The concert pianist, Peter Roy Katin,
was born in London on 14 November
1930 and is of Anglo/Canadian nationality.
He is a perfectionist and, without
doubt, one of the finest pianists
of our time and a devoted and loyal
servant to music.
Peter, will you please tell
us something about your parents?
My father Jerrold was born in London
in 1899 and died in 1991. He was
from an Orthodox Jewish family (his
father came from Vilno and his mother
from central Russia), attended a
Hebrew School but was ostracised
from his family for marrying a Christian.
He worked mostly as a self-employed
brass engraver (some of the doctors'
and dentists' brass plates in the
Brighton area can still be seen).
The war put paid to this and although
he tried to continue, he turned
his hand to basic cosmetics (bath
salts etc.) and managed to earn
a living between these and other
ventures. One was the production
of a detergent which made a great
success at the end of the war. However,
the sudden and fierce competition
from Lever Bros. (who had started
marketed another detergent called
Dreft) steamrollered my father's
comparatively modest product out
of the running. He was offered a
job with Lever Bros. But he turned
it down, saying that - like me -
he could not be an employee. Due
mostly to my mother's extravagance
he was left almost without resources
and spent the rest of his life in
semi-retirement, although until
within a few months of his death
he was still able to make the signs
for which he had been known.
My mother's maiden name was Gertrude
May. She was born in London in 1897
and died in 1975. I knew little
about her except that she was maniacally
possessive, unmusical, and never
told anyone her age, so these dates
I only discovered after she died.
She had no job except as a shop
assistant when she was young.
Do you have brothers and
sisters?
One brother: Leslie, born in 1923,
and died in 1972. He took Holy Orders
very early in life, and was a very
popular figure as a priest in the
High Anglican Church. His last office
was that of Chaplain at the Royal
School of Church Music.
Tell us something about your
school years.
General school education was virtually
nil. I think this was due partly
to the war, when we were living
in various places to avoid the worst
of the blitz. I went to private
schools in Balham, Caterham, East
Grinstead (one of the worst experiences
of my life) and finally the (then)
Henry Thornton School in Clapham
when we returned to London. I was
allowed to leave at the age of 14.
I have no academic strengths whatsoever,
which is hardly surprising.
On our return to London I auditioned
for the newly-formed Westminster
Abbey Choir and was accepted as
head chorister in 1943. At the same
time I was the first person to be
accepted by the Royal Academy of
Music's senior department. I had
no university education, and the
eventual degrees etc. that I achieved
were ARCM in 1952, LRAM in 1960,
Chopin Arts Award (New York) in
1977, and an Honorary Doctorate
(de Montfort University) in 1994.
Will you give details of
music 'lessons', dates, teachers,
standards achieved?
Strangely, although I started playing
the piano at the age of 4, I had
no lessons for two years, then I
went to a very disagreeable teacher
from my local school. The second
teacher, in Caterham, had a kinder
disposition, and in East Grinstead
I was taught by the wife of the
late Dr. Harvey Grace (ex-organist
of Chichester Cathedral), and was
head chorister in the Parish Church.
Through them I was introduced to
Harold Craxton and went to London
to play for him several times privately
before joining the Royal Academy.
I studied there until 1948 (in 1945
I had a bad accident and was in
hospital for virtually a year).
I don't think I achieved anything
although I won the Eric Brough Memorial
Prize in 1944.
Apart from your 'main' instrument,
do you play any others and how proficiently?
Apart from singing, I studied the
violin and cello at an early age
- I can't recall why I gave them
up, as I achieved a reasonable standard
on both, as I did when I was allowed
to study the organ as an extra "first
study". But there was a general
lack of guidance; I feel that this
is where an artistic background
can make so much difference.
Please tell me about your
wife and children.
I was married in February 1954
to Eva Zweig who has recently published
her own account of her wartime experiences
in Siberia. Before that dreadful
episode she had shown a lot of talent
as a pianist and studied with a
pupil of Schnabel. When she got
to London she was awarded a scholarship
to the Royal Academy of Music but
after some time she gave up. I went
to Canada in 1978, and Eva came
in 1980, where we decided to separate.
She returned to London in 1982 (I
returned at the end of 1984) and
we were divorced in 1988. One son,
Nicholas, was born in July 1955,
and another, Andrew, in April 1960.
