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An interview taken from the Glass Archive. This interview took place in 2011 and was published in Issue Five of Glass Magazine. Peter Sculthorpe died last year on August 8, 2014.
Australian composer Peter Sculthorpe was the most immediately recognisable “voices” in the contemporary classical world. His pieces, shaped by the indigenous music of Australia and its neighbours, carry the sound of the sun, wilderness and majesty of nature within them.
Contrasting sharply with many of his contemporaries, his work is buoyed by an underlying optimism, and even his darkest works (his incredible 2004 Requiem deserves particular mention) journey irrevocably from darkness into light. He has always been, and remains, a socio-politically engaged artist – his more recent work focuses heavily on our relationship with the environment – and one with great faith in the ability of art to lead and engage the culture in which it exists.
Where did your passion for music come from?
Both my grandfathers were amateur musicians. My paternal grandfather, son of a convict, even made some violins. Neither of my parents could have been called musical but my father enjoyed listening to his crackly vinyl recordings of Caruso, Gigli and Galli-Curci. Before she married, my Yorkshire-born mother had been headmistress of a primary school. She gave me an enduring love of English literature and all the arts, including music.
What was the response from your teachers and parents when you began composing at such a young age?
When I was seven, I went to my first music lesson. Because I learnt to draw at art lessons, I assumed that my music teacher would help me to write music. It seemed strange that she wanted to teach me to play the piano. At my second lesson, I showed her some pieces I’d written.
She caned me across the knuckles, declaring that “All the composers are dead!” Thinking that writing music was some kind of transgression, I wrote it secretly at night, holding a torch under the bedclothes. When my parents eventually discovered this, they weren’t displeased. Throughout my childhood, they encouraged my every longing, even the desire to compose music.
In an age when “all the composers are dead” you have managed to become a world renowned composer. What lessons did you take from the classics and what did you want to achieve with your own music?
At a fairly early age, I found that I could express my feelings better through music than through other forms of art. The main influences upon me were the works of Debussy, Stravinsky and Bartok. Above all, I wanted to write music in a personal style, just as they did.
Was it a struggle getting your early work performed?
During my days at secondary school and university, I was fortunate in having friends who were eager to perform my music. With such whole-hearted support, I decided never to be troubled by a bad review – my favourite concerns my Piano Concerto. A critic wrote that it would sound better in a piano bar late at night, preferably after the people had left.
You have been praised for having crafted a uniquely Australian sound – listening in particular to your Irkanda series, I can feel the Outback, which I had the pleasure of seeing a decade ago. To your mind, what does Australia sound like?
When I was at Oxford in the late 1950s, my tutor told me that Australia’s indigenous music was not important. Without realising it, he helped me find my identity. His somewhat Eurocentric attitude caused me to look more closely at Aboriginal music, along with the music of the whole Pacific region.
This culminated in Irkanda IV, written in memory of my father. It’s one of my seminal works. I’ve never set out to create an Australian sound. While I do use sounds from the outback and musics associated with my country’s place in the world, my aim is simply to write about my own particular vision of Australia.
Compared with many of your contemporaries, your work has tended to be bright, uplifting and harmonious. Is this self-conscious, or just a reflection of its composer? What do you see your music’s role as being?
My parents, like many others, suffered a great deal in the 1929 Depression. Their favourite popular song, however, was Looking on the Bright Side. I inherit this optimism and it extends across my oeuvre. A recent string quartet, my eighteenth, is concerned with the devastation that climate change could have on Australia. I’m incapable of ending a work in a negative way.
The last movement of the quartet brings comfort in the thought that climate change doesn’t have to be. In recent years, my music has been devoted to humanitarian issues. At present, I’m considering writing a work about the catastrophic floods in part of Australia earlier this year. It became an inland sea, larger than France and Germany. How can I compose music about this?
Could you tell us about your Requiem? It feels far more European than your earlier works. Is it a departure or a development?
Unlike most of my output, the Requiem makes no real statement about Australia’s landscape or geographical position. Admittedly, I based it almost entirely upon an Aboriginal lullaby and the intervals contained in it. I also drew upon plainsong. The thematic material, however, tends to be subservient to the structure, which follows that of the traditional Plainsong Mass of the Dead.
The work is not really a departure for me. Its structure, which is underpinned by a didjeridu, is a journey from darkness into light. My Requiem was begun at the time of the wholly-misguided invasion of Iraq. It grew from thoughts of children being killed in war, in all wars, and mothers singing them to eternal rest
What works would you recommend to the uninitiated or the novice to classical music? (Would you even consider your genre to be classical? If not what would you call it?)
The uninitiated should simply follow their hearts. An extra-musical idea can help make a work more approachable. In the case of my own music, Small Town, for chamber orchestra, is a favourite among those who are uninitiated. It was inspired by the description of a small country town given by D H Lawrence in his novel Kangaroo.
On several recordings, I introduce the work with the Lawrence text. Hearing a composer talk also helps. I don’t care for the term ‘classical music’ when describing the kind of music that I write. It suggests the mores and musical styles of earlier times, even suggesting that all the composers really are dead. In the absence of anything better, I prefer the term ‘contemporary classical music’.
Is classical music still a relevant art form? If so, what is its place, and what is its role?
The pianist Charles Rosen once stated that “The death of classical music is perhaps its oldest continuing tradition.” While this has long been true, classical music still lives. Music in its every manifestation is a primal need of humankind.
What is your dream for music?
We degrade the land and pollute the air. We destroy the past and deny the future. We ignore the perils of over-population. In the history of our fragile planet, human endeavour in music and every form of art is now more important than it’s ever been. It once defined the identity of nations. I like to think that today it could help us embrace the future, giving us a commitment to our very survival. This is my dream.
From the Glass Archive – Issue Five – Dreams