Entrevista a Alexandre Delgado / Interview with Alexandre Delgado
2004/Jul/15
|
|
The most
important person, who in fact decided this change in my life for me and who
made me become a musician, was a teacher in my preparatory school - the pianist
Fátima Fraga. It was her who called my father and said that it was a crime that
I wasn't learning music and so I then went to the Children's Friends Musical
Foundation (Fundação Musical dos Amigos das Crianças). This was when I must
have been 11 years old. I had always loved music and thought that it was too
late to start learning. But fortunately that was not so and I went to a school.
I kind of had the idea that I wanted to learn the harp. I didn't have the idea
at all of learning the violin, but that was where they put me and later, thank
God - because after less than a year I was already playing in the children's
orchestra -, this was also a decisive experience. The fact of performing a
concert in public with other kids, after just one year of playing violin, was a
pleasure. I had a sensation of importance, of doing something so important and
so stimulating that it was in fact the touchstone for me wanting to be a
musician.
It was almost at the same time that I began to learn
music in the Foundation and also to compose. There was a Music Reading teacher
in the school - my teacher Deodata Henriques -, who, right from the start, said
that I had perfect pitch. She therefore became very close to me, and used to
tell me that I when I got home I should write melodies, to write whatever, so
the next day she could use them for dictation in class. In fact it was her who
encouraged me to begin composing. Later I began to write pieces, played by the
others. We therefore got a quartet or a quintet together and played what I had
written on the previous days and
this was even before I had learned anything about composition. So everything I
was doing was hyper-intuitive. Then, the orchestra teacher - Leonardo de
Barros, agreed for one of my pieces to be performed by the orchestra. He
himself suggested that we should do a concert and that was what we did. By
chance it is a piece which I still like today, it is funny, something very
tonal – G minor – very sad, it has a hint of Sibelius, that we played in the
Gulbenkian and which Joly went to as a critic for the Diário de Notícias. He
then did a write-up in the Diário de Notícias saying that it was a worthy work,
but which denoted the conservative education I was being given. And the funny
part was that I had learned absolutely no composition whatsoever. I didn't even
know theoretically what was a perfect chord. And therefore everything I did was
absolutely intuitive. But it was at that time that I began to have private
classes with him. It was Leonardo who spoke with him, and he accepted me as a
private student. Later, from then on, from 1981 to 1985, I had private classes
with him.
Meanwhile, in 1986, I went to France to study
with a grant. But in terms of composition, the two decisive people were first
Joly - as it was Joly who helped to organise me, helping me to understand what
it was to really begin to compose given that everything I was doing was
intuitive. So he gave me an extremely traditional grounding, beginning with
counterpoint – which was something that in terms of the teaching of Composition
was not done here –, then Harmony and later giving all the disciplines of
traditional education, resulting in me writing somewhat cautiously. When I was
in my intuitive stage I was a little looser than I turned out after that. After
those years with Joly, I wrote my first pieces – Prelúdio,
which was played by an orchestra. It was in 1982, I was 16 when I wrote Prelúdio
para Orquestra, which had its debut by the National
Portuguese Radio (RDP) Orchestra. Then I wrote a piece for Grand Orchestra,
which had its debut by the S. Carlos Orchestra in 1983, but I was going in
leaps and bounds as, for example, while Prelúdio was an
extremely tonal work, Três Momentos was
already touching on the dodecaphonic.
I remember there was one class with Joly where
he had asked me to do an exercise with 9th, 11th and 13th chords, and I did it,
and when he began to analyse the exercise after a bit he stopped and said: “You
know, now we have to think: you have to go and see Jorge Peixinho”. I liked
Peixinho a lot, but I told Joly “Oh Maestro, I sincerely want to learn with
you, it's really you I want to learn with.” But after that, what happened was
that I went to France to study with Jacques Charpentier and he opened up my
horizons immensely. Right in the first classes with him, simply by analysing
all the music I had taken with me, he made me understand that everything I was
writing was extremely harmonic and thought extremely vertically, therefore on a
harmonic basis. He told me that perhaps it was something that was really a part
of me and that this would therefore always be the case, but that we needed to
extend this with other things. And most of all, to explore music in all its
parameters which, for me, was a revelation. From then on, I began to find a
much more individual language, rhythmically and timbrically richer, exploring
all the parameters at the same time.