Nicholas started here as a gas fitter
but went to Australia where he became
a specialist in home and office
heating, and Andrew, who came to
Canada with us, has remained there
in a managerial post of Purolator
Couriers.
Your début as a performer.
When, where, what?
13 December 1948, at Wigmore Hall,
where I played Scarlatti, Mozart,
Beethoven, Rachmaninov, Skryabin
and Chopin.
Which professional orchestra/conductor
did you first work with?
My first appearance with a major
orchestra was at the Royal Albert
Hall with the London Symphony Orchestra
in 1951. The conductor was a strangely-forgotten
one by the name of Royalton Kisch,
who was responsible for some Beethoven
cycles at the Albert Hall. I played
Beethoven No.4 and received a very
enthusiastic review in The Times.
What are the highlights of
your career to date?
Too many! As a result of the Albert
Hall concert I was offered the same
concerto the next year at the still-new
Royal Festival Hall with the London
Mozart Players conducted by Harry
Blech, which produced the same critical
response. In those days one gave
Prom auditions, and naturally I
looked upon the Beethoven as my
"lucky" concerto, so I played it
at the Royal College of Music with
(I think) Eric Gritton accompanying.
For some reason, although I passed
the audition, I was offered Tchaikovsky
No.2 for my first Prom in 1952!
I was tempted to disregard its success
as a "highlight" apart from the
fact that it was my first Prom (my
reaction to meeting Sir Malcolm
Sargent was rather like that of
most of my colleagues), as my repertoire
was gaining strength from the classical
sphere, from chamber music, Lieder
etc. In 1953 I accepted happily
Beethoven No.2 for my second Prom
but was devastated when the BBC
asked me to play Rachmaninov No.3
instead. After insisting that I
should think about it for a week
I decided to meet the challenge.
It was certainly a highlight in
one sense - the applause was timed
at over 5 minutes and 30 seconds,
I had the sort of reviews that people
would kill for, and only afterwards
I realised that my previous classical
"image" had been thrown out of the
window. However, despite being typecast
for some 15 years, there were other
highlights: the apparent incongruity
of Rudolf Kempe in Rachmaninov
No.2 which turned out to be the
sort of triumph that made people
disbelieve that in fact we had seen
so much eye to eye (and agreed that
the piano was so badly out of tune
that we didn't rehearse the last
movement), but then nothing was
ever incongruous where Kempe was
concerned. My first Chopin recital
at the Royal Festival Hall in the
early sixties, a Beethoven No.5
with Paavo Berglund in 1975, a Chopin
recital in New York during 1983
at which I was greeted as though
I was a pop star, and a recital
in the same year at the Canadian
University where I taught, which
included the best performance of
the Liszt Sonata that I had ever
given (or expected to give). But
I tend to look upon all concerts
as highlights, as nothing can be
routine. When that happens, one
gives up!
Will you name any works that
have been specially written for
you?
There are but two. One is Malcolm
Lipkin's 4th Sonata, which I played
in the 1955 Cheltenham Festival
of Contemporary Music, and the other
is a Tango by Bryan Kelly, which
was published in 1961 (it had previously
been part of a suite).
Tell us something about other
soloists you have worked with in
a duo, trio, etc:
Since the 1953 Prom, I had little
chance of playing chamber music
or Lieder, although the odd occasion
would arise when I was asked to
play, for instance, the Schubert
B flat Trio, the Brahms F minor
Quintet, and of course I started
working with Alfredo Campoli in
the mid-fifties; we gave several
concerts and broadcasts together.
There were no Lieder opportunities
although in 1972 I did a Schubert
recital at the Queen Elizabeth Hall
with Ilse Wolf. Otherwise I created
chances by working with young singers.
In Canada there was an extraordinarily
fine tenor called Kevin McMillan
studying at the university, and
we gave a recital there in 1983
which included Schumann's
Dichterliebe. On
returning to England I came back
to a rather depressing situation
and failed to find any chances of
working in these spheres, so in
1997 I formed my own Trio and could
no longer moan about the lack of
work! I did three recitals with
Victoria de los Angeles in the seventies;
the first was in Barcelona, the
second was in Warsaw (rather flatteringly,
she refused to go without me - it
was her first visit) and then at
the Festival Hall.
What are your favourite concertos
to play and why?
