Instrumental (15 page)

Clearly there are major problems in the music world. A blinkered outlook by the majority of those in positions of influence, a childish refusal born largely of fear and conservatism to attempt to reach a broader audience, a desperate clinging to what's familiar despite overwhelming evidence that they are on a sinking ship, a horror of and immediate lashing out at anyone who dares to try new things with old music, and most depressingly, a greedy, grasping desire to keep this incredible music just for themselves and a select few who fit their criteria as worthy listeners.

The people behind classical music seem to have lost sight of the fact that the composers themselves were, in effect, the original rock stars. Today the phrase ‘rock star' brings to mind
Heat
magazine photoshoots, tattoos, wanky phrases like ‘conscious uncoupling', being a judge on
Britain's Got Talent.
Back then it meant really bad hair, some form of venereal disease, mental illness and poverty. They were for the large part mental, depraved, genius bastards who would have pissed themselves laughing at the ideas about performance that the classical
gatekeepers of today are so rigidly stuck to. They didn't throw TVs out of hotel windows, they threw themselves out.

Beethoven moved house seventy times. He was clumsy, badly coordinated, couldn't dance, cut himself while shaving. He was sullen, suspicious, touchy, incredibly messy and angry. And he went on to change the course of musical history. In 1805 he wrote the ‘Eroica' Symphony, and with one compulsive wrench, music entered the nineteenth century. While every other composer was trying to woo their audience, he kicked down doors and planted bombs under their seats. The idea of forcing his audience to sit in silence, without applauding during pieces, would have made him laugh like a drain.

Schubert, nicknamed ‘Little Mushroom' on account of his being 5 foot nothing and violently ugly, was spectacularly unsuccessful with girls and, on one of the very rare occasions he did manage to score, he caught syphilis. A friend of his said, ‘How powerfully the craving for pleasure dragged his soul down to the slough of moral degradation.' Schubert, by his own admission, came into the world ‘for no purpose other than to compose', and he earned the equivalent in today's money of around £7,000 (in total) in the last twelve years of his life, with less than 10 per cent of his output published in his lifetime. He was broke, oversensitive, lost his hair, lived in squats, and led a life of relentlessly, miserable drudgery. Would he give a fuck about whether his music was played with the performers or audience wearing the right attire?

From Schumann (who died alone and miserable in a mental asylum) to Ravel (whose experiences driving trucks and ambulances in the First World War changed him forever), the great composers were
basket-case geniuses, and were they to come to the average concert today and see the prices, audiences, presentation and pretension surrounding their music, they would be fucking disgusted.

No wonder I was so desperate to do it differently.

How lucky I have been to have found a manager who is on the same page. He became a director now as well as a manager. A few days before the Roundhouse gig we went down to Steinway and I ran through the whole programme from start to finish, talking about Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, the pieces, why, when, how. It detracted slightly from the absolute focus of playing just the notes, but not enough to make it non-viable. I just had to concentrate a little bit harder, remember a few more things and try not to say anything too inappropriate.

Concert day arrived and I pitched up to the hall. There were eight cameras positioned around the auditorium with a keyboard cam for good measure and two giant screens on stage. The idea was that we would relay a live video from different angles while I was playing. That way people in the cheap seats could see everything clearly, and in all the really tricky passages I'd spent thousands of hours working on, everyone could see my hands in close-up, because it looks awesome and I'm quite vain.

It was an incredibly intense experience. It was clear from the feedback afterwards that the majority of the audience had never been to a classical concert before and the average age of the audience was mid to late twenties, a far cry from the usual fifty-plus Wigmore Hall crowd. I introduced all the pieces, talked about the composers' back stories, played my heart out and then wanted to do the whole thing over again.

