阅读中文版 Pavel Kolesnikov has just been nominated for the 2026 Gramophone Award for his two-piano recording with Samson Tsoy of Stravinsky's Le Sacre du printemps and Ravel's Ma mère l'Oye. On 18 August, at Snape Maltings, I watched him play all 21 of Chopin's Nocturnes in a single evening. Before the concert, we sat beside the reed beds and talked at length. Born in Akademgorodok, the “town of scientists" near Novosibirsk in Siberia, Kolesnikov studied with Sergei Dorensky, Norma Fisher and Maria João Pires. He won the Honens International Piano Competition in 2012, was a BBC Radio 3 New Generation Artist from 2014 to 2016, and became an Artist in Residence at Wigmore Hall during the 2020/21 season. He has also worked extensively across disciplines, collaborating with artists including David Hockney and choreographer Anne Teresa de Keersmaeker. With Tsoy, he co-founded Ragged Music Festival, exploring what can happen when music is taken outside the conventional concert hall. His new recording of Chopin's Nocturnes will be released in October. In the conversation below, Kolesnikov talks about the two versions of the C-sharp minor Nocturne, why he decided to perform all 21 in one night, and why he believes Chopin has been “very misunderstood”. He also reflects on growing up in Siberia, leaving Moscow for London, his friendship with Hockney, his partnership with Tsoy, and the continuing influence of visual art on the way he thinks about music. On September 18, Pavel will return to the stage at Wigmore Hall, joining forces with Samson Tsoy, Adrian Brendel and tenor Bogdan Volkov for a concert commemorating the Russian composer Leonid Desyatnikov. In Conversation with Pavel Kolesnikov LC=Lucy Cheung PK=Pavel Kolesnikov The Two Versions of the C-sharp Minor Nocturne LC: Could you tell me a little about your new Chopin: Nocturnes album, which is also the programme for tonight? First of all, I’m curious about why there are two versions of the C-sharp minor Nocturne. PK: It’s not entirely clear why there are two versions. It’s a little bit undocumented. Generally, with those early Nocturnes, even between scholars, there are some arguments about whether they are actually in minor or not. There is one that was recorded much later in his life, and the only autograph that we have is a late autograph. I still believe that, stylistically, it’s definitely an early piece. What is interesting is that he was returning to some of the elements of his very early style late in his life. It’s not a very long line, but by the time he was about to die, he was returning to some of those elements. I find it interesting in that respect that he recorded the minor Nocturne. And with the C-sharp minor Nocturne, it exists in a few different autographs. One of them contains a very interesting rhythmic variation. It is slightly different altogether, but it really contains a rather magical and unique variation in the rhythmic arrangement in the middle section, where he crosses into a different time signature without changing it. It’s very interesting, and I came across it only when I was working on this album, so I decided to record it. Also, I find it a very important piece. It was written when he had just left Poland, and it seems probably to have been a kind of letter to his sister. It was sent to his sister. I find it an incredibly personal piece in that sense. It is a very interesting sound world, which is a little bit harsh. It has lots of open fifths and fourths, but very long-distance, kind of empty intervals that ring. It makes me think of Chopin’s voice. It’s so special in particular, and this is why I decided to record it. I recorded the two versions, and then I was thinking, do we need to put them both on? And then I thought, why don’t we put them both on the same level? Playing All the Nocturnes in One Night: A Challenge Inspired by Yohji Yamamoto LC: And when you’re going to play all of them together in one night, you haven’t played yet, but in your mind, comparing with playing them individually, what’s the difference? PK: It’s very different, and it’s difficult. I’m still figuring out what it is like. Of course, it’s very different from recording. Needless to say, I always treat recording as a different kind of process. It’s like making a movie rather than making theatre. Live performance is completely different. You know, we’re using today the piano that I used for the recording of that album. It’s the exact same one. I was just talking to the technicians about how we need to tune it in a completely different way. It cannot be tuned in the same way as it was for the recording because it’s a different process. I need to project into the audience rather than create this world for the microphone. But, yeah, I’m digressing. You’re asking me about playing all the Nocturnes together. It’s a complicated task because these Nocturnes were created over a very long period, the 21 of them. They range from very early teenage pieces to very late and very important pieces. The last three Nocturnes, I think, are some of the most important works that he has done. Some of them are very well known to the audience, extremely well known, and that’s always problematic because the audience has an expectation. It’s very difficult to make a listener really switch on in the moment, to listen to what is happening rather than listening to what is happening in their mind. And that is, of course, a task of performance. Then there are pieces that are almost unknown to the general audience. I’m sure that everyone will find a piece that they were not very familiar with tonight in this set. But they require a lot of concentration, and of course a lot of that music is very introspective. It’s a large performance. It takes about two hours, so it is an intense task. I was very scared of this, and I wasn’t even thinking of doing them in concert altogether until last autumn, when I was on tour and had an invitation to come to a Yohji Yamamoto show in Paris. I wasn’t going to go there, but on the day I suddenly realised I had this free day and technically I could go to Paris and make it. It would be a bit hard, but I could. For some reason, I felt I really must go there. Samson was with me as well. We were touring together. We found on our seats a little card asking us to turn off our mobile phones and not photograph or film during the performance, but to connect to the moment. I thought it was a wonderful idea. I very much sympathised with that. It was done in a very respectful way, and I thought it was the right thing to do. Then the show began, and it was one of the best shows of anything that I have seen. It was exactly that kind of task that I wanted to achieve, because the clothes were extremely rich in detail, and they were all occupying similar emotional territory. But the flow was arranged so that the small change that would keep you afloat would come at exactly the right moment. The pace was never interrupted. It was the most fascinating thing because it was such a risky thing to do. I was sitting there thinking, you can only do something like this if you have been doing it all your life, and whoever told you you shouldn’t be doing it, you simply weren’t listening to them. And that’s when I decided, well, I need to try to do it because it’s possible. It’s actually possible. It just takes a lot of experience and energy, but it’s so beautiful when it works. So I took it as a kind of challenge inspired by Yohji Yamamoto. Pavel Kolesnikov at Snape Maltings © BPA Chopin: “A Very Misunderstood Composer” LC: So when you were talking before about some pieces that the audience are very familiar with, I wonder, were you sometimes worried that the sound of Chopin’s music becomes a cliché, and sometimes it’s too beautiful? Do you sometimes resist the temptation to make it dramatic? PK: I think Chopin is generally a very misunderstood composer. We were just talking about it with my friend Glenn Brown yesterday. I think Chopin is a very misunderstood composer because he is a Romantic composer who used a language which is very centrally Romantic, but the kind of writing, the way he works with ideas, is very much not the central 19th-century thing. It has nothing to do with it, really. It’s much more an early 20th-century, or even mid-20th-century, sensibility that he had. And there is this barrier of beauty. I call it the “barrier of beauty”, which can be almost impenetrable. As a performing art, I think there are certain techniques that you can use to help the listener overcome the barrier and get connected to the music in the moment. Some of those things are very difficult to verbalise, and some of them just have to do with your charisma and stage presence, which you are either gifted with or not. But then there are some purely technical elements, elements of slight disruption. I first started thinking about it, actually, learning again from visual arts. I was reading a book of interviews with Francis Bacon, one of my favourite artists, interviewed by David Sylvester. He speaks very openly and very eloquently about introducing chance into painting and disrupting the painting in this way to make it more real. Ever since, I’ve been experimenting with that and seeing what can be done. I think I developed my own little inventory of small disruptions to the line or harmony during a performance, which I think are mostly unnoticeable. Whenever I do checks on my friends and listeners whom I trust, I never manage to witness them catching it in the process of doing that, but I think that it works. There are certain ways of manipulating the phrase slightly that bring the listener in without them noticing that something is slightly wrong, slightly unnatural. It’s a very big problem, particularly for well-known music. And sometimes there is no way to do it with the music itself. So, let’s put it this way: sometimes it’s more efficient to do something else in order to disrupt or displace this familiarity rather than manipulating the music itself. Actually, here in this hall I made an experiment which was very important for me, and I think was generally very successful. It was a performance that I did for the opening of the festival four or five years ago. It was a kind of theatrical performance inspired by one of my favourite artists, Joseph Cornell. It was a kind of surrealist spectacle, putting together music, a little bit of light, a little bit of film and words, done in collaboration with Sophie Hicks and Martin Crimp. I didn’t have to do anything with the music itself, but the way the stage was arranged and the way the light was done was very subtle. It would not interfere with the music, really, but it was slightly surprising to the audience, I think, and slightly mesmerising. That already put them out of their comfort zone and allowed me to play pieces that were very familiar, but suddenly felt slightly outside their conventional context. And that helps as well. Lots of my programmes function in this way. I think another very efficient way of doing it is creating a programme where there are some unusual combinations, where one piece influences the way you are perceiving the next one. In the last five, six, seven years, I’ve really only been doing those programmes. And this Chopin recital is a very new thing for me because I haven’t done a single-composer recital like that for a very long time. LC: Why now? Is it a timing thing? PK: Yes. I think it’s a little bit of a change of gear. I like the challenge and I like doing something else. I found that I’ve done quite a lot of that, and now I’m doing something that, for me, seems to be a little bit more difficult, actually. And also because I like the idea of presenting all the Nocturnes together. I think it’s an incredible, very poetic, very unique collection of pieces. It’s very impressive, but it’s demanding, both for the pianist — it’s immensely demanding — and I think quite demanding for the audience. Dreams, Memories and Visions LC: I guess the Nocturnes sometimes put a bit of a limitation on the imagination. PK: Definitely. And this is why I split them into three groups. I was trying to find the common threads among those Nocturnes. I figured out pretty early on, when I was working on them, that not all of that is nocturnal music, in fact. There’s a lot of it that is full of light, whether it is reflected light or an internal light, or some kind of fire. That is not necessarily nocturnal. They are Nocturnes in the sense that they are happening, I think, in your imagination. They’re not literal descriptions. I started looking and playing with them, and then I decided — because I like putting things into categories for myself. I think that’s my scientific background speaking in me — that there were three interesting categories which work for them quite distinctly: dreams, memories and visions. Memories, of course, are something that is about looking back. Dream is about being in a moment, or this is how I interpret it in this context. And vision is something that is coming, is looking forward, something that hasn’t happened but might be. I found that these pieces are actually falling into those categories for me. Sometimes the same piece is both a memory and a dream, or a dream and a vision. They flow between those, but I think this is about the right area which they occupy altogether. Growing Up in Siberia’s “Town of Scientists” LC: I wanted to ask you a little bit about your upbringing, and you just mentioned your scientific background. Could you tell me a little bit about your upbringing in Siberia? PK: Well, I was born in a place called Akademgorodok, which means “the town of scientists”. It was an important research centre that was built after the Second World War in the very middle of Russia. It was, I think, a very happy, very free place in Soviet Russia, actually, and very culturally advanced. But I was born in 1989, which was a couple of years before the collapse of the Soviet Union, so I didn’t really experience the place crumbling afterwards, because there was no funding for science at all. And by now it has reinvented itself as an IT centre. But when I was growing up, the place was more of a memory, a bit of a sweet memory. But I still understand, and can still feel, how wonderful it was in its heyday. It was a very idealistic haven in Soviet Russia. My parents were scientists, and most of my grandparents were also scientists. Generally, it was a very scientific circle, and I could have become a scientist probably. It was just a little bit of luck that I... LC: What was music like in your childhood? PK: I think it was very customary for everyone to play a musical instrument in that circle. Everyone had a piano or guitar or violin or accordion. My father played piano, accordion and guitar as well. LC: Classical? PK: No, not only. He did a little bit of jazz and a little bit of, how do you call it, songs and singing with the guitar, and wrote his own music. He also played Chopin. Chopin was one of the first composers I encountered, I think. Some of those Nocturnes were some of the first pieces that I ever heard. So I grew up with that. We had an upright piano, and I started playing it a little bit. Then I had an opportunity to go to a music school because music education was free, as all education was free at the time. So I started studying and, long story short, I became quite advanced. At some point I ended up in a special music school, and then I went to the conservatory. LC: Where? PK: Moscow. From Moscow to London LC: And then you came here in 2011 to continue your studies at the Royal College of Music. I can imagine that was quite a switch of artistic identity, probably in a very different environment. PK: You mean between Russia and the UK? LC: Yeah. PK: Yes, very different. I feel very lucky that I left at that time. It was the right time for me to leave. I had some personal reasons to try to leave, but also it was very much about getting out of that musical circle, which was very rich in Moscow, but also very isolated in a way. When you study at the Moscow Conservatory, you feel you’re in the centre of the world. At that time, at least, it felt like that. It was very self-contained in a way. That meant you could learn great things there and become very accomplished, but it was still quite limited. For me, it felt very one-sided. I didn’t quite know what it was about. But instinctively I felt that it would be good for me to go somewhere else. I ended up here in the UK, and I think it was a very, very lucky decision. It is a very open scene, in the sense that it’s one of the most inspiring musical scenes, in London in particular. It’s very interesting because it’s so broad. There are so many different things happening, and it’s not so well defined as it is in other places. So you don’t feel the urge to specialise so much in one thing or another. That was absolutely suitable for me. That’s exactly the thing that I think is right for me. Pavel Kolesnikov at Snape Maltings © BPA David Hockney and the Influence of Visual Art LC: You have collaborated with visual artists and painters, like David Hockney last year. PK: Yes, and some of my big projects were for David, and it’s fascinating. In general, working with David has become a very important — life-changing, really. LC: Did he influence in any way your perception of, for example, light and colour in music after that collaboration? PK: I think obviously there is influence. Whenever you’re working with someone, there is influence. I’m very sensitive to other influences. I feed on influences. I’m very open to them. Whenever I’m working with another artist that I respect, I notice that I change, and sometimes it’s very difficult to verbalise how I change. For instance, I worked with Anne Teresa de Keersmaeker, a great Belgian choreographer and dancer. I worked a lot with her. I know that she is really now in my system. I’m very conscious of the fact that Anne Teresa is somewhere in my blood, and that continues. And with David, it’s the same thing. There is an influence of his colour and his way of seeing, and his curiosity. But I think mostly, for me, with David, it has been a very affirmative influence. I was so fascinated from the very first time that I saw a big retrospective of his in London in 2015, I think. I was so fascinated and encouraged by his daring curiosity, his ability to get out of his own way, and his fearless experimentation. It can be very hard for an artist. The fear of losing yourself is a very big fear. And the fear of doing something that is not as good as what you have done before is a great fear, and it’s a very difficult thing to fight. I think from a rather early age I was conscious of that counterproductive energy in an artist’s life. And with David, particularly when Samson and I met him in his last years, it was incredible to witness how there was nothing that stopped him from doing yet another different thing, just trying to see if it worked or not, and being very courageous like that. I think that, for me, is the greatest affirmative power of the last few years. It’s just so encouraging to go and try things. LC: How did you meet? PK: We met with our friend Norman Rosenthal. David wanted to hear us, but he wasn’t strong enough to go out to many concerts. So we paired up with Yamaha and decided we were going to bring our piano to David’s studio. We brought a grand piano, similar to the one that I’m using today, to his studio and played The Rite of Spring for David. He was so happy. He really loved music, understood it very deeply, and was one of the great, great music lovers. For him, it was so exciting. That was a few years ago. Ever since, we stayed in touch and worked on this retrospective. We were also working on something else for David, for his show at the Serpentine, but unfortunately he passed away and it never happened. I didn’t expect David to leave us so soon, to be honest. He was so full of energy and looking forward to the new things that he was going to do. LC: Is music visual to you? PK: No, I think that’s the wrong way to put it. I think music, for me, is incredibly interconnected with every other art form. I think, in a way, it’s easier to understand an art form by comparing it to other things, seeing what the similarities are and what the differences are. I don’t think that I visualise it. Of course, sometimes visual associations come to you. But more importantly, I can see that there are certain things in music that work in a very similar way to how painting, or any visual art form, works. Take composition, for instance. It’s easier to understand composition in music when you are thinking about it in visual terms. Because music is something that develops in time, and I think for us it’s generally a less natural thing to grasp as a whole — something that develops in time. We struggle with that. But something that we can see in a single moment, we can analyse more freely in terms of its form and structure. So that is one example. But I think in our times we tend to separate one thing from another too much, one area of life from another too much. For me, the ideal way of living and being as an artist or not an artist is a kind of giant, constant work where everything is connected. There isn’t much direct separation between different things. LC: What about between genres of music? Do you feel the same way? PK: Yeah, I feel the same way. In terms of quality, of course, classical music contains just an extraordinary amount of artworks of extraordinary quality. Other genres may not have been around for so long, or may have developed in slightly different ways. They didn’t develop that amount of material. But generally, I don’t make much distinction between good music of one or another genre. I happen to be more knowledgeable, of course, about classical music because that occupies most of my time in life and so on. But the more I live, the more I really can’t see a distinction. Richter’s Influence LC: Is that the cross-discipline, that inner connection between art forms and music genres? Was it after 2011, after you came to the UK, that you realised that, or did you already have it? PK: Well, I first got a sense of it reading about Sviatoslav Richter and reading his diaries. I think for him it was very much like that. He really just didn’t disconnect one thing from another. He happened to be a pianist, but he could have been any other artist. In fact, I think he treated the piano as his instrument rather than viewing himself primarily as a pianist. In that sense, he was a musician and not a pianist. I remember I was about 15 years old when I got my hands on those books about him, and I learned those books by heart. I read them so many times, him talking about music and then switching to art, and everything coming together so naturally and in such a fascinating way. I found it such a fascinating world, such a beautiful world where everything was vivid and connected, and one thing would activate another in such an unpredictable, beautiful way. I think that became part of my system, and I started figuring out my own way in that kind of world. “From the Very First Time I Heard Him (Samson) Play, I Was Fascinated” LC: And then you met Samson here? PK: No, we met in Moscow in 2016, and we came here together. We do a lot of work together. Ever since COVID in particular, we really formed the duo during COVID because we were locked in the same apartment. We were trying to see what we could do, and we had time to work on this. Of course, it’s a very hard form of ensemble. You need to spend a lot of time together in order to be able to play four hands on one piano or two pianos, just because I think it’s particularly difficult for both players. And ever since, it became a big part of our lives. We do, I think, about 30 per cent of our concerts together now. We’ve already done our third recording, and we’ve done a lot of other things. LC: So this close partnership, how does it influence your own artistic identity? Do you see it as a separate thing, or do they feed each other? Do you challenge each other? PK: Yes, we challenge each other. But we have a very long history with that. It all started in Moscow, when we were regularly playing to each other. We learned from each other. I always feel that I learned so much from Samson. Maybe this is why we can play together so well, because we were observing and sort of finding our way for so long before we really started working together. We had already influenced each other a lot. I was always fascinated by his playing from the very first time I heard him, and I realised that he was a very different kind of musician, that he could do things that I found very difficult to do. I didn’t know how to do that, and I was really keen to learn. It took a lot of time. For many years, we would very often play to each other and ask for feedback. And we learned how to give feedback to each other, which is very difficult, particularly when you’re so different. I think Samson would probably say the same about me. He also appreciates that I’m a completely different kind of artist, in a way the opposite of him. But somehow, because we’ve been developing side by side for so long, really tracking each other’s progress and taking part in it in a way, I think we grew close. And this is how it became possible for us to play together. We also like working on projects together. Most of those out-of-the-ordinary projects that we’ve been doing in the past six or seven years, we’ve been working on together, including the records. And it’s great because we have very different perspectives. A Festival That Happened by Chance LC: I’m quite curious about the Ragged Music Festival. Can you tell me more about it? How did you conceive the idea, and what did you want to do with it? Did you want to do something that a traditional venue or music festival couldn’t do? PK: I think the Ragged Music Festival happened by chance, really. Our dear friend Erica Davis asked Samson and me to do a concert at the Ragged School Museum in East London, which is a beautiful, wonderful place. In some way, it’s not dissimilar from the situation here. It’s not so extravagant, but the essence is very strong. When she asked us to do it, we started looking into the logistics and realised that bringing the pianos there was very difficult because they needed to be lifted through the window with a crane. The window had to be dismantled, and it was becoming a big operation. So I told her, if we’re bringing a piano, maybe we should do at least a couple of concerts. That’s what happened the first time: we did two concerts. We found it so inspiring, and the atmosphere so different and stimulating, that we wanted to do more. The beauty of that situation is that we can programme without looking at programming trends or worrying about ticket sales, because there aren’t so many tickets to sell. It always sells out quickly. We wanted to do things that were more difficult, or impossible, to do in a concert hall. It became a kind of small artist community, which I find really pure. It’s very difficult to achieve that on a larger scale. The beauty of it is that it remains small, so we can put experimental programmes together in different ways. We can also programme very late. Early programming is a little bit of an inevitable evil of our industry. We have to plan, and that planning goes very far ahead. When I started, I had some experience working with the fashion industry, for instance, and I was so envious because they were working only a little ahead. That means they can really be in the moment of creation. For us, it’s all this planning. You’re thinking, “What am I going to play in three years?” Well, I don’t really know what kind of person I’m going to be by then. So this is a unique opportunity that we’re able to explore. We were a little surprised, and very flattered and inspired, by the reaction of the audience, who really got it. We were surprised by its success. But then it became something a little bigger, because we realised that we could work in the same way in a different, interesting space, and create something specifically tailored to the energy of the place. That became a thread through all my work, more or less. I cannot get it out of my system, this way of working. Whenever there is a possibility, I consider what kind of circumstances the performance is going to be in. With the Ragged Music Festival, it particularly pointed to this idea, so we started doing these travelling editions. The festival was done at the Muziekgebouw, which is a very different setting. It’s a bigger setting. We still keep it very small in terms of the group. There are no more than eight artists in every edition, I think, and everyone takes part in every concert. Everyone is playing to get everything together. It’s mostly chamber music in different formations. The whole programme grows out of the energy of the place, how we understand it, and that particular moment. LC: So if you’re going to do something in London in winter, is it going to be something quite spontaneous as well? PK: Well, we’re only now starting to talk and think about it, and seeing which of our favourite collaborators could take part. From there, we’ll start putting together a programme that feels right for the time and the moment and the place and the light and the weather and so on. Writer Lucy Cheung