There are so many. I suppose my
tastes are "conventional" in that
I like the concertos of Beethoven,
Brahms, Chopin, Grieg, Mozart, Schumann,
etc. My early musical tastes were
centred round these; Tchaikovsky
and Rachmaninov came later. There
are concertos that strangely fall
into the background for years -
I think that in thirty years I haven't
even heard Rachmaninov No.1 more
than once (except in those concert
series in which they are all played),
and I rather think the Brahms No.1
has suffered the same fate. It has,
for me, because before 1997 I can't
remember when I played it, and yet
it "came back" and its mighty structure
seemed more natural than before.
I love the Prokofiev No.3, but technically
I could never come to grips with
it, and after playing it six times
for I gave it up, with a mixture
of relief and regret, and a final
effort at the Royal Festival Hall.
I know the Grieg tends to be regarded
as a safe box-office draw, and I
must admit that I didn't see so
much in it until I made that big
series of recordings in Oslo during
the late eighties, and through the
atmosphere (to say nothing about
all the discussions that went on)
I began to see it as having a stronger
and darker character than the prettiness
that one hears so often. In 1989
I recorded all the Lyric Pieces
and felt that my understanding of
the concerto had been influenced
for all time (if a broadcast I gave
of it in 1990 is anything to go
by, I was right). The Schumann is
also special for me, and although
the last movement can hardly be
called inventive, if played at a
tempo that allows the player to
observe all the phrasing, semi-staccatos,
etc., the dancing energy is far
more apparent than when played as
though on a racing track. Rachmaninov
No.3 remains a towering romantic
work - when I first played it in
1953 very few people would attempt
it, and recently there was a BBC
programme dwelling on its tremendous
difficulties, which I thought rather
silly, as it is now part of the
staple diet of the International
Competition circuit. All the same,
much as I love the work, I have
not been asked to play it for several
years and I simply feel faint at
the idea of having to relearn it.
Do you suffer from pre-performance
nerves and how do you remedy this?
In general, I have never suffered
from pre-concert nerves, except
when I'm playing something for the
first time, and I think that's unavoidable.
There are trivial things that can
make me unsettled, but if people
understand that for about an hour
before I play I don't want to talk
to anyone, then it’s avoided.
Otherwise, a perfectly natural question
like "Do you want some mineral water
in the interval?" will actually
throw me (apart from the fact that
these details should always be seen
to beforehand). There is also the
feeling, often not realised, that
two things are happening when one
walks onto the stage. One is that
the artist is greeting the audience,
and the other is that the audience
is greeting the artist. There's
no enmity, there's nothing to be
afraid of. I know that this is over-simplifying
things, and there are artists who
fly into a panic for no reason that
anyone would know. I will stick
my neck out and quote myself on
one occasion when I played three
Scarlatti Sonatas and the Schubert
B flat Sonata at a lunchtime concert.
The moment I sat at the piano I
started shaking uncontrollably and
had memory lapses in all three Scarlattis,
yet as soon as I started the Schubert
(all 45 minutes of it!) this strange
feeling vanished and might as well
not have been there. But normally
I am dying to get to the stage and
start playing - and with a warm-hearted
audience, what more can an artist
want?
Do you smoke or drink and
does that enhance your playing?
I don't smoke. Strangely, I used
to smoke up to 50 cigarettes per
day, but even more strangely, I
gave it up one day in 1970 without
the slightest effort - I suddenly
didn't want to smoke. A packet of
200 Rothman's sat in my lounge for
so long that they might have acquired
rarity value! I drink, but I have
to like what I'm drinking, otherwise
there's no point. This narrows it
down to certain whiskeys and
certain wines, but I'm told
that senseless drinking does bad
things to the memory. I would have
said that smoking must, too, as
it restricts what should go into
the lungs, but I can't fly that
flag in view of the amount I used
to smoke! Drinking can't enhance
the playing, much as it can't enhance
one's ability to drive a car. Smoking
- Solomon smoked twice as much as
I did, and it was the cause of his
disastrous stroke (the carotid artery
closed up) but I don't think it
contributed to such heavenly playing.
Name some conductors you
prefer to work with and why?
I would say that most conductors
I work with are at the least reliable
and co-operative, and at the most
they are inspiring. It’s difficult
to name them - not because
I don't want to, but I have to think
about certain performances that
have left me walking on air because
the conductor has somehow become
part of what I was trying to achieve.