In terms of books, those which influenced me
most, as a composer, were firstly Fundaments of Musical Composition by
Schoenberg - which opened up a world for me where I had never imagined that
things could be constructed with that degree of coherence from the most
elementary particle to the construction of an entire work. In fact, Schoenberg
explained this like no one else and this was an eye-opener for me. The second
was The Classical Style by Charles Rosen, which was also a
“revelation” for me, when I understood that all of those marvellous works that
I adored, were saying such concrete things with A plus B, and constructing in
such an amazing way that they could be de-constructed note by note and bar by
bar. And to top it all was a book
which I read last year in the summer - just before starting to write Rainha
Louca -, The Language of Music
by Deryck Cooke. Within quite conservative aesthetics, (basically limiting
music just to the tonal system and not going beyond this), within the tonal
system he finds meanings which I had always understood intuitively but which
are analysed here in a systematic, exhaustive way… each sequence of chords… why
is it that the subdominant gives us the sensation of rest? All the expressive
meanings associable with music are there, broken down into a fantastically
explained system. This confirmed everything I felt intuitively and which I now
apply, not within the tonal system, but resuming some points of reference. For
example, one of them which is very important for me, is the relative pitch of
notes... The plane – I don't mean exactly the tonal plane as it is not a tonal
work in the traditional sense – tonal, which are the pivot
notes throughout each act and each scene, are fundamental for stating the
expressive content exactly. As I have perfect pitch, I associate, for example,
an F sharp and a C natural - something amazing which should be explored. I
think that one of the things that was very much lost in the 20th century, and
that I am most sorry about losing is exactly this “colour” concerning each
tonality. That weight and expressive capacity there used to be in tonality was
very much lost, this chromatic capacity of music which you get when it
completely changes area, to be in one tonality and then move to another. It is
an effect of variety which I think is fundamental in music. For me, these pivot
notes have to be there, these moments where we go from
one point of influence to another in order to give a sensation of modulation.
I mean, it does not fit into the traditional
categories of modulation in the sense of dominants – tonics, it obviously
doesn't fit. But there is another system which I still wouldn't be able to
theorise in the same way as Esteván does in relation to Bartok. Only later when
I read the book on Bartok's language, and I understood how that - a system so
amazingly well brought together that I had never seen it done - had a
tremendous effect on me without me even knowing. For example, one of the works
which influenced me the most in my adolescence was Music for Strings,
Percussion and Celesta, and then, one or two years ago, I
discovered to what point it is constructed within a coherent system and that it
can be deconstructed into A plus B. Bartok's axis system is a fascinating
system, which I had never understood in theory and which I now see that I,
intuitively, already used to use a lot. I relate very much with the axis
system.
One of the things that I always have in mind is
to always keep certain notes. There is a certain area which I am not using and
which is to be used to full effect immediately following. For me, what drives
me away from contemporary music the most is the idea of grey, it is the idea of
an indistinct magma where you cannot vary, where you can't have the effect of
modulation. I think that the effect of modulation is one of the most
fascinating effects in western music and is one of the reasons why you can go
so far. Modulation, which is a concept which purely and simply did not exist in
the Middle Ages, allows you to approach whole areas and change between
atmospheres. It is also the feeling of perspective, it is a bit like
perspective in painting, don't you think? And I think that has been lost…
The contemporary composers which had the most
effect on me, which attracted me the most, were Ligeti, Lutoslawski, Xenakis to
a degree, but I confess that I later got fed up of him… but these were the ones
that I felt moulded music in a more physical way and closer to our intuitive
way of feeling… The music I am attracted to is music which has to have a
certain “balance”. I have to feel it minimally with my body. Not to feel a
pulsing is something which leaves me without any points of reference. In terms
of rhythm, it is the equivalent of total abstractionism, something I do not
relate to. I need concrete things to be presented. I need ideas, I need motifs
which stick in your memory. When I hear a work I want to be able to retain
those basic ideas to later understand what is going to happen to them. This is
what fascinates me in music. This is why I adore the classic style so much. For
me, Haydn has been one of the most marvellous immersions in my life. It is a
privilege to be able to do these programs on Antena 2, where, every two weeks,
I have a new symphony by Haydn to analyse and which have been a discovery… When
I get to the end of the symphonies it is going to be awful because it is an
abundant world and it is amazing how you can construct an entire universe within
a scheme which can be considered so rigid and at the same time is so free that
it allows infinite, millions of combinations. But for me, what fascinates me in
this music is to be able to understand that it tells a story… and when a theme
appears, and then another theme. You know exactly what is happening to the
themes. It is like in films. I cannot stand films where there is no storyline.
I think it is meaningless… There has to be a story in the film. The essence of
a film is to be a story well told, and in music it is the same. Music should
always have a well told story. This is what I look for in music – in music
which I like to listen to and in the music I make - to tell a story.
