‘Play like a dog biting God’s feet’: Steven Isserlis on Gyorgy Kurtag’s phenomenal 100 | classical music

I I clearly remember my first meeting with György Kurtag. That was almost 40 years ago at the International Musicians’ Symposium in Prussia Cove, Cornwall. I was sitting in the dining hall there, when a man with gray hair and an unusually enthusiastic countenance came up to me, and began talking, almost without any introduction, about my pizzicato playing in a performance he had heard of a Schubert quintet some years before, in which I had played the second part for cello. This man was none other than Kurtag, who was then accompanied by his wife Marta, as was almost always the case during those years; She was somewhat stuck, but did not miss a word.

I was immediately struck by the intensity of his charisma, his intense passion for music and his unique way of speaking English – punctuated by recurring phrases like “er-er-er” (many years later, Kurtag told me: “Stuttering is my natural means of expression.”) He and Marta simply embodied music – and he continues to embody it. I have never met anyone for whom every note was so important. Both reminded me of what a friend once said about Beethoven: “He didn’t know what ‘it doesn’t matter’ meant.”

Early in our friendship, Kurtag handed me a piece for solo cello by Gerard de Nerval, and asked me to play it for him. Knowing nothing of his music except its excellent reputation, I looked at the little piece, somehow managed to learn the notes, and thought it sounded poetic—it was actually based on a poem—and a few days later I played it for him and Marta. Then I realized that I didn’t understand anything at all! He took me through the piece note by note, explaining, singing, demanding, creating visions and weaving a spell of emotional depth that was a revelation.

Since then I have been playing with him whenever possible. (Also for Marta, a talented pianist, who was almost always at his side, making comments as probing and helpful as his own; her knowledge and understanding of every note of his music was astonishing.) Most of the time, we worked on Kurtag’s own pieces, although he would occasionally coach me on other people’s music.

Playing with him is transformative in every way. His imagination has no limits. It will produce striking and unexpected images – or suggest musical or extra-musical connections – that illuminate its meaning. For example, at the beginning of his short work for solo cello entitled Schatten (Shadows), a dark, rushed piece with repeated sudden silences, played with a “hotel mute” on the cello bridge to make the sound almost inaudible, he told me to think of the opening scene of Hamlet, in which the ghost of Hamlet’s father flies tantalizingly through the castle walls, impossible to pin down. (“This here…”This here…”is gone.”) This concept really helped me capture the turbulent, unsettling atmosphere of the music. Or it would describe the silence: In my notes for the same piece, I see a quote from our session: “The rests represent elements you don’t play; Only the essentials are told.”

Animals often appear in his teachings. I have notes telling myself to play “like a horse neighing,” “like a snake,” “like a cat’s meow,” and most surprisingly, “like a dog biting God’s feet.” (This remains a challenge!) Or he will point out veiled references – from Gesualdo, for example, or Beethoven’s Grand Fugue – within his pieces. There is always a tonal center to his music, so he will sometimes ask me to highlight the color of a particular key. And he will always find – after some searching (“…how do I tell you?”) – a new way to describe the phrase we are working on.

Lessons can go on for a long time, but I never felt tired, just cheerful. It gives you the feeling that you are working towards the same goal, searching together for a logical reading that reflects the tremendous vision behind the notes. I find it difficult to describe the satisfaction I feel when he is finally satisfied – perhaps it is something akin to the sensation a mountaineer feels when reaching a seemingly impregnable peak? He always insists, when our work together reaches a natural conclusion, that the piece is now mine, and that from now on it is up to me to play as I feel. But the sense of responsibility, of doing justice to his music, is quite evident, whether he is present or not.

Anyone who has attended one of the few concerts given by Kurtag and Marta will have witnessed something extraordinary. I was lucky enough to watch their recent concert at the Queen Elizabeth Hall in London. There they sat, close together on a wooden bench, with their backs to the audience, playing a particularly upright piano – amplified by their son György – as they weaved a magic spell, alternating seamlessly between Bach and Kurtág’s original pieces. We were transported, and it was especially moving to see their connection in music. Not that their relationship has always been stress-free… My favorite story about the two comes from a day they were rehearsing for a concert in Cornwall. At one point, Kurtag made one of his signature gestures – his arm descending into the air very slowly to land on a musical note, producing an almost inaudible pianissimo. Marta turned around and said to him: “Why are you playing so hard today?”

Today, Kurtag, although he lost Marta several years ago, is remarkably active, and continues to compose and teach regularly. Although he is physically weak in some ways, his mind is as alert as ever. On one of my last visits to him in Budapest, he told me that he would only be free until 7:30 p.m. “And what are you doing at 7.30?” I asked. “I have a Latin lesson.” Oh, yes, of course… In fact, the last of the four pieces Lee has written (so far) are based on a Latin text. “Ocean for Solo Cello,” composed in memory of our beloved mutual friend Rita Wagner, is a distinctively powerful testimony, of little structure, full of intense sadness, yet mixed with hope.

The first draft he sent was entirely in the key of F major, but then came a new version, with the faster middle section now moved to F sharp – a startling and quite jarring change, exacerbated by the fact that it would be played on “sul ponticello” (on the bridge). During my first lesson on this piece, he kept urging me to play it more violently—or, as he put it: “stinkier.” It took me many attempts before I was able to convey the passion he was asking for. I couldn’t keep up with his energy. But of course it made perfect sense, clearly highlighting the peaceful, radiant ending.

Today Kurtág lives on the top floor of the Budapest Music Centre, where everyone adores him – even the staff in the building refer to him as “Uncle Gyuri”. There are two concert halls on the lower floors. Sometimes, he’ll take the elevator downstairs and attend a show, walk out the elevator doors in his wheelchair, and be treated like a living god. His presence ensures that the musicians will give it their all, everyone is desperate for his approval.

May this great man and musician prosper. My starting point in any conversation with him is to ask him how he is doing. I always wait impatiently for an answer, hoping to hear the familiar words: “Thank you, I work.” Then I can breathe a sigh of relief knowing that all is well on planet Kurtag.