I want to put it that way because
the same conductor just might not
quite get to a similar level on
another occasion. It can happen,
of course. I recall three performances
of the Chopin E minor Concerto with
Christopher Seaman: I took along
the full score, which I had marked
with various dynamics for the orchestra
(Chopin hardly wrote any), and when
I looked at his score I found that
he had almost identical markings.
It followed that he took a lot of
care over what some conductors tend
to disregard as indifferent scoring,
and in all three performances his
involvement was evident. Another
- this time it was the F minor Concerto
- was in Hong Kong, with its beautifully
sensitive orchestra, conducted by
George Cleve, whom I met there for
the first time. I was flattered
to learn that he was familiar with
my Chopin recordings, and at the
first rehearsal it was obvious that
this was not going to be a "rubato
fly-swatting exercise" but an integrated
performance, which it certainly
was. I also recall a Rachmaninov
No.2 at the Festival Hall with the
LPO and Mathias Bamert, who had
been quoted by a colleague as saying
that he found Rachmaninov somewhat
uninteresting, but in this performance
I would have disagreed with that
from start to finish. I also found
a great amount of care and patience
from Owain Arwel Hughes when I played
Rachmaninov No.3 in 1987 for the
first time in five years - then
of course, I was nervous but his
manner in rehearsal gave me an enormous
amount of confidence. We played
it a week later with a different
orchestra and by then everything
had settled down and the only thing
that got in the way was a very toneless
piano with an inaudible top register.
A conductor with whom I haven't
worked for a long time is Paavo
Berglund. I'm mentioning this particularly
in connection with a tour of seven
concerts, all including the Rachmaninov
No.3. We started in Llandudno and
finished at the Festival Hall. In
Llandudno we sat and waited for
the orchestra's instruments to arrive,
but they didn't get there until
the doors were opened. In the meanwhile
we sat at the piano and talked about
the work - and did seven concerts
without a rehearsal! I had so much
confidence in him - when Olympia's
plans were about to bear fruit we
decided to record all the Rachmaninovs
and to ask Paavo. Unfortunately
these plans came to nothing.
Have you ever had any disastrous
performances?
Oh yes! Fortunately few, but although
I could quote three concerto performances
that were sabotaged by the conductors,
I should stick mainly to recitals.
The Hong Kong Festival asked me
to play two concerts, and one was
a recital. When I started the recital,
I realised that jetlag, always an
unknown factor with me, was still
there, and my fingers fumbled through
the Schubert A flat Impromptu like
bananas. That, of course, made me
nervous (not in the way I described
in an earlier question) and the
rest you can imagine. But in general,
however self-critical I am, recitals
tend to go as I want them to, except
that one work can leave me thinking
that there was something missing,
which means a sleepless night. There
have of course been occasions (one
very recent) when a music society
chose a programme which wasn't the
one I originally suggested, and
I wasn't told by my agent. It doesn't
come under the heading of "disastrous
performances" but I try to make
a compromise which won't upset the
audience.
Have you ever taught your
instrument to others, privately
or at music college/school and can
you name any such pupils who have
'gone on to greater things'? where
did you teach and when?
Always, right from the time I was
18. I have always taught privately,
and three pianists have made successes
- Gordon Fergus-Thompson, Howard
Shelley, and Philip Fowke. Apart
from that I taught at the Royal
Academy from 1956-1959, the University
of Western Ontario from 1978-1984,
and the Royal College since 1992.
Also I had a large studio in my
former English house and from 1968
to 1978 I held regular series of
master classes, and additionally
arranged, thanks to tremendous help
and support from my wife, yearly
series of recitals in order to give
young artists a "platform", probably
prior to a London début.
These weren't all piano recitals;
we had a lot of chamber music, young
singers, even Balinese dancing,
and every Christmas we would arrange
a totally mad evening to give the
artists a chance to let their hair
down.
Any subsequent degrees, awards,
etc:
The LRAM was awarded in 1960 when
I left the Academy, and the Doctorate
was awarded in 1994.
How important is the public
to you? Do you ever feel they may
possess hero-worship rather than
a genuine regard for the music?
No. I have a great respect for
the public. Their feelings are unfiltered,
in that they may not know technically
what they are hearing, but they
do know instinctively - like me,
they go to a concert in order to
enjoy the music. A few inevitably
suffer from hero-worship, or perhaps
put the artist on a pedestal, but
in general audiences want to go
somewhere to relax and probably
go with the moods of the works that
are being played. Especially in
this age, people are trying to get
away from commercialism and "hype",
because these elements work largely
on the periphery of what I still
insist on calling "the musical world".
