多年了。对我来说，他和菲利普·格拉斯（Philip Glass）、斯蒂夫·莱什（Steve Reich）一样，都是先锋，只是来自完全不同的领域，他们都在打开新的疆域。之前我们有八位乐手跟Coldplay一起登上了格拉斯顿伯里音乐节（Glastonbury），大家开始注意到我们，他们发现，原来这些乐器还能这样使用，还能发出这样的声音。 LC：很多人会把这种形式叫跨界（crossover）。 KJ：我不喜欢这个词。Crossover的意思，是把两种已经存在的音乐混在一起，古典加流行，电子加爵士……但我们不是在混搭，我们是在创造一种新的门类，就像所有真正优秀的乐队一样。 我一直希望，管弦乐团能够重新成为灵感的源泉，而不是一种制度。对下一代学习管弦乐的人来说，我也希望他们看见另一种可能。除了进入乐团、歌剧院，或者去教书，他们还可以组自己的乐队，写自己的音乐，去巡演，找到属于自己的观众。那条路是完全开放的，没有人规定你一定要往哪里走。真正重要的是，你愿不愿意相信自己的创作，而不是永远停留在自己最熟悉、最安全的地方。

The Proms has staged more uncompromisingly modernist works over the past decade, but the spotlight cast this year on Anglo-American and Francophone mavericks—ranging from the key American minimalists and their contemporary Thomas Adès to the Mexican composer Gabriela Ortiz and the genre-defying Josephine Stephenson, alongside precursors including Varèse, Lili Boulanger, Poulenc, Copland, and Feldman—celebrates a continuing spirit of musical novelty that projects a more joyous brand of modernism. It is one situated firmly in the here and now, responding positively to the exhilarating energy of urban rhythms and unflinchingly traversing cultural and geographical divides. Sinfonietta (1947) and the Concerto in D minor for Two Pianos (1932) were perfect choices for showcasing the frivolous side of the ‘half-rascal, half-monk’ Poulenc. The delightfully playful contrasts between modal passages and late-Romantic harmony in these works, together with the unapologetically direct traces of Haydn, Mozart, Liszt, Ravel, and Stravinsky, reveal a compositional voice that is at once distinctive and eclectic. Complementing such carefreeness was John Adams’s spectacular Harmonium. Since his predecessors have already turned (Riley and Young) or are about to turn 90 (Reich and Glass), Adams’s return in the programme is urgent (he is turning 80 in 2027) and marks something historically meaningful for the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra—it was precisely they who introduced the work into Britain under the baton of Sir Simon Rattle four decades ago. Perhaps it is a combination of Poulenc’s piquant classicism and a characteristically Japanese restraint that has shaped the economy and elegance of Kazuki Yamada’s conducting style. Evidently, taking the stage with his very own CBSO allowed Yamada to display the laid-back assurance that comes with familiarity: if a minimalist approach could communicate an intention with perfect clarity—like a light tap or even split-second freezes, gesture-wise—Yamada never embellished it with anything superfluous. The anachronistically retro and rather unorthodox Sinfonietta—Poulenc’s only symphonic work—offers a good opportunity to observe this. The work is more interested in experiments with musical mood and continually shifting orchestration than in conventional formal coherence, and its blatant denial of structural depth—or anything that might be called ‘symphonic development’—creates real challenges for keeping the momentum growing as organically as possible within Poulenc’s already episodic form. Yamada’s visually imaginative yet never over-emphatic gestures effortlessly drew scintillating colours from the woodwinds, brass, and harp—a sonority that fascinated Poulenc. The interplay between violins and cellos near the end of the second movement, together with small surging tides, was animated with an arresting vitality. In the following Andante, layered with tunes, carving out the melodic silhouette and agential elements within the parts at the phrase level appeared to be the conductor’s focus. Kazuki Yamada and CBSO at Royal Albert Hall © BBC/Chris Christodoulou For the concert, Yamada and Lucas and Arthur Jussen were both playing from their staples—while French music is at the heart of the former’s repertoire, the Jussen brothers have certainly remade the Concerto into a tasteful party piece for pianists since their first take on the work in 2009. The technical execution was impeccable, but the real surprise was how much the brothers’ ensemble and concerto skills had further matured when compared with their performances of the work eight, or even three, years ago. Beyond their mutual attentiveness, they now possess a greater ease in engaging more fully with the orchestra’s dynamics, which was particularly evident in the first quiet section in the Allegro, where the pianos answer to individual instruments in the orchestra. The rather Ravel-esque passage of a bare piano duo towards the end of the movement was another