I think it conditions it immensely. There were
many pieces with which, before playing in an orchestra, I was fascinated, and
for which after playing them I lost an enormous part of this fascination. For
example, those which had a great impression on me for having been such a
disappointment were Ligeti's micropolyphony works. Atmospheres,
when played in the orchestra… we see that it is completely abominable to play,
because the music is totally unconnected from the concrete reality of the
instrumentalist. Here we are playing the role of machines and the vocation of
the instrumentalist is precisely to have nothing to do with the machine. What I
am striving to do is to create music which can be played and which has
something idiomatic, which allows people to express themselves beyond the
score. Above all to be idiomatic, to be a technique of the instruments, as the
new techniques which appear throughout the 20th century can be very
fascinating, in which, in certain cases, there are fascinating effects. I have
used some, sometimes in a grotesque way, making fun of it somewhat…- what I
call the folklore of the avant guard. There are fascinating effects, but one
mustn't confuse things. They are not, nor will they be the essence of each
instrument. This is not what instruments were made for and this is not what
they do best. This is a condiment, it is something amusing which can be used on
certain full justified occasions, it can be used, but for the players it is
extremely frustrating. This type of effects is like those flutes which have to
be like this for three minutes until you can make those four notes at the same
time. I don't have the patience for that, I think it is a waste of time. There
are fantastic computers for that. This is the area in which electronic and
electro-acoustic music allow you to do things that instrument themselves, only
in a very tiring, very tiresome manner… I couldn't live my life with that, I'd
die of boredom. I find it a torment. And that is why I must make extremely
idiomatic music, conceived for each instrument. And then there's something
else, which is that theatrical element, I think that each instrument has a
personality. One of the reasons I like the fiddle so much is because it is an
instrument with lots of personality. It is unmistakable amongst the strings. In
fact, each of the instruments in the string family has a very pronounced
personality, but the fiddle embodies a personality with which I identify a lot.
It is the one that stands out from the others, and which has its own little world
and which is a blend of the comic and tragic and which at the same time is a
loner, but with a certain good nature, with a certain charm. It is an
instrument that fascinates me, an instrument with lots of personality.
It is curious that it was as from the time that
I wrote the Concerto for Fiddle and Orchestra, which I played solo, that I had
to pluck up heart and show whether I could play or not. I just couldn't stand
there and pretend I was an instrumentalist, you “either play or you can't”.
This forced me to move up a level in technical terms and, from then on, I
started to want to also do recitals which I now do regularly. Every year I do
some three or four recitals with piano. As I also found a fantastic companion - Bruno Belthoise - and now, systematically,
I am running through the repertoire of the viola. Only now, so it's something
that came along late. I didn't know most of the repertoire of the viola. It's
not very well known and is not as small as is generally believed. There are
many fantastic pieces which no one plays.
I usually compose outside of Lisbon, generally
on my grandmother's estate where there is no piano. And for me that's great.
Because the piano is extremely limiting. In fact, I am now playing around with
an opera scene which has been the most difficult thing to squeeze out. After
being on my grandmother's estate where I wrote four minutes of music, where I
just had to sit down and write, now I had to sweat it out as I just had the
piano and therefore wanted to try everything and this is something that
restricts me. With things just in my head, I can imagine everything much more
freely. It was something that Charpentier taught me. “I never compose at the
piano” is what he used to tell me. And this very much changed the way I
compose. All of my musical education with Joly was at the piano, always
composing at the piano, and, considering above all that I am not a pianist - I
am not very good at piano -, my lack of development does not give me sufficient
freedom. So I would be even more limited due to this. The fiddle is ideal for
this, as it lets you play those sounds, allows you to see the right effect of
the chords and to then create the sound within my head. It is as if the
instrument gives me the master strokes but which then leave me free within my
head to create independent lines and more complex textures. The piano itself
does not make me feel so loose, it makes me feel more restricted.
For me, the most difficult part in a work is
always finding that initial point, that beginning. It has to be the first
notes, the beginning – which is so important. If I don't identify with it with
my body and soul… I spent years working on that first phrase of the opera.
Where the queen is alone in front of the fireplace and she says: “If I were
free, I wouldn't be here”. And I just couldn't find the music for that. Until
last summer, one day I just sat down… and boom… and there it was. And that first phrase of the queen is the
touchstone for the whole work. The whole opera arises from that. The
organisation of all the rest comes from this beginning.
By chance here I don't start with the beginning
as there will also be an overture, but I
don't like to have a completely rigid scheme like that where you then try to
fit everything in. As you proceed with things, they always turn out a little
different from that which you imagined at the outset. For example, one of the
things that passed me by in the process is the fact that the opera was betting
a lot bigger and bigger, of much vaster proportions than I had thought. What I
had thought would be an overture of one
minute and a half, or one minute – O Doido e a Morte
has an overture of one minute -, here it will need at least five minutes. It
will need a real overture, because the first act itself
already lasts 25 minutes. Therefore, it has to have a real overture.
And the sensation of the relative size of the sections, and above all of the
contrast which is necessary… What bothers me most is the idea of music without
contrasts. I think that, in fact, the essence of music is in its contrast,
grabbing the attention of whoever is listening. And therefore, it is very
important to have a notion of size, accompanying the evolution of the work, in
order to have a sense of psychological evolution. For me, this psychological
path is the key to being “a pain” or being very interesting for the listener.
I write music that I like. The music which
gives me the most pleasure… This is the essence of it all. Now obviously I
think that it is healthy for a person to also think if the work will say
something to someone. I think that writing music just for ourselves would be
something extremely onanist and stupid. We also need to have music which
contributes towards society and which can bring something to people, tell them
something. It is therefore a mixture of both these things. If I don't like it,
no one will like it. On the other hand, if I write some music to which I really
don't relate, simply so people can later say well, this then is the death of
the artist, I think that this is the “end of the game”.