How do you respond to harsh
criticism and reviews?
We all like to be flattered and
none of us likes being criticised!
But a real critic will assess the
qualities and shortcomings of the
player, and if he has to find us
wanting, he will say why. Strangely,
adverse criticism seems often born
of ignorance, as I found recently
when my Chopin square piano recording
was reviewed. The critic didn't
like it (which doesn't matter) but
paid me one compliment about the
effects I achieved with the soft
pedal. Square pianos don't have
soft pedals ... If the critic takes
the trouble to understand what one
is trying to achieve, I can take
it on board.
What are your hobbies and
spare-time pursuits?
Too many. Apart from listening
to music and collecting records,
I am hooked on photography, reading,
writing, the theatre. I used to
fish, but I gave that up when fly-fishing
started to affect an already damaged
tendon in my right hand.
What do you consider the
most demanding works you have played
and why are they so demanding?
I suppose most people would say
Rachmaninov No.3, and in a way they
are right. But this is very subjective.
Rachmaninov himself used a practise
keyboard on his way to playing this
concerto for the first time, but
others don’t find the difficulties
so Everest-like. For me, I had to
stop playing the Prokofiev No.3
because his piano writing makes
no sense to me. Unlike Rachmaninov,
his writing has no pattern, and
no doubt it is my shortcoming that
I can't come to terms with it. I
would say (for myself) that Tchaikovsky
No.2 would be another very demanding
work technically, but that's because,
in my opinion, Tchaikovsky didn't
write well for the piano. Perhaps
I would prefer to quote Rachmaninov
No.3 because of the enormous musical
returns from enormous technical
demands.
Do you prefer to perform
in a live concert or a recording
studio and why?
There's nothing like a live audience
to make the artist give that much
more, and to some artists even nervousness
is preferable to the recording studio.
Probably "recording nerves" are
different. From one point of view,
the performance can only have one
attempt, whereas a recording can
have several. From another point
of view, that is just what makes
recordings so fraught. The knowledge
that you can play it again can make
me feel that if I do, I'll make
a mistake somewhere else, and if
I don't, there could be sudden extraneous
noises to cope with. Thinking purely
musically, the performance is always
going to be the best representative
element - one can take chances that
these days one wouldn't take in
the studio. Having said that, I
must also add that I largely prefer
to listen to recordings made at
a time when they were intended to
mirror the artist, and I've tried
to follow that principle, which
means that I have to immerse myself
in the music and in a way forget
about the absence of an audience.
A lot can be done to help achieve
this - a hall or a church is a far
better venue than a studio, for
reasons of atmosphere, and if the
players are placed where they would
normally expect to be for a concert,
then the feeling of a performance
is easier to get. For several years
I have been lucky in finding recording
teams that agree to keep the tape
running, simply because I can play
for how long and when I like.
It’s unfair on the team,
especially if they're used to "timed
sessions", but in the long run I
not only get recordings finished
in less time, but the end result
is more likely to be what I wanted.
However, given that I manage to
achieve a concert feeling when recording,
the live performance is really the
ultimate experience. The communication
is there because the audience is
there and the "projection" doesn't
have to be simulated.
What artists do you admire
and why?
Very few, if we're talking about
pianists. Not many seem to have
escaped the International Competition
mentality, with the result that
all too often I have no idea who
I'm listening to. There are some,
of course, but I'm not going to
mention who in case I miss someone
out! Obviously I admire any artist
who has something to say, but with
the ever-increased feeling of "anything
you can do, I can do faster", many
artists have nothing much to communicate
except keyboard wizardry, which
in itself I find predictable and
boring. Fortunately there are other
performers (e.g. violinists, cellists,
singers) who have more musical things
to offer. But I tend to live in
the past ...
There seems to be a classical/modern
music divide, once encapsulated
in a remark, 'Bach can do no wrong;
Bartók can do no right'.
Where do you stand on this issue?
These days I don't see a divide.
If this were true, artists who played
Bach and Bartók in one programme
would be frowned upon as having
no musical taste. It’s a question
of what one feels one can
do justice to. There was a time
when one did NOT sing both Mozart
and Gershwin, but it’s happening
without question now, and
I think it’s a wonderful ability
to have.