阅读中文版 “Miles Davis could easily have stopped after Kind of Blue in 1958. But he didn’t.” Last night, American jazz trumpeter Ambrose Akinmusire joined conductor Miho Hazama and the BBC Concert Orchestra as trumpet soloist for a Proms concert marking the centenary of Miles Davis. It was one of the most popular concerts of this year’s Proms, with even the standing areas completely full. Just minutes before the performance, a long queue had formed outside the Royal Albert Hall among those still hoping to get hold of returned tickets. The programme included several Gershwin classics suited to the Royal Albert Hall’s all-ages atmosphere, alongside Blue in Green, one of the defining pieces from Kind of Blue. It also brought together classical works such as Falla’s El amor brujo and Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez, newly arranged for big band. Several of the arrangements drew on those by Gil Evans, one of the most influential orchestral arrangers in the history of jazz. Yet whenever the solos and improvisations emerged, their sharp, forward-looking edge seemed to pierce through the gentle, nostalgic sound of the orchestra. Ambrose Akinmusire in Royal Albert Hall Photo: Lucy Cheung Akinmusire’s own quartet also joined him on stage. Though this was, after all, a tribute to Miles, he made no attempt to imitate Miles’s trumpet playing. Instead, one could hear an improvisational language deeply rooted in spirit and inner expression, unmistakably pointing towards the present moment we are living in. I first encountered Akinmusire’s music through A Rift in Decorum: Live at the Village Vanguard, the double live album he recorded with his long-standing quartet at the legendary New York jazz club in 2017. The recording was widely regarded by jazz critics that year as one of the best live recordings of the year. The bassist on that album, Harish Raghavan, was also on stage last night. Earlier this year, Akinmusire appeared with Sullivan Fortner in a duo performance at Wigmore Hall. It was a deeply thoughtful and illuminating encounter, one that stayed with me for a long time. This November, he will return to London with his new quartet for the London Jazz Festival, performing music from an album they had just finished recording in June 2026. Ambrose Akinmusire at BBC Proms Photo: BBC/Andy Paradise In Conversation with Ambrose Akinmusire: The Tradition of Jazz Lies in Constant Evolution LC = Lucy Cheung AA = Ambrose Akinmusire LC: I wanted to start with the duo, actually—the collaboration between you and the pianist. I had never heard Sullivan Fortner live before, and what really struck me was the amount of space you leave for each other, and especially the trust you seem to place in each other. You’ve obviously collaborated with different pianists. How does each of these people bring out a different voice in you? AA: I’ve been really lucky to collaborate with a lot of great young pianists. You mentioned Gerald Clayton. There’s also Aaron Parks—we’ve played a lot of duo together. The pianist in my band, Sam Harris, is another one. I’ve even had the chance to play with Kenny Barron. But for me, the process isn’t so different from when I play with my quartet. It’s really just submitting, and hopefully collaborating with people who believe in something higher than us as humans. I’ve been really lucky to be around people like that. Sullivan is definitely one of those people, as is Gerald. LC: I suppose it’s quite difficult to put that into words, because music is already so abstract, especially jazz. But could you try to describe that process a little more? When you talk about something “higher”, what does that mean to you? And how do you inspire each other? Where does it start? AA: It starts—I would love to just say it starts in trust, but I think it starts even before that. Maybe it starts in learning each other, and creating a space where both people feel comfortable enough to be vulnerable. It’s a space where right and wrong don’t really exist. I think the act of letting go, and the act of being vulnerable, is actually the music. Once you get into that space, the notes don’t really matter. LC: I guess the obvious question here is about the jazz tradition. What does the tradition mean to you today? And how do you differentiate jazz from improvised music? AA: That’s a great question. I think when people—when most people—refer to jazz tradition, they’re speaking specifically of the bebop era. They think of Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie; they don’t even think about Dixieland music or the blues, or things that came before that. But for me, jazz started in Africa, as clichéd as that is. I don’t know if the question is “What is jazz?”, but it sounds like it’s hinting towards that. For me, jazz is really music that is about community and improvisation. Let me just say the obvious: I think jazz is about expressing African American history sonically. It started off as a way of expressing African American history through sound, with the blues, and so on. Now, is there a difference between jazz and improvised music? For me, no. When I hear music from Nigeria or Mali, that could also be considered jazz to me. When I hear hip-hop and somebody is freestyling, that’s also jazz. So for me, no, there isn’t a difference. Even when I listen to Bach sometimes, it still sounds like jazz. LC: In what way? AA: Just knowing and understanding that most of it was improvised—with chord changes, figured bass, things like that. LC: What about the new generation—or perhaps not so new anymore—of European jazz musicians who are very aware of the tradition but don’t feel bound by it? How do you hear what’s happening in European jazz today? Sometimes it feels as if musicians are trying to move away from that African sound, towards something very minimal or something else. AA: I think that here, in parts of Europe—or really all over Europe—there are very valid jazz scenes now. And that’s been the case since I’ve been a part of it. You go to Spain, Italy, France, Germany, you come here, and there are great players everywhere. I think it’s very natural to evolve. This notion of moving away from tradition is also hard, because I think there’s something about Blackness that is always about evolving. I think it’s very natural to evolve. It’s the most natural thing for humans to do. So moving away from tradition just is what it is. Recreating tradition. I think when people talk about jazz, that part is forgotten. No one talks about Sonny Rollins living in the past, everything one’s been talking about Miles Davis changing every year. A lot of the masters died young, so we didn’t get to see what they would have done. Coltrane died at 40, Clifford Brown at 25, Booker Little at 23. But the ones who stayed alive, most of them continued to evolve—Herbie Hancock, Wayne Shorter, even Roy Haynes, Charles Mingus, Dizzy Gillespie. Dizzy wasn’t playing the way he was playing in the ’30s and ’40s. So I think it’s very natural to evolve. It’s just that most people don’t do it. LC: One of the people I was thinking about is Miles Davis, especially because tonight you’re leading a Proms tribute to him. You’ve already mentioned his commitment to evolution. He kept reinventing himself. Do you think that continuous reinvention is also at the core of what jazz is? AA: For sure. LC: But when you keep pushing yourself against something—a voice you’ve established before, or a sound that you admire—do you ever feel conflicted by that? Is there ever a feeling of betraying tradition?, I mean, is there ever a sentiment that you might be moving too far away from something that came before you? AA: No. The tradition is evolution. You know, a record is a snapshot. It’s just like a photograph. That’s all it is. But in real time, it’s evolving. There’s no way to capture that, right? (laugh) So, no, I don’t feel like I’m betraying it. I’m always going back and checking it out and stuff, but I’m hyper-aware that these people kept evolving. I don’t think they would sound the way they did if they weren’t reaching towards the future. Ambrose Akinmusire and Miho Hazama at BBC Proms Photo: BBC/Andy Paradise I just like things that are not about self. LC: It is intangible, but can we talk about where some of these ideas come from? Could you tell me a little about your upbringing and your influences? What was that first sound that you remember, and that you’ve carried with you all these years? AA: To be honest with you, the first thing I remember as a child was not sound. It was colour. I can remember sitting in a closet, and there was this sort of stained-glass window in the closet. I remember just looking up at it and watching all these beautiful lights come down on me. Somehow, that is my first musical memory—it’s actually a visual image. Then the next thing was going to my grandmother’s church. It was a Black Baptist church, and I remember, as a kid, seeing and experiencing the power of community sonically. I was always impressed that individually, the singers weren’t necessarily so amazing, but when they came together, even with the dissonances and the wrong notes, there was something beyond that. I learned that at a very young age, when I was four or five years old. I played gospel music, and then when I heard Art Blakey in seventh or eighth grade, it just sounded like the stuff I had been hearing in church, but played on instruments, with Lee Morgan and the others. So it was a very natural progression. Those are some of the early sounds I remember. LC: Did you start reading music at a young age? AA: Yeah. I started at a very young age—reading music when I was five years old. LC: I was wondering about your relationship with the score and improvisation. AA: The score is just for suggestions. It depends on the context, of course. At best, it gets 95 percent, for me. In the music that I play, like when I’m writing for my band, it really is just a suggestion. LC: I know you also listen to classical music. What do you like to listen to? AA: Oh, man. I go through phases. The last thing I was really into was Kurtág. LC: He’s already a hundred years old now, isn’t he? The same age as Miles Davis. AA: Yeah. I really love the stuff with his wife. (Játékok) You know, it’s so easy to call it “simple”, but it’s not. Like the Arvo Pärt stuff. There’s something about pure beauty. That’s what I’ve been into for the last six or seven years. When I released a solo record called Beauty Is Enough, I’d been trying to get inside, to centre the centre of everything. That’s what I hear when I hear Kurtág, and that’s what I feel. What else? All the normal stuff, right? Ravel, Bach, Glenn Gould playing Bach, all that stuff. But I go through phases. LC: What do you hear in classical music that you don’t hear in jazz? AA: Nothing. LC: So when you talk about Beauty Is Enough, and you listen to Kurtág a lot, is there a relationship there? AA: I was listening to other stuff too. Music from Mali, music from Iceland, jazz, a lot of blues. I don’t think it’s specific to genre. I think there are purveyors in each genre who are committing to beauty. LC: Tell me about that. AA: My favourite—there was this touring choir from Bulgaria, a very large women’s choir. When I was younger, I went to a performance in Berkeley. It was in ’93 or ’94—I was very young. And that reminded me of the gospel, the Baptist church. Then, when I learned more about it and understood that they picked women from different areas of Bulgaria who came together and rehearsed, I just thought that was really beautiful. And music from Mali—one of my favourite singers is Oumou Sangaré. I got to do a project with her two years ago. That was amazing. All for the same reason. Joni Mitchell, too. But you see, there’s a single thread there. These people are amazing technically and musically, but they’re connected to something higher. They’re making sounds, and they’re... I don’t know. It’s otherworldly, I think. LC: Is that also connected to a sense of community? You mentioned that quite a few times. Does it perhaps remind you of your roots? AA: I just like things that are not about self. When you start talking about community, you’re only as strong as the whole. I really love that. You can practise and become technically really great, but there’s something about when you join together with somebody and you point towards this thing that is really beautiful for me. I never thought I would have a career. I was interested, again, in playing whatever the source told me to play. I was interested in creative music from a very young age. I wasn’t thinking about having a career. I was just interested in the music and in committing to it. I can stay home and practise because that’s all I ever wanted to do—to commit to the music. Not become famous. So I kind of do what I want. LC: Is that one of the reasons for you to leave Blue Note Records a few years ago? It, as a label, is perhaps more associated with that kind of jazz-star identity. AA: look, Blue Note is a jazz label. No matter how you bend it, even when you see somebody who’s not from jazz on Blue Note, they become a jazz musician. And there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just not something I’ve ever felt completely comfortable with. Yeah. I play jazz, but I also write string quartets. I write film scores. I do hip-hop. I do so much. I’ve always done so much, and I just wanted to have room to do those things if I wanted to. LC: Is it that you don’t want to be restricted by the term “jazz”? AA: Almost. I’m not restricted by it because I don’t care about it. It’s more about how I’m seen and how that affects the opportunities that I have—the projects that I can release. Ambrose Akinmusire in Royal Albert Hall Photo: BBC/Andy Paradise On Miles: “It’s really his effect on the future.” LC: Let’s talk a little more about Miles Davis. Tonight you’re the leader and the trumpeter, so you’re taking on a role that people may naturally associate with him. What is your relationship with his music? Is there a particular period of his career that you feel closest to? AA: No. It’s him as an artist. Like we said earlier, it’s his commitment to evolution. Just even realising that Miles Davis started with Charlie Parker, and we all know those recordings, and then to think that he ended in the ’80s with Tutu and Marcus Miller, and everything in between—it’s just like, wow. This guy was totally committed to evolving, continuously. It’s the same thing I love about Joni Mitchell. There’s something about an artist who continues going forward, who continues searching when they’re successful. Miles Davis could have stopped in ’58. He could have done Kind of Blue for the rest of his career and been very, very famous—maybe even more famous. But he kept evolving and bringing young musicians into the scene. I think that’s also something I want to do. If you think about all the people who have been associated with Miles Davis—Chick Corea, Herbie Hancock—it would take forever. They’re all A-list jazz musicians. That’s also part of his legacy. Those are the things I’m really impressed by and influenced by with Miles Davis. It’s not the trumpet playing or the improvisation, which is really amazing. It’s really his effect on the future. LC: What was the first Miles Davis record you heard? AA: It was actually a compilation. I had it on vinyl, and it was all his recordings from Prestige Records. I remember listening to “If I Were a Bell”, just listening to how beautiful it was—the arrangements, the articulation. I didn’t hear Kind of Blue until later. LC: My first was Kind of Blue. AA: Yeah. That’s the first Miles Davis record for a lot of people. LC: And how are you going to approach tonight’s performance? AA: The same. My approach to improvisation doesn’t change. It’s to try to be selfless and connect to source. That’s it. I’m here to do what the music says to do in every context, and that’s that. It doesn’t matter if it’s the Proms or the Village Vanguard. It’s kind of the same for me. LC: It is a rather unique format—a tribute to a late musician at the Proms. Did you choose the programme yourself? AA: Miho and I got together a while ago and talked about what we would play. We thought about the context, and there are a lot of boxes to check, right? It’s the BBC Proms, so there’s a lot of stuff that a lot of people know, the popular songs. But I’m an improviser, so we’ll see. LC: Speaking of the Village Vanguard, I really enjoyed the live album A Rift in Decorum: Live at the Village Vanguard, and I think a lot of people do. Do you feel that period is something you’ve grown out of? AA: Great question. No. That’s just the band. We are getting older, and so we have families. Justin (Justin Brown) plays with Thundercat, Harish (Harish Raghavan) is now playing with Charles Lloyd, I’m teaching at Stanford and doing a bunch of stuff. It’s just hard to get us together. But we did record a CD in June, and we’re going to release it next year. So I’m going back to playing more quartet. I’m looking forward to that. These are my guys. We’ve been a band for—wow, I don’t even know where to start—but over 16 or 17 years. Justin and I grew up together. Justin and I have been playing together for 30 years. It’s crazy to say that. Harish and I have been playing together for over 20 years, and the same thing with Sam. So that’s what you’re hearing on those records, and it’s hard to recreate that. It’s hard to get that to come together just because of life. LC: You’re coming back to London in November. Is that going to be with the quartet? AA: Yeah, that’ll be a different one. LC: Will you be playing material from the new album? AA: It’ll be a mix. I’m thinking a lot about introducing young players into the scene, just taking that role of giving opportunities—mentorship, kind of like Miles Davis. So I think I’m going to have a younger band for that. LC: You’ve worked in many different formats—your quartet, duos, solo projects, collaborations with other musicians. Do these different forms feel fundamentally different to you when you’re making music? AA: No. For me, again, my role is the same. It’s the same. Of course, different people bring out different things sonically because the conversation changes. But my role is the same. I have to think of it like that, or else I think I would get very stressed out, because I’m doing so many different things all the time. Ambrose Akinmusire at BBC Proms Photo: BBC/Andy Paradise Academia as the New Jazz Club LC: Can we talk a little about your teaching at Stanford? AA: Yeah. I took on the position last year, and I’m starting my second year as director of jazz at Stanford University. I’m trying to build a programme there, but I’m looking more to have Stanford feel like a hub—a place where a community can grow, where discussions can happen, and where students who are interested in other things can also explore the power of connecting creativity and improvisation with whatever it is they’re interested in. It could be computer science and improvisation. I’m trying to create a place for those kinds of discussions. LC: What do you actually teach? AA: Whatever I want at the beginning of the year. I get to pick. But I’m overseeing the whole programme. Last year I taught theory and improvisation, and this year I’m teaching composition, theory and improvisation. I’m also creating a history course that covers the whole spectrum of Black music. LC: Stanford didn’t have a jazz programme for a long time, though? AA: That’s what a lot of people think, but they’ve had a jazz department since the late ’70s. LC: Really! We’ve been talking about this intangible side of jazz, and how difficult it can be to pin down or analyse what jazz actually is. In a higher-education setting, do you think that makes it particularly difficult to teach? AA: I think it’s becoming less difficult, because what you’re doing is getting players to run institutions now, and I think that’s great. As you said, it’s hard to teach that, so a lot of it you have to show. It’s just like the music was passed down—you learned back in the day by being next to somebody, through apprenticeship. I think now academia is starting to become the place where that happens. LC: Do you see yourself as part of academia? AA: Yes. Yeah. It’s funny to say, yes. LC: Jazz originally developed far away from academia, and now the two seem to stand shoulder to shoulder. AA: Well, the institution—the jazz institution, academia—has taken the place of what the clubs used to be. There are a lot of clubs that have closed down. Just as meeting places, places where young people can come and sit down next to each other. Bradley’s and all these other clubs used to be that. They don’t exist anymore. So that’s the way I look at jazz academia: it’s just a place for like-minded people to meet, young musicians. LC: So perhaps it’s not so much that jazz itself has to change, but that the university has to change its understanding of what jazz education can be. Otherwise, institutionalised jazz can sound quite intimidating. AA: I think, again, it is changing. You have Sean Jones leading at a school, Walter Smith III leading a woodwind department, Rudresh Mahanthappa at Princeton. I could go on and on—Terell Stafford, Ingrid Jensen at Manhattan School of Music. People who can actually play, people who really love this music, are now the heads of departments. It’s not just an administrative role anymore. These are actual artists heading schools. I think that’s really beautiful. Ambrose Akinmusire at BBC Proms Photo: BBC/Andy Paradise LC: Your albums often seem to have very different moods. What mood are you in at the moment when you’re creating music? Do you consciously think about it? AA: No. I don’t consciously think about it. It’s whatever life throws me in. Recently, both of my parents passed away. So now I’m in this recovery. That’s what this era of my life is about: recovery. How do I recover? How do I endure? So that’s what the music is going to sound like. It’s just what it is. I don’t know that until I’m looking back. I only look back after I’ve already recorded the music. I sit down and ask myself, What does all of this mean? What is the CD? What is the music? What was this era of my life? So I’m not really in control. I’m not forcing myself. I’m not doing it. Life does what it does. I’m just dancing with it. LC: I guess what I was asking was what's happening to you recently is already becoming part of the music. AA: Yeah. I think it’s grief. LC: I’m sorry. AA: No, it’s okay. It’s part of life. It’s part of the dance. LC: Do you go back to old places—to places from your childhood, where you grew up? AA: Yeah, a lot of the time. I live where I grew up. I moved back. I see people that I’ve known since I was a kid. LC: Is that Oakland? AA: I live in Berkeley. I moved back to Oakland, and then I moved to Berkeley when it was time for my son to go to school. So it’s just one city over. LC: Does he play music? AA: Yes, he plays piano, but it’s Suzuki method. He’s not doing jazz. LC: I also wanted to ask about Herbie Hancock. Did you work with him before? Did he influence you in any way? AA: Nice. Yeah. I met Herbie and Wayne when I was 22, 23, at the Thelonious Monk Institute. We went on a few tours with them. And then later on—I don’t know how it happened; life is crazy—but I would go to Wayne’s house and meditate. I also became close with Bennie Maupin. So I’ve known them for now 20-something years. LC: And you also taught at the Herbie Hancock Institute? AA: Yeah. I was an artistic director. I’ve done a lot of teaching there. LC: What did you teach? AA: Life. I mean, the same way that I just try to continue what Herbie and Wayne were doing. They weren’t teaching music theory. They were teaching about how to become a better human being and citizen of the world. So I try to impart those lessons to the students—not because I’m special, just because I’ve been around them, and I’m trying to continue that. Ambrose Akinmusire Quartet performs at Kings Place on Sunday 15th November 2026. For more info, please visit: https://www.kingsplace.co.uk/whats-on/jazz/ambrose-akinmusire-quartet/ Writer Lucy Cheung

阅读中文版 In 2020, the 250th anniversary of Beethoven’s birth, Quatuor Ébène had originally planned a series of performances to celebrate the milestone, but most of them were cancelled due to the pandemic. Nevertheless, they completed an ambitious project: the release of a complete recording of Beethoven’s string quartets on Erato label in 2020. The project had been years in the making, with the quartets recorded live in seven cities around the world, beginning in Vienna and continuing through Philadelphia, Tokyo, São Paulo, Melbourne, and Nairobi, before concluding in Paris. The monumental world tour also came to China, with the Quatuor Ébène appearing at the Shanghai Music in the Summer Air Festival in 2019. With another Beethoven anniversary year approaching in 2027—the 200th anniversary of his death—the Quatuor Ébène has once again embarked on a worldwide tour of the complete Beethoven string quartets, with stops in cities including New York, London, Paris, and Berlin. In August 2026, they came to the Musikfest Bremen, performing all 16 of Beethoven’s string quartets over six evenings. If I could choose only one of the six concerts, I would choose tonight’s without hesitation. Beethoven was only around 28 when he wrote the String Quartet No. 6 in B-flat major, a work suffused with lightness and wit. In the Scherzo, he displays a remarkably forward-looking approach to rhythm through syncopation, displaced accents, and cross-rhythms. In the finale, meanwhile, the abrupt shifts between melancholy and lightness in “La Malinconia” point toward the bolder musical language that would emerge in his later works. By the time of the String Quartet No. 15 in A minor, this practice of moving between radically different emotional, temporal, and musical states had been taken to an entirely different level. Most strikingly, in the famous third movement, the long, contemplative, almost religious “Molto adagio” repeatedly alternates with the life-affirming “Andante—Neue Kraft fühlend” (feeling new strength). Beethoven is no longer merely setting contrasting moods against one another; he makes the very process of moving from suffering toward renewed strength part of the musical structure. The movement’s full title—Heiliger Dankgesang eines Genesenen an die Gottheit, in der lydischen Tonart (Holy song of thanksgiving of a convalescent to the Deity, in the Lydian mode)—already says it all. Quatuor Ébéne © Julien Mignot Pierre Colombet needs only to brush his bow lightly across the strings to produce a warm yet resonant sound; with just a little added pressure, a radiant tone bursts forth from the body of the violin. From time to time, I could even hear his familiar, deep breathing—the same breathing captured on their recordings. Gabriel Le Magadure’s wrist appears relaxed, forming an obtuse angle with his arm as he draws the bow upward, yet it remains ready to tense at any moment. This is the kind of rapid responsiveness chamber music demands. Quiet and unassuming, he nevertheless knows exactly when to step forward. Yuya Okamoto, seated on the right side of the stage, is the most active collaborator of the four. His eyes constantly move between the score and the other three musicians, as if continually picking up signals from his colleagues and shaping those immediate, ever-changing exchanges of sound. This was particularly evident in the Scherzo of the B-flat major quartet, where such responsiveness seemed to become part of the music itself. Marie Chilemme, smiling for much of the performance, seemed somewhat removed from it all. It was as though her spirit had stepped back from her body, watching the music unfold before her with a warm, contemplative gaze. And is that not, in some sense, the very essence of the third movement of the A minor quartet? When I interviewed Gabriel years ago, he told me that playing in a string quartet was an exercise in democracy. The number four is unlike three or five; in many cases, a democratic vote among four people cannot even produce a majority. “But if you can accept yourself, you can also accept others.” More than two years ago, Quatuor Ébène underwent a change of personnel: cellist Raphaël Merlin departed, and Yuya Okamoto joined. Tonight, in the third movement of the A minor quartet, Okamoto made me hear, perhaps for the first time, melodies—in a work I cherish so dearly—that had long remained buried beneath the singing lines of the violins and viola. They finally emerged, listening to, yielding to, and completing one another within the other voices. Perhaps this, after all, is the result of the “exercise in democracy” Gabriel spoke of. Quatuor Ébéne © Julien Mignot And it was at precisely this moment that reason and emotion began to wrestle with each other. Should I briefly detach myself from the music, pick up my pen and record what I was feeling, allowing this moment to acquire a kind of “eternity” through words? Or should I surrender to the current of emotion and let the music carry this “instant” away in time? After the second “Neue Kraft fühlend,” Pierre returned to the Molto adagio. His body no longer swayed gently with the music as it had earlier; instead, he remained almost completely still, his expression growing ever more resolute, bringing the final song to its close with an extraordinary concentration. And my emotions, too, were repeatedly drawn back to earth and then lifted toward heaven by Beethoven and the four musicians of Quatuor Ébène. When the music ended, I realized that my body had been tense throughout. Quatuor Ébène performed Beethoven’s String Quartet No. 6 (Op.18/6) and No. 15 (Op.132) at Die Glocke in Bremen on the evening of August 17, 2026.