My first phase was one of writing extremely
tonal things, but a totally intuitive tonal, with parallel fifths, and with all
the traditional defects. Then I discovered that I was freer than I thought, as
I was doing these things without thinking. And so this was the first stage,
it's like the stage before learning to read and write, isn't it? That first
intuitive and primordial stage. Then it was that more sensible stage with Joly,
with those first Poems for Soprano and Piano - the
first thing that Joly asked to me to do really as work. And the Prelude for
Strings, which was a sonata form for string orchestra, then
the Três Momentos para Orquestra and Concerto
para Metais, which was the last work I wrote, in 1985,
before going to Nice to study with Charpentier.
I was concerned with finding a way of arranging
a system equivalent to the tonal system, something which could also be a
system. And so I arranged a system which was all based on fourths and fifths,
then with the necessary alternatives to the fourths and fifths to create
tension, but which was a whole table based on fourths and fifths. But then
Charpentier opened my eyes and made me understand to what point I was stupidly
limiting myself. Then, there was a series of apprentice works with Charpentier,
which went in other directions. One work which was very important for me, which
was one of those discoveries, a Columbus' egg where I became fascinated with
myself, it was a Quartet for percussion which I
wrote, in which I invented a kind of a canon. It was a canon, where you didn't
understand that it was a canon, where the various voices appeared somewhat like
“ant music”. Charpentier looked at it, got very excited and said that it seemed
like “ant music”. It was as if each line was growing like an organism and the
others were imitating it at a very small distance, making it seem like a body
that is still and which begins to move until there are millions of bodies
moving at the same time. And I understood how I could rhythmically, without
that thing of thinking about chords and in the vertical dimension, be able to
free myself and do something much looser. For me, it was very important as an
experience. Then Turbilhão were works in which I was trying
to explore, to find a language. This stage which was the Turbilhão,
based on a poem by Mário de Sá-Carneiro, for bass and string quartet; a
concerto for woodwind which is Os Nossos Dias, where I
applied precisely this “ant music” and was inspired by a poem by Alexandre
O’Neill, then, still in the Nice stage, the third year was with the Flute
Concerto. The Flute Concerto was where
I put all of these things into practice at the same time. And then, after that,
I took this trend to perhaps its limit. Where I went furthest was with Evoluções
na Paisagem, a work which even won a prize here, in that
Nova Filarmonia fidelity contest. Where it goes further than ever before is in
the total multiplication of the voices in the orchestra, and at that time I
still knew practically nothing about Ligeti, and which I discovered a
posteriori. It's funny how he had seen this 20 years before and
I was doing something which after all was something comparable. But this work
is an extreme of this conception in terms of textures. Very much based on
textures, on colours, on timbres, on blocks of sounds. Then the turning point
was in 1990 with Antagonia, with a piece for solo
violoncello. Suddenly going from an orchestra to a single instrument…I had to
start from scratch.
I did three or four works for solo instrument,
which at the time they were composed changed the course of what I was doing.
It's funny, Antagonia happened in 1990 and then, all the
works I wrote from then on followed on from Antagonia, culminating
in O Doido e a Morte. O
Doido e a Morte is the condensation of all those
years, but where I tried to create music much more centred on each line, I
sought to give meaning to each line, rather than a multiplicity of lines which
you cannot distinguish very well. Antagonia was also
going into the depths of my being, as in a kind of existential crisis when I
came back from Nice. It was when the Concerto for Flute and Orchestra had
its debut here at the Gulbenkian and then there was a criticism which said that
it was a worthy piece of work but which displayed a surprising academism in
such a young composer. And that was a blow for me. I felt that was an insult
right to my core. I think that when I wrote Concerto for Flute,
in 1988, in Portuguese terms I was almost revolutionary, as there was no one,
the only one of a new generation, who wasn't doing music completely aimed at
the atonal vanguard. So Concerto for Flute resumed
ties with certain impressionist aspects, certain Neo-classic aspects, but in a
personal way, my own. Even today I identify Concerto for Flute
as something completely mine. And I think it is the antithesis of academism,
sincerely. And the idea of writing a piece in three movements, in the classic
structure, an Allegro, an Adagio
and then a Presto to finish, all of that was done on
purpose - ultimately to use traditional mechanisms in a way which went against
an academism which I felt was rife.
Then there came Evoluções da Paisagem –
this is a piece with which I no longer relate. I think that within that
direction, probably, for those who appreciate the more abstract and more atonal
side, it is the most interesting work I have done. And it is quite a complex
work in orchestral terms, with things, with effects, which I find interesting,
original. It has a multiplicity of lines and textures which is in fact
interesting. I am now amazed at how I did that. There are certain pages of Evoluções
da Paisagem which are a sea of notes, like an enormous page
with millions of what look like organisms leaping around there, it looks like a
hive of microbes, something amazing, but with which I no longer relate at all.
Nowadays I wouldn't be able to do anything like it.