highlight. To achieve such profound synergy through music of so contemplative and fantastical a nature far transcends anything that could be accomplished by mere eye contact alone. Poulenc’s music is full of witty pauses, something between Haydn’s deliberateness and Feldman’s auratic contemplation. At the conclusion of the movement, Yamada and the brothers created a magical moment where the music seemed both to continue and to remain suspended in stillness. Musically, the brothers were consistently one throughout; the dovetailing phrases and the alignment between parts were nothing short of immaculate. More intriguing, however, were their slightly diverging stage personae at the keyboard. Authur, at the second piano, leaned more readily into the festive mood, his highly expressive upper-body movements conveying the uninhibited pleasure of a pop musician relishing those groovy segments in the score. Indeed, an infectious, convivial spirit anchored Yamada and the brothers’ reimagining of the work. The conductor personally favours not a hierarchical relationship with his musicians, but one founded on communication and reciprocity in the pursuit of a shared musical vision. By the end of the concerto, this ideal had found its fullest expression: what was most moving here was neither the virtuosity nor even the music itself, but the sense of togetherness among those making it. If the performance left anything to be desired, it was that—at least for listeners already familiar with Lucas and Arthur Jussen through the wealth of video recordings available online—relatively little exceeded expectations. The same was true of their encore, Strausseinander, a Die Fledermaus medley arranged by Igor Roma. One might simply have wished that they had pushed the already feverish atmosphere even further—perhaps by taking a more adventurous approach and allowing its jazzy inflections to open out into something more freely improvised. Lucas and Arthur Jussen © BBC/Chris Christodoulou The most frequently performed work by Adams at the Proms, Harmonium (1981) transformed the mood of the concert with its pure, pulsing bliss, enveloping everyone in the hall in its immense choral force. It is a work about indefinable love, erotic ecstasy, and death as familiar as an old friend, distantly echoing two other spiritual works performed just three days earlier: Messiaen’s tonal L’Ascension (1932–33) and Lili Boulanger’s Vieille prière bouddhique (1914–17). With two choirs joining a large orchestra, this is undoubtedly a challenging work to conduct. Yamada, however, opted for tempi that were quicker than ususal, which in no way impeded the realisation of one of the work’s most vital qualities: the melting of voices and orchestra into a single shimmering mass. Indeed, Yamada—himself also a choral conductor—once remarked in an interview that, for him, the ideal orchestral sound is one that comes close to the human voice. The Royal Albert Hall is possibly the best place in London to stage the work, given its architectural layout—the tiered spatial arrangement of the orchestral sections, with the female and male choirs positioned on either side, was as visually compelling as it was aurally (think of the tiered form in depictions of heaven in Renaissance paintings). This vertical layout brought out the best in the percussion, which was situated at the center of the space: from the extraordinarily virtuosic marimba and the highly rhetorical cowbells to the ritualistic tubular bells and gong, each instrument had its moment to shine. The spatial mapping effectively magnified the magic in the composer’s remarkable ability to blend and mobilise sound: the marimba’s binding effect in the first movement, the way the male voices and low strings seemed to merge into a single unison, and the richly varied relationships in the interplay between the female and male choral parts in the second movement were all presented before the audience with almost three-dimensional clarity. Yamada sustained his carefully measured expressiveness throughout, his prowess in harnessing choirs coming to the fore in those moments when he simultaneously cued the female and male choruses with his left and right hands. Scarcely anyone could have failed to be stunned by the gliding trombone calls in the final movement, where the almost transcendental power of the radiant metallic cacophony captured both the rapture of the woman in Dickinson’s ‘wild night’ and our own, there in the hall.