I remember as a kid seeing videos of Glenn Gould chatting to the audience in Moscow and Bernstein talking from the stage before conducting masterpiece after masterpiece, but in recent memory I don't think anyone had ever talked at length and played in a classical concert before other than Daniel Barenboim who talked briefly about Schoenberg from the podium at the Festival Hall a few years ago (it was such a break from tradition it made the newspapers). And cracking the odd joke, sharing anecdotes about Bach fighting and fucking, about Beethoven being almost beaten to death by his drunken father, and talking about why I wanted to play these specific pieces seemed to work well. Having an audience applaud the speaking as well as the playing, and hearing laughter in a classical concert seemed to confirm that this was a good direction to be moving in. I was finally doing what I had dreamed about doing forever. I had never felt so fulfilled in all my life.

And a couple of weeks later we did the exact same thing, minus the screens, at the QEH. Again, a young audience, bemused expressions from the backstage tech crew who had never had to mike up a classical performer before, laughter, music, low lighting, absolute silence from the audience while I was playing, hanging out in the bar afterwards with some of the guys who'd come down to listen. It was, for me, the perfect way to give a concert. It removed the bullshit and ego surrounding so much of the classical music industry and yet stayed true to why we do this job in the first place – the music.

There are so many fucking rules in place around classical music: the dress code, performance practice, programme notes, lighting, presentation, concert format, applause, repertoire choice, timing, performer and audience etiquette, venue choice, and on and on.

Denis and I have only ever had two rules: no crossover ever (not because I'm against it as a genre but because it just doesn't do it for me when there is so much classical music out there already), and no dumbing down the music (in many ways the same thing). Everything else was fair game and the gloves were off. So if I found out one of my concerts wasn't totally sold out I'd tell Denis to offer the remaining tickets for free, because why the hell shouldn't we offer a few people the chance of a free night of music? Luckily, and to the joy of my promoters, things are now at a place where I don't have to do that any more. But the point is, was, always will be, to fill 'em up, choose music that is immortal and accessible, play as well as I can, talk about music, wear clothes that are comfortable and not based on the performance practice of the 1930s, let the audience bring drinks in, turn the lighting down to almost pitch black. Make it immersive, intimate, exciting and informative. Rip up the rule book and just do what feels right.

We were definitely starting as we meant to go on. It was difficult and frustrating trying to find like-minded people in the industry who were open to looking at and presenting classical in a different way. I knew that there would always be an audience for the immortal pianists of this world like Kissin, Zimerman, Argerich, as well there should be. But much more importantly, I knew that there must be at least forty-five million people in the UK alone who had never heard a Beethoven sonata in its entirety before, and that was something I found deeply depressing. It wasn't about preaching to the converted, or even preaching at all, to anyone. It was simply about reaching as many people as possible with something that perhaps they hadn't yet heard, and doing it in a way that made it accessible and comfortable for everyone. There
was no mission involved – serial killers go on missions – but it felt urgent and important and true, and other than Hattie, there wasn't much of that going on in my life at that point.

We started to get a fair bit of press interest both good and bad. There was some douchebag in the
Daily Telegraph
who started off his piece saying he'd never heard of me, never heard me play, never been to any of my concerts or heard my album, but that I was an arrogant prick who was trying to ‘save' classical music by wearing trainers and jeans when it was doing very well on its own, thank you very much, etc etc. We knew this was going to happen, especially with the old-school classical brigade. What was unexpected, and rather lovely, was the number of really great reviews I got for the album and concerts. I know the goal is to be immune to both criticism and praise, but I'm human, and all of that stuff affects me. I call bullshit on anyone who says it doesn't. Especially those of us who feel like giant frauds in the first place and disbelieve kind comments while absolutely knowing the negative ones are true.

If you're somebody for whom the idea of going to a piano recital appeals about as much as a trip to the dentist, maybe consider coming to one of mine. Bring a date, know that it will be casual, inclusive, that the music will be immense. And if I'm not your cup of tea then try the Wigmore or Festival Hall. Go see Stephen Hough, Daniil Trifonov, or any one of a hundred A-game pianists on the circuit right now. Investigate something new and see where it leads. To experience music like this live is something extraordinary.

I was, for the first time in a long time, in a really good place both emotionally and physically. A kind, beautiful girlfriend, a dedicated,
genius manager, concerts and music at the centre of my world, slowly increasing odds that the career of my dreams could actually happen. And a growing sense of acceptance that Jack was in another country coupled with the hope that he and I could still maintain some kind of relationship.

