IF YOU WANT TO SEE what makes the career of Canadian pianist Stewart Goodyear so interesting, take a look at two video clips posted online. In one, Goodyear performs a piano transcription of The Blue Danube Waltz. In this virtuosic repertoire he reveals the exceptional grace, elegance, and lyricism for which he is well-known. In the other, Goodyear plays the first movement of Beethoven’s “Hammerklavier” Sonata. You can see a facet of Goodyear’s playing which has emerged in full force since he started performing and recording all 32 of Beethoven’s piano sonatas. Here, there’s a spontaneous emotional energy, fired by dramatic phrasing, imaginative colours, and daring tempos.
Goodyear will be playing four Beethoven sonatas when he comes to Koerner Hall at the Royal Conservatory for a recital on November 28. Born in Toronto in 1978, he graduated from the Glenn Gould School at the Conservatory when he was just 15, after studying with James Anagnoson, now dean of the school. Goodyear then went on to the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia, followed by graduate studies at the Juilliard School in New York. Established as a composer as well as pianist, he still lives in New York.
But Toronto remains a second home – fortunately, since that allowed me to catch up with him in late September, when he came into The WholeNote’s offices for an interview.
Does your ongoing Beethoven project represent a more serious direction for you? I have always been serious about Beethoven. But what is ironic about this project is the number of people asking me, “Why are you doing this?” I guess they think that I am just doing Beethoven to prove I am serious.
Why hadn’t you make any recordings since you were 14, until now when you’ve released a new disc of Beethoven sonatas? After I graduated from Juilliard there was absolutely no time for recording. I was doing a lot of performing, because I had a manager who was overworking me. I found out later that he was trying to run me out of the business by burning me out.
That is bizarre – why did he do that? I don’t know why. But when I kept getting great reviews from all these concerts he was scheduling he said to me, “Stewart, what is it with you – the more we abuse you, the better you play.” And he sounded worried. I’m happy to say that he was fired by the company.
But he actually did me a service, because that experience gave me the will to fight to stay in the picture: to not get burnt out and not to give up. I gained more technique and knowledge of music, and more life experience. I also developed the ability to learn big pieces very quickly. I had to learn around 11 new concerti per season. I will never do that again. But pieces like the Hummel Concerto in A minor gave me even more knowledge of Beethoven, who was his contemporary. I wanted to read everything I could about Hummel in order to do that piece justice. So I found out about him as a pianist and a person, and how he influenced composers such as Chopin and Mendelssohn.
Even though it’s been 18 years since you recorded Leroy Anderson and Gershwin with Erich Kunzel and the Cincinnati Pops, your reputation might still be partly based on that repertoire. But I was treating Leroy Anderson just as seriously as I would any other composer! When I recently played Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue in Ottawa the person introducing the concert said, “You will hear Stewart Goodyear’s jazz skills when he interprets Rhapsody in Blue.” That was one of the few times I had to speak to an audience. I said “Listen, I am not a jazz pianist. I wish I were – it demands such a level of sophistication. I absolutely love listening to jazz, but it’s a totally different world of creativity.” I explained that I’m a classical pianist. And Rhapsody in Blue is a classical score, not a jazz composition.
The difference? Everything that I perform is written down. I follow the tempo markings and the dynamics as faithfully in Gershwin as I do in Beethoven.
What about when you improvise
cadenzas in Mozart’s concertos? For Mozart’s cadenzas, I do improvise on the spot.
Do you prepare anything beforehand? No, I’m just inspired by the moment – by Mozart’s score, how conductors portray Mozart’s tutti before I come in, how they set up the mood, and how the audience responds. So it’s always fresh. The whole atmosphere governs what I’m going to be doing. I suppose in a way I do prepare, because improvisation is always part of my practising routine. But as to the actual notes that come out during the cadenza, I never know what I’m going to do until I reach that moment.