I didn’t leave Glyndebourne thinking about love. It seemed an odd response to Ariadne auf Naxos, an opera that ends with one of Richard Strauss’s grandest celebrations of love. Walking back across the Sussex lawns—already turned yellow after weeks without rain—I found myself replaying neither Ariadne’s transfiguration nor Bacchus’s blazing arrival. Instead, I kept thinking about two members of the comic troupe. One dazzled us with impossible coloratura. The other sang a little song. When I had last visited Glyndebourne, for Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo a month earlier, the countryside was still unmistakably English—green, damp, almost impossibly lush. Returning in late July, the landscape had changed completely. The prolonged heat had bleached the Sussex lawns into the colour of dry straw. It was difficult not to think that Ariadne herself might have recognised this island, where the sun seemed to have suspended time. There was something equally suspended about Strauss’s opening pages. Before anyone sings of abandonment, death or redemption, the Prologue is already in motion. Servants hurry across the stage carrying chairs. Musicians quarrel. A rehearsal threatens to fall apart. The score slips effortlessly from one harmonic colour to another, never settling for long, its restless modulations mirroring the nervous choreography unfolding before us. Long before the Greek myth begins, the opera has already announced its true subject: not Ariadne, but performance. Alina Wunderlin as Zerbinetta © Glyndebourne Productions Ltd. Photo: Tristram Kenton Ariadne auf Naxos has always felt surprisingly modern to me because it never lets us forget that we are watching theatre. Tragedy collides with comedy, mythology with backstage reality, artistic idealism with theatrical necessity. Rather than diminishing opera, Strauss and Hofmannsthal expose its mechanisms with extraordinary confidence, trusting that self-awareness will deepen rather than weaken the illusion. Yet for all its dazzling theatrical intelligence, the evening’s first profound moment arrives almost unexpectedly. Like everyone else, I had been waiting for Zerbinetta. Alina Wunderlin’s Großmächtige Prinzessin is one of those moments in opera that audiences await almost as if they were watching an athletic event. One impossible phrase follows another, each seeming to raise the stakes still higher. Wunderlin dispatched every challenge with astonishing assurance, making extraordinary technique appear almost effortless. The ovation that followed came as no surprise. Then, somewhere during the aria, I realised I had stopped listening to the coloratura. I was listening to her words. It is surprisingly easy to misunderstand Zerbinetta. Beside Ariadne’s monumental grief, she can seem almost frivolous, a comic interruption designed to puncture the seriousness of myth. But Hofmannsthal has written something altogether more subtle. Zerbinetta never mocks love, nor does she dismiss heartbreak. She simply refuses to believe that love can exist without change. People change. Love changes because people do. To love again is not to betray the past; it is to acknowledge the movement of life itself. Her philosophy is neither cynical nor carefree. It is compassionate precisely because it accepts what Ariadne cannot: that survival often means allowing oneself to become someone different from the person grief first created. The coloratura, I realised, is not the point. It is Strauss’s way of persuading us to listen. Again and again, Ariadne auf Naxos relocates wisdom to the places where we least expect to find it. Characters who appear to exist merely for diversion reveal themselves to possess the clearest understanding of human nature. Nowhere is that clearer than in the scene that follows. Seeing that Ariadne has surrendered completely to the thought of death, Zerbinetta turns gently to the others. “Then let someone sing her a little song.” Mikhail Timoshenko as Harlequin © Glyndebourne Productions Ltd. Photo: Tristram Kenton That someone is Harlequin. In the world of the commedia dell’arte, Harlequin is hardly the figure one expects to carry an opera’s deepest truths. He is the trickster, the comic servant, the perpetual interrupter. If Ariadne belongs to the elevated world of opera seria, Harlequin belongs somewhere else entirely—a theatrical tradition that delights in puncturing solemnity before it hardens into self-importance. Yet Strauss and Hofmannsthal entrust him with the opera’s gentlest moment. Harlequin does not