It was with Antagonia
that I began this journey towards a new and more tonal language, a language
more convincingly supported on pivot notes and
on tonal centres. I no longer wanted to call them tonal centres because what I
think we have to find is the equivalent for the tonal system, which is in fact
completely worn out. But there are equivalents, basic things in the tonal
system which we have to find. And this is what I try to do, and this is where pivot
notes and poles of attraction are very important. It began with Antagonia,
then there was Langará for clarinet, The Panic Flirt,
first for flute. These are pieces which forced me to get to know the
instruments better. I was very addicted to the world of strings. All of my
education was in the world of string instruments and I only awoke to the issue
of other timbres much later on. I remember when I went to Nice, and still
didn't know timbres very well. I could never tell the difference between a
trumpet and a trombone. There were certain things I still wasn't aware of. My
area was completely strings, the world of the string quartet, the string
quintet, of concertos. For many years I played in the orchestra of the
Foundation, so that was what I lived, that was what meant most to me. To later
start to discover the instruments, this was fascinating for me. And these works
for solo instrument, in fact, were therefore a fantastic opening up to each of
these instruments. I think the flute and the clarinet influenced the type of
language a lot. Then it was in O Doido e
a Morte, that I brought all of this together. And it is an
opera which has a lot to do with the clarinet, it's curious that the opening
theme of Langará is exactly the background theme of
O Doido e a Morte, it is
exactly the same tune. And there are five notes tá-rá-rá-rá-rá,
and from these five notes I construct a whole opera. This is the type of
mechanism that fascinates me. To take something very small, discover its
essence, transform it and make it grow, turn it into something a little
different, and then after that, something else a bit more different, to be able
to construct a cosmos from this primordial seed. This has everything to do with
what I understand as interesting music, with substance. There is nothing that turns
me off more than the idea of music which functions simply as add-ons, like
unconnected parts. I detest post-modernism, I think it is the vomit of a
completely decadent period, incapable of creating new music. The idea of taking
bits from here and there, sticking them together and making a work, for me, is
something repugnant. I detest Andy Warhol, and I think pop-art
is something deplorable. I think it is the art of a totally impotent period.
After centuries of civilisation where people did extraordinary things, for that
then to be considered the thing which is most representative of a certain
period is proof of a perfectly nuclear void. It was as if there had been a
massacre and we had been reduced to nothing and on the other hand it is like
the idea of a supermarket of styles, which is something that appals me. I think
that in any work there can be citations – and I like to use citations, my opera
A Rainha Louca is full of citations – but all of
this was introduced organically, it cannot be simply by the citation. The
organic coherence, it can all be analysed, - that it gives so much to people
who understand nothing about music, that they understand, even without knowing
how it is that they understand, to follow the thread of the story. To allow
these and to also allow the “nit-pickers”, those who take the score and
deconstruct it and who see all the bits and bobs, and who manage to make a very
detailed analysis. I think that the A Rainha Louca,
just like O Doido e a Morte – O Doido e a Morte
is probably more complex in contrapuntal terms, with greater independence of
voices, but the Rainha is much more elaborate -, this is
me now. O Doido e a Morte is
me ten years ago. Now I am a different person.
After O Doido e a Morte
was a frankly difficult period, because it was as if I had used up all my
resources. I suddenly felt as if I was in a void, what do I do now? Mainly
because O Doido e a Morte had such
an impact, it was something that got such fantastic reactions and fantastic
criticism. It was the turning point in my career. Practically no one knew me
and then after O Doido e a Morte
I became known. So it was really a landmark work for me. After this I really
began to have one of those blocks typical of those who don't want to
disappoint. When those expectations had already been created I became totally
blocked without knowing what to do so as not to let down those expectations
that had been created. And by chance, it was an error to want to do another
opera straight away. It was like hedging all my bets. I found the libretto of
the A Rainha Louca and I
became fascinated. After 1995, 1996, from then on, I was giving everything I
had in that direction without realising that first I had to find paths for my
language, in order to then be able to adapt them. Exactly as it had happened
before. If I had began by doing an opera when I went to study with Charpentier,
it would have obviously turned out rubbish, because first I had to find my own
language. And it was after maturing this language that I applied everything in
this opera. And with the A Rainha Louca
exactly the same thing happened. A number of years went by… perhaps the least
productive years I ever had. It was in 1997, with Bamboleio,
initially a piece for harpsichord and marimba, commissioned by the Gulbenkian -
which I later transformed into a piece for piano, this being the version I
prefer, as it is one of those rare pieces that I composed on the piano,
conceived really for piano - where I think I found something for a new personal
path. It was another turning point, which later turned into the Three
Variations – a piece for the Gulbenkian orchestra. Then I did
some pieces for a capella choir – a commission from the S.