TRACK SIXTEEN

Schumann, ‘Geister Variations' for Piano

Jean-Marc Luisada, Piano

Composers and mental illness go hand in hand like Catholics and guilt, or America and obesity. Schumann was one of several who suffered from severe depression, throwing himself into the Rhine and then, having not managed to kill himself, sectioning himself voluntarily and dying alone and afraid in an asylum.

Days before he tried to kill himself he wrote his ‘Geister (Ghost) Variations', so called because he said that ghosts had dictated the opening theme to him. Yep. Slightly unhinged.

There is not a more private, enclosed, intense, concentrated piano composition that I can think of. Rarely rising above a forte, the theme is a chorale that slowly, gently develops into something far beyond words. Here is Schumann's schizophrenic, depressed, lost world laid bare at our feet.

AMONGST ALL THE PRESS THAT
was starting to happen at that time, I did an interview in the
Sunday Times.
In it I mentioned the sexual abuse that had happened at school – it was a short paragraph in a double-page piece. The head of the junior school from back then saw it and got in touch with me (Facebook is good for some things, apparently). She told me she'd known that some kind of abuse was happening (even if, in her naivety, she hadn't thought it was sexual), that she used to find me sobbing, blood on my legs, begging not to go back to gym class. She'd gone to the head of the school who'd said, in true 1980s style, ‘Little Rhodes needs to toughen up. Ignore it.' Which she did. She told me that she quit her job and became a prison chaplain. And then years later read my interview and got in touch to see if she could put things right. Twenty-five years too fucking late, but hey ho. Slightly angry about that still.

She made a police statement (the one I included earlier in this book). I went back to the police with my manager once they'd received it and we tried again. He may have mentioned press coverage and record label lawyers. And sure enough they found the guy. He was in his seventies. And working in Margate. As a part-time boxing coach for boys under ten.

After lengthy interviews, they arrested him and charged him with ten counts of buggery and indecent assault.

And so when some people let me know that I'm only talking about the abuse that happened as a means of selling albums or getting sympathy (it happens), I always tell them that story and ask them if they'd rather I'd kept quiet about the sexual abuse and that guy was still coaching their eight-year-old nephew/son/grandson. Dicks.

The last I heard from the Met police was that he had had a stroke and was deemed unfit to stand trial. He died shortly after I got that
news. Many of the books I've read and support groups I've been to talk about forgiveness. They suggest writing letters to those who have hurt us, especially if they are no longer alive, outlining the impact of their actions on ourselves and on those we love. And in many ways that is what this book is. It is my letter to you, Peter Lee, as you rot in your filthy grave, letting you know that you haven't yet won. Our secret is no longer a secret, a bond we share, a private, intimate connection to you of any kind. No part of anything you did to me was harmless, enjoyable or loving, despite what you said. It was simply an abhorrent, penetrative violation of innocence and trust.

I can but hope that people like Mr Lee, people who actively pursue and engage in their sexual desire for children see, really see, the damage it does. That passing it off or justifying it as mutual and acceptable, an expression of love, is as far from the truth as it is possible to get.

Forgiveness is a glorious concept. It's something I aspire to even if it's at times seemingly nothing more than an impossible, if desirable, fantasy. There have been too many incidents of abuse in my life. I am committed to sharing the parts of it that I'm able to cope with without totally imploding. And that's good enough for me. It has to be. There are other people from my past who know more and should have known better and they will have to make their peace with that just as I am trying to. Maybe one day I will forgive Mr Lee. That's much likelier to happen if I find a way to forgive myself. But the truth, for me at any rate, is that the sexual abuse of children rarely, if ever, ends in forgiveness. It leads only to self-blame, visceral, self-directed rage and shame.

The sexual abuse of children.