argue with Ariadne. He never tells her that grief is excessive, nor does he promise that another love will replace the last. Unlike Zerbinetta, he offers no philosophy of love. He sings of life instead. As long as one can still love, still hate, still hope, still fear, life has not stopped moving. Listening to him, Ariadne was no longer simply the abandoned princess of Crete waiting for a god to redeem her; she had become someone who could no longer imagine tomorrow. Harlequin’s song does not promise that tomorrow will become brighter. It merely reminds her that tomorrow still exists. Dryad (Ekaterina Chayka-Rubinstein), Naiad (Anna Denisova), Echo (Eirin Rognerud) and Ariadne (Rachel Willis-Sørensen) © Glyndebourne Productions Ltd. Photo: Tristram Kenton That quiet song carried greater emotional weight for me than the magnificent final duet between Ariadne and Bacchus. Rachel Willis-Sørensen and David Butt Philip sang with tremendous generosity, allowing Strauss’s vast orchestral architecture to unfold in all its blazing splendour. Yet myth offers one kind of consolation; the comedians offer another. The gods offer transcendence, but Harlequin offers something more modest and, perhaps for that very reason, more humane: companionship. Another detail stayed with me. Harlequin sings not with Strauss’s full orchestra, but with only a piano beside him. After such orchestral richness, the sudden intimacy is startling. The theatre seems to contract; the distance between stage and audience quietly disappears. For a brief moment, opera gives way to song. Listening in Glyndebourne, I found myself thinking of Schubert—not because Strauss imitates his musical language, but because he briefly rediscovers the same faith that lies at the heart of the German Lied: that music need not overwhelm us to speak with extraordinary intimacy. Bacchus (David Butt Philip) and Ariadne (Rachel Willis-Sørensen) © Glyndebourne Productions Ltd. Photo: Tristram Kenton Harlequin does not rescue Ariadne. He simply keeps her company. Looking back, I realised that both he and Zerbinetta had quietly overturned my expectations. They arrive as entertainers, yet they understand life more clearly than the tragic figures they interrupt. One teaches Ariadne that love changes because people change. The other reminds her that before life can change, it must first continue. One of Laurent Pelly’s most revealing decisions is to keep the Composer onstage for much of the second half. Samantha Hankey’s presence is almost silent, yet it quietly transforms the entire production. She stands at the edge of her own creation, watching the tragedy she imagined gradually reshaped by comedians, practical compromises and theatrical necessity. There is little she can do except to watch it happen. Watching her, I found myself thinking that every work of art eventually reaches this moment. Once it enters the world, it no longer belongs entirely to its creator. It belongs equally to performers, audiences, accidents and time. In Pelly’s hands, the Composer becomes more than a character. She becomes the opera’s conscience, and perhaps ours as well. We watch someone watching her own work becoming something she never intended, only to discover that this transformation is not a failure but the very condition of theatre. Samantha Hankey as Composer © Glyndebourne Productions Ltd. Photo: Tristram Kenton I have often wondered why Ariadne auf Naxos continues to feel so contemporary. Perhaps it is because the opera refuses to mistake seriousness for wisdom. Zerbinetta dazzles us until we begin listening to her words. Harlequin appears to sing a simple little song, only to reveal that it contains the emotional heart of the entire evening. As I walked back across the Sussex lawns that night, it was not Strauss’s blazing conclusion that accompanied me home. I found myself hearing Harlequin’s little song again and again. Perhaps that is all great art can do. It cannot spare us from grief, nor promise redemption. It can remain beside us for a while, reminding us—gently—that as long as we are still capable of loving, hating, hoping and fearing, life itself has not stopped moving. The opera ends with gods. I left thinking about a little song. Glyndebourne lawns after the opera Photo: Lucy Cheung Ariadne auf Naxos first appeared at Glyndebourne on 24 June 1953. Laurent Pelly’s new production, which premiered on 19 July 2026, marks the opera’s 114th performance at the festival. The same cast will reunite for a concert performance at the BBC Proms on 19 August 2026.