Carlos – where the fact of writing for choir was also very important for me as
it obliged me to have a much more harmonic conception of music. With a choir
you really cannot be thinking about it absolutely switched off. It cannot be a
piece of music so based on semitones and things which are too indistinct, too
chromatic. The choir needs that clarity of fourths, fifths and thirds. Those
nicely euphonic intervals and which make a choir multiply itself and create
harmonics. I think that in good writing for choir, for me, the things which
work have to always be very linear intervals, very clear. This is what
propagates the harmonics in the voices and which therefore works so well in
writing for choir. These pieces which I wrote for choir were also good for
finding a way, as well as finding music from other times. The first are Cansonâncias,
which are pieces based on poems based on phonetic repetitions. I began with the
poem by D. Dinis which goes: “The beauty arose, the dawn broke, and she goes to
wash shirts in the river, she goes to wash them at dawn”. So, the first piece
is almost an organum, it is almost something Medieval,
therefore all the writing are in parallel fourths and fifths, although in a
rhythm of mine which is quite fluid, quite variable. Then the second, going
from the Middle Ages to decadence, with a poem by Eugénio de Castro – which is
an incredible poem, comic.
“Na messe, que enlourece, estremece a
quermesse…/ O Sol, o celestial girassol, esmorece…” and it's all like that:
"esmorece, estremece…" and for this I therefore did a decadent waltz
tempo with oscillations of perfect fifths at a distance of an augmented fourth,
with a certain languid decadence. And then the last, which is based on a poem
by Fernando Pessoa - the poem I like the most by Fernando Pessoa - which is “Em
horas inda louras, lindas/Clorindas e Belindas, brandas/Brincam no tempo das
berlindas/As vindas vendo das varandas”. Where the music is all very playful,
dotted with fun… in the typical discontinuity of modernism. These are three
pieces in each of which I tried to stylistically conjure up the feeling of the
poetry's period and this was important to later find the right atmosphere for
the A Rainha Louca, as I knew
exactly what it was I wanted to do, I just had not yet found the vehicle. And
it is this idea of an imaginary 18th century. The music has to do with the 18th
century, but just that it could have been written today.
The Rainha is getting
a little out of proportion but I think that even so, it will end up by being
possible. I think that the Rainha only with Doido,
already makes a spectacle and I want to have the debut of the Rainha
before D. Sebastião - D. Sebastião is
the last one. This trilogy was conceived precisely in the reverse order. I
began in the 20th century with O Doido e
a Morte, then in the 18th century with A Rainha Louca and
then the 16th century with D. Sebastião. Finally,
the order will have to be, almost certainly, precisely the opposite, because Rainha
is taking on much vaster proportions and O
Doido e a Morte is much smaller, it is an opera
with a much more chamber orchestra environment. Rainha
will almost have a full orchestra, so we will do O
Doido e a Morte as a prelude and A
Rainha Louca as the main dish.
One thing which is fundamental for me, and I hope to
never make this mistake again, is to not go along with scenographical options
and staging with which I do not relate. I want to have something decisive to
say as to exactly what will be done, because I adore the theatre. I have always
gone to the theatre, since I was a child, and I am extremely connected to the
world of the producer's work, to the world of the theatre. If there is something that shocks me it
is to what degree it departs from the score, staging opera independently of the
score and, above all, of the very text itself. I think that when an opera is
good and the librettos are good, the didascalics, everything is written exactly
as it should be, it is precious and should be followed metronomically, you have
to do exactly what is there when they are good. Of course some things have to
be altered, there are piles of impossible librettos in the 19th century, which
have to be got around and do something completely different, but when the
librettos are good… For example, Pucinni's operas are paradigmatic. The music
he wrote only makes sense with those scenic indications exactly as he wrote
them. Either we get some very well thought-out equivalents, but it will be
difficult to find something psychologically and almost cinematographically as
appropriate for the music that he wrote, it is almost impossible to find the
perfect equivalent, so one thing I do make a point of, as Miguel Rovisco's text
is masterly in this sense, is to follow exactly what is there. Miguel Rovisco's
didascalics are fascinating. He designed the setting and now I am transposing
it into music. Then one needs to follow exactly what the dramatist did, and
what I did and then, simply, convert it onto the stage. Nowadays it has
extrapolated in a way that producers are frustrated creators. They are people who
want with all their might to show their creativity and their personality, to do
something different, without realising that they are contradicting the works
themselves. It is absurd… there is a such an absurd discrepancy: we are
increasingly disciplined in musical terms, in terms of exactly using period
instruments, to follow the indications to do more the “Urtext” and more
exactly, more than you can imagine. And then, in terms of the text, it is total
and absolute irreverence. A dramatist chose a period and it has to be
necessarily in another period that has nothing to do with it? We are in the
18th century and we have to see horrendous things with slogans on the stage?
This was very interesting and very important as a trend and of course it
brought a breath of fresh air to the world of opera which was somewhat like a
wax museum, but now I've grown sick of it. I mean, I still go to the opera,
there is little opera to go to, but even in international terms the average for
stage scenarios that we see is off the mark, according to my tastes, it is off
the mark because it is not theatrical and, above all, it is not musical. It
doesn't even follow the text, and for me following the text is fundamental, if
the text is good.