When 2026年8月28日 Where 不来梅圣史蒂芬尼文化教堂（Kulturkirche St. Stephani, Bremen） Who 声乐与器乐合奏团：拉斯波泰尔乐团（Ensemble la Sportelle） 人声乐团：杰苏阿尔多六人组（The Gesualdo Six） 指挥：欧文·帕克（Owain Park） What 阿沃·帕特： 《深渊之中》（De profundis） 《我们的父》（Vater unser） 《我们的主耶稣基督依约翰所述的受难曲》（后简称“约翰受难曲”，Passio Domini nostri Jesu Christi secundum Joannem） 不来梅圣史蒂芬尼文化教堂 摄影：马光辉 记一笔 首先听见的是管风琴。帕特最具辨识度的Tintinnabuli（钟鸣）作曲法，从第一个声音便已经建立起来。帕特在经历了早期先锋派、十二音音乐以及一段漫长的创作危机之后，于20世纪70年代中期逐渐形成了钟鸣这种高度简洁的语言：以一个基本音或旋律声部，与围绕三和弦运行的Tintinnabuli声部相结合。 坐在圣史蒂芬尼文化教堂里，这种声音具有空间上的意义。前方是合唱团与乐队，身后高处则是管风琴，但它并没有显得遥远。声音从后方、前方以及教堂本身的混响中同时存在，形成一种包围感。《深渊之中》开始时，只有一个声部唱出诗篇的开头；随后逐渐增加到两个、三个声部，最后由完整的四声部男声合唱唱出最后两节。这是帕特音乐重要的力量，他习惯让极少的东西在时间中逐渐获得重量。 之后是《我们的父》，假声男高音阿拉斯代尔·奥斯汀（Alasdair Austin）声音纤细、轻柔而温暖，却并不缺乏光泽；在某些音符上，那种光泽甚至恰好与夕阳穿过教堂彩窗投下来的光线融为一体。奥斯汀演唱时眼睛睁得很大，一直望向前方，脸上有一种近乎纯真的神情。这首作品简单而抒情的旋律仿佛独立于帕特庞大的精神世界，在教堂中温暖地存在着。 然后，《约翰受难曲》开始。帕特在作品开头直接让人声唱出完整标题，从这一刻开始，管风琴与合唱将听众拉入一个只有信仰不可动摇的世界。一场接近80分钟的、冥想般的精神苦程就此开始。 不来梅圣史蒂芬尼文化教堂阿沃•帕特《约翰受难曲》现场 © Patric Leo 舞台正中央的合唱团唱出故事的背景：耶稣跨过汲沦溪，犹大带着一队兵丁和差役来到那里。随后，欧文·帕克从舞台右侧缓缓走上台，以沉着而缓慢的声音唱出：Quem quaeritis?（你们找谁？）众人回答：“拿撒勒人耶稣。”舞台的基本戏剧结构也由此建立起来。乐手们坐在舞台前方，四位独唱歌手共同承担福音书叙述者的角色；合唱团则承担群众以及彼得等次要人物。耶稣由欧文·帕克演唱，之后将从舞台左侧登场的男高音约书亚·库特（Joshua Cooter）饰演彼拉多。帕特对于人物的音乐塑造克制，但也有明确的规则。耶稣的音乐明显比其他人物缓慢。节目册中解释，慢速象征着永恒。彼拉多则在不同速度与不同声部关系之间转换，这种音乐上的摇摆，体现出他的矛盾。无论是耶稣，还是处在另一边的彼拉多，在演唱时都有管风琴陪伴。 欧文·帕克承担戏剧兼歌唱角色，在大部分时间里，他无法兼任现场指挥。因此，这是一场高度室内乐化的演出。乐手、歌手，以及位于后方高处、背对着他们的管风琴师，几乎依靠彼此之间细微的呼吸、聆听和反应，共同度量音乐的时间。帕特几乎在每个乐句结束处都留下沉默，在这些沉默里，几乎可以看到歌手们的呼吸。沉默被计算，也被当作音乐。教堂的混响留住了余韵。 《约翰受难曲》文本取自《约翰福音》第18和第19章，有叙述文字，也有直接引用。帕特将文本重新组织成四个部分，每个部分都从一个声部开始，随后其他声部逐渐加入，织体不断扩张；达到完整音响之后，又反向逐渐减少，最终重新回到单一声部。教堂的声场绝佳，在一些二重唱的段落中，身体甚至可以意识到耳膜的振动。到了群众与管风琴共同喊出：Crucifige, crucifige eum!（把他钉在十字架上！把他钉在十字架上！），能量让人感到胆寒。而此时，天色也已经完全暗了下来，彩色玻璃窗外只剩下一片深蓝。 四位福音书叙述者中，最出彩的是假声男高音盖·詹姆斯（Guy James）。他的声音清澈，带有一种近乎神性的质感。在四人合唱中，他的延长音夹在另外三位歌手之间，显得异常漂亮：气息稳定，却又有一种几乎吹弹可破的脆弱感。他很少试图让自己的声音从整体中“跳出来”，相反，他非常善于把自己的声音“淹没”在旋律的走向之中，在此起彼伏中彼此交替，又彼此让位。 欧文·帕克 © Andrew Wilkinson 近80分钟的精神苦旅，终于在耶稣说出“成了”——Consummatum est——之后接近尾声。欧文·帕克卸下耶稣的角色，走到舞台中央，开始指挥。此前一直被限制在a小调世界中的音乐，在这里突然转向D大调。乐团、合唱、独唱声部与管风琴同时涌出，声音第一次真正意义上地向外扩张。死亡被战胜。 这部作品虽然讲述的是一段极具戏剧性的故事，但帕特在音乐上几乎完全拒绝传统意义上的戏剧化。听起来，它甚至有些“轴”。音乐不断返回相似的声音材料，似乎原地打转；旋律拒绝向传统意义上的戏剧高潮快速推进。但也正是在这种近乎固执的重复中，声音开始获得一种不同于戏剧的力量。这在一个越来越把“变通”视为优点的时代里，多少显得格格不入。我不由得想起一部很喜欢的电影，《隐秘的生活》（A Hidden Life）。电影主人公弗朗茨·雅格施泰特是一名奥地利农民，在纳粹时代拒绝为纳粹德国服役，最终被处刑。影片也使用了帕特的音乐，《空白》（Tabula rasa）。 从奥地利阿尔卑斯的群山深处，到波罗的海边的苍绿森林，帕特的音乐深深扎根于宗教与信仰，但又与自然保持着某种难以言明的联系。也许是一棵树，一些云，一个有雾的清晨，露水，或者风。 Writer Ma Guanghui

Read in English 俄罗斯钢琴家帕维尔·科列斯尼科夫（Pavel Kolesnikov）与哈萨克斯坦钢琴家萨姆森·崔（Samson Tsoy）合作的双钢琴专辑《斯特拉文斯基：春之祭／拉威尔：鹅妈妈》（Stravinsky: Le Sacre du printemps / Ravel: Ma mère l’Oye），刚入围2026年留声机大奖钢琴类别。8月18日，我在英格兰东海岸的斯奈普麦芽厂（Snape Maltings）看过帕维尔一晚弹完肖邦全部21首《夜曲》的独奏会。在他登台前，我们在芦苇地边上聊了很长时间。 来自西伯利亚的帕维尔，曾先后师从俄罗斯钢琴教育家谢尔盖·多伦斯基（Sergei Dorensky）、英国钢琴教育家诺玛·费舍尔（Norma Fisher）以及玛丽亚·若昂·皮雷斯（Maria João Pires）。2012年，他获得加拿大Honens国际钢琴比赛首奖，此后逐渐成为国际乐坛备受关注的钢琴家；2014年至2016年入选BBC Radio 3新世代艺术家计划，2016年首次登上逍遥音乐节舞台，并在2020/21乐季担任威格莫尔音乐厅常驻艺术家。他也长期与伴侣萨姆森·崔合作，两人于2019年共同创办Ragged音乐节，探索音乐与建筑、视觉艺术以及非传统演出空间之间的关系。 9月18日，帕维尔将再次登上威格莫尔音乐厅的舞台，与萨姆森·崔、阿德里安·布伦德尔（Adrian Brendel）和男高音博格丹·沃尔科夫（Bogdan Volkov）合作，带来一场纪念俄罗斯作曲家列昂尼德·杰西亚特尼科夫（Leonid Desyatnikov）的音乐会。帕维尔刚刚录制完成的《肖邦：夜曲》（Chopin: Nocturnes）专辑也将在10月发行。 对话帕维尔·科列斯尼科夫：来自里赫特、培根、山本耀司与霍克尼的启发 LC=张璐诗 PK=Pavel Kolesnikov 两个版本的升c小调夜曲 LC：可以谈谈你即将发行的新专辑《肖邦：夜曲》吗？这也是今晚音乐会的曲目。首先，为什么《升c小调夜曲》有两个版本？ PK：其实并不完全清楚为什么会有两个版本，这方面的文献记载并不完整。总体来说，那些早期夜曲，即使在学界也存在一些争论，比如某一首到底是不是小调。其中一首其实是在很久以后、到了他生命晚期才被记录下来的，我们现存的唯一手稿也是晚年的手稿；但从风格上来说，我仍然坚信它是一首早期作品。有意思的是，他在晚期又回到了自己早期的音乐语言。时间跨度虽然没有那么长，但到了生命快结束时，他又重新回到了那些元素。这一点非常有意思，我觉得他晚年还记录下那首小调夜曲，这一点尤其值得注意。 而《升c小调夜曲》存在几个不同的手稿版本，其中一个包含非常有意思的节奏变化。整体上稍有不同，但到了中段，它有一个非常神奇而独特的节奏变化：进入了另一种拍号，却没有真正改变原来的拍子。 我是在做这张专辑的时候才发现这一点的，所以决定把这个版本也录下来。同时我也觉得它是一首很重要的作品：写于肖邦刚刚离开波兰的时候，似乎很可能是一封写给他姐姐的信。对我来说，这是一首相当私人化的作品，里面有一种非常特别的声音世界，有点尖锐，里面有很多开放的五度、四度，还有那些距离非常遥远、不断共鸣的空旷音程。它会让我想到肖邦自己的声音。我把两个版本都录了下来，然后想：真有必要都放进专辑吗？后来又想，何不把两首放在同等的位置上？于是就都放进去了。 山本耀司启发的挑战 LC：当你准备把所有这些夜曲放在一起演奏，与独立去演奏每首夜曲相比，有什么不同？ PK：非常不同。而且很难。我还在摸索它到底是什么。当然，这和录音完全不同。录音的过程更像拍电影，而不是演戏剧。现场演出则完全不同。今天我们用的就是录制这张专辑时的同一架钢琴，刚才我还在和技术人员讨论，我们必须用完全不同的方式来调音，不能按照录音时的方式调，因为这是完全不同的过程。我需要把声音投射到观众那里，而不是像录音时那样，为麦克风创造一个声音世界。 不过我跑题了。你问的是，把所有夜曲放在一起演奏会是什么感觉。这是一项很复杂的任务。这21首夜曲是在非常长的一段时间里创作出来的，从肖邦十几岁时非常早期的作品，一直到晚年非常成熟、非常重要的作品。我觉得最后三首夜曲是他创作过的最重要的作品之一，其中有些作品观众熟悉到极点，而这很成问题，因为观众会带着期待进场。要让一位听众切换到“此刻正在发生什么”，而不是去听自己脑海里那个“我知道这首曲子应该是什么样”的声音，相当困难。而这当然正是我上台演出的任务。 与此同时，也有些作品对普通观众来说是完全陌生的。我敢肯定，今晚这一整套里，每个人都会遇到至少一首自己以前不太熟悉的作品。听这些作品需要高度专注，其中很多音乐非常内省。这是一场很长的演出，大约两个小时，是强度很高的任务。 我其实非常害怕这件事。去年秋天之前，我甚至没有认真考虑过把夜曲完整地放进一场音乐会里。后来有一次我在巡演，收到邀请去巴黎看山本耀司的秀，本来不打算去，但突然意识到自己有一天空档，不知道为什么，我突然觉得自己应该去。萨姆森当时也和我一起巡演，所以我们一块儿去了。到了现场，我们在座位上发现了一张小卡片：请观众关掉手机，不要在演出期间拍照或录像，而是让自己专注此刻。我觉得这个想法特别好，而且他们用了一种很尊重观众的方式。然后演出开始了，那是我看过的最好的演出之一，而它恰恰完成了我想要实现的那种状态：服装极其丰富，每一件都有相当多的细节，而且它们都处在相似的情绪区域里。然而整个过程被安排得行云流水，每一次细微的变化，都在刚刚好的时刻出现，让你始终置身其中，节奏从未被打断。 最让我着迷的就是这整个过程有多么冒险。我坐在那儿想：只有一个一辈子都在做这种事情、而且从来不听那些“你不应该这么做”的人，才可能做到这样的事情。于是那一刻我决定：必须试试看。因为这是可能做到的，只是需要大量的经验和能量。但当它真正产生效果的时候，实在太美了。所以我把它当成了一个挑战：一个受到山本耀司启发的挑战。 帕维尔·科列斯尼科夫在斯奈普麦芽厂音乐厅 © BPA 肖邦“其实更接近20世纪的感受力” LC：你刚才说，有些作品观众非常熟悉。你是不是担心肖邦的音乐变成一种陈词滥调？演绎的时候，有时你会不会去抵抗某种习惯的演绎方式？ PK：我觉得肖邦其实是一个被严重误解的作曲家。昨天我刚好还和我的朋友格伦·布朗（Glenn Brown，英国当代艺术家）谈到这个问题。肖邦当然是一位浪漫主义作曲家，使用的语言也非常典型地属于浪漫主义，但他处理音乐、发展音乐思想的方式，都绝不是19世纪中期的典型模式，而是更接近20世纪初、甚至20世纪中期的感受力。我把这称为“美的屏障”，有时候几乎无法穿透。作为表演艺术，我觉得确实有一些技巧可以帮助听众越过这道屏障，在当下与音乐真正发生联系。其中有些东西很难用语言解释，有时只是和演奏者的个人魅力、舞台存在感有关，这种东西有就有，没有就没有。 但也有一些纯粹技术性的元素，比如非常轻微的“扰乱”，我其实是从视觉艺术里学到这个想法的。我读过一本弗朗西斯·培根的访谈集，是大卫·西尔维斯特（David Sylvester）采访他的，培根非常坦率、也非常清晰地谈到，如何在绘画里引入偶然性，如何通过某种打断来破坏画面，从而让它变得更加真实。从那以后，我就开始实验，看看这种方法可以怎么用。慢慢地，我形成了自己的一套非常小的“扰乱”方式：对旋律线条或者和声做非常细微的调整。大多数时候这是听不出来的，我曾找过一些我信任的朋友和听众做测试，他们还从没在我做这些事情的时候意识到不同。 但我觉得这么做确实有效：通过稍微改变乐句的方式，可以把听众拉进来，而他们并没有意识到，不会觉得某个地方稍微“不对”、“不自然”。对于那些大家耳熟能详的音乐，这是个大问题，有时最有效的方法甚至不是去改变音乐本身，而是做一些其他的事情，去打破或者重新定位这种惯性。 其实我在这个音乐厅（指斯奈普麦芽厂音乐厅）做过一次对我来说非常重要的实验。大概四五年前，在奥德堡音乐节（Aldeburgh Festival）开幕式上，我做过一场带有戏剧色彩的演出，灵感来自我非常喜欢的艺术家约瑟夫·康奈尔（Joseph Cornell）。那场演出有点超现实主义的意思，把音乐、灯光、影像和文字放在一起，当时我和苏菲·希克斯（Sophie Hicks）、马丁·克里姆普（Martin Crimp）合作。我没有改变音乐本身，但舞台安排和灯光处理得很微妙，在不干扰音乐的前提下，会让观众感到一点意外，稍微离开舒适区，让他们重听非常熟悉的作品时，感觉突然脱离了原本习惯的语境。我想这会带来很不一样的效果。 我的很多节目都是这样运作。另一个有效的方法是设计一些不寻常的组合，让一首作品影响你听下一首作品的方式。过去五六年，甚至七年来，我一直在做这样的节目。这次肖邦独奏会对我来说反倒是一次新尝试，因为我已经很久没有演过一晚上只弹一位作曲家的音乐会了。 LC：“夜曲”这个概念或许也会限制想象。 PK：绝对是。所以我把作品分成了三组，试图寻找这些“夜曲”之间共同的线索。我喜欢给东西分类，这可能是我的科学背景在发挥作用。很早在研究它们的时候，我就发现，并不是所有这些音乐都是“夜”的音乐。其中有大量的光——可能是反射的光，也可能是内在的光，或是某种火焰，但并不一定属于夜晚。这些作品之所以是“夜曲”，我觉得那是因为它们发生在想象之中，而不是对夜晚的字面描述。 最终我把作品分别放到了“梦”、“记忆”和“幻象”这三个类别中。记忆当然是关于回望过去；梦，在这个语境里，我把它理解为“当下”；而“幻象”则是向前看，是尚未发生、可能发生的事情。我觉得这些作品非常自然地落入这三个类别里，当然，有时候同一首作品既可以是记忆，也可以是梦；或者既是梦，也是幻象，它们会在这些状态之间流动。 成长在“理想主义”的西伯利亚“科学家城” LC：你刚才提到了自己的科学背景。可以谈谈你在西伯利亚的成长吗？ PK：我出生在新西伯利亚一个叫Akademgorodok的地方，这个名字的意思就是“科学家城”。它是二战以后在俄罗斯腹地建立起来的一个重要科学研究中心。我感觉那实际上是前苏联时期一个非常幸福、非常自由的地方，而且文化非常先进。但我出生于1989年，也就是前苏联解体前几年，因此我没有真正经历“科学家城”逐渐崩塌的过程，之后那里当然发生了很大的变化，因为科学研究几乎完全失去了资金支持，现在那里已重新发展成为一个IT中心。 我成长的时候，家乡给我带来的是一段带点甜蜜感的记忆，我仍然能感受到它在鼎盛时期的美好，那是前苏联时期一个相当理想主义的港湾。我的父母都是科学家，我的祖父母几乎也全是科学家，所以我成长在一个很科学化的家庭和社群里，本来完全有可能当上一名科学家，最后只是一点运气，让我走上了另外一条路。 LC：还记得小时候的音乐环境吗？ PK：在那个圈子里，每个人都会学一种乐器，这是非常普遍的。每家都有钢琴，或者吉他、小提琴、手风琴。我父亲会弹钢琴、手风琴和吉他。 LC：古典音乐吗？ PK：不只是。他会弹一点爵士，也会唱歌、弹吉他，还写点自己的歌。他也弹肖邦。肖邦也是我最早接触到的作曲家之一。我最早听到的一些夜曲就是父亲弹的，我就是在这样的环境里长大的。家里有一架立式钢琴，我开始稍微弹一点，后来有机会进入音乐学校学习。当时音乐教育是免费的，就像其他教育一样，都是免费的。我就开始学，慢慢地水平越来越高，后来进入了一所专门的音乐学校，再后来去了音乐学院。 LC：在哪里？ PK：莫斯科。 从莫斯科到伦敦 LC：你2011年搬到了伦敦，可以想象，那应该是艺术身份的一次大转换。 PK：你是说俄罗斯和英国之间？ LC：对。 PK：非常不同。而且我觉得自己非常幸运，在那个时候离开了。对我来说，那是一个正确的时间点。当然有一些个人原因让我想离开，但另外一个很重要的原因，是我想走出那个音乐圈。 莫斯科的音乐环境非常丰富，但某种程度上也非常封闭。当你在莫斯科最好的音乐学院学习时，你会觉得自己就在世界的中心，至少当时给我的感觉是这样。那是一个比较自我封闭的体系。在那儿你可以学到非常好的东西，也可以成为非常出色的音乐家，但那依然是有限的。对我来说，那样的环境有点单一，可我也说不清自己到底缺了点什么，就是本能地觉得，去别的地方对我会有好处。 最后我来到了英国。这里的音乐环境很开放，尤其是伦敦，这里每时每刻都有各种各样的事情在发生，而且没被定义得那么死，所以你不会觉得自己一定要专门做某一样东西。这对我来说非常合适。 帕维尔·科列斯尼科夫在斯奈普麦芽厂音乐厅 © BPA 与大卫·霍克尼合作 LC：你和很多视觉艺术家合作过，比如去年的大卫·霍克尼（David Hockney）。 PK：对，我和大卫做过一些非常重要的项目。 LC：这样的合作有没有影响你对音乐中光线、色彩之类的感知？ PK：只要你和别人一起工作，就一定会受到影响。我对其他影响非常敏感，而且很依赖于这些影响的养分。每当我和一位自己尊敬的艺术家合作，都会发现自己发生了变化，但很难用语言解释这种变化。 比如我和比利时伟大的编舞家、舞者安妮·特蕾莎·德·凯尔斯梅克（Anne Teresa de Keersmaeker）合作过多次。我很清楚，她现在已经进入了我的系统、已经存在于我的血液之中，这种影响会一直延续下去。大卫也是一样，他的色彩、观看方式、好奇心，都会留下影响。 但对我来说，大卫最重要的影响是一种非常肯定、非常鼓舞人的力量。2015年左右，我第一次在伦敦看他的大型回顾展，就被深深吸引：他那种大胆的好奇心、不断跳出自己的能力，完全不害怕实验，不断去尝试新的东西。因为对艺术家来说，有一种很强烈的恐惧，就是失去自己。你会害怕做出一个不如过去作品好的东西，这种恐惧很难克服。我很早就意识到，这种能量对艺术家的生命是有反作用的。 当萨姆森和我在大卫生命最后几年认识他的时候，我们亲眼看到，即使到了那个阶段，仍然没有任何东西能够阻止他去尝试下一个完全不同的东西。他就是想试试看行不行。这种勇气对我来说，是过去几年里最强大、也最鼓舞我的力量。它让我受到非常大的启发，也让我想继续去尝试新的东西。 LC：你们是怎么认识的？ PK：我们通过朋友诺曼·罗森塔尔（Norman Rosenthal）认识。他跟大卫说起我们，大卫说想听我们演奏，但那时他的体力已经不太够，没法出门听音乐会了。于是我们和琴行合作，决定把一架跟今天这架差不多的三角钢琴，直接送到他工作室，然后我们给大卫演奏了《春之祭》。他特别开心，他真的很热爱音乐，而且理解得非常深，他是一个了不起的音乐爱好者。 那是几年前的事情。从那以后我们一直保持联系，也一起参与了他的回顾展，我在展览上演奏。我们原本还在为他在伦敦蛇形画廊的展览准备另外一个项目，但很遗憾，他去世了，因此项目最终没有实现。说实话，我没想到大卫会这么早离开我们，他看起来还那么有活力，还在期待自己接下来要做的新事情。 LC：对你来说，音乐是视觉的吗？ PK：对我来说，音乐和其他所有艺术形式之间有着很紧密的联系，有时候通过比较两种艺术形式，既比较相似，也比较不同，会更容易去理解。 我不认为自己是在“视觉化”音乐。当然，有时候会出现一些视觉上的联想。但更重要的是，我能看到音乐里有一些东西，和绘画或者其他视觉艺术的运作方式非常相似，比如“构图”。当你从视觉的角度去思考时，会更容易理解音乐中的构图。因为音乐是在时间中发展的，而对于我们来说，要把一个在时间中展开的东西作为一个整体去理解，本来就不是那么自然。但如果一件事物是我们能在一个瞬间看到的，我们就可以更自由地分析它的形式和结构。 但我们这个时代太习惯于把一件事情和另一件事情、生活中的一个领域和另一个领域分开。对我来说，不论是不是艺术工作者，理想的生活方式应该是一种庞大的、持续不断的创作状态，一切都彼此连接，没有那么多明确的分界。 LC：不同音乐门类之间，你也这么觉得吗？ PK：是的。当然，如果谈论质量，古典音乐里确实包含了数量惊人的、质量极高的作品，其他音乐门类存在的时间还没这么长，或者发展的方式有所不同，因此积累的作品数量没那么多。但总体来说，我不会太去区分不同门类的好音乐。我对古典音乐更熟悉，因为它占据了我人生中绝大部分时间。但活得越久，我确实就越看不到这种区别。 里赫特的启示 LC：你刚才说的这种跨学科、跨门类之间的内在联系，是来到英国之后才意识到的，还是更早？ PK：更早。我第一次意识到这一点，是在读斯维亚托斯拉夫·里赫特（Sviatoslav Richter）的书和日记的时候。我觉得他就是这样的人，他碰巧是一位钢琴家，但他完全可以成为其他领域的艺术家。事实上，我觉得他把自己视为音乐家，而不是钢琴家。我记得大概15岁的时候拿到他的书，读了很多遍。看他谈音乐，然后突然转到艺术，所有东西都如此自然地连接在一起，我后来几乎能倒背如流。那是一个特别迷人的世界，所有事物都鲜活地联系在一起，一件事情能够以不可预测、却又非常美好的方式激活另一件事。后来，这也慢慢变成了我的一部分。我开始探索，自己该如何进入这样的世界。 谈萨姆森·崔：“第一次听他弹琴，我就对他着迷” LC：你是在伦敦遇到萨姆森的吗？ PK：不，我们是十年前在莫斯科认识的，后来一起到了英国。我们一直一起做很多事情，尤其是疫情之后，正式组成了双钢琴组合。因为当时被关在同一间公寓里，我们就开始想还能做点什么。双钢琴或者四手联弹是一种难度很高的合作形式，需要花很多时间待在一起，才能做到在一架钢琴或者两架钢琴上同时演奏。从那以后，这个组合就成为我们生活中很重要的一部分。现在大概有三成的音乐会是我们俩一起演的，也已经一起录了三张专辑，做了很多其他项目。 LC：这种非常紧密的合作关系，对你自己的艺术身份有什么样的影响？你们会挑战对方吗？ PK：会，我们会互相挑战。但我们之间有很长的历史，一切都始于莫斯科。那时候我们经常给彼此演奏，从很早开始就互相学习，我总觉得自己从萨姆森那里学到了很多。也许正因如此，我们现在可以合作得这么好：在真正开始一起工作之前，我们已经观察彼此、寻找彼此的方式很多年了。 从我第一次听到他的演奏开始，我就对他非常着迷。