When 2026年7月17日 Where 伦敦皇家阿尔伯特大厅（Royal Albert Hall） Who 指挥：达莉娅·斯塔塞夫斯卡（Dalia Stasevska） 钢琴：任奫灿（Yunchan Lim） 男高音：托马斯·阿特金斯（Thomas Atkins） 合唱团：BBC歌手（BBC Singers）、BBC交响乐团合唱团（BBC Symphony Chorus） BBC交响乐团（BBC Symphony Orchestra） What 科普兰：《平凡人的号角》 格什温：《一个美国人在巴黎》 拉威尔：《G大调钢琴协奏曲》 约瑟芬·斯蒂芬森（Josephine Stephenson）：《愿日出不使我们无动于衷》（That the Sunrise Not Leave Us Unmoved）世界首演 杰拉尔德·芬齐：《献给圣西西莉亚》（For St Cecilia） Why 英国夏季古典音乐盛事BBC逍遥音乐节开幕夜，在西方“红得发紫”的钢琴家任奫灿首登开幕舞台。 BBC逍遥音乐节开幕夜 摄影：马光辉 记一笔 今年是美国建国250周年。从欧陆到英国，再到美国，这一纪念节点成为不少艺术团体策划节目的出发点，BBC逍遥音乐节的开幕音乐会也不例外，以两部美国作品拉开了这一年度古典音乐盛事的序幕。 仅使用打击乐与铜管乐器的科普兰《平凡人的号角》短小却充满爆发力，“平凡人”这一标题本身也带着几分政治与社会寓意，呼应着作为现代文明实验场的美国。随后上演的格什温《一个美国人在巴黎》，则是他融合通俗文化与所谓“高雅艺术”的代表作，这首交响诗般的作品充满爵士乐语汇。达莉娅·斯塔塞夫斯卡率领BBC交响乐团，在《平凡人的号角》开头制造出一声惊雷，只是受限于阿尔伯特音乐厅的声学，这记雷鸣少了几分厚重，多了几分清脆。而到了格什温，弦乐的加入则让整体气质多了一些轻盈，也顺势将整场演出的视角，从美国引向巴黎——任奫灿即将登台演奏拉威尔《G大调钢琴协奏曲》。这当然是当晚的高光时候，稍后再谈。 达莉娅·斯塔塞夫斯卡 © BBC/Chris Christodoulou 下半场的两部英国作品：第一首是世界首演，第二首则是逍遥音乐节首演。无论是“英国”还是“首演”，都是再适合不过的开幕音乐会元素。 约瑟芬·斯蒂芬森为合唱、管弦乐团与管风琴创作的新作，在较为沉思、肃穆的段落中，不时令人联想到波罗的海沿岸作曲家的声音世界。但若结合唱词来看，音乐似乎更多是在追随文本推进，尤其唱到“peace（和平）”时，管风琴以轰鸣回应，这样的处理多少显得有些直白且顺拐。杰拉尔德·芬齐1947年的《献给圣西西莉亚》为男高音、合唱与管弦乐团而作。若放在1947年的欧洲音乐语境中，它显然算不上“先锋”，甚至某些段落会令人想起巴赫与勃拉姆斯。不过，这样的“保守”不会是缺点。现场更大的问题来自阿尔伯特音乐厅，一个对独唱者并不友好的大厅，歌唱家几乎无法将声音真正覆盖这座巨大的空间，因此独唱部分略显单薄。或许通过电台转播，这部作品的声音平衡反而会比现场更理想。 任奫灿与BBC交响乐团 © BBC/Chris Christodoulou 任奫灿在节目册采访中提到：“拉威尔的音乐从未让我完全着迷，德彪西一直以来都更吸引我。”这也是我在听他演奏第一乐章时的感受，在多个钢琴独奏段落以及华彩段，他把相对“清晰”的拉威尔演出了一种朦胧感，像是肖邦、或德彪西。这种色彩来自他对力度层次极其细微的控制，以及独奏段落中富有弹性的节奏处理，让音乐拥有持续呼吸与轻微摇曳的感觉。而当进入与乐队合奏时，他又能够瞬间收紧节奏，与乐队重新咬合，展现出爵士乐与室内乐都要求的高度聆听能力。相比之下，反倒是指挥与乐队偶尔会在合奏中出现细小的脱节。在第二乐章，任奫灿通过极其细腻的触键，让音乐拥有了一种几乎能够放慢时间流逝的力量，令人动容。在观众的欢呼下，任奫灿返场加演爵士乐标准曲《秋叶》（Autumn Leaves），或许也是为了呼应拉威尔作品中的爵士语汇，以及整场音乐会的主题。不过，加演只能算中规中矩，爵士终究不是他最擅长的语言。 真正令人印象深刻的，反而是任奫灿在弹琴与不弹琴时判若两人的状态。他匆匆登台，向四周观众简单鞠躬，便几乎迫不及待地坐到钢琴前，转身时腿甚至还磕到了琴凳。然而，当第一个音响起，就足以让人安心。返场结束后，他依旧只是简单鞠躬，便迅速离开舞台。面对现场观众的盛情，他不愿停留。或许，他音乐中的纯净正源于此。