There will almost certainly be some in A
Rainha Louca, because there are various moments which are
totally hallucinating, and which would be impossible to put on without seeming
ridiculous. For example, there is a small detail I can tell you about – and
this is one of the most poetic touches of the text, which is marvellous – which
is the queen, in her head, her life's great work, the thing she loved the most
was the Estrela Basilica and this is something historic – in fact, the whole of
Miguel Rovisco's text is extremely historic. The queen’s character is
fascinating, our Queen Maria 1st has been so denigrated, she has been
denigrated for two hundred years, and when you go and see what is really known
of her letters and of what she was like as a person, she was a marvellous
person, she was a person of poetry, with a sensitivity for the arts and poetry,
she simply was not born to be queen, she didn't want to be queen. Then she was
very religious and was totally tortured and devastated by the Churches
persecutions, led by the Marquis of Pombal, and they tried to convince her with
all their might that her father was burning in hell. This was an idea she just
couldn't tolerate and so was completely plagued and crushed by her confessors.
This was her great tragedy. She then had other tragedies like the fact that her
first born son, who was a perfect prince, marvellous - described by Beckford in
his book as an extraordinary young man - died of smallpox. They were already
experimenting the vaccine at the time but the priests did not authorise for it
to be tried on him, as they thought it was going against the divine will. And
so he died, and this was another major blow. Another factor which made her go
mad was the French Revolution and the fact that Marie Antoinette was guillotined.
You can imagine what it would be like today, for a fragile, sensitive queen,
very closed within her world, to know that the queen of France, the dauphine
of France, had been guillotined. This was the last straw. I think this was, for
sure, the moment that she went definitively mad.
This oneiric side is because she speaks of the
Estrela Basilica, in that room, where there are no windows and she wanted to
have a thousand windows which all looked onto Estrela Basilica. And then,
another episode, another very poetic moment, is when she tells of the
experiment with the air balloon, which was an experiment that was performed in
Portugal, very a la par, at the same time as it was
elsewhere in the world. Very shortly afterwards it was done here, with an air
balloon, which rose over Ajuda Palace, and she had the idea, which she told to
no one, of putting a monkey inside the balloon who she, secretly, called
Estrela. Then, while the people were all looking up at the balloon going up
with the monkey, she contained herself and shouted within, a truly
revolutionary shout, - as the whole topic of the revolution is very present in
her discussions with her lady in waiting -, this truly revolutionary shout
which was “Fly away Estrela, fly far away from this misery, to a better world,
far from the dogs and waste of this country”. Then at the end of the piece,
there is a clash with her confessor and when she faces up to him we realise
that her son died because of the confessor. What caused her death was the whole
of that terrible tourniquet that the Church wrapped around her. After
confronting her confessor, she remains alone on stage, and she hears something
shaking to one side, where there is a kind of forest, with lots of flowers and
plants which almost form a forest in the corner, and asks: “Is anyone there? Is
it you?”. And then Estrela the monkey appears to take her away. And she exits
led off by the monkey and that is the end of the opera. This kind of thing is
impossible to put into practice. I remember that in the National Theatre they
put this on with a child playing role of the monkey. It was grotesque. It is
absolutely unthinkable to use a real monkey, so this is the type of sequence
that has to be done with video projections which have to conjure up these surreal
moments. I am a little allergic to multimedia, I think it is a bit of a
theatrical idiosyncrasy of the times, it is a whirlpool which will pass, but
when it is used with care, for things which only multimedia and video can do
then it can really create the effect you want, in that case, well why not use
it?
The question of “verticality” in O Doido e a
Morte and in A Rainha Louca
Perhaps O Doido e a Morte,
the opera, is the farthest I reached with this. It is an opera in which I did
not compose at all on the piano, I composed directly for the instruments, and
where I took my idea of the total independence of the voices to the limit. It
is therefore very contrapuntal in the sense that each instrument is an actor
with his or her line, and so they are not there playing chords. Each one has
its personality and an independent voice. I always associate a personality with
each instrument and each line. And here I very much connect music with the
theatre. This is why the opera for me is something very inborn, where I find
exactly what I want to do because it is where we have the two worlds that I
most adore. If I hadn't got into music, I would have certainly gone for the
theatre, because it was also my greatest passion. And so what this
theatricality brought was this freedom, multiplication. What fascinates me
about opera, in relation to the theatre, is to be able to put several people
singing at the same time, which is something you cannot do in the theatre. And
do this also in instrumental terms. I wrote O Doido e
a Morte, however, ten years ago, and after this I have a work
which I had planned eight years ago which is A Rainha Louca.
I was going to make a second edition of O Doido e
a Morte but it wasn't this that I wanted to do. Mainly
because I already knew the libretto I wanted to use which is a play by Miguel
Rovisco which fascinated me ever since the first time I saw it, about Queen
Maria 1st, the “mad queen”. I wanted to find the right music for that, which
was a kind of imaginary 18th century. An 18th century which didn't exist, but
which could have existed. Not in the sense of a pastiche,
not at all, but very different from O Doido e a Morte,
much more harmonic music, but which maintains the same independence of voices
except in a more harmonic sense. Only after eight years of planning this opera
did I find the music. It was last year that I began and now I am at cruising
speed, I am reaching the middle of the opera and already it is a very different
path than the other one.