很快我就意识到，他是完全不同类型的音乐家，能做到一些我觉得非常难做到的事情，而我非常想从他那里学习。这个过程花了很长时间。很多年来，我们经常互相演奏，然后请对方给反馈，同时也慢慢学会怎样给彼此反馈。尤其是当两个人如此不同的时候，这其实很难。 我想萨姆森可能也会对我有类似的看法。他也欣赏我是一个完全不同类型的艺术家，在某种意义上甚至和他相反。但因为我们这么多年来一直并肩成长，也观察和参与了彼此的成长，所以我们越来越亲近。而且我们也很喜欢一起做项目。过去六七年里，我们做的很多“不寻常”的项目都是一起完成的，包括唱片。这很棒，因为我们拥有非常不同的视角。 LC：我一直好奇你俩合办的Ragged音乐节，当初是不是想做一些传统音乐厅或者音乐节无法做到的事情？ PK：Ragged其实是偶然发生的。我们的好朋友艾丽卡·戴维斯（Erica Davies）邀请萨姆森和我去伦敦东区的Ragged School Museum演一场音乐会。那是一个很美、很特别的地方，在某种程度上，和斯奈普麦芽厂这里有点像：并不奢华，但空间本身非常有力量。 她邀请我们之后，我们开始研究实际的操作，结果发现，把钢琴运到那里非常困难，因为钢琴需要用吊车从窗户吊进去，而窗户本身还必须拆下来。整个事情慢慢变成了一项很大的工程。于是我们跟她说，既然都要把钢琴运过去，那是不是至少应该做两场音乐会？我想第一次就是这样开始的，我们做了两场。 后来我们发现，那里的氛围实在太有启发性了，也和普通音乐厅完全不同，非常刺激我们的创作欲望，于是我们想做得更多。而那个地方最美妙的一点是，我们真的可以不去考虑演出市场的趋势，也不用太在意票房，因为那里根本没有那么多票可以卖。每次都很快售罄。所以我们可以去做一些在普通音乐厅里很难做、甚至根本不可能做的事情。它慢慢变成了一个小型的艺术家社群。 我觉得这种纯粹性非常难在更大的规模上实现，而它最美的地方恰恰是始终保持在一个很小的规模。我们可以做实验性的节目，也可以用不同的方式来组织它；甚至可以非常晚才决定节目。 “提前很久规划”可能是我们这个行业无法避免的一种弊病。因为我们必须做计划，而且往往要提前很久。我以前曾经接触过时装行业，当时我特别羡慕他们，因为他们真正需要提前确定的东西其实没有那么多。这意味着他们可以非常接近创作当下的状态。而对我们来说，却是——“三年以后我要弹什么？”可我根本不知道三年以后自己会变成什么样的人。 所以Ragged给了我们一个非常独特的机会去探索。我们其实有点意外，也非常受宠若惊。更重要的是，观众真的理解了我们在做什么。他们的反应非常鼓舞人心。我们没想到它会这么成功。 后来，它慢慢变得更大了一点。我们意识到，可以用同样的方式进入不同、有趣的空间，创造真正为那个地方量身定制的东西。这后来几乎变成了我所有工作的一个线索。我已经没办法把这种工作方式从自己的系统里清除掉了。每当有机会，我都会去想：这场演出的具体环境是什么？它发生在哪里？这个空间会怎样影响演出？Ragged音乐节后来也开始做巡回版本，在不同地方举办音乐节。空间可以完全不同，有时候甚至更大，但我们仍然把艺术家群体保持得很小。每一届大概不会超过八个人，而且每个人都会参加每一场音乐会。大家一起演奏，一起把整个东西搭起来，主要是不同编制的室内乐。整个节目都是从那个地方的能量发展出来的，至少这是我们对那个特定时刻的理解。 LC：你说明年冬天想在伦敦做这个音乐节，你说的是一年最开始的那几天？天气很冷。也会是非常即兴、自发的吗？ PK：其实那是一个非常有吸引力的时间，因为那时候几乎没人做任何事情，这反而是个优势。每年圣诞假期，如果我真的休假，总觉得应该去什么地方，可那时候又没什么事情可以做。所有人都像是在冬眠。嗯，我们现在才刚刚开始讨论和思考，也在看看我们最喜欢的一些合作伙伴中，谁有可能参加。然后从那里开始，我们再慢慢发展节目，让它适合那个时间、那个时刻、那个地点，甚至是当时的光线、天气等等。 Writer Lucy Cheung

Read in English 即将于8月30、31日在伦敦交响乐团麾下的圣路加教堂（LSO St Luke’s ）上演的《Chronicle 时•录》，是华人艺术团体七巧板（Tangram）与英国合唱团SANSARA的合作作品，并由荷兰室内合唱团（Nederlands Kamerkoor）共同委约。作品建立在王艺霖（Yilin Wang）对中国古代六位女性诗人诗作的英文翻译之上，今年6月先在奥德堡音乐节（Aldeburgh Festival）上做了首演。 Alex Ho与孙柯亭（Rockey Sun Keting）是七巧板的两位联合艺术总监，也是作曲家。Alex Ho出生于英国，2018年创立七巧板；孙柯亭在中国长大并接受音乐训练，后来移居英国。两人拥有不同的成长经历，以及对中国、中国文化和身份的不同经验，但这种差异并没有成为他们共同创作时需要被解释或调和的问题，反而逐渐成为七巧板创作方式的一部分。 在《Chronicle 时•录》中，孙柯亭和Alex Ho各自为三位诗人创作音乐，但这并不是六首作品依次排列。作品以三个部分构成一条完整的音乐与戏剧弧线，音乐、戏剧结构、舞台、道具和视觉设计从创作初期便同步发展，而不是遵循传统歌剧“先文本、再音乐、最后设计”的线性模式。全程由 SANSARA以英文演唱王艺霖的译文，古汉语原文则以字幕呈现。 孙柯亭长期为当代舞和古典芭蕾创作，对身体性和空间尤其感兴趣。七巧板最初更接近一个当代音乐团体，以中西乐器结合、音乐会演出以及中国民歌改编为主，后来逐渐发展成一个艺术家集体，创作跨越音乐、戏剧、舞蹈、视觉艺术、现场绘画、行为艺术和中国戏曲等不同领域。目前，七巧板的两位作曲家是伦敦圣路加教堂的驻场艺术家。 对话七巧板：让差异共冶一炉 WW＝王纬达 RS＝孙柯亭 AH＝Alex Ho “我们在七巧板所做的事情，有一种很美的感觉，就是让不同在同一个地方共存。我们并不是要展示彼此的身份有多么不同。” 两位作曲家，六位诗人 WW：孙柯亭，你在中国长大、接受音乐训练，后来来到英国；Alex则出生在英国。你们与中国文化以及身份的关系并不相同。当你们面对同一组素材时，这种差异会不会带来不同的创作直觉？ RS：每个人写音乐的方式都不一样，一个人的创作会受到很多因素影响，文化只是其中之一。但具体到这个项目，我们面对的是王艺霖翻译的六位中国古代女性诗人的作品，我进入这些文本的方式其实非常直接，就是从我如何阅读这些诗、如何感受它们出发。我没有传统合唱音乐的背景，所以我并不是从“这段文字应该如何放进西方合唱传统”这样的角度开始。Alex的方式和我有一些不同。 AH：某种程度上，这其实不是特别适合由我们自己来回答的问题，因为我们在创作时太专注于寻找解决方案了。也许历史学家或者音乐学者更适合回答。但七巧板之所以成为现在的七巧板，部分原因就在于孙柯亭和我对于中国以及中国文化确实有着不同的经历，而这种差异也贯穿于七巧板的所有作品——包括我们的两位设计师Peng Ke和Meng Chang。他们也有各自的经历，并用他们认为合适的方式去理解这些故事。在《Chronicle 时•录》里，我们把六位女性诗人分给彼此，各自负责三位，所以实际上形成了两条不同的创作旅程。也许最好的方式，就是分别听这两组音乐，然后再去听它们彼此如何并置。 WW：那么，这两部分最后是怎么连接起来的？彼此之间有没有共享的素材？ AH：我们共享创作的方式有很多。首先肯定存在一种潜意识层面的共享，因为到了现在，我们已经非常熟悉彼此的音乐，所以从一开始就知道什么样的融合是可能的，也彼此信任。但与此同时，设计、戏剧结构和叙事也是我们共同创造的，而且从一开始、甚至在音乐还没有写出来之前，我们就已经一起在构思这些东西。所以这种共享其实是贯穿整个创作过程的，而不是只发生在音乐层面。 WW：在开始这个项目之前，你们对这些诗人有多熟悉？ RS：我对李清照非常熟悉，其他一些人听说过，但也有几位是我以前完全没有听说过的。这让我对中国女性诗人的世界有了更大的认识，但同时也让我意识到，即使是在中国长大，我们从教科书里了解到的东西其实也非常有限。现在回头看，这真的有点不可思议。我也很好奇，你以前知道她们吗？ WW：有些名字是熟悉的，但名字背后的生命经历，我其实没有那么熟悉。而且我们现在接触这些女性，已经是经过译者的框架重新呈现之后的她们，这本身就带来了另一层视角。然后音乐又给了我们对同一个人的第三种理解。所以某种意义上，我们一直在穿过不同的层次——历史中的那个人、译者对她的诠释，再到作曲家自己的回应。我觉得这很有意思，因为最终我们所遇见的那个人，已经不可能只是所谓“原本的”那个人，而是在不同的声音、不同的媒介中不断被重新想象。 《Chronicle 时•录》在奥德堡音乐节首演现场 © BPA 不是六首歌排在一起 WW：除了提供翻译之外，王艺霖在这个项目中还承担了怎样的角色？ AH：她不是简单地把文本交给我们。她选择了这些诗人，也负责翻译，而正因为我们使用的是她的译文，它从一开始就会非常深刻地影响整部作品的结构和发展。我们和她进行了很多讨论，双方也互相学习。比如合唱戏剧、如何让一个合唱团成为舞台上的戏剧主体，这对我们所有人来说都是全新的。 WW：合唱团实际演唱的是哪种语言？ AH：英语。古汉语原文会出现在字幕里。这次创作过程真正特别的地方就在这里。它不是典型的歌剧创作模式——先拿到文本，文本完成之后写音乐，音乐完成之后再做设计。很长一段时间里，我们已经知道会使用哪些设计元素和道具，有些甚至在音乐写出来之前就已经确定，有些是在音乐创作进行到一半的时候确定的。真正的工作，是找到这些不同线索之间如何彼此连接的方式。 WW：那么，最终的作品是什么样的结构？ AH：一共三个部分。第一部分是关于战争——这些诗人如何经历战争，又如何在战争中生存下来。第二部分进入唐代，更具体地讨论这些女性为什么没有被视为与男性文学家平等。最后一部分围绕死亡与告别，以及我们如何理解死亡和告别。全作大约七十分钟，由合唱团演出。现在世界上有很多冲突，所以其中可能会自然地产生一些与当下战争和冲突之间的回声，但具体观众会怎样回应，我们还要等演出之后才知道。 从乐团到艺术家集体 WW：我们暂时离开《Chronicle 时•录》，谈谈七巧板本身。它最初更接近一个当代音乐团体——中西乐器、音乐会、中国民歌改编；而现在，你们会加入现场绘画、行为艺术、中国戏曲和舞台表演。有没有某一个项目，让你们意识到七巧板已经变成了一个不同于乐团的东西？ RS：Alex在2018年创立七巧板。那时候我们都是作曲家，在不同项目中认识彼此，而且各自已经形成了相对独立的音乐语言。我一直在为当代舞和古典芭蕾创作，也一直对身体性和空间感兴趣。当我开始和Alex共同策划七巧板的时候，我提出一个想法：七巧板所面对的离散、身份这些问题，其实可以超越纯粹的音乐视角，进入空间，也进入观众在那个时间、那个地方的实际体验。所以我们的出发点依然是音乐，但现在关注的已经远远不只是音乐了。但这并不意味着我们规定每一部作品都必须有跨学科艺术家参与。那从来都不是我们的目标。刚才你用了“演变”这个词，我其实不太确定这是不是一种演变。我更愿意说，这就是七巧板自己成长的过程。 AH：如果要用最简单、甚至有点粗糙的方式来描述这个过程，我会说：我们从一个乐团发展成了一个艺术家集体。最开始，我们很明确地以中西乐器结合为核心，在不同场地演出，也做中国民歌的改编。后来，正如孙柯亭所说，我们开始对更广义的叙事产生兴趣。等到我们真正一起做这些事情的时候，一切都变得非常自然。另外一个非常重要的因素，是伦敦圣路加教堂。我们是这里的驻场艺术家，他们是一个非常出色的团队。这个场地真正厉害的地方，不只是空间本身，也包括整个团队所拥有的技术资源和专业经验——他们能够帮助艺术家做一些不同于传统古典音乐会的事情。如果没有这层合作，我不知道我们能不能在这么短的时间里尝试这么多不同的东西：舞蹈、现场绘画、行为艺术、中国戏曲等等。光是今年，我们就从一场关于现场喜剧与东方主义的演出开始，之后做了关于《易经》哲学和LED装置的作品，现在又来到了中国诗歌。我觉得这一点非常重要。西方世界经常把中国以及中国文化呈现成一件事情——一个概念、一种文化、一种单一的表达方式。而我们做这么多完全不同的项目，其实也是在回应中国文化本身的多元性。 《Chronicle 时•录》在奥德堡音乐节首演现场 © BPA 我已经厌倦了“东西方相遇”这种叙事 WW：你们现在还觉得“东方”和“西方”这样的二元框架，对于音乐来说有意义吗？ AH：我现在最强烈的感受就是，我真的已经厌倦了“东西方相遇”这个叙事。它非常短视、非常过时，而且充满了殖民主义的话语。所以我通常会拒绝别人预设一个“东西方”的框架。因为我的很多经验都告诉我，这两件事情根本不是互相排斥的。我不可能今天是中国人，明天又变成英国人。这也适用于我们的工作。我不认为孙柯亭和我之间有过这样的对话：“好，这一部分我们要做成西方的，那一部分做成中国的。”我们从来不是这样创作的。人其实也不是这样思考的。 WW：我也有同样的感觉。但当作品被推广的时候——当一个艺术团体向观众讲述自己的故事时——人们还是会把它简化成“这是中国的，这是西方的”。它可能已经过时，甚至带有殖民主义色彩，但在整个艺术行业里，它依然存在。你们怎么面对这种不会消失的框架？ RS：其实这种二元对立本身就是一种西方的衡量方式，在中文里本来就没有完全对应的东西。我们在七巧板所做的事情，有一种很美的感觉，就是让不同在同一个地方共存。我们并不是要展示彼此的身份有多么不同。一个艺术家的身份有很多层——背景、品味、美学、哲学——所以在内部始终会存在一种很美的冲突，以及这些很美的差异。但别人如何理解我们，是另一回事。那是一个更大的社会学问题，需要从更大的层面去处理。一旦进入这个层面，你就已经离开了艺术创作、离开了音乐，也离开了我们作为艺术家真正正在做的事情。它和政治、文化都有很大关系，而音乐只是文化的一部分，又是一种非常抽象的艺术形式，它能够表达的东西其实非常有限。所以，我在乎别人怎么看我们吗？就我个人而言，其实不太在乎。如果有人把我们看成一个处于“东西方”二元框架中的中国艺术团体，那是他们的理解。我们想做的是一些对我们来说具有艺术意义、值得讨论的事情。我们并不是要给出一个正确答案，也不是要证明什么。一切都是关于发现的过程、创作的过程，以及探索我们眼前这个世界的过程。 一种可辨认的“中国性”？ WW：当你们和伦敦圣路加教堂这样的英国机构合作时，会不会感觉到一种期待——有中国背景的艺术家就应该呈现一种观众能够辨认出来的“中国性”？ AH：也许需要区分一下我们作为独立作曲家所做的作品，以及作为七巧板所做的作品。回头看我们在圣路加教堂做过的所有项目，我从来没有感受到他们要求我们必须创作一部关于中国的作品。当然，这里面显然存在一些非常复杂的潜意识因素，我不确定现在有没有必要详细展开。我更愿意把创作过程和反思过程区分开来。在创作的时候，我不认为我们会太多考虑“如何成为中国人”这件事。我们会选择当时真正感兴趣的主题，然后选择想合作的人，再直接进入创作。我不认为人们应该仅仅因为《Chronicle 时•录》讲的是中国女性就来看它。那太过于简化了。真正重要的是，当观众进入这个空间之后会发生什么——他们能不能被这些诗歌打动，能不能对这些女性生命产生同情。不是因为她们是中国人，甚至也不只是因为她们是女性，而是因为她们首先是和我们一样的人。所以我会有一点犹豫，不想一直讨论中国、中国式的创作方式以及市场的影响，因为在我看来，这些事情和我们的创作过程是相对独立的。 《Chronicle 时•录》在奥德堡音乐节首演现场 © BPA 历史的声音，但不是一堂历史课 WW：为什么这些声音在今天依然显得迫切？而从《Bound / Unbound》到《Chronicle 时•录》，历史是不是一直在七巧板的创作中反复出现？ RS：关于她为什么选择这些诗、这些诗人，真正应该回答这个问题的人其实是王艺霖。但这个项目今天依然让我们觉得很有意义，并不是因为我们以前没有讨论过这些问题，而是因为问题在于：这些声音究竟有没有被听见。如果不是由SANSARA来演唱，这些声音也许永远不会被听到、不会被真正聆听。今天依然有很多人被迫沉默，有人害怕说出自己的想法，害怕表达自己。这也是这些文本吸引我的原因之一。 AH：这些译文本身就已经说明了它们为什么和今天有关。这些女性的写作都有非常强烈的自传性色彩，你可以清楚地看到诗歌和她们亲身经历的生活，以及她们所处的处境之间的联系。 WW：如果回头看你们最近的作品，历史是不是已经有意识地成为一种重要的创作素材？ RS：你这么一说，我才发现它好像确实对我们很重要。但在创作当时，我们并不会想：“这是我们一定要做的事情。”我们并没有一种强烈的使命感，觉得必须讲述历史上的女性故事。并不是这样的。很多东西是在我们不断探索的过程中自己浮现出来的——那些有趣的、没有被说过的、没有被讲述的故事。我们是一个艺术家集体，也是讲故事的人，所以当我们讲述别人的故事时，自然会产生一种感觉：我们能从这些人身上学到什么？能从历史中学到什么？而我们又能够通过这些人的故事和这些历史的镜头，表达关于自己的什么？ AH：确实完全不是事先计划好的。是王艺霖选择了这些诗人和诗歌——我们没有给她一个任务，说一定要选择中国女性。她就是自己去做了这件事。真正有意识的，是合作本身。做《Bound / Unbound》的时候，我们有一位歌剧歌手和一位中国剑舞者，那也是孙柯亭和我第一次紧密合作，并且和同一组设计师Peng Ke、Meng Chang一起工作。这一次还是同一个团队，所以能够在之前的基础上继续发展，探索如何制作具有戏剧性的音乐作品，我觉得非常好。当然，这次的演出对象从之前的乐团、歌手和舞者变成了一个合唱团，这对我们来说也是全新的。 WW：如果观众没有足够的历史背景，会不会担心他们无法理解这个故事？这会不会构成一种文化上的障碍？ AH：那么，希望我们至少能够做出一部自己能够理解的作品吧（笑）。不过有一点很重要：我们并不是在创作这些女性的传记。我们不是要给观众上课，也不是要试图用一部七十分钟的合唱作品讲完中国历史。如果观众走出剧场的时候，并不完全了解李清照的一生，这并不意味着我们失败了。如果他们什么都没有完全理解，却被整个体验打动了——为什么这就不能是一种成功的反应？如果他们只是单纯享受了音乐，我也会很高兴。 归根结底，还是合唱团在唱歌 WW：作品里有舞台调度、道具、身体性和视觉设计。你会怎样描述它最终的形式？ RS：它就是一个合唱团。当然，我们会探索歌手的身体性，也会有戏剧化的空间、舞台调度、道具和视觉元素，会有很多不同的东西同时存在。但归根结底，它还是合唱团在演唱Alex和我的音乐。 WW：这是你们第一次和SANSARA合作。这个合唱团本身已经拥有非常鲜明的传统和身份，这有没有影响作品？还是说等他们加入时，音乐已经基本写完了？ AH：SANSARA加入得非常早。我们当时找到他们的艺术总监汤姆·赫林（Tom Herring），问他愿不愿意参与一个合唱戏剧项目——这就是当时他们得到的全部信息，因为这也是我们当时拥有的全部信息。没有主题，甚至连作家都还没有确定。能找到这样一个对非常特殊的传统——西方英国圣公会合唱传统——如此熟悉，同时又愿意参与这样的项目的合唱团，是非常难得的。这对他们来说当然也是一次冒险，因为这样的作品和英国通常看到的合唱作品非常不同。孙柯亭和我曾经在布里顿-皮尔斯艺术中心（Britten Pears Arts）做过一天的小型驻地，与其中一些歌手一起工作。我们听他们唱歌，也了解他们的工作方式和兴趣。之后，我们更多是在知道这个项目会有一个合唱团存在的前提下，去发展整个声音世界和戏剧世界，而不是一开始就非常具体地想象SANSARA会带来怎样的声音。这里一直存在一种来回：你当然是在为一个特定的合奏团写作，但在必要的时候，你也还是在为自己写作。 WW：当戏剧、文本、身体、声音和视觉元素同时存在时，你希望观众以什么方式观看这样的作品？有没有一种最好的接受方式？ RS：你会怎么回答这个问题？ WW：现在伦敦的舞台上，这似乎已经成为一种趋势——音乐不再总是单纯的音乐，它会变成声音、视觉效果、媒体艺术，以及很多其他东西。有时候我自己也不知道应该抓住哪个元素。观众又来自完全不同的背景——有人来自文学，有人来自视觉艺术，有人来自音乐——所以大家可能会因为完全不同的原因，对同一部作品感兴趣。我通常会先决定自己认为这是一种什么样的作品，然后选择一个角度去关注。但这对创作者来说，我想也是一个真正的困难。 RS：这对我来说其实很有意思。我之前真的没有从这个角度想过。我们会讨论的是，在某一个具体时刻，我们预判观众究竟会看到什么。作为创作者，我们对此非常谨慎：当一个空间里同时存在多种艺术门类时，不可能所有东西一直同时进行。你必须始终给彼此留出空间，让每一个元素都有自己的位置，这样观众才能知道此刻应该把注意力放在哪里。不同的人会带着不同的兴趣进来——有人可能更关注历史，有人关注音乐，有人关注视觉。这一部分是他们自己的选择。我们能做的，是非常仔细地设计每一个时刻，让观众清楚地感觉到：在这一刻，我们希望你关注的是什么。当我去看一部作品，如果发现自己完全不知道应该把注意力放在哪里，我会觉得创作者的意图没有被很好地传达出来，然后我会重新思考整个创作过程。所以，我没有办法告诉你应该把注意力放在哪一个点上——但我可以告诉你，我们在创作这部作品的时候，非常认真地考虑了不同元素之间应该如何彼此存在。 Writer Weida Wang