What about the Mozart concertos which do have cadenzas composed by him - do you still improvise your own? That was a tough decision to make. I decided to do my own, simply because when Mozart does write out a cadenza, it’s really just a skeleton of what he would play on stage. It’s like a guide. I’m sure he took plenty of liberties, but we will never know. We do have some ideas from the piano sonatas and the fantasies – they become very virtuosic.
Do you think there are different ways to interpret a composer’s music that can work equally well? I don’t know how anyone can have the idea that a piece could only be played one certain way. To me that insults the creativity of the composer – and classical music. What got me into classical music is the fact that there are so many ways of feeling, so many ways of responding to one piece. When there are maybe 2,500 people in an auditorium listening to a symphony or a concerto, I’m sure they’re not all thinking the same things. They’re all individuals. They are not each saying, “This is the only way to listen,” so why should there be this idea that there is only one way to interpret?
In the programme notes that you wrote for your Beethoven disc, you use provocative words like “sinister,” “merciless,” and “screaming sobs.” Something that governed my interpretation of Beethoven was finding out just what kind of player he was. Beethoven’s playing had such an emotional force that audiences were not just moved, but terrified. People would be both laughing and sobbing. He communicates all the emotions of humanity: sadness, humour, joy, hope, even violence. There’s a reason why people absolutely adore thunderstorms and love the crash-boom of fireworks – it’s the thrill, and it’s cathartic as well. I think Beethoven captures all that.
Maybe that’s why you’ve been accused of pounding in your Beethoven.
There are some people who think that I pound. I don’t think I pound, but I don’t shy away from startling audiences. But there are many ways of playing loud - a chordal texture, a percussive attack, forceful rhythms, a wave of sound from an arpeggio - just as there are many ways of playing soft or mezzo-forte. All these different colours can come out, and I’m not afraid to use all of them. This can scare people.
Sometimes when I hear an interpretation of Beethoven, I think, my goodness, why aren’t you using all the facilities you have available? This is a moment where people should be jumping out of their seats. This is not pleasant, this is frightening – show it! But I’m the first one to stand up when I hear an amazing performance that touches me on many levels, or when a performer gives me goose-bumps and makes me grasp the seat and think to myself, “I went to a good concert.” That’s one thing I’m always conscious of when I’m performing.
So you are not afraid of making an ugly sound? Don’t get me wrong – an ugly sound is not something I’m striving for. At the same time, I’m not striving for people to say, “Well, isn’t that nice.” What on Earth is that to me? There’s a scene in the movie Ben Hur where Ben Hur and Messala are fighting to the death in the arena. After watching that, would you leave the theatre saying, “Wasn’t that nice?” That is not the reason that scene is there.
If you go on a blind date, you hope that the person you’re having a drink with inspires an emotional chemistry, so that you want to see that person again. Beethoven does that – with every single sonata you want to hear everything again and again. Every sonata is different, and I think that was a conscious decision, because he knew that people were wondering what he was going to do next. That’s one of many, many reasons why he is so great.
What else are you performing these days? I’m playing Messiaen. Recently in Detroit I did the Turangalîla Symphony and at the Lanaudière Festival I performed the Oiseaux exotiques. Messiaen is one of those composers where you are just transmitted, transported, “trans-everythinged.” He brings you into a world that is so glorious – it’s spiritual, it’s religious, it’s sensuous. Messiaen is one of the most feared composers because if you want to box Messiaen in, good luck. It’s not going to happen. Like Beethoven, he explored all facets of humanity. He went about it differently, of course, but I think he’s one of the greats.
Perhaps he’s feared also because his scores are so daunting to play. They are difficult, and there are so many kinds of sounds involved. The Oiseaux exotiques was one piece where I was working very hard. Not only on the piano, but researching in libraries. I wanted to find out about every bird that Messiaen heard, and hear what it actually sounded like, in order to do that piece justice. I thought, “Without that knowledge, why am I doing this piece?”
Apart from your own compositions, do you play much music by living composers? Not yet, but I love listening to contemporary music. In New York I’m always out attending premieres because I want to know what people are creating and what the audience response is. It always feels like you are a part of history. Seeing a piece take shape and hearing something new is a treat for me.