What I feel intuitively since I first began to
learn music is that music, of all the arts, is the one that most directly
expresses millions of things. They may not be concrete things, but they are
things which, associated to concrete things, can exponentiate their expressive
potential. And this is what I find fantastic. To be able to take a text – it is
not the text which gives meaning to the music, but it is as if it were
illuminated. For me, the music is born from the text, the text is something which
gives me ideas automatically. I think this text by Rovisco was created to be
put to music and only in the words of the text, finding the right music which I
think expresses exactly what the text wants to say. And this is where both
worlds meet
I should say that I really like opera. What I
try to do is opera music which exists as music, which even if you don't know
anything of what they are saying, only as autonomous works, as independent
pieces, that it would already be interesting. I think I have already managed
that in the duet. I think that even if someone doesn't understand a word of
what is going on, it is musically coherent, it makes sense and is varied and
can therefore be listened to. I think therefore that what determines the
perpetuity of any opera is the music above all else. There are lots of
fantastic works with bad librettos. But the music in itself has to be
sufficiently interesting. Obviously then, the perfect conjugation between the
music and the text is wonderful. But in relation to musical theatre, what I am
lacking is, when you put a text to music, to be able to find a sufficiently
interesting vocal line to compensate, to justify, the fact that they are not
talking but singing. The thing that I dislike most in operas from all periods
are “recitativos”. I find the “recitativo” to be a terrible compromise. There
are certainly some interesting “recitativos”, but these are rare. The
“recitativo” in itself is a compromise, neither one thing or another. It is neither
really music, nor truly theatre, it is just a half-way house. A kind of
theatrical Morse code. I think that the essence of opera, of true opera, is to
find music which will make the text sound as if it has to be sung and not
spoken. Because if it is to be spoken then it is better to have an excellent
actor or actress speaking.
In relation to Portuguese music, the fact of my
being so interested, is something which began immediately when I began to learn
music. It was something for which I have always had a natural attraction. It
was at the same time as Portugalsom's records appeared. My mother worked in the
Ministry of Culture – and still works there – and so she had all these records
at home. It was here that I started to adore the music of Luís de Freitas
Branco, long before I knew Nuno Barreiros who was his student. I already had an
enormous adoration for Freitas Branco, for Bomtempo, their music was something
I knew and listened to as much as Mozart and Beethoven. I listened to them so
much, and they were part – and are part – of me. I identify with this music one
hundred per cent. For example, one thing which had a big impression on me was
when I heard Serrana, by Alfredo Keil, an opera I saw
just two years ago in the S. Carlos. I heard a recording on the radio, one of
those nameless recording from the sixties, awful - I mean very valuable
artistically but very badly recorded - the oboe was impossible and the
orchestra was very poor… but when I heard Serrana for
the first time, and I understood “What, but we have a work like this!?” Sung in
Portuguese with a fantastic text, so theatrical, so Portuguese, so unmistakably
Portuguese, so musical, so interesting and so exciting. Serrana sent
me crazy, it was just something…
Then, ever since I was very young I began to
analyse works. I still remember that I was studying in Nice, right in the first
year, and Carlos Achman from the radio, asked me if I would like to write texts
on Portuguese music for his program. Every time I took a composer and all the
works I found and analysed. It is something that I feel is a part of me,
because I see my grandparents in all of these composers…
I was already a composer when I found out that
I had a great grandfather who was a composer. Obviously I adore my great
grandfather, but the person I truly feel… for example Luís de Freitas Branco is
my grandfather, completely.
When we see, even in times of deepest crisis
that there was a person like that… for example, Bomtempo at the beginning of
the 19th century, then it was Vianna da Motta. What Vianna da Motta and Alfredo
Keil did is to make us all kneel down, we can never thank those men enough for
what they did. The Sinfonia à Pátria, in any
normal country, would be a work that everyone knew and which everyone would
adore. And it would be played at least once a year. And what we see is that no
one gives a fig. No one knows it. There wasn't even a recording of the work for
decades. It wasn't edited for decades.
It is an amorphous indifference! It's just
crass ignorance and even amongst the experts. Amongst musicologists! And I see
that there are certain musicologists with work, with a proven track record, and
so on, who know nothing! I was asked the other day if the Madrigais
Camonianos were by Vianna da Motta, I mean to say, these
things appal me. The level of disinterest is atavistic. Someone else I adore
and look on completely as if he were my grandfather is Frederico de Freitas. I
love him. The Bailados by Frederico de Freitas is some of
the music I most adore since adolescence. For example A Lenda dos Bailarins
was one thing I heard in a concert directed by Silva Pereira, in the days when
this music was still performed as something normal, and I went crazy with that,
completely crazy. No one cares about it. If it weren't the centenary of
Frederico de Freitas now, twenty years would have gone by without one work by
Frederico de Freitas being played. It is unbelievable.
At the moment we run the risk of the first half
of the 20th century being as unknown as was the case with the 19th century.
That is the risk we are running at the moment.