What other well-known figures
do you know or have you met and
how have they influenced you?
You have to remember that I can
remember seeing pianists like Fischer,
Schnabel, Cortot, Gieseking, Arrau,
the younger Clifford Curzon, Solomon,
Myra Hess, and other artists such
as Suggia, Beecham, Menuhin, Callas
in her Covent Garden début,
Furtwängler, etc., most of
whom it was possible to hear in
one season. It stands to reason
that such figures were the cause
of my rather late musical awakening
(by "late" I mean that without encouragement
of the right kind, playing the piano
was little more than "something
I could do" until these great performances
began to really tell me something).
More particularly I want to quote
three people who finally convinced
me in one meeting that another "door"
had been opened. I played for Myra
Hess when I was seventeen, and although
she tore me to shreds for three
hours it dawned on me several months
later that if she hadn't seen something
I wouldn't have been in her house
for anything like three hours. In
1949 I met Clifford Curzon who was
equally exacting but in a way that
finally fired my awareness of what
I had been missing, and my enthusiasm
about what now had to be done. The
final - and different - approach
came from Arrau in 1952, when I
was depressed about my playing.
I shall never forget the emphasis
he laid on the absolute necessity
of appreciating all forms of art,
saying that whatever I saw or heard
would influence my own work, directly
or indirectly. I don't think I could
have wished for more. Myra's abrasive
manner aside, I learned more in
three long afternoons than I ever
learned anywhere else.
Do you have any political
persuasion, what and how keenly
do you follow it?
No political persuasion - I have
never voted because we really have
no genuine leader, and governments
rarely do what they say they are
going to do. Why should I walk down
the road and put an "X" in a box
for someone who promises to make
life heaven and then mistakes the
direction!
Do you have any religious
following, what and how keenly do
you follow it?
No. I was brought up in the Church
of England, but conversations with
my brother haven't resulted in more
than an awareness that human beings
are (a) not God, and (b) should
have no right to determine such
things as personal restrictions
in the name of God. There is something
greater than us - Socrates called
it perfection, and my brother called
it Divine Wisdom - an artist or
musician might call it inspiration.
Nobody has seen perfection, and
as we won't see it until we die,
it will remain an unknown thing
in our lives. This unknown thing
is probably God, regardless of what
we call it.
Which modern composers do
you admire and why?
This depends on what is modern.
I can only generalise, not being
a "modern" pianist. I have heard
several works new to me that I have
found myself reacting to and wanting
to hear again, but others (sometimes
by the same composer) that sound
too like experiments. In general
I will willingly listen to anything,
but if I want to hear it again,
the first impression must be that
my emotions in some way are stirred.
How far do you think a composer's
work must be cerebral or emotional?
What is his function?
It’s a very difficult question
to answer. It has to be
both, I think, because the structure
has to be cerebral and the content
emotional. The function, as you
say, is surely an urge to create,
and to me both elements have to
be there.
As a performer, what criteria
do you employ in playing any work?
How far is it self-expression or
a full realisation of the composer's
intentions?
I remember Claudio Arrau saying
that although performance should
have more self-expression than is
often the case, when learning a
work it was essential to start (given
a reliable edition) by doing exactly
what is in the score, regardless
of any pre-conceived notions. This
becomes part of the "mental digestion"
process and when it becomes sub-conscious
one has the whole canvas in his
mind. On that canvas, the interpretation
can be developed without "jumping
out of the picture".
Are there any composers that
you do not readily respond to?
I can happily live without Hindemith
and Reger, but one composer I have
really unsuccessfully struggled
with is Michael Tippett. I was once
asked to play his concerto at a
festival, but looking at the score
more or less convinced me that I
wouldn't be able to do it, and the
only thing left was to hear a recording
of it, which was sent to me. I had
to admit - and still do - that I
can find nothing in it, let alone
any influence of Beethoven's fourth
concerto, which was said to have
inspired it.
What things do you find irritating
about other performers' performances
of works that you perform yourself?
Nothing except lack of communication.
I can listen to someone else's interpretation
of a work that I play a lot, without
wanting to play it that way myself,
but if what the player says comes
across positively, I can forget
my own ideas for at least that time.
After all, interpretation is like
a valid point of view in an argument,
in which everyone is talking about
the same thing. When nothing comes
across to me I'm not doing myself
a favour by staying in the hall!