How does that affect your own composing? Everything affects my writing. Life affects my writing. When I’m travelling and exploring different cultures and meeting people that all inspires the next composition.
Did you study composition? I worked with Jennifer Higdon. She really encouraged my composition. I’m always in touch with her, and I see her as a mentor. I think she’s a wonderful composer – and a wonderful person – so every time she has a premiere I try to be there.
Many of your works have colourful titles, like Caribbiana and Dogged by Helhounds – while some have traditional titles like Piano Concerto.... There’s something very personal about the way I handle the piano concerto form, coming from my British-Trinidadian background. The rhythms and the way I approach lyricism come from that very personal approach.
When you say Trinidadian, do you mean rhythms like calypso? Not only calypso, but a lot of French and Spanish and East Indian influences.
Even though you live in New York, do you still feel Canadian? That’s right!
Your mixed identity, as half British and half Trinidadian, does seem typically Canadian. That’s why I feel that Canada was such a healthy place to grow up. There is such diversity, and every culture is respected, which is the way it should be. Unfortunately other places have a less healthy point of view.
Did that diversity extend to music? I grew up with a very eclectic musical backround, but classical was always the main thing. I felt like a rebel when I listened to classical music, because everyone else in the neighbourhood was listening to Culture Club, Sting, and Michael Jackson. I would think to myself, “My heavens, why aren’t people listening to Tchaikovsky or Beethoven?” Then I went to my first classical concert and there were 2000 other people listening to the same music that I was. I thought, “All right, that’s good – I’m not alone.”
What was it like when you went to Curtis and were surrounded with kids just as serious about classical music as you? It was great being surrounded by all that amazing, passionate talent. Every Saturday we had a piano forum. We would play for each other, and after a while we didn’t only want to talk about the piano. We wanted to talk about each other – where you’re from and what inspires you.
You were only 15 when you first went to Curtis – did your mother go with you? My Mom was with me for my first three years in Philadelphia. After I graduated from the high school I was on my own there, but she was always supporting me.
When you were hosting This is My Music on CBC radio last summer, you described how you started out on a toy piano when you were two. That was my first piano. My mother would play a nursery song like Mary Had a Little Lamb on that keyboard – it had colours and numbers – and I had to learn the colours and numbers and play it back.
How did your talent show up at that young age? I was also picking up the tune she played and playing it back to her by ear.
Were you aware that you had a special gift? I just knew from around three that this was something I wanted to do – I wanted to be a musician. Actually I thought I was going to be a violinist because I loved hearing violin music. I would listen to the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto over and over. I was doing Suzuki violin, and the piano was just something I enjoyed playing. On the piano I was basically on my own playing whatever I heard on the radio, transcribing it by ear.
My first lessons were actually on the recorder, and my teacher Mrs. Grunsky was instrumental in getting me my first piano teacher. She said, “This kid has something special, so you’d better take care of his talent.” My first piano teacher taught me how to read the bass clef. But every time she would assign a new piece I would always end up learning the whole book by myself. So I definitely felt that I had something, to be honest. But I knew I had to refine it, and learn how to reach an audience. I had all the notes, so the next step was to use all my facilities to communicate the emotion behind that.
Did your natural facility make it more difficult for you to do the tedious work like playing a bar over and over, since you didn’t need to do that to get impressive results? I’m pretty hard-core about my practising, and I’m never satisfied until I feel that I’ve got everything right. But yes, I didn’t like practising when I was younger (he laughs). But I did develop more discipline. I was always keen to take on a lot of work, even when I was eight years old.
What about that documentary Adrienne Clarkson made about you for the CBC in 1991? Oh, my – that seems a lifetime ago.
It was – you were just 13 years old. The description of this show says it’s about “a child prodigy who taught himself to play piano before he could speak.” That makes it sound like you just emerged from nowhere, which is surely misleading, given what you’ve said about your early training. It’s apparent you don’t like being labelled a child prodigy, so how did you feel about that show at the time? There is one conductor quoted in that show who really angered me when he said, “He’s an adorable little kid – but what’s going to happen when he’s not cute any more?” Basically he was saying that I was going to be pushed into oblivion. That’s what made me decide to go to Curtis – it was that comment. I thought to myself, “I’m going to prove you wrong – that is not going to happen.”