阅读中文版 Chronicle 时•录: Heroines Among the Ghosts is a collaboration between Tangram and the UK choir SANSARA, co-commissioned with the Nederlands Kamerkoor and built on Yilin Wang’s translations of six women poets from ancient China. It was premiered at the Aldeburgh Festival in June and comes to LSO St Luke’s at the end of August. Ho and Sun composed music for three poets each. But the work was never conceived as six settings placed in sequence: the piece runs as a single arc in three parts, and music, dramaturgy, staging, props and design developed alongside one another rather than in the order a conventional opera commission would follow. The choir sings Wang’s English throughout; the classical Chinese appears above them, in surtitle. Alex Ho and Rockey Sun Keting are the two co-artistic directors of Tangram, as well as composers. Born in the UK, Alex Ho founded Tangram in 2018. Rockey Sun Keting grew up and received her musical training in China before moving to the UK. The two come from different backgrounds and have had very different experiences of China, Chinese culture and identity. Yet these differences have never been something that needed to be explained or reconciled in their collaborative work. Instead, they have gradually become part of Tangram’s creative practice. Rockey Sun Keting has long composed for contemporary dance and classical ballet, with a particular interest in physicality and space. Tangram initially emerged more as a contemporary music ensemble, focusing on the combination of Chinese and Western instruments, concert performances, and arrangements of Chinese folk songs. It has since evolved into an artist collective whose work spans music, theatre, dance, visual art, live painting, performance art and Chinese opera. The two composers are currently artists-in-residence at LSO St Luke’s. In Conversation with Alex Ho and Rockey Sun Keting WW=Weida Wang RS=Rocky Sun Keting AH=Alex Ho “What we’re doing in Tangram has this beautiful sense of inhabiting differences in one place. It’s not that we’re trying to show how different our identities are.” Two composers, six poets, three each WW: Rockey, you grew up and trained in China before moving to the UK; Alex was born here. You have different relationships to Chinese culture and identity. When you approach the same material, does that produce different compositional instincts? RS: Everyone writes music differently, and there are so many factors that shape how a person writes, culture is only one of them. But specifically for this project: we were working with Yilin Wang’s translations of six women poets from ancient China, and my way in came quite directly from how I read those texts and how I felt them. I didn’t come from a traditional choral background, so I wasn’t starting from the question of how a text should be set within the Western choral tradition. Alex’s approach is somewhat different to mine. AH: In some ways it’s the kind of question we’re not best placed to answer, because we’re so focused on finding solutions. Historians or musicologists might be better at it. But part of what makes Tangram what it is is that Rockey and I have genuinely different experiences of what China and Chinese cultures are, and that shows up across all of Tangram’s work — including through our two designers, Ke Peng and Chang Meng, who bring their own experiences and interpret these stories in the ways that feel right to them. For Chronicle we split the six women between us, three each, so we’ve created our own distinct journeys within our own three poets. That’s probably the best way to hear the difference: listen to each arc of three, and then to how the two arcs sit against one another. WW: And how do the two halves join? Is there shared material between them? AH: Our creativity is shared in different ways. There’s definitely a level of subconscious sharing, in that we know each other’s music very well at this point, so we trust what kind of fusing is possible from the outset. But also with the design, the dramaturgy and the narrative - these are elements we’ve created together from the start, even before the music was written, so that sharing is embedded across the process holistically. Weida Wang: How well did you know these poets before you started? RS: I knew Li Qingzhao very well, and I’d heard of some of the others. Several I had never heard of at all. It opened up my horizons on Chinese women poets, but it also showed how little we get from the textbooks - even growing up in China. That’s quite crazy, actually. I’m curious, did you know them? WW: Some of the names were familiar to me, but the lives behind those names were much less familiar. And you’re already encountering these women through a translator’s framing, which inevitably brings another perspective to the material. Then the music gives you yet another reading of the same person. So in a way, you’re moving through several layers - the historical figure, the translator’s interpretation, and then the composers’ own response. I found that really interesting, because the person you encounter in the end is never simply the “original” person; she’s being continually reimagined through different voices and different forms. Not six songs in a row WW: Beyond providing the translations, what was Yilin Wang’s role? AH: She didn’t just hand over texts. She picked the poets, she translated them, and because we had those translations, that was always going to dictate and change the arc of the whole piece in a really massive way. We had a lot of conversations with her about that journey. And there were learnings in both directions - the idea of choral theatre, of staging and dramatising a choir, was very new for all of us. WW: What language does the choir actually sing in? AH The choir sings in English. The original Chinese is in the surtitles. What was unusual was the process. It wasn’t the typical opera model, where you get a text, then that’s done, then you write the music, then that’s done, then you design it. For a long time we knew which design elements and props we were going to use, maybe even before the music was written, or partway through. The real work was figuring out how those threads come together. WW: And the shape of the finished piece? AH: It’s in three parts. The first is poems about war - how these poets lived through it and survived it. The second moves to the Tang dynasty and looks more specifically at the ways these women weren’t considered equal to their male literary counterparts. The last is around death and farewell, and what that means. Seventy minutes, for choir. There’s a lot of strife in the world right now, so there are probably natural echoes with certain conflicts - but we’ll see how audiences react. Chronicle premiered at Aldeburgh Festival © BPA From ensemble to artist collective WW: Let’s step away from Chronicle for a moment and talk about Tangram itself. It started much closer to a contemporary-music ensemble — Chinese and Western instruments, concerts, folk-song arrangements. Now there’s live painting, performance art, Chinese opera, staging. Was there a particular project where you realised the group had become something other than an ensemble? RS: Alex started Tangram in 2018. He and I were both composers, meeting on different projects, and we’d developed our own distinct languages separately. I’d been writing for contemporary dance and classical ballet, and I’ve always been interested in physicality and space. When I started co-directing Tangram with Alex, I proposed that the diaspora questions in Tangram’s work could expand beyond a purely musical point of view — into the space, and into what the audience actually experiences in that time and place. The starting point is still music, but we’re looking at much more than that now. That’s not to say we’re rigid about having multidisciplinary artists in every production. That was never the set goal. You used the word “evolution” - I’m not sure it is one. I think it was just a process of Tangram’s growth. AH: The crudest way to put the journey is: we developed from an ensemble into an artist collective. At the start it was very much a Chinese-and-Western-instruments approach, concerts in different venues, arrangements of Chinese folk songs. Then, as Rockey says, we developed an interest in a wider form of storytelling. By the time we came together on it, it felt very natural. The other significant factor is LSO St Luke’s, where we’re associate artists. It’s a brilliant team, and the venue has real technical resource, not just the space format, but the expertise in the team to do something other than a typical classical concert. Without that partnership I don’t know if we’d have been able to try so many different things in a relatively short time: dance, live-action painting, performance art, Chinese opera, whatever it is. Even this year alone, we started with a show about live comedy and Orientalism, then went into the philosophy of the I Ching and LED installations, and now we’re talking about Chinese poetry. That feels important to me. So much of the way China and Chinese cultures get presented in the West is as one thing — one idea, one culture, one single presentation. Doing very different projects is a nod to how plural it actually is. I’m really tired of the narrative of East meets West WW: Do you still find the binary between “Eastern” and “Western” music useful? AH: My overriding feeling is that I’m really tired of the narrative of East meets West. It feels incredibly short-sighted and outdated and filled with colonial discourse. So I generally reject people presuming an East–West discourse, because so much of my experience is that these two things aren’t mutually exclusive. I’m not Chinese one day and British the other. And that applies to how we work. I don’t think we’ve ever had a conversation, Rockey and I, where it’s like: okay, this bit is going to be Western, and this bit is going to be Chinese. That’s not how you make. It’s not really how people think. WW: I feel the same way. But when the work is promoted — when the storytelling around a collective reaches an audience — people do simplify it. “Oh, that’s Chinese, that’s Western.” It may be outdated and colonial, but it’s still there, in the industry. How do you deal with the fact that it doesn’t go away? RS: The binary is already a Western way of measuring things — it isn’t really in the Chinese language. What we’re doing in Tangram has this beautiful sense of inhabiting differences in one place. It’s not that we’re trying to show how different our identities are. There are so many layers to an artistic identity — backgrounds, tastes, aesthetics, philosophies — so internally there’s always this beautiful conflict, and those beautiful differences. But how other people perceive us is a different