Who do you consider the greatest
composers for your instrument and
why?
For the piano itself it really
has to be Chopin, who completely
revolutionised all ideas about the
instrument's capabilities. Other
composers did some remarkable things
for the instrument, notably Liszt
and Debussy, in their totally different
ways. Indeed, I sometimes think
that one way of learning how to
play Chopin is to study Debussy
and be aware of the discipline involved,
because one needs this in order
to stay on the border between the
clinical and the sentimental.
How far do you accept the
suggestion of femininity in certain
music, i.e. Chopin and Schubert?
I don't. A lot of rubbish is talked
about masculinity and femininity
in music, but there are so many
elements from the aggressive to
the elusive that it’s impossible
to categorise them.
Have you ever found an accompanying
conductor unsympathetic? If they
are dead you can name them as examples:
Offhand I can only think of one
still living, but probably the most
egocentric conductor I ever worked
with was Hermann Scherchen, with
whom I played Rachmaninov No.3 in
the fifties. Had he behaved in rehearsal
now as he did then, he would have
suddenly been without a soloist,
but I was too young to hit back!
Thinking about this time, there
were some conductors who decided
that they were the masters and we
were the slaves, but not many. Josef
Krips I found unbearably arrogant,
but musically we were in agreement.
One remark in a rehearsal comes
to mind. In the Brahms No.1 I have
a long triplet passage together
with the quiet horn motif (just
before the stormy octaves), and
Krips said "Quieter!" I said that
I was playing pianissimo and could
still hardly hear the horn, to which
he replied "Well, I can!". A very
unpleasant conductor was Kyril Kondrashin,
who shouted at everyone in sight
and turned the Tchaikovsky No.1
into a rather unhappy affair - what
the orchestra thought, I don't know.
These were exceptions, though. There
was a concept of the "visiting conductor"
being monarch of all he surveyed,
but if it was a tendency in the
fifties, it disappeared about a
decade later, and conductors such
as Horenstein, Giulini, Jochum,
Kempe, gave their best and rightly
expected it from others, without
any bullying element.
Do you ever receive unsolicited
manuscripts of works to perform?
How do you react and have any been
successful?
I often get manuscripts - it rather
flatters me, but although I might
like what they send me, I've always
been a slow learner and can only
say that I can't guarantee a performance.
Also, as I said earlier, I have
to like the music!
How far is it true that if
you don't like a piece you will
not perform it?
I can't perform a piece that I
can't relate to. If I can't relate
to it, it’s not possible
to find a point of communication.
As Maria Callas said, if she wasn't
convinced by the role she was offered,
she couldn't hope to convince an
audience.
Have you written any books
or articles?
I've kept a private diary since
1948, and kept the majority of programmes
that I have either played or heard
- theatre programmes too, which
go back to early stage performances
by such people as Fay Compton, Alec
Guinness, etc. These diaries have
been of great use in the autobiography
which I am writing, although the
original idea was shelved and now
I have to write it before I can
find a publisher. I have written
various articles in English and
American magazines - one project
was to write a series of articles
on various aspects of performance,
but the magazine now no longer exists.
Have you broadcast any talks?
Mostly interviews. World Radio
ran a series of broadcasts about
recordings, and I did some of those,
and there are various series about
artists and their work but apart
from that, I haven’t really had
the chance.
What do you want to be remembered
for? What do you think is your greatest
contribution to music?
I don't know. If I could be remembered
for making music (or, as Jeffrey
Norris said in the Daily Telegraph,
"To transcend fashion"), I would
be happy. If I may be allowed to
quote from the Chief Executive of
de Montfort University when offering
me an Honorary Doctorate, "To recognise
the distinction and the outstanding
contribution you have made to music
in the classical tradition". I doubt
if I can want more than that.
Discography:
SCHUBERT: Sonatas in B flat D.960
& A minor D.537. OCD 188
CHOPIN (Vol.1): Ballade in F minor
Op.52, 3 Mazurkas Op.59, Sonata
in B minor Op.58, Barcarolle Op.60,
Polonaise-Fantaisie Op.61. TO BE
REISSUED BY SOMM RECORDS LATE IN
2008
CHOPIN (Vol.2): Variations Op.12,
4 Mazurkas Op.24, Sonata in B flat
minor Op.35, Ballade in A flat Op.47,
Andante Spianato and Grande Polonaise
Op.22. OCD 193
MOZART: The complete Sonatas. ALTARA
ALT 1026, Boxed set of five CDs
GRIEG: Ballade Op.24, 5 Klavierstücke
nach Eigenen Liederen, Sonata in
E minor Op.7, 4 Lyric Pieces. OCD
197
TCHAIKOVSKY: Sonata in G, Op.37,
The Seasons, Op.37a. OCD 192
LISZT: Dante Sonata, 3 Liebesträume,
2 Polonaises, 6 Consolations. OCD199
SCHUMANN: Kinderszenen Op.15, Sonata
in G minor Op.22, Carnaval Op.9.