But here you are with a thriving career, when so many precocious talents don’t make it past the early stages. What kept you going through all the inevitable difficulties? My mother was wonderful – very encouraging and always believing in me from the get-go. She taught me how to be independent and believe in myself. She told me, “If anyone tells you something is impossible, ten out of ten it’s possible. Follow your instincts and trust your gut, because that is your best friend in the world, and you know what’s right.”
At Curtis you studied with Leon Fleisher, who studied with Artur Schnabel, who studied with Theodor Leschetizky... Yes, it’s quite a chain.
Do you feel part of it? Yes I do. When I was growing up a lot of the pianists that I was listening to were from the golden age of pianism, which included Schnabel, Josef Hoffman, Rachmaninov. All of these really inspired me to become a pianist. And most of them were composers themselves.
What was it like for you to perform the complete cycle of Beethoven’s piano sonatas, as you did last summer for the Ottawa Chamber
Music Festival? It was such a wonderful experience, it felt like the best week of my life. It had been a dream for me to perform all 32 together since I was 15 years old. I felt emotionally that I had reached that moment with them that I had absolutely no choice but to do it. These sonatas would not leave me alone. I didn’t plan to do all 32 sonatas when I was 32 years old. It just happened that way. But it was very good timing.
What order did you do them in? I did them in chronological order, so it was a journey of evolution that Beethoven was taking the audience – and me – on. It was quite a baptism.
The programme for your upcoming recital at Koerner Hall on November 28 includes some of Beethoven’s most magnificent sonatas – but why no late sonatas? Picking just four sonatas for that recital was quite a challenge. Originally I was going to programme the last three sonatas, but then I thought that since I’ve already recorded them, and this concert will be broadcast, I would play from the so-called mid-period.
Why did you start out recording the Beethoven sonatas with the last five sonatas? The last sonatas were actually the first sonatas that I studied under Fleisher when I was at Curtis. Each of these sonatas spoke to me on a very personal level, so I wanted to record them first.
You have created some controversy with your speedy tempos in Beethoven’s sonatas. A lot of people think Beethoven’s metronome markings for the sonatas are wrong. So there’s a traditional way of interpreting them that has been passed on through generations. But I disagreed with that tradition. I felt I had to pay attention to Beethoven’s own markings because I was paying attention to everything else that Beethoven wrote down. To me there’s a double standard when everything Beethoven writes down, the dynamics, the expressive markings, must be followed – except his metronome markings. I thought to myself, “Why did he write those metronome markings? They must work, so how can I make them work?”
In the first movement of the Hammerklavier especially, almost everyone thinks Beethoven’s metronome marking of a half-note equals 138 is ridiculously fast. Many pianists treat the opening like Mount Everest, vast and very broad, as though they’re conducting Bruckner. But I think it does work if one approaches it from another point of view. I think of the first movement as Beethoven’s tribute to a baroque overture. In the last five sonatas you see Beethoven being influenced by the style of Bach and Handel – things like the sarabande and the fugue. From that perspective Beethoven’s marking for that movement is perfectly sane. So, basically, one has to listen to my Beethoven with fresh ears.
Where do you go after Beethoven? You just go – and you keep exploring. It’s like once you’ve gone to Paris or the Great Wall of China, that doesn’t end your travels.
Furthermore...
• Stewart Goodyear will be giving a recital at Koerner Hall on November 28 at 8.00.
• His new CD, “Beethoven: The Late
Sonatas” is available on Marquis 81507.
• The two video-clips of Stewart Goodyear mentioned above are posted at
www.cami.com/?webid=188
• The Pacifica Quartet will perform Jennifer
Higdon’s Voices at the St. Lawrence Centre on December 9, presented by Music Toronto.
Pamela Margles is a Toronto-based journalist who writes The WholeNote’s monthly “Book Shelf” column.
