聽音樂總是一陣一陣。
某段時間因為因緣巧合，便會特別投入某種音樂，我總像個貪吃成癮的小孩，非要每天吃、吃很多很多、吃很久，直到某一天，才會突然有「夠了」的鬧鈴響起，然後才逐漸轉到別的音樂上去，彷彿要把之前聽得那許多，全部忘掉。再隔一陣子，如果又轉回先前那吃到過飽的音樂上，通常此時才會體會出之前聽得是甚麼，跟我產生了甚麼關係等等，一切才會清楚起來。
今年至今，扣除馬勒，聽最多的便是Keith Jarrett。尤其過年以後，事情、壓力的挑戰很大，身體精神的負擔彷彿沉甸甸到某種我快無法負荷的程度，結果兩個禮拜前便爆發成重感冒；這一大段過程中，平常最常聽得進的就是Keith Jarrett的音樂。常跟朋友戲稱，音樂人生總有聽高級輕音樂(easy-listening)的必要，如果100%都是古典音樂，一切也都太緊繃、太僵固了；Jarrett的音樂就是我的高級輕音樂。至於Jarrett的音樂是否能算高級輕音樂，見仁見智，我的心得是，某些曲子是，某些曲子不是，精神萎靡不振時是，精神正襟危坐時不是，三重奏比較是，而鋼琴獨奏比較不是。
過年時買的Jarrett錄音，巴黎/倫敦現場(Paris/London Testament)是個評價非常高的現場錄音，日期分別在2008年11月26日的巴黎和12月1日的倫敦。我自己聽完也很印象深刻，是一個狂亂即興和沉靜哲思相當平衡的現場組合，既不會亂到不知所以然，也不會靜到屏息呼不過來，尤其倫敦現場中幾首收尾的曲子，給人一種「看開了」、「了然於胸」的感受。事後我讀了CD裡Jarrett自己寫的CD內頁，才發現原來這兩個現場其實在他人生中扮演著特殊的角色，原文如下，以饗大眾。
我深知並不是所有人都聽爵士樂，聽爵士樂也未必接觸過Keith Jarrett，接觸過Keith Jarrett也未必對此人留下深刻印象，對此人留下深刻印象也未必聽過Paris/London Testament。總之，與大家分享，但是倒也不用勉強接受，也沒必要馬上去買這套CD，畢竟每人口味、習性、思考回路都不同，所以....好自為之了。
" Still crazy after all these years"
Since Heidelberg, Germany in the early 70's I have done improvised piano solo concerts. It all started, however, back when I was a six-or-seven-year-old so-called "child prodigy," studying and playing classical recitals for the Allentown Pa. Women's club, etc. The program would usually include masters such as Mozart or Schubert, Chopin or Debussy, but would also include something I "wrote". But this "writing" wasn't executed at all the same each time. Almost nothing was written down on paper. There were motifs and melodies that remained the same, but then around these were "takeoffs" in the same mood. The pieces were almost always "program" music. There was "Jungle Suite", for example. When I would be practicing at home, I would often change the notes of some composer, and my mother would catch this at times. I told her not to worry: I would play it a written at the concert.
Heidelberg was a university town and had a jazz festival. I started my part of the evening be playing a tune, but somehow did not stop. Instead, I connected the tune to the next one by continuing on some sort of journey or transition to it. So, by the end of the set, I hadn't stopped playing. I was then merried to my first wife, Margot.
Over the years since then, solo piano concerts became more "abstract" and somehow they would grow from small seeds planted spontaneously at the beginning. But they still lasted the entire 45 minutes or so, then a break, the another 45 minutes. They were kind of epic journeys into the unknown. The architecture, however, over many years, became too predictable to me, and I stopped doing so many of these and concentrated on my quartets and writing.
After my divorce from Margot, I lived for 30 years with my second wife, Rose Anne. I attempted everal times to re-invent the solo concerts, but among other things was laid low for about two years with Chronic fatique syndrome. The amount energy of these concerts took was always amazing to me. It was like the Olympics each time. So there was a certain off-and-on quality to my scheduling them. While many incredible good cencerts came about, some were not recorded.