OCD 218
PORTRAIT OF A PIANIST: Bach: Chromatic
Fantasy & Fugue; Beethoven:
6 Variations Op.34; Haydn: Sonata
in G, HOB XVI/39; Debussy: Estampes;
Liszt: Vallée d'Obermann.
OCD 189
CHOPIN: The complete Nocturnes
& Impromptus. OCD 254A/B
CHOPIN: The complete Polonaises
and Waltzes. OCD 289 A/B
CHOPIN: The four Scherzos, Fantasy
Op.49 (REISSUE). UKCD 2008
GRIEG: The complete Lyric Pieces.
UKCD 2033-5
SCARLATTI: 14 Sonatas. CR 35102-D
MENDELSSOHN: Two piano concertos
(LSO/Collins), Two concert pieces
(LPO/Martinon) (REISSUE). With other
Mendelssohn works played by John
Ogdon & Brenda Lucas. DOUBLE
DECCA 4524102 (2 CDs)
RACHMANINOV: Concerto No.1. LPO/Boult
(REISSUE). 461 3482
CHOPIN: 4 Waltzes in a compilation
(REISSUE) 450 000-2
CHOPIN FAVOURITES: Live recital
from the Maltings, Snape. Polonaise
in F sharp minor Op.44, Sonata in
B minor Op.58, Nocturne in D flat
Op.27 No.2, Fantasy Op.49. HALLMARK
350142
RACHMANINOV: The complete Preludes
on one CD (REISSUE). IMP PCD 2052
CHOPIN: The complete Nocturnes,
IMP 30367 02357 (2 CDs)
KHACHATURYAN: Concerto, LSO/Rignold,
FRANCK: Symphonic Variations, LSO/Goossens
(REISSUE). EVC 9060.
SCHUMANN: Concerto, Franck Symphonic
Variations, LSO/Goossens. REISSUED
BY MDT.
VAUGHAN WILLIAMS: Fantasia on the
Old 104th. LPO/LPC/Sir Adrian Boult
(REISSUE). With other orchestral
works. CDM 769962-2
TCHAIKOVSKY: Concerto No.1, LITOLFF:
Scherzo. LPO/Pritchard (REISSUE).
Classics for Pleasure 5 72699 2
CHILDREN'S CORNER. Grovlez: L'Almanach
aux Images; Déodat de Séverac:
En Vacances; Ibert: Histoires; Debussy:
Children's Corner. SIMAX PSC 1067.
WALTON: Sinfonia Concertante. LSO/Walton
(REISSUE). With other orchestral
works. SRCD 224
WILLIAM MATHIAS: Concerto No.3.
LSO/Atherton (REISSUE). With other
works. SRCD 325
CLEMENTI: Clementi on Clementi
(five Sonatas, played on a restored
Clementi square piano of 1832).
DIVERSIONS DIV 24413
SCHUBERT: The Impromptus D899 and
D935 (Clementi 1832). DIVERSIONS
CD24112
SCHUBERT: Drei Klavierstücke
D946; Valses Nobles D969; Moments
Musicaux D780 (Clementi 1832) DIVERSIONS
DIV 23007
LIVE RECITAL including Liszt Sonata
and Brahms/Handel Variations (1983
- previously unissued), Minerva
ATH CD 9
CHOPIN: "FIRST & LAST". Early
and late music played on Peter Katin's
own Collard & Collard square
piano c.1836. DIVERSIONS DIV 24116
LISZT RECITAL 1, DANTE SONATA ETC.
PRISTINE AUDIO PAKM024
LISZT RECITAL 2, HUNGARIAN RHAPSODIES
ETC. PRISTINE AUDIO PAKM025
Peter Katin was talking to David
Wright.
© Copyright
- Peter Katin / David Wright 2008