thing. That’s more of a sociological problem, and it needs addressing in a bigger sense. Once you’re there, you’ve stepped out of art-making, out of music, out of what we’re doing internally as artists. It has so much to do with politics and with culture, and music — as one part of culture, and a very abstract form of art — can only speak for so little. So, do I care how other people see us? Personally, I don’t really. If people see us as a Chinese collective within an East–West binary, that’s how they see it. We’re trying to do something artistically important to us, something we believe is worth talking about. We’re not trying to say a right answer, or to prove anything. It’s all about the process of discovering, the process of making, the process of exploring the world in front of us. Chronicle premiered at Aldeburgh Festival © BPA A recognisable “Chineseness”? WW: When you work with a British institution like LSO St Luke’s, do you feel an expectation that artists with Chinese heritage should deliver a recognisable form of Chineseness? AH: There’s probably a slight difference between the work Rockey and I do as solo composers and the work we do as Tangram. Looking back at all the projects we’ve done at LSO St Luke’s, I don’t think I’ve ever noticed any pressure from them to make a work about China. There are obviously subconscious factors that are really complicated, I’m not sure they’re relevant to go into in detail right now. The distinction I’d make is between the creative process and the reflective process. When we make work, I don’t think we’re thinking that much about how to be Chinese. We choose topics that interest us at the time, then we choose the collaborators we want, and then we dive in. I don’t think people should come to Chronicle just because it’s about Chinese women. That’s super reductive. It’s about what happens once people are in the room — whether they can be moved by this poetry, whether they can feel compassion for these women’s lives. Not because they’re Chinese, not even because they’re women, but because they’re people like the rest of us. So I’m slightly hesitant to keep talking about China, Chinese approaches and market influences, because I hold that very separate from our creative process. Historical voices, without the history lesson WW: Why do these voices feel urgent now? And is there a recurring pull towards history in Tangram’s work — from Bound / Unbound to Chronicle? RS: Yilin is the person who should really answer why she chose which poem and which poet. But the project still feels very relevant, and it’s not because we haven’t talked about these problems enough. It’s about how those voices get heard at all. If they’re not sung by SANSARA, these voices might never be heard, might never be listened to. There are people still being muted, still afraid of speaking their own thoughts, still afraid of expressing themselves. That’s part of what made these texts interesting to me when I read them. AH: The translations speak for themselves in terms of their relationship to today. These women all write with a sense of autobiography — you can see very clear links between the poems and their lived experiences and the situations they found themselves in. WW: And when you look back at your recent work, has history consciously become important material? RS: Now you’ve said it, it does seem to be quite important to us. But at the time we don’t think, “this is something we must do” — there’s no strong sense of purpose, of we must tell women-in-history stories. It’s not like that. Things just surface as we go and discover the interesting or unspoken or untold stories. We’re a collective and we’re storytellers, so by telling other people’s stories there’s a sense of: what can we learn from them, what can we learn from history, and what are we expressing about ourselves through those lenses? AH: Definitely not planned. Yilin chose the poets and the poems — we didn’t give her a brief saying she had to choose Chinese women, she just went and did it. What is deliberate is the collaboration. With Bound / Unbound we had an opera singer and a Chinese sword dancer, and it was the first time Rockey and I had worked that closely together, with the same designers, Ke Peng and Chang Meng. It’s the same team again this time, so it’s been really nice to build on that — on how we can make theatrical musical work. Obviously this time it’s for a choir rather than an ensemble with a singer and a dancer, which is quite new for us. WW: Do you worry that audiences without the historical background won’t get the story? Is there a cultural barrier? AH: Well, hopefully we make a work that makes sense. [laughs] But it’s worth pointing out that we’re not creating a biography of these women. We’re not trying to lecture people, and we’re not trying to show the history of China in a seventy-minute piece for choir. If audiences come out not understanding exactly Li Qingzhao’s life story, that doesn’t mean we failed. If they come out not understanding anything but having been moved by the experience — why is that not a successful reaction? I’d be happy if they simply just enjoy the music. Chronicle premiered at Aldeburgh Festival © BPA All in all, it’s the choir singing WW: There is staging, there are props, physicality, visual design. How would you describe the form? RS: It is a choir. There will be some exploration of the physicality of a singer, and we have a theatrical setting — we have our staging, we have our props, we have our visual aspects, and we have those multiple things going on. But all in all, it’s the choir singing music from me and Alex. WW: This is your first collaboration with SANSARA. Did working with a choir that already has its own identity shape the piece — or was the writing largely settled before they came in? AH: SANSARA joined really early. We approached Tom Herring, their artistic director, to ask whether they’d want to collaborate on a choral theatre project — and that was all the information they had, because that was all the information we had at that point. No subject matter. We didn’t even have our writer yet. To find a choir so well-versed in a very particular tradition — the Western Anglican choral tradition — who will do something like this is really unusual, and it’s definitely a risk they took, because it is different to the kind of choral work you generally see in this country. Rockey and I did a one-day mini-residency with some of the singers at Britten Pears Arts, where we heard them sing and learned about their process and their interests. After that it was more about fleshing out the sound world and the theatrical world for ourselves, knowing there was going to be a choir in there — rather than having a very specific sense of what SANSARA were going to bring as a sound. There’s always that give and take: you write for a specific ensemble, but you also write for yourself when necessary. WW: When theatrical, textual, physical, sonic and visual elements all coexist, how do you want people to watch a work like this? Is there a best way to take it in? RS: What would your answer to that be? WW: It’s a trend now — on London stages especially, music isn’t always music any more; it becomes sound, visual effect, media art, many things at once. Sometimes I don’t know which element to grab. And audiences arrive from completely different backgrounds — literature, visual art, music — so they can all be interested in the same work for different reasons. I suppose I decide what kind of work I think it is, and focus accordingly. Which is a real difficulty for creators. RS: That’s really interesting to me, actually. I honestly hadn’t thought about it that way. What we do talk about is predicting what the audience sees at certain moments. As creators we’re cautious about that: when you have multiple disciplines on stage in one space, you can’t have everything going at the same time. You should always be leaving space for each other, for each element, so the audience has a focus point. Different people will come with different interests — some more interested in the history, some in the music, some in the visual. That part is up to them. What we can do is carefully craft each moment so that it gives the audience a clear sense of what we want them to focus on right then. When I go to something and find myself not knowing where to focus, I don’t think the creators’ intention has been delivered right, and I’d rethink the process. So I can’t tell you which point to focus on — but I can say we were careful, making this, about the different elements. Writer Weida Wang

When 2026年8月24日 Where 不来梅圣彼得大教堂（St. Petri Dom, Bremen） Who 指挥：提奥多·库伦奇斯（Teodor Currentzis） 合唱指导：维塔利·波隆斯基（Vitaly Polonsky） 女高音：艾维塔·西蒙尼扬（Iveta Simonyan） 男中音：马提亚斯·温克勒（Matthias Winckhler） 乌托邦乐团（Utopia Orchestra） 乌托邦合唱团（Utopia Choir） What 勃拉姆斯《德意志安魂曲》 不来梅圣彼得大教堂 摄影：马光辉 记一笔 1868年4月10日，在作曲家本人指挥下，勃拉姆斯《德意志安魂曲》在不来梅圣彼得大教堂首演。当时演出的还是六乐章版本；如今完整版本中由女高音演唱的第五乐章“你们如今是忧愁”（Ihr habt nun Traurigkeit），由勃拉姆斯在当年5月补写。七乐章的完整版本最终于1869年2月18日在莱比锡首演。不来梅音乐节（Musikfest Bremen）此次演出的意义显然不止于一次普通的音乐会，这是一场发生在作品原始首演地点、158年之后的音乐事件。 一走进圣彼得大教堂，便能感受到一种不同寻常的仪式感。乐团与合唱团位于教堂中殿西侧，他们身后是高处的管风琴，再之后则是巨大的玫瑰窗。在这个阴晴不定的傍晚，窗外的自然光透过玻璃投进教堂，与人工灯光形成一种微妙的区别。 库伦齐斯指挥乌托邦乐团和合唱团在不来梅圣彼得大教堂演出勃拉姆斯《德意志安魂曲》 © Patric Leo 乐手和歌手们从教堂后方两侧缓缓走向舞台，校音结束后，库伦齐斯异常安静地走上指挥台。他的着装也比往常克制了一些：一件立领白衬衫从黑色外套中高高地耸起。整个乐队的入场花了几分钟。终于，音乐在一种极弱的震动中渐渐开始。 合唱团和乐队仿佛都被吸附在他的身体，尤其是双手的流动之中，好似被催眠一般。开场的几分钟里，整个音响牢牢掌握在库伦齐斯手中，从一种力度到另一种力度之间的过渡异常细腻。即使到了全乐团与合唱团的强奏，以及第二乐章中后段那些近乎风驰电掣的时刻，整体仍然处理得井井有条。只有定音鼓时不时显得有些“出挑”，仿佛自带混响，有时甚至有些轰鸣。这当然很可能与教堂特殊的声场有关，但也或多或少影响了整个乐团声音的清晰度。 男中音马提亚斯·温克勒（左） © Patric Leo 到了第三乐章，库伦齐斯转身向后走了几步，男中音马提亚斯·温克勒从舞台后方加入。他只需要极少的提示，指挥便可以放心地重新回到乐团面前。温克勒稳健的表演和沉着的声音令人迷醉，尤其是清晰的德语发音与自然、温暖的音色，为勃拉姆斯这部不走寻常路的《安魂曲》带来了一些鲜明的人的色彩。传统的安魂曲通常以死亡以及对死者灵魂的祈求为中心；而勃拉姆斯却有意把目光转向那些仍然活着的人。他没有选择传统拉丁安魂弥撒中“最后审判”的恐惧，而是从哀叹与悲伤出发，寻找慰藉与继续生活的力量。第三乐章“求你指教我”（Herr, lehre doch mich）所面对的，正是人的有限性。温克勒对此非常入戏。即使不演唱时，他也用一种悲悯而坚定的目光扫视整个教堂；只有左手的拇指和食指始终在轻轻摩擦，带来一点间离效果。 艾维塔·西蒙尼扬在第五乐章加入，她一开口，便吐出一种让人心碎的声音。那种脆弱恰好符合“你们如今是忧愁”的语气。然而，随着音乐进一步展开，这种脆弱却始终没有真正打开。仿佛每到第二个音，她都无法充满自信地直抒胸臆，而必须再次从一种低语中慢慢释放自己；人声本应具有的流动性，被这种谨慎不断打断。库伦齐斯显然也意识到了这一点。在这个乐章的大部分时间里，他都站在女高音面前，用手势提示她气息的流动，也提示她目光和身体动作的去向；有时甚至转身向稍远处的乐团伸出手掌，示意音量再小一些，不要盖过这脆弱的女声。但对西蒙尼扬这样有着优美音色的年轻女高音来说，来日方长。 库伦齐斯在不来梅圣彼得大教堂 © Patric Leo 库伦齐斯是一个精力充沛的指挥。整场约80分钟的演出里，他的身体始终保持着高频率的舞动。这种能量被乐手和歌手吸收，尤其是低音提琴声部。那些坚定的眼神，仿佛在反射着观众看不到的、来自库伦齐斯的目光。而合唱团绝对是当晚最大的功臣，他们的目光快速地在乐谱与库伦齐斯之间穿梭，投入换来了精准，也换来了情绪的大开大合。 库伦齐斯擅长制造对比，在《德意志安魂曲》中也是如此。勃拉姆斯的音乐并不总是在制造“惊诧”，但惊诧是库伦齐斯的方法论之一。这当然是一种诠释自由。勃拉姆斯是《德意志安魂曲》的作者，库伦齐斯是当晚勃拉姆斯《德意志安魂曲》的作者。当晚的节目册封面，库伦齐斯与勃拉姆斯“平起平坐”。 当晚演出节目册 摄影：马光辉 这是他早已昭著的野心。乌托邦乐团是他的乐团，这样一句看似简单的话，全世界能够真正说出口的指挥家并不多。尼古劳斯·哈农库特、约翰·艾略特·加德纳等人同样曾经创办自己的乐团或合唱团，但他们最终更多是与这些团体形成长期的艺术绑定。库伦齐斯则显然采用了更加当代的方式：他本人就是品牌。这个品牌最早的核心载体，是音乐永恒乐团（musicAeterna）；俄乌战争改变了欧洲音乐机构的政治与文化环境之后，他又建立了乌托邦乐团，使自己的事业能够在欧洲继续。 也正因此，这场演出才不仅是一场音乐会。不来梅音乐节艺术总监托马斯·阿尔伯特（Thomas Albert）在演出前致辞，恳请观众保持“静默”：“在寂静中开始这个夜晚，并在寂静中让它结束”，具体说来，就是：全程不要鼓掌。现场至少安排了五个机位。背着斯坦尼康的摄影师不时穿梭在独唱者与库伦齐斯之间，始终如履薄冰。库伦齐斯神情凝重地走上台，又走下台。随后乐手们也纷纷离席，面对这样一场成功的演出，有人离开时脸上已经露出憋不住的笑意，即使笑意会打破这种静默。观众却有些不知所措，只待全数乐手离席，方才起身离场。一些淅淅沥沥的掌声从人群深处传出，但立刻被热心观众报以嘘声。 Writer Ma Guanghui