In the early part of the decade, I tried to bring the format back: starting from nothing and building a universe. But somehow, while practicing in my studio, I realized that much of what I was playing wa studd I had liked before, but actively did not like now. Whenever I would play something that was from the past and sounded mechanical, I would stop. This led me to try include thi starting and stopping in solo concerts in Japan. The music from this particular first attempt was to become "Radience".
I continued to find a wealth of music inside this open format, stopping whenever the muic told me to, and eventually released "The Carnegie Hall Concert" in 2006. Although I seemed to others to be some kind of freak of nature, the amount of preparation work, mental, physical and emotional is probably beyond anybody's imagination (including my own). It is NOT natural to sit at a piano, bring no material, clear your mind completly of musical ideas, and play something that is lasting value and brand new (not to mention that these are live concerts, and the audiences role was of utmost chemical importance: they could change the potential and shape of the music easier than the difference of pianos or hall sound). I then did a series of solo concerts in Japan in the spring of 2008 that seemed to hit a technical high-note in the hotory of my solo events. I wasn't sure what could possibly happen next after these concerts.
Then my wife left me (this was the third time in four years). I quickly scrambled to stay alive (music had been my life for 60 years) by setting up a Carnegie Hall Concert (a leaflet inserted into the program for my 25th anniversary trio concert there in Octobor 2008 advertied a solo concert in late January 2009), but before I did that concert, Steve Cloud managed to quickly come up with two solo concerts in Europe: Paris and London. I had not played solo in London, I believe, 18 years. These were the first solo events since my wife had left. I was in an incredibly vulnerable emotional state, but I admit to wondering whether this might not be a "good" thing for the music. It truly didn't matter; I had to do them. Everything was put together in a dizzying short time. I had to find help for packing and touring (I had lots of physical ailments that prevented me from being pro-active on the physical frones, plus stress, plus an emptiness that wa overwhelming, etc.). I decided that if I backed down now, I would back down forever.
I used to tell my piano students, " if you're going to play, play like it's the last time." it was not theoretical advice anymore; this was either going to achieve my survival or hasten my demise. I have no idea how much energy I would have, though I prepared well (but all along I never remembered just how much it took to do these concerts.)
Startlingly, Paris was an achivement I never expected. Manfred Eicher and the rest of my touring ensemble (minus one) were backstage eating dinner. it started then to be clear to me that I had a new chance at something, that nothing would stop me if only I stayed awake to the poibilities, both muical and personal. Many of people I knew seemed to feel they were just meeting me. I was in tears going on and offstage for bows.
On the way into London, I had as close a brush with a nervous breaksown as I've had. Christmas shoppers were all out holding hands; the place was too colorful for my mood. I was exhausted from Paris (only two days had gone by) and stuck in an unmoving traffic jam in the middle of London in a car without my wife, looking out the window at couples, Christmasn lights, and seemingly-normal unbounded joy. I couldn't handle it. When we finally got to the room I closed all the curtains (they also looked out at lit up Christmas trees) and tried breathing normally.
Two days later we drove to the hall (the limo driver was on y side, he perked up my spirits), I checked the piano, went backstage to see what we had for dinner, was introduced to the catering lady, who was as sharp as anyone around and had just lost her lover after some time together. I said I couldn't help thinking about my wife, and she quietly (but firmly) pointed to a blank, white wall. We shot short, pointed one-liners back and forth during dinner, and I realized all these people, unwittingly, were helping me get myself together.
The concert went on and, though the beginning was a dark, searching, multi-tonal melodic triumph, by the end it somehow became a throbbing, never-to-be-repeated, pulsing rock band of a concert (unless it was a church service, in which case, Hallelujah!) I needed heat therapy on my arms afterwards (first time ever). Even the people backstage as I came off in tears again were giving off the exactly right thing. Communication is all. Being is all. People are deep, serious creatures with little to hang on to.
So, loss may be a big thing, but what remains becomes even more important than ever. Just never let go of the thread. And be honest with yourself. A writer I greatly admore and with whom I was just recently in touch, echoed some of my words to her when she wrote back to me: "How fragile and serendipitous things are indeed, unbearably so."
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