When 2026年7月26日 Where 倫敦皇家阿爾伯特大廳（Royal Albert Hall） Who BBC威爾士國家管弦樂團（BBC National Orchestra of Wales） 指揮：凱倫・尼・夫羅因（Karen Ní Bhroin） 一半為交響樂團，另一半為演員扮成科學實驗節目主角，更有愛因斯坦和居里夫人等科學人物。演員名單為理查德・戴維・凱恩（Richard David-Caine），哈莉・海斯（Harrie Hayes），露絲・約翰遜（Rose Johnson），大曼尼（Big Manny），詹姆斯・麥尼古拉斯（James McNicholas），蒂米卡・拉姆齊（Timmika Ramsay），傑西卡・蘭森（Jessica Ransom），盧克・羅拉森（Luke Rollason），伊內爾・湯姆林森（Inel Tomlinson）。 What 本次演出樂團總共帶來17首科幻電影及兒童節目相關的配樂，例如《星球大戰》以及戲劇《皮爾金》（Peer Gynt）中的《山魔王宮殿里》（In the Hall of the Mountain King）。更有演員鼓勵公眾一齊參與、節目首尾兩度表演的《行星之歌》（The Planet Song），吟唱太陽系中星球名稱，配合演員的歡快舞蹈，將氣氛推向高峰。 Horrible Science - Big Bang现场 摄影：Audrey Chan 記一筆 逍遙音樂節（BBC Proms）前身為“The Henry Wood Promenade Concerts”，是英國歷史最悠久、規模最大的古典音樂節，自1895年創辦以來，每年夏季於倫敦舉行。1927年起，由英國廣播公司主辦。其宗旨為“讓古典音樂更親民”，提供價格相宜的站票（Promming），觀眾可自由走動，或坐在台前的地上觀看表演。 此次“Horrible Science - Big Bang”演出以生動有趣的科學節目為主，穿插耳熟能詳的科幻影視配樂，從太陽系有多少個行星，到水體中的溶解現象，均用古典樂及舞台表演說明，寓教於樂。BBC最經典的標誌，也被“惡搞”成了“大腦公司”（Big Brain Company），作為音樂劇中的邪惡反派出現。而大屏幕上也加入許多3D動畫，例如阿爾伯特大廳門口出現的炮台及恐龍，以誇張幽默的方式，還原小朋友動畫中咆哮、爆炸等吸引眼球的效果。 Horrible Science - Big Bang现场 © BBC/Andy Paradise 本場演出最驚喜的部分是劇場演員同管弦樂團演奏者進行的互動，例如講述鹽溶解於水時，演員借來凱倫的指揮棒在杯中攪拌；還有科學人物跑到樂團後面拿起小號想嘗試吹奏。樂團演出到尾聲之時，舞台中央更出現了數個大型氣球，讓觀眾唱歌跳舞後還可自由跑動玩球。 來之前看介紹，原以為它在嘗試幫古典樂轉型成新面貌，希望以娛樂性吸引觀眾。然而參與之後，發現並不是用娛樂和可參與作為包裝。那些熱鬧的舞台效果、有趣的互動橋段，並未削弱作品本身，而是它一直都如此，只是Proms多了契機可以讓古典樂變得可見、將真實的古典樂帶來我們身邊。離場時，腦海中還縈繞著那首《山魔王宮殿里》，不禁為大製作的科幻電影加入了樂團日復一日演奏的幕後情節，讓金屬與科幻有了匠心的溫度。