Some people read that phrase and feel appalled, some feel titillated, some feel angry, some turned on. It's interesting to see that just by writing that phrase I want to disappear for a while and do something destructive, distractive, anything to avoid these feelings. Thirty years later I'm still right there, pinned down and in pain and feeling like it was all my fault. Just because I've written a few words about it. The inherent power of this shit to fuck you up with nothing more than a sideways sneer is terrifying.

When the Jimmy Savile case reared its ugly head I was asked to write a piece for the
Daily Telegraph
about it. Somehow by this time I'd managed to find a voice and some kind of status in the media that allowed me to talk about things like this in the hope of adding, in some small way, to the changes that are already happening since more people started talking about it. The full article is in the Appendix to this book, and writing it spun me out for a few weeks afterwards because, well, it's giving oxygen to something that really wants to just curl away in the darkness and gnaw away at my insides.

But shining a light on topics like this is hugely important. And getting hundreds of supportive and grateful messages from people who had also gone through similar experiences was an indicator to me that it needs to be talked about even more.

*

Denis and I had made a small start on my musical career. An album, a bit of press, a few concerts. We had some good ideas, and we were lucky enough to have GHP, the touring company that looked after
Stomp
since the beginning, get involved, helping secure both classical and non-classical venues. It was enough to keep me busy, but despite being on a more even keel, there were still regular moments each day filled with panic – fear of failure, of an almost empty concert diary, the horror that I had committed everything to becoming a concert pianist and it could, at any minute, fall apart and end up in abject failure. The thing is that I used to feel the exact same way when I worked in the City, served burgers in Burger King, showed up to any job. I am preconditioned and hard-wired to fear the worst, believe every negative voice in my head and expect terrible things to happen. That's just the way it is. On the plus side it keeps me alert, hungry, working hard. On the negative, well, I'm mental, stressed, heinously jealous of others' success.

We also went back to the studio with my little motley crew of engineers and producers to record album number two,
Now Would All Freudians Please Stand Aside
. This was from one of my favourite Glenn Gould quotes. Gould, that musical freak who couldn't have given less of a fuck what people thought of him or his playing. He played Bach like no one before or after could ever hope to, graced the cover of
Time,
had his performances put on the Voyager spacecraft as an example to alien life forms of just how awesome the human race can be, and died of a massive stroke in 1982, no doubt helped along by his epic addiction to prescription drugs. He retired from performing in public at a stupidly young age because he felt the audience was always hostile, waiting for him to screw up. He dedicated the rest of his life to the recording studio, believing (rightly as it turned out) that there was a huge future in recording and massive advances being made in the
technology behind it. He worshipped the security of the recording studio and how safe it felt, and after recording five albums I still absolutely agree with him. Some of the most rewarding, distracting, immersive hours I've spent have been in the studio.

Gould was also a certified nutjob. He wore thick overcoats, hats and scarves in the middle of summer, poured boiling water over his hands and forearms before playing, took pills like they were gum drops, called his friends (and strangers) at three in the morning and talked at them even while they slept, played the stock market, hated company, was the closest thing classical has ever had to a rock star. He was also movie-star hot when he was younger. And he played the piano like a god. I'm pretty certain that one of his two seminal Goldberg albums has graced more lists of ‘desert island discs' than any other classical recording.

For
Freudians
I decided to do another mixed recital programme. I've never been a huge fan of dedicating an entire album to a single composer, especially when trying to reach a fresh audience. Choice is always good, and Bach, Beethoven, Chopin are my holy trinity. Having Mike Hatch working his magic with sound and microphones, and the genius producer John West (sadly no longer with us thanks to the great fuck that is cancer), made it easier than I deserved. The guys behind the music never get enough credit, and these chaps were absolute experts at polishing my distinctly dodgy attempts into something halfway decent.

Freudians
remains the favourite of my recordings and the one I'm most proud of, perhaps because it contains two of music's greatest masterpieces, Beethoven's Op. 109 Sonata and Bach's Sixth Partita.

And we also chose to put a few interviews on the album with me talking about the pieces and the recording process, hopefully without the indulgent wankiness that is so easy to slip into when talking about (LA accent) ‘my creative process'.