When 2026年8月23日下午4点 Where 不来梅市政厅上层大厅（Rathaus Bremen, Obere Halle） Who 男中音：格奥尔格·尼格尔（Georg Nigl） 钢琴：弗拉基米尔·尤洛夫斯基（Vladimir Jurowski） 朗诵：尼古拉斯·奥夫恰雷克（Nicholas Ofczarek） What 2026年不来梅音乐节（Musikfest Bremen）的一场重磅演出，以《人性的末日？》（Die letzten Tage der Menschlichkeit?）为名，出自奥地利作家卡尔·克劳斯（Karl Kraus）创作于第一次世界大战期间的巨著《人类的末日》（Die letzten Tage der Menschheit）。文学、戏剧与音乐在这场演出中交织在一起，维也纳城堡剧院（Burgtheater）演员尼古拉斯·奥夫恰雷克朗诵克劳斯作品中的选段，奥地利男中音格奥尔格·尼格尔则与常以指挥家形象示人的俄罗斯钢琴家弗拉基米尔·尤洛夫斯基共同演绎马勒、肖斯塔科维奇、汉斯·艾斯勒（Hanns Eisler）和皮特·西格（Pete Seeger）的音乐。 Why 放下音乐可不可以、应不应该介入时评的老生常谈，光是这样一套野心勃勃的节目策划，就足够吸引人一探究竟。 不来梅市政厅 摄影：马光辉 记一笔 战争、人类（人性）的末日，这样直指当下的主题，加之这般的豪华阵容，自然座无虚席。但一走进不来梅市政厅这个世界文化遗产建筑的内部，先于现实，我首先感受到历史。 楼梯厅顶部悬挂着用鲸鱼下颌骨制成的巨大吊灯；上层大厅琳琅满目的装饰之外，天花板上还悬着四艘武装战舰（Orlogschiffe）的模型。这些东西如今早已被符号化：它们象征商业、海洋贸易、财富与军事力量；再进一步，它们又让人想到殖民、资本积累与帝国扩张，而后者，自然与战争并不遥远。 演出本身，从战争开始。音乐由汉斯·艾斯勒的《水车歌谣》（Ballade vom Wasserrad）开启。歌曲文本来自布莱希特的《圆头党与尖头党》：水车不停转动，却并不会让推动它的人从中获益。紧随尼格尔的歌唱，奥夫恰雷克开始朗诵卡尔·克劳斯《人类的末日》第一幕第一场——一个维也纳人醉醺醺地发表演说。1914年，欧洲把自己投入一场战争；1915年，克劳斯开始写作这部后来被他称为“不可演出”的巨著。战争首先以语言出现：报纸、军人的命令、政客的演说、醉汉的呓语、普通人的闲谈。人类并不是突然走向毁灭的。恰恰相反，一切都在正常运转：新闻在报道，政府在决策，士兵在行军，商人继续做生意，人们继续谈论天气、食物和女人。 不来梅市政厅内用鲸鱼下颌骨制成的巨大吊灯 摄影：马光辉 马勒虽未亲历第一次世界大战，但他的音乐让我们听见一战前的世界。五首来自《少年魔号》（Des Knaben Wunderhorn）的歌曲，与克劳斯笔下各色人等的插科打诨彼此“对位”，让那些抽象的历史灾难突然有了身体。《鼓手男孩》（Der Tamboursg'sell）是一个走向死亡的年轻士兵，对应“一个酩酊大醉的人在火车上”；《尘世生活》（Das irdische Leben）是一个不断喊饿、最终死去的孩子，对应“记者沙莱克和炮兵”；《美丽的号角吹响处》（Wo die schönen Trompeten blasen）让爱情在战争面前变成告别，对应“食品杂货店”的场景；《复仇》（Revelge）则让死亡成为一场永无止境的行军，对应“赫尔维希中尉枪杀女侍”。马勒没有直接描绘战场，但这些饥饿、恐惧、孤独与分离，几乎构成了一条非常清晰的线索：儿童、士兵、死亡、战争、爱情与毁灭。 然而，在这些悲惨发生之前，先出现的却是象征着救赎想象的《原光》（Urlicht）。它短暂地打开了另一个世界：一个没有暴力与压迫、仍然相信光与救赎的世界。只可惜，它只存在于想象之中。紧随其后的《鼓手男孩》，立刻又把观众扔回现实。 尼格尔的歌声尤其适合马勒。他声音的纯净与发音的清晰，让即使不熟悉歌词的观众也不至于迷失；而最令人难忘的，是他在高音区刻意保留的脆弱感，那声音仿佛并不属于一个站在舞台上的成熟男中音，而是从士兵、孩子、被枪杀的女侍身体里发出的。奥夫恰雷克则总是在音乐结束、或将要结束之时进入。他有时刻意压低和压扁原本浑厚的音色，以一种轻佻、近乎戏谑的声音说话；有时又配合或拘谨或夸张的肢体语言，把克劳斯笔下那个荒诞、嘈杂、令人不安的世界重新带到眼前。 汉斯·艾斯勒将时间向前推移，带到法西斯主义与新的战争。在政治性上，他的音乐比马勒更加直接：他在追问，究竟是什么样的社会、政治与意识形态，让这样的痛苦成为可能。《战壕》（Der Graben）反对民族主义制造的战争谎言；《1939年格言》（Spruch 1939）追问黑暗时代里艺术的意义；《致希望》（An die Hoffnung）则几乎已经失去了希望本身。 弗拉基米尔·尤洛夫斯基、格奥尔格·尼格尔与尼古拉斯·奥夫恰雷克 © Patric Leo 而肖斯塔科维奇只用一首钢琴前奏曲，把时间推入另一种暴力：国家。《降e小调前奏曲》创作于20世纪30年代初，正值斯大林主义文化政治日益收紧的时期。它在《人类的末日》中的“对位”是：“要让更多的钢铁进入血液。”音乐突然不再只是平行于战争，而某种程度上成为权力的代言。担当钢琴演奏的，正是一位俄罗斯人。尤洛夫斯基沉静而克制的演奏，仿佛将某种属于内心的火焰压在音乐之下，历史与现实再一次对接。 至此，克劳斯笔下的第一次世界大战、马勒笔下的士兵与孩子、艾斯勒面对的法西斯主义、肖斯塔科维奇面对的政治高压，不再是彼此孤立的历史事件。它们构成了一条不断变形、却始终没有真正中断的时间线。 然后是美国民谣歌手皮特·西格的《花儿都到哪里去了》（Where Have All the Flowers Gone?），现场演唱德语版本《告诉我，花儿在哪里》（Sag mir, wo die Blumen sind）。1955年，这首歌距离克劳斯开始写作《人类的末日》已经过去了三十多年。战争似乎结束了，欧洲也已经进入另一个时代，可歌曲仍然在追问：花儿去了哪里？年轻姑娘去了哪里？年轻人去了哪里？士兵去了哪里？墓地又去了哪里？难得的是，在这一刻，尼格尔与奥夫恰雷克竟然达成了一次男声二重唱，“唱”与“说”终于暂时不再互相解释。 音乐会本可以在这样一个疑问中结束。但它突然又回到了艾斯勒。《而最终，渴望也死去》（Und endlich stirbt die Sehnsucht）之后，对位的是克劳斯第三幕第四十六场：夜晚，战壕；“多么享受，多么享受，多么享受。”从对当下不满足的“渴望”，到对当下满足的“享用”，这里出现了一条让人不愿承认的黑暗逻辑：当人不再渴望另一个世界的时候，他可能就只能享受眼前这个世界——哪怕这个世界是战壕。 这大概也是为什么音乐会的标题不是《人类的末日》，而是《人性的末日？》。 不来梅市政厅上层大厅 摄影：马光辉 一般来说，我对这种需要借助依托于文字之上的概念来组织音乐的“策展型”音乐会，多少抱有本能的怀疑。因为它很容易变成借音乐来完成策划者的议题表达，无论这个议题本身多么“正确”。 但这场音乐会是少有的例外。原因首先在于，这里的歌曲本身已经拥有文字。更重要的是，来自不同时代、不同历史语境的歌曲，其自身的文本与克劳斯的文字发生碰撞，反而制造出了新的化学反应。但这种策划仍然不可避免地建立了一种聆听框架，也因此拥有某种解释权。当天的观众再听到《少年魔号》时，也许不免会将其与第一次世界大战进行某种潜意识上的连接。 演出大约进行一小时后，已经能听到市政厅外的广场上传来一些骚动。老市政厅毕竟不像现代音乐厅，仅靠建筑本身并不能有效隔绝外界的声音。在建筑代表的资本原始积累时期与音乐会代表的20世纪混乱时期的夹击下，走出市政厅，方才发现，声援乌克兰的集会正在广场上举行。这条不断变形的时间线上，又加入了当下的刻度。 Writer Ma Guanghui

When 2026年8月22日 Where 德国格拉斯贝格芬多夫教堂（Findorffkirche, Grasberg） Who 管风琴、羽管键琴： 铃木雅明与铃木优人父子 What 阿普·施尼特格音乐节（Arp-Schnitger-Festival）的一场音乐会，以巴赫《C小调幻想曲》BWV 562开始，以巴赫管风琴众赞歌《在你宝座前，我如今来到这里》（Vor deinem Thron tret ich hiermit）BWV 668 收尾，中间是音乐会核心《赋格的艺术》。 阿普·施尼特格（1648–1719）是巴洛克时期北德重要的管风琴制造家，不来梅及周边地区保存下来不少由其原制的历史管风琴。阿普·施尼特格音乐节始于2010年，是不来梅音乐节（Musikfest Bremen）的“节中节”，致力于把这些乐器重新带回到今天的音乐生活中。 格拉斯贝格芬多夫教堂 摄影：马光辉 记一笔 铃木优人演奏巴赫《C小调幻想曲》BWV 562，比起音乐本身，我更注意到一些声响：手指与键盘的接触，鞋踩上脚键盘，以及管风琴内部机械结构随着演奏不断运行的声音。这些声音提醒我们，这是一件历史乐器。 节目册上说，这架管风琴由阿普·施尼特格于1693到1694年间为汉堡孤儿院制作，1788年迁入格拉斯贝格芬多夫教堂，并进行改造，保留了施尼特格的风箱以及管体机械结构；此后它又经历了多次修复。 格拉斯贝格芬多夫教堂管风琴 摄影：马光辉 铃木雅明静悄悄走进教堂，在一台羽管键琴前坐下。管风琴演奏结束，铃木优人从楼上下来，还没等他走到自己的琴前，铃木雅明已经开始演奏第一首赋格。铃木优人坐下，恰好在第一段赋格真正开始的时候加入。 一个人开始，两个人完成。此后的十几首赋格曲大体都是这样。有时候父亲先开始，有时候儿子先开始。原本可以由一个键盘演奏者独立完成的多声部作品，被分配给两个人，这不是常规做法，也不是他们第一次这样做。2024年，BIS发行了铃木雅明的《赋格的艺术》录音。BIS的唱片介绍中指出，《赋格的艺术》虽然没有规定演奏乐器，但通常被认为是为键盘乐器创作的；在其中三首赋格中，他们加入了由铃木优人演奏的第二羽管键琴声部。 在现场，两个人演得像一个人。清澈、透明的风格一以贯之，在多声部赋格段也能保持清晰。只有刻意去分辨两台琴之间细微的音色差异，或者注意声音所处的空间位置的差别，才能意识到这里其实有两台琴、两个演奏者。 铃木雅明 © Marco Borggreve 羽管键琴没有现代钢琴那种通过触键力度直接制造连续音量变化的能力，但羽管键琴也并非没有动态，时值、重音、装饰音等都可以制造层次，只是声音很难获得现代钢琴那种从极弱到极强的直接、连续的力度变化。长时间听下来，产生了一种近乎均质的听感。这其实是在挑战我们长期形成的依托于戏剧性的听觉习惯。《赋格的艺术》整体听完，十几首赋格和卡农听起来竟然有一种奇异的平等感。 巴赫晚年热衷于探索“一个单一音乐主题所蕴含的复调可能性”，《赋格的艺术》是这一探索的核心作品，它给人的感觉有点机械，也有点数学。如果在现场不间断地听，到第五六首赋格，就大致可以猜到一个新的赋格段落什么时候会进入。它往往不会在一个乐句完全收束之后突然出现，而是在音乐即将结束、却还留有一个开放性瞬间的时候重新进入。 铃木优人 © Marco Borggreve 铃木父子在第十三首对位曲的结尾稍微出现了一点松动，但整体的方向感并没有消失，形散神不散。随后，卡农开始。音乐突然变得不一样。声部之间的关系更容易被直接听见，此前一直在复杂织体中运作的结构，突然多了一点呼吸感，也多了一些情绪。 但四首卡农之后，第十四首赋格重新开始，又回到了那个熟悉的世界。最后一首赋格的尾声，铃木雅明演奏完自己的部分后离开琴前，慢慢地、几乎无声地走向楼上。铃木优人继续演奏。巴赫没有写完最后一段赋格。音乐戛然而止。 铃木雅明开始演奏众赞歌《在你宝座前，我如今来到这里》BWV 668，情绪突然得到释放。耳朵在长时间面对那个繁忙、精确、不断要求你辨认关系的世界之后，终于暂时可以放下计算，短暂抽离在旋律和和声之中。众赞歌在一个持续的长音中慢慢消失。音乐会也以一种舞台的形式，以一种环形结构收尾。那些进入的、退出的、镜像的、倒影的追逐，最终化为一个持续音。 Writer Ma Guanghui

When 2026年8月18日 Where 英格兰东海岸萨福克郡，斯奈普麦芽厂音乐厅（Snape Maltings Concert Hall） Who 俄罗斯钢琴演奏家帕维尔·科列斯尼科夫（Pavel Kolesnikov）。 这位当今国际乐坛备受瞩目的钢琴家，曾先后师从俄罗斯钢琴教育泰斗谢尔盖·多伦斯基（Sergei Dorensky）、英国著名教育家诺玛·费舍尔（Norma Fisher）以及葡萄牙传奇钢琴大师玛丽亚·若昂·皮雷斯（Maria João Pires）。2012年，他荣获加拿大Honens国际钢琴比赛首奖而声名鹊起。2014年至2016年，他入选BBC Radio 3新世代艺术家计划，并于2016年首登逍遥音乐节舞台。在2020/21乐季曾受邀担任伦敦威格莫尔音乐厅（Wigmore Hall）的常驻艺术家。除频繁与世界顶尖交响乐团合作之外，帕维尔还长期与钢琴家伴侣萨姆森·佐伊（Samson Tsoy）保持紧密的室内乐合作。两人于2019年共同创办了Ragged音乐节，致力于深入探索音乐与建筑、视觉艺术以及非传统演出空间之间的跨界前沿互动。 What 肖邦全套《夜曲》，共21首 Why 布里顿-皮尔斯艺术中心（Britten Pears Arts）夏季音乐会系列（Summer at Snape）其中一场重头戏。 斯奈普麦芽厂音乐厅 摄影：张璐诗 记一笔 包括两个中场休息在内，将近三小时的肖邦21首《夜曲》现场后，踏出麦芽厂音乐厅，迎面是芦苇地的夜色与一股清风。碾着碎石驱车十分钟后，回到奥德堡大海边的住所，一下面朝模糊的浪潮，内心的琴声既沉静又狂野，在无人的海岸线上继续绵延、浸泡。这就是东海岸相比起伦敦城的魅力所在，音乐厅内的情绪不会一下被城市的日常抹去。这也是我不断回来的原因。 21首《夜曲》的创作时期跨越肖邦的青年到晚年，分散在Op. 9、15、27、32、37、48、55、62等不同作品组中陆续出版。完整的21首更多见于唱片项目，而不是现场音乐会连续演奏。连续听21首《夜曲》，或会让听众感觉“都是安静的曲子”，实际上不同作品之间的结构、和声、戏剧性和表达差异截然不同。帕维尔视之为一次整体性的音乐实验，将这种差异建立得非常清楚，在这近三小时里，我们听见了“夜曲”这个体裁内部不断发生的变化。 他引用李斯特的话：“肖邦在他富于诗意的《夜曲》中所歌唱的，不仅是那些构成我们最不可言喻之愉悦的和谐，同时也是那种躁动不安的、令人困惑的情绪，而这些夜曲正是从这种情绪中诞生的。”帕维尔认为，这些“夜之作品”带着一种狂放的自由，气息却又受到严格控制，仿佛预示着一种新的富于表现力的可能性。 奥德堡的芦苇地 摄影：张璐诗 从听排练时就注意到，帕维尔一直在对抗我们耳朵里太过习惯的“肖邦之美”。他想方设法在熟悉和“完美”中制造一点点不确定，让人重新回到音乐发生的此刻。帕维尔在当天与我的交谈中说，他认为所有夜曲的共通之处不在于标题，而是都发生在想象之中；因此他将整套夜曲分成“梦”、“记忆”与“幻象”三个彼此交错的部分：“记忆是回望，梦是身处当下，而幻象则指向尚未发生、却可能发生的未来。” “梦”从肖邦《降b小调夜曲》开始：恒定的琶音式左手伴奏之上，是一条仿佛失重般的旋律，紧接着是最为人熟悉的《降E大调夜曲》，以及带有民歌气息的《g小调夜曲》。但这些“梦”并不真正安宁：和声不断迂回，情绪迅速转向，简单、沉思与躁动并存。 在“记忆”中，肖邦对于“微型引子”的运用变得格外明显：一个和弦进行、一小段旋律，甚至只是一个短暂的音乐标点，都可能开启一段记忆。《降A大调夜曲》中便能听到这样的处理。这是一组忧郁的作品，其中也有从小调向大调展开的段落，并不带来释然；《B大调夜曲》中从大调突然转向小调的段落，甚至带了几分奇异与愤怒。正如李斯特所说：“他的飞翔是高贵的，尽管他的翅膀更加受伤。” 《升F小调夜曲》是这一组中较为戏剧性的一首，两小节的引子预示了搏斗式的冲突，音乐随后经历更大幅度的变形，进入大调后，几分调皮意味的颤音后，在纤弱的上行走向中结束。 帕维尔·科列斯尼科夫 © BPA “幻象”部分囊括了肖邦比较成熟时期的作品。复调出现在《降E大调夜曲》的开头，以及最后一首《E大调夜曲》的中段，音乐织体变浓。《C小调夜曲》的低音声部具有近乎雷鸣般的力量，主题反复出现时近乎狂热。作为全套曲目的收尾，Op. 62也是肖邦生前最后出版的作品组之一，《B大调夜曲》与《E大调夜曲》的篇幅都不过几分钟，情感却极其开阔；装饰音复杂，但不过度遮蔽旋律线，也不阻碍音乐的流动。 帕维尔特别谈到了肖邦音乐本身形成的一道“美的屏障”：假如一首曲子已经美到成为过于熟悉的声音，我们听到的其实是自己记忆中的肖邦，而不会真正去面对眼前正在发生的音乐。他提到自己喜欢的画家弗兰西斯·培根，培根谈过如何在绘画中引入偶然性：通过擦除、破坏，或者让某些东西偏离原本的构图，使画面失去过度完整的秩序。某种程度的破坏，能让观看重新发生。 帕维尔在处理作品时借用了这种思维。他使用一点“打断”去穿透惯性：不是戏剧化处理，也不是故意弹错，而是在听者已经预期音乐将如何进行的地方，使其稍稍偏离惯常的轨道。极细微地扰动旋律线条、节奏或和声，让乐句不完全按照熟悉的方式展开。当晚比较明显，几处在乐句之间的停顿和重新开始时，会使人一下离开听觉舒适区。“警觉“之时，也就无法不被音乐拉回到当下，竖起耳朵来。 节目册上Dan Whitfield写的手记： “肖邦”和“夜曲”，就像一场古典音乐的文字联想游戏。即使在一份包含200多部作品的创作目录中，这些作品所捕捉到的想象力，或许也没有什么能够与之相比。每一首夜曲的规模都很克制；从它们的本质而言，它们既没有《练习曲》那样的严谨与活力，也没有大量《波兰舞曲》《马祖卡舞曲》和《圆舞曲》所具有的动态感。 然而，这恰恰是亲密、私人而富于诗意的肖邦——这些作品横跨了他从十几岁末到英年早逝前三年的整个创作生涯。史蒂芬·霍夫（Stephen Hough）曾这样概括它们的特征：“有些沉思，有些内省，有些忧郁，有些隐隐不安，也有些宁静而欢快。它们无一例外都具有感官上的美感，浸润着优雅以及深刻的诗性冲动。” 尽管肖邦被奉为最重要的钢琴夜曲作曲家，这一名称最早却是由爱尔兰作曲家兼钢琴家约翰·菲尔德（John Field）提出的——他比肖邦年长28岁。菲尔德确立了一种器乐化的声乐小夜曲形式：相对简单、重复的低音线条作为基础，上面铺陈旋律性的魅力与精细的装饰音（不过，肖邦后来将这种形式的地位提升到了远远超越这些“无词歌曲”的程度）。 两位作曲家于1833年在巴黎相遇，彼此都没有留下太好的印象：据说这位年长的作曲家认为肖邦有些轻浮，而肖邦评价菲尔德的演奏则讥讽道：“没有速度，没有优雅。” 尽管如此，菲尔德发现的一种创作模式，却在整个19世纪乃至更久以后持续产生影响——肖邦之后，还有李斯特、舒曼、福雷、德彪西、巴托克和布里顿等人。 “夜曲”（意大利语 notturno）这个名称首先唤起的是一种梦境般的状态；正如李斯特在1859年菲尔德《夜曲》版本的序言中所说（李斯特从来不会故意说得含蓄）：“它使我们的思绪在最初便朝向这样的时刻：灵魂摆脱了白日的一切忧虑，在自我沉思中迷失，飞向繁星满布的天空。” 但这个名称也折射出一种悠久的艺术先例——与夜晚的神秘相伴，甚至可比作一种能够被感知的不确定性。 和它的近亲《摇篮曲》一样，《夜曲》往往比催眠更能激发意识；正如霍夫所暗示的，它可以包含深沉的悲伤、怀旧，或者我们清醒时刻的种种烦扰。人类对黑夜的原始恐惧，以及我们对梦境的迷恋，都为这个标题和音乐增添了额外的意义层次。 肖邦将这些作品中的大多数都题献给了自己的学生。他显然是一位要求极高的教师，非常重视连贯（smoothness）以及高于一切的歌唱性音色。他将粗糙或断裂的乐句称为“抓鸽子”（catching pigeons），对此深恶痛绝。 音乐中或许存在一种即兴的气息——体现在预期中的rubato（自由速度），即在某些乐句和音乐连接处放慢或加快速度，以及复杂的装饰音之中；但与此同时，它也具有极高的精确性，尤其是在指法和踏板方面，而肖邦对此十分严格。 通过换指（在手指移动时保持某个音符持续，从而更顺畅地将一个音连接到下一个音），乐句得到了进一步强化；踏板则足够慷慨，以赋予声音一种温暖的光晕，但又足够精准，从而避免形成浑浊的音响。 这并不是说这些作品很容易演奏，也不是说它们构成了某种类似教学教程的东西——正如巴赫的一些键盘作品曾被如此使用一样。恰恰相反，它们无疑是由一位技艺精湛的大师精心打造的作品。 钢琴家加里克·奥尔松（Garrick Ohlsson）有一段YouTube视频，题为《肖邦改变钢琴的16种方式》（16 ways Chopin transformed piano），其中以极其生动、清晰的方式展示了肖邦的演奏技法与作曲技法是如何以无数种方式彼此交织、相互影响的。 那么，肖邦所使用的乐器在多大程度上影响了这些音乐？ 肖邦时代乐器制造领域最重要的生产商，是总部位于伦敦的布罗德伍德（Broadwood）——它曾赠送给肖邦一架钢琴——以及巴黎的埃拉尔（Érard）和普莱耶尔（Pleyel）。肖邦明显更偏爱后者，这或许与他和普莱耶尔家族密切的私人友谊，以及与音乐家玛丽·普莱耶尔（Marie Pleyel）之间的音乐交往有关。玛丽·普莱耶尔是钢琴制造商普莱耶尔创始人的儿子之妻，也是《夜曲》Op.9的题献对象。 肖邦曾写道：“如果我感觉自己的手指能够毫不疲倦地工作，那么我会选择一架普莱耶尔……我的手指与琴槌之间的接触更加直接，而琴槌能够准确、忠实地传达我想制造的感觉，以及我想获得的效果。” 普莱耶尔钢琴以柔和、近乎含蓄的音色著称，动态范围相对收缩，但高音区明亮而富于歌唱性——这些特质恰恰非常适合这些作品。 Writer Lucy Cheung