Here's the thing about careers. We have become so enamoured of and used to the whole ‘overnight success' thing promoted by
X Factor
and
Britain's Got Talent
and their ilk that it's easy to feel that success isn't happening fast enough. God knows there were – still are – times when I wish things were moving quicker in my career. And then I look at successful friends of mine whom I admire – Benedict Cumberbatch was doing bit parts in
Heartbeat
and too many unnoticed theatre productions for over a decade before
Sherlock
; Derren Brown was slogging his way through close-up magic in Bristol nightclubs for much longer than that before his career exploded.

I have an in-built terror that good things will slip away. That unless I control things and drive them and micromanage and obsess and worry and push and chase, they will not happen. And there is nothing so destructive to a career as that. It may bring about short-term gain but it is not sustainable – you come across as a giant cock, and no one wants to work with you.

The hardest lesson I've learned is to relax and simply enjoy what is happening today, trusting that if I'm doing the right thing then the right things will happen in their own time. To the point where I'm now very wary of overnight success. I don't think it lasts and, a bit like relationships, there may be a very intense, passionate affair with amazing sex and obscene doses of brain chemicals involved, but chances
are it ain't going to be sustained. But taking things slowly, relaxing into it, learning as you go along, enjoying the journey – all of these things build a foundation that can last a lifetime.

I got an inkling of this when I signed to Warner Bros Records.
Freudians
had been released and had had good reviews, I'd been playing around London and in the big festivals – Cheltenham, Hay, Latitude
writing for the
Telegraph
about everything from Formula One (the greatest sport in the world) to Twitter to Beethoven, and generally plugging away at things. I was introduced to Stephen Fry around this time, too.

We'd met through my benefactor, sponsor and supporter Sir David Tang. He had called me up to invite me to a concert and asked me to meet him in the bar at Claridge's Hotel for a drink beforehand. He told me Stephen Fry was coming too and would be there. So off I toddle and of course I'm an hour early as per usual. And sitting in the bar is Fry drinking a martini. He seems startled when I introduce myself until I tell him I'm a friend of Sir David's and am coming to the concert with them and he relaxes a bit and invites me to join him. I ask him what he's been up to, which is unlike me as I usually just start talking about myself, and he tells me he's just finished a series on endangered species and has been in New Zealand or Zanzibar or somewhere. And I, being nervous, a bit of a dick, attention-hungry, say to him:
‘Dude, who the fuck cares about some web-footed fucking platypus in the arse end of nowhere? Why not focus on helping those closer to home, or real human beings who are starving, fucked, miserable and alone? Jesus. Give me a fucking break.'
He just looked at me, slightly astonished, and tried to answer me. We got into a huge argument within a minute of meeting one another, me refusing to back down and feeling all smug and self-important, him being as civil as was possible under the circumstances. And we kept our distance from then on for the rest of the evening and, feeling embarrassed and slightly ashamed, I took the easier option of thinking he was a bit of a wanker, told him so, and did my best to ignore him.

And then I get home and as I walk through the door I get a text: ‘James it was so wonderful meeting you – you are such a lovely man. Ditch the cynicism – it doesn't suit you and life will be so much easier without it, lots of love, Stephen xxx.'

What a dude. There are a tiny handful of people in my life who are able, consistently, to meet my crazy with kindness. He is one of them.

So he and I became buddies and started hanging out some. And he came to one of my concerts at the Proud Galleries in Camden. It was all north London chic with cool paintings, exposed brick, Cutler and Gross glasses and immaculately trimmed beards. They'd brought in a lovely Steinway and I played well enough. Stupidly I also chose to play some Alkan as I knew he was one of Fry's favourite composers and I wanted his approval (I still do). Alkan was a giant cunt. The guy wrote almost impossibly difficult music. And yet I got through it, more thanks to adrenaline than talent, and it all went down pretty well. Stephen then tweeted that I had kicked ‘monumental ass', and somewhere in west London, unknown to me, Conrad Withey, one of the big guns at Warner Bros UK saw his tweet and started listening to my records.