Read in English “迈尔斯·戴维斯完全可以在1958年《有点蓝》（Kind of Blue）之后停下来，但他没有。” 昨晚，美国爵士音乐家安布罗斯·阿金穆西雷（Ambrose Akinmusire）作为小号独奏，与指挥家狭间美帆（Miho Hazama）和BBC音乐会管弦乐团（BBC Concert Orchestra）合作了一场以迈尔斯·戴维斯（Miles Davis）百年诞辰为主题的逍遥音乐会。这是本届最受欢迎的音乐会之一，连站票区也全满，开场前几分钟门外还有等退票的长龙。 曲目包括了适合皇家阿尔伯特大厅“合家欢”感觉的几段格什温经典、《有点蓝》专辑中的《Blue in Green》，也有法雅的《魔法师之恋》与罗德里戈的《阿兰胡埃斯协奏曲》等重新为大乐队配器的古典作品。不少曲目沿用了爵士乐史上极具代表性的管弦乐编曲家吉尔·埃文斯（Gil Evans）的配器，而每逢中段的独奏即兴，尖峰的前瞻气息总会刺破温婉的怀旧乐队之声。同台的还有安布罗斯自己的四重奏，虽是一场致敬音乐会，他并没有模仿迈尔斯的吹奏风格，但能听得出他深深植根于精神和内心的即兴表达，这分明指向我们正身处的当下。 安布罗斯担任这场演出的独奏者，或许并不只是因为他同样是一位小号手，更因为他与迈尔斯相似：不止步于成功、不断蜕变、探索音乐新方向。这次他提前三天抵达伦敦，与乐团合排了两天。昨天早上，我在他下榻的酒店屋顶与他单独交谈了一小时。 安布罗斯·阿金穆西雷在皇家阿尔伯特大厅的逍遥音乐节现场 摄影：张璐诗 初识安布罗斯的音乐，来自2017年他与自己长期合作的四重奏在纽约传奇爵士俱乐部Village Vanguard录制的现场双碟《A Rift in Decorum: Live at the Village Vanguard》，该录音被当年的爵士乐评界广泛视为年度最佳现场录音。其中的贝斯手哈里什·拉加万（Harish Raghavan）也出现在昨晚的舞台上。 今年初，他与沙利文·福特纳（Sullivan Fortner）在威格莫尔音乐厅的二重奏现场，思虑悠远，对人启迪颇深，驱使我约下此次碰面。今年11月，安布罗斯还将携自己的新四重奏参演伦敦爵士节，演出刚录制完毕的新专辑曲目。 安布罗斯·阿金穆西雷 作为新一代爵士乐的重要代表人物，安布罗斯早在2007年便赢得享有盛誉的塞隆尼斯·蒙克国际爵士大赛小号组冠军，此后更于2013年至2020年连续八年获权威爵士乐杂志《DownBeat》评论家票选年度小号手，并曾获美国多丽丝·杜克艺术家奖等荣誉；今年，他再次获《DownBeat》评论家票选年度小号手，并凭专辑《冬石之蜜》（honey from a winter stone）第四次获得格莱美提名，入围最佳另类爵士专辑。如今，这位小号手和作曲家还担任斯坦福大学爵士项目主任。 安布罗斯·阿金穆西雷在逍遥音乐节 Photo: BBC/Andy Paradise 对话安布罗斯·阿金穆希雷：爵士乐的传统就在于不断演化 LC=张璐诗 AA=Ambrose Akinmusire LC：我想先从二重奏聊起——你和钢琴家的合作。我之前其实从来没有现场听过沙利文·福特纳，但那场演出让我印象深刻的是你们之间的彼此信任和彼此激发。你和很多不同的钢琴家合作过，比如杰拉德·克莱顿（Gerald Clayton）、布拉德·梅尔道（Brad Mehldau）……这些不同的合作对象，会怎样带出你不同的声音？ AA：我真的很幸运，能够和很多非常出色的年轻钢琴家合作。你刚才提到杰拉德·克莱顿，还有阿龙·帕克斯（Aaron Parks），我们一起做过很多二重奏。我自己的乐队里还有钢琴家萨姆·哈里斯（Sam Harris）。我甚至还和肯尼·巴伦（Kenny Barron）合作过。但对我来说，这个过程和我跟四重奏一起演奏的时候，其实没有太大区别。最重要的就是放下自我，然后希望能够和那些相信存在更高远事物的人一起合作。我真的很幸运，身边有这样的人。沙利文显然就是其中之一，杰拉德也是。 LC：你说的那个“更高远的”，对你来说究竟意味着什么？你们又是怎样彼此激发的？它从哪里开始？ AA：我很想直接说，它始于信任，但我觉得其实还要更早一点。也许是从了解彼此开始的：创造出一个空间，让两个人都足够自在，可以展现自己的脆弱。在那个空间里，其实没有所谓对与错。我觉得，放下自我、让自己变得脆弱的这个过程，本身就是音乐。当你进入那个状态以后，音符其实已经没那么重要了。 LC：爵士传统对今天的你来说意味着什么？你会把爵士乐和即兴音乐区分开吗？ AA：这是个很好的问题。我觉得，很多人谈到爵士传统的时候，他们特指的是波普（bebop）时期，他们想到的是查理·帕克（Charlie Parker）、迪齐·吉莱斯皮（Dizzy Gillespie），甚至不会想到迪克西兰音乐（Dixieland）或者布鲁斯，或者更早的东西。但对我来说，爵士起源于非洲，这么说听起来虽然有点老套。对我来说，爵士其实是一种关于共同体和即兴的音乐。说得更直接一点，我认为爵士是通过声音表达非裔美国人历史的音乐。它最初就是通过布鲁斯等等，用声音表达非裔美国人的历史。 至于爵士和即兴音乐之间有没有区别？对我来说，没有。当我听到来自尼日利亚或者马里的音乐时，我觉得那也可以被称为爵士。当我听嘻哈音乐里有人freestyle的时候，对我来说那也是爵士。所以，对我而言，两者没有区别。甚至有时候我听巴赫，也还是会觉得那听起来像爵士。 LC：怎么说？ AA：因为他的大部分音乐其实都是即兴出来的，比如和弦进行、通奏低音之类。 LC：那么近二十年来自成一统的欧洲爵士音乐家，他们虽了解传统，却又不觉得必须被传统束缚。你怎么看今天欧洲的爵士？我感觉不少人是在试图离开那种非洲性的声音，转向极简的风向。 AA：我觉得现在欧洲很多地方——其实是整个欧洲——都有非常不错的爵士场景。我参与其中以来，一直都是这样。你去西班牙、意大利、法国、德国，再来到这里，到处都有很棒的乐手。 我觉得不断演变是非常自然的事情。说到“离开传统”其实也很难，因为我觉得，黑人文化有一种东西，它本身一直就在演变。演变是人类最自然不过的状态。所以，离开传统就是这么回事：重新创造传统。 我觉得人们谈论爵士的时候，经常忘记这一点。没有人会说桑尼·罗林斯（Sonny Rollins）活在过去；大家一直会谈迈尔斯·戴维斯“年年都在变化”。很多大师很早就去世了，所以我们根本没有机会看到他们后来会怎么发展。约翰·柯川（John Coltrane）40岁去世，克利福德·布朗（Clifford Brown）25岁，布克·利特尔（Booker Little）23岁。但那些活得更久的人，大多数都一直在演变：赫比·汉考克（Herbie Hancock）、韦恩·肖特（Wayne Shorter），甚至罗伊·海恩斯（Roy Haynes）、查尔斯·明格斯（Charles Mingus）、迪齐·吉莱斯皮，他在三四十年代的演奏方式，和后来已经完全不同了。所以我觉得，不断演变是非常自然的。只是大多数人没有这么做。 LC：我想到的就是迈尔斯·戴维斯，尤其因为今晚你正是领衔这场向他的致敬演出。你刚才已经提到了他不断演变这一点。你觉得这种不断的自我更新，本身是不是爵士的核心？ AA：当然。 LC：但当你不断推动自己，去对抗此前已经建立起来的某种声音，或者某种你所欣赏的声音时，你会不会偶尔产生冲突？会不会觉得自己背叛了传统、离身后的传统越来越远了？ AA：不会。传统本身就是不断演变。你知道，一张唱片就是一个快照，就像一张照片。它就只是这样。但在真实的时间里，音乐一直在变化。你没有办法把那个过程全部捕捉下来，对吧？所以，不，我不觉得自己背叛了传统。我一直会回头去听、去了解，但我非常清楚，那些人一直都在不断演变。如果没有不断朝着未来走，他们也会成为我们今天听到的那个样子。 安布罗斯·阿金穆西雷与狭间美帆在逍遥音乐节 Photo: BBC/Andy Paradise 我就是喜欢那些不以自我为中心的东西 LC：这些不可捉摸的事情很难用语言表达。要不我们聊聊你的这些想法最初都从哪里来？比如你的成长经历和你的影响。你最早有印象的是什么样的声音？ AA：老实说，我小时候最先记住的其实不是声音，而是颜色。我记得自己坐在一个壁橱里，那里有一扇像彩色玻璃的窗。我就一直抬头看着它，看那些漂亮的光落在我身上。不知道为什么，这竟然成了我最早的音乐记忆——其实是一幅视觉画面。 然后就是去我祖母的教堂。那是一座黑人浸信会教堂。我在那里第一次从声音里感受到共同体的力量。我一直很惊讶：那些歌手单独听的时候，未必有多么了不起，可是当他们聚在一起，即使里面有不协和音，甚至有唱错的音符，还是会有某种超越这些东西的力量。我四五岁的时候，就已经学到了这一点。 我后来演奏福音音乐。到了七八年级的时候，我第一次听到阿特·布雷基（Art Blakey），那听起来就像我在教堂里一直听到的东西，只不过换成了乐器演奏，有李·摩根（Lee Morgan）和其他乐手。所以对我来说，这是一个非常自然的过程。这就是我最早记得的一些声音。 LC：你很小的时候就开始识谱了吗？ AA：对。我非常小的时候、五岁时开始识谱。 LC：我很好奇，你怎么看乐谱和即兴之间的关系？ AA：乐谱对我来说就是一种建议。当然，这取决于具体的语境。但对我来说，乐谱最多只能达到95%。在我自己的音乐里，比如我给乐队写东西的时候，它真的就只是一种参考。 LC：我知道你也听古典音乐。你喜欢听什么？ AA：天啊，我会经历不同的阶段。我最近一段时间特别喜欢库塔格。 LC：他一百岁了，和迈尔斯·戴维斯同年。 AA：对啊。我特别喜欢他和妻子一起创作的那些作品。你知道，就像阿沃·帕特（Arvo Pärt）的音乐一样，很容易被视为是“简单”的作品，但其实一点也不简单。里面有一种纯粹的美。这也是我过去六七年一直在寻找的东西。我发行过一张个人专辑《美即足够》（Beauty Is Enough），那时我一直在试着进入一切的中心，去抵达那个“中心的中心”。我听库塔格的时候，听到的就是这个，我感受到的也是这个。 还有就是那些最常见的，拉威尔、巴赫、格伦·古尔德演奏的巴赫，诸如此类。不过我确实经历过不同阶段。 LC：那你在古典音乐里听到的，有什么是爵士里没有的吗？ AA：没有。我其实也听其他东西。马里的音乐、冰岛的音乐、爵士，还有很多布鲁斯。我不觉得这和某一个音乐类型特别相关。我觉得每一种音乐里都有一些人，他们都在追求美。 LC：具体说来听听？ AA：我最喜欢的——保加利亚有一个巡演的合唱团，是一支非常庞大的女子合唱团。我年轻的时候在伯克利听过她们的演出，大概是1993或者1994年，那时候我还很年轻。她们让我想起福音音乐，想起浸信会教堂。后来我进一步了解，才知道她们是从保加利亚不同地区选出女性，再把她们聚在一起排练。我就觉得这件事特别美。 还有马里的音乐。我最喜欢的歌手之一是乌穆·桑加雷（Oumou Sangaré）。两年前我有机会和她合作做了一个项目，非常棒。原因也是一样。还有琼尼·米切尔（Joni Mitchell）。但你会发现，这里面有一条共同的线索：这些人在技术上和音乐上都非常出色，但他们又和某种更高的东西连接在一起。他们在制造声音，然后……我不知道怎么说，我觉得那是超越世俗的。 LC：这是不是也和你反复提到的“共同体”有关？也许也会让你想到自己的根？ AA：我就是喜欢那些不以自我为中心的东西。你一旦开始谈共同体，就会发现，你的力量取决于整体。我真的很喜欢这一点。你当然可以练习，让自己的技术变得非常好，但当你和另一个人站到一起，共同指向某个东西的时候，那里面有一种东西，对我来说非常美。 我从来没想过这会成为自己的职业。我当时只是对演奏那些“根源”让我去演奏的东西感兴趣。从很小的时候起，我就对创造性的音乐感兴趣，从来没想着要拥有一份事业。我是对音乐本身感兴趣，只想全身心投入其中。我可以待在家里练琴，因为我一直想做的就是把自己交给音乐。不是为了成名。 LC：这是不是你几年前离开Blue Note的原因之一？毕竟这个厂牌本身，多少还是和某种爵士明星式的身份联系在一起。 AA：你看，Blue Note就是一个爵士乐厂牌。不管你怎么改变它的定义，即使一个原本不是做爵士的人出现在Blue Note上，他最后也会被当成爵士音乐家。这没有什么不好，只是我从来没有觉得自己完全适应这种定位。 我当然演奏爵士，但我也写弦乐四重奏，也写电影配乐，也做嘻哈。我做很多东西。我一直都做很多不同的事情，所以我只是希望，如果我想做这些事情，我有空间去做。 LC：所以，你是不希望自己被“爵士”这个词所局限？ AA：差不多。我并不是被它限制，因为我根本不在乎这个词。更多的是别人怎么看我，以及这种看法会怎样影响我能得到什么机会——我能够发行什么样的项目。 安布罗斯·阿金穆西雷在皇家阿尔伯特大厅的逍遥音乐节现场 Photo: BBC/Andy Paradise 真正让我着迷的，是迈尔斯·戴维斯对未来的影响 LC：我们再聊聊迈尔斯·戴维斯。今晚你既是领衔者，又是小号手，所以你承担了一个人们很容易联想到他的角色。你和他的音乐是什么关系？有没有哪个时期，是你觉得自己尤其接近的？ AA：没有。对我来说，是他作为一个艺术家本身。就像我们前面说的，是他对于不断演变的坚持。你想想，迈尔斯·戴维斯最开始和查理·帕克一起演奏，我们都知道那些录音。再想想他到了80年代，以《Tutu》这样的作品、与马库斯·米勒（Marcus Miller）的合作结束自己的音乐生涯，这中间经历的一切，真的只能让人感叹：哇，这个人完全把自己交给了不断演变这件事。 这也是我喜欢琼尼·米切尔的地方。一个艺术家在已经成功之后，仍然继续往前走，继续寻找，这里面有某种东西。迈尔斯其实完全可以在1958年停下来。他完全可以一辈子都做《有点蓝》，一样可以非常、非常出名，甚至可能更加出名。但他没有。他一直在变化，也不断把年轻音乐家带进这个圈子。我觉得这也是我自己想做的事情。 如果你想想所有和迈尔斯·戴维斯有过联系的人——奇克·科里亚（Chick Corea）、赫比·汉考克……真的可以一直列下去。他们都是爵士乐坛最顶尖的音乐家，这本身也是他留下的遗产。 所以，这些才是我真正敬佩迈尔斯、也受他影响的地方。并不仅是他的小号演奏或者即兴，那些当然都非常了不起。真正让我着迷的是，他对未来产生的影响。 LC：你听到的第一张迈尔斯·戴维斯唱片是什么？ AA：实际上是一张合辑。我当时有一张黑胶，里面全是他在Prestige唱片公司时期的录音。我记得自己听《如果我是钟》（If I Were a Bell），只是听着它有多么美——编曲、发音、处理。我后来才听到《有点蓝》。 LC：我第一张也是《有点蓝》。 AA：对。那是很多人听到的第一张迈尔斯·戴维斯唱片。 LC：那么今晚你会怎样处理这场演出？ AA：和平时一样。我的即兴方式不会改变。就是尽量放下自我，和根源本身做连接，就这样。我来到这里，就是去做音乐要求我做的事情，无论是什么场合，都一样。无论是逍遥音乐节，还是Village Vanguard，对我来说没有区别。 LC：但今晚的形式比较特别：向一位已经去世的音乐家致敬。节目是你自己选的吗？ AA：我之前就和狭间美帆坐下来谈过我们要演什么。我们考虑了这场演出的特点，毕竟这是逍遥音乐节，所以一定会有很多观众熟悉的东西、那些比较流行的作品。但我是一个即兴音乐家，所以，到时候看看会发生什么吧。 LC：说到Village Vanguard，我之前提到过你的现场专辑《A Rift in Decorum: Live at the Village Vanguard》。我真的很喜欢那张唱片，可以听一整天。你觉得自己已经走出了那一时期了吗？ AA：这是个很好的问题。不，其实就是那支乐队本身而已。我们都在变老，也都有了家庭。贾斯汀·布朗（Justin Brown）现在和Thundercat一起演出，哈里什·拉加万现在和查尔斯·劳埃德（Charles Lloyd）一起演出，我在斯坦福教书，也做很多其他事情。只是很难把大家重新凑到一起。 不过我们六月刚刚录了一张CD，明年会发行。所以我又要重新演很多四重奏了，我很期待。这些都是我的兄弟，我们成为一支乐队已经——天啊，我甚至不知道从哪里算起——超过16、17年了。贾斯汀和我是一起长大的，我们一起演奏已经30年了。哈里什和我一起演奏也超过20年了，萨姆也是。所以你在那些唱片里听到的，就是这些东西。这种关系很难重新复制，也很难重新让它聚在一起，因为生活就是这样。 LC：你11月还会回伦敦，是和这个四重奏吗？ AA：对，但那会是另外一个乐队。 LC：会演新专辑里的作品吗？ AA：会有一些。我现在也一直在想，怎样把年轻的乐手带进这个圈子。承担起给他们机会的角色——某种导师的角色，有点像迈尔斯·戴维斯。所以我想那次会带一支更年轻的乐队。 LC：你做过很多不同形式的音乐——自己的四重奏、二重奏、个人项目，也和其他音乐家合作。这些不同的形式，对你来说在创作时会有本质上的不同吗？ AA：不。对我来说，我的角色还是一样的，完全一样。当然，不同的人会带出不同的声音，因为对话发生了变化，但我的角色不变。我必须这样想，否则我觉得自己会非常有压力，因为我一直同时在做这么多不同的事情。 安布罗斯·阿金穆西雷在逍遥音乐节 Photo: BBC/Andy Paradise 学院爵士已取代俱乐部 LC：我们可以聊聊你在斯坦福的教学吗？ AA：可以。我去年接下这个职位，现在是我在斯坦福大学担任爵士项目主任的第二年。我想在那里建立一个项目，但我更希望斯坦福成为一个“中心”：帮助一个社区成长的地方，让讨论发生的地方，也让那些对其他领域感兴趣、同时又对创造力和即兴如何与自己所感兴趣的东西连接起来感兴趣的学生，有一个可以聚集的地方。比如计算机科学和即兴之间的关系。我想创造一个空间，让这些讨论发生。 LC：那你具体教什么？ AA：每年年初我想教什么就教什么（笑），我可以自己选择。但我同时负责整个项目。去年我教的是音乐理论和即兴，今年教作曲、理论和即兴。我还在设计一门音乐史课程，把整个黑人音乐的谱系都包括进去。 LC：但斯坦福的爵士项目应该没有存在很长时间吧？ AA：很多人都这么以为，但其实他们从70年代末就已经有爵士系了。 LC：我们一直在谈的爵士的不可捉摸，它很难被真正定义或者分析。在高等教育的环境里，爵士是不是特别难教？ AA：我觉得现在越来越没那么难了，因为现在真正发生的事情是，让乐手开始去管理这些机构，我觉得这很好。就像你说的，这东西很难教，所以很多时候你必须把它展示出来。过去音乐就是这样传下来的——你待在某个人身边，通过师徒关系学习。我觉得现在，学院正在慢慢成为这种事情发生的地方。 LC：你觉得自己是学术体系的一部分吗？ AA：是。是的。这样说起来还挺奇怪的（笑）。 LC：爵士乐的根源跟学院风马牛不相及，而现在两者已经肩并肩站在一起了。 AA：其实，爵士这个机构——学院里的爵士教育——已经在某种程度上取代了过去俱乐部的功能。很多俱乐部都关门了，它们曾经只是一个聚会的地方，一个年轻人可以过来、坐在别人身边的地方。像Bradley’s这些过去的爵士俱乐部，承担的就是这个功能。现在它们已经不存在了。所以我理解的“学院爵士”，其实就是这样一个地方：让志同道合的人、年轻的音乐家聚在一起。 LC：所以，也许不是爵士本身必须改变，而是大学需要改变它理解爵士教育的方式。否则，“学院化的爵士”听起来还是会让人觉得有些望而生畏。 AA：对。我觉得它确实正在改变。肖恩·琼斯（Sean Jones）在学校任教，沃尔特·史密斯三世（Walter Smith III）负责萨克斯管系，鲁德雷什·马哈恩塔帕（Rudresh Mahanthappa）在普林斯顿大学。还有很多，我可以一直列下去——特雷尔·斯塔福德（Terell Stafford），英格丽德·延森（Ingrid Jensen）在曼哈顿音乐学院。现在真正会演奏、真正热爱这种音乐的人，开始成为这些系里的负责人。这已经不只是一个行政职位了，而是真正的艺术家在领导这些学校。我觉得这非常美好。 安布罗斯·阿金穆西雷在逍遥音乐节 Photo: BBC/Andy Paradise “悲伤”是眼下的创作主题 LC：你的不同专辑似乎总弥漫着一种情绪。创作音乐的时候，你会下意识去想自己处于什么样的状态吗？ AA：不会。我不会有意识地去想。就是生活把什么扔给我，我就经历什么。最近，我的父母都去世了。所以现在我处于一种恢复期。这就是我人生这个阶段的主题：恢复。我要怎样恢复？我要怎样承受？所以音乐就会是那个样子。 我只有在回头看的时候才知道。我总是在音乐已经录完之后才回头看，我会坐下来问自己：这一切到底意味着什么？这张CD是什么？这些音乐是什么？这究竟是我人生中的哪个阶段？所以我其实并不真正控制它。我没有强迫自己去做什么。我没有在操纵它。生活就是生活，我只是随之起舞。 LC：所以你如今创作的情绪？ AA：我觉得就是悲伤。 LC：对不起。 AA：没关系。这就是生活的一部分。这就是这支舞的一部分。 LC：你会不会回到一些旧的地方？回到童年时生活过、成长过的地方？ AA：会，经常。我就住在自己长大的地方。我搬回来了。我会见到很多从小就认识的人。 LC：是奥克兰（Oakland）吗？ AA：我住在伯克利。我先搬回了奥克兰，后来儿子到了上学的年纪，我就搬到了伯克利。所以其实也就是隔着一个城市。 LC：他也学音乐吗？ AA：他弹钢琴，不过学的是铃木教学法。他没有学爵士。 LC：我还想问问赫比·汉考克（Herbie Hancock）。你之前和他合作过吗？他有没有对你产生什么影响？ AA：我22、23岁的时候，在塞隆尼斯·蒙克学院认识了赫比和韦恩·肖特。我们跟他们一起巡演过几次。后来，我会去韦恩家里和他一起冥想，我也不知道事情是怎么发生的，人生真的很奇妙。我后来也和本尼·莫平（Bennie Maupin）变得很亲近。所以到现在，我认识他们已经二十多年了。 LC：你也在赫比·汉考克学院任教吗？ AA：对。我做过艺术总监，也在那里教过很多东西。 LC：你教什么？ AA：人生（笑）。我的意思是，我只是想用同样的方式，把赫比和韦恩教给我的东西继续传下去。他们教的并不是音乐理论。他们教的是，怎样成为一个更好的人，怎样成为一个更好的世界公民。所以我试着把这些东西传给学生——不是因为我有什么特别，而只是因为我曾经和他们在一起，我想把这些东西继续下去。 安布罗斯·阿金穆西雷四重奏将于2026年11月15日（星期日）在伦敦 Kings Place 演出。更多演出信息： https://www.kingsplace.co.uk/whats-on/jazz/ambrose-akinmusire-quartet/ Writer Lucy Cheung