What’s at the very heart of your teaching?

Paul Harris asks you to consider … what’s at the very heart of your teaching?


I’ve just finished reading Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, the marvelously candid account of a mother and her two musical daughters. It’s really about what drives us, why we do things and constitutes a fascinating insight into the pursuit of musical excellence. But at what cost? I was gripped throughout, but what made me really sit up was Amy’s description of what the violin had come to symbolize in her mind. For her it was ‘excellence, refinement and depth; respect for hierarchy, standards and expertise.’ But for her daughter, who had been pushed to her limits (and on the way had become a wonderful young player) it symbolized oppression. It got me thinking – I wondered what our own instrument represents to us. What it symbolizes and whether that might affect our teaching.

I was very fortunate with my teachers and my education in general. Especially with my clarinet teacher who taught me from my very first lesson and then continually right through my time at the Royal Academy of Music. Those formative years really plant some very significant seeds in terms of how things will develop in the future. And I’m not thinking of musical or technical abilities but something deeper – I’m thinking about what exactly the clarinet, my instrument, embodies to me. My teacher was (and still is) a very kind and sharing person. The clarinet, as a result, symbolizes warmth and friendship. My lessons, though always full of serious hard work, were extremely enjoyable. There was always much laughter. The clarinet still strongly embodies that sense of fun. I’ve always enjoyed chamber music, all the way back to the school ensembles I used to play in, which always culminated in enjoyable and highly appreciated concerts. So my image of performing has always been a very positive one. At school I wasn’t a great academic but I loved my clarinet and wanted to know everything about it – so I did my best to learn everything I could and that made me feel special; it gave me a status. And of course these deep images and symbols have transferred themselves, in all sorts of ways, into my teaching. 

So I wanted to find out what other peoples’ deep images of their instrument are and whether they too feel it affects their teaching. When one friend was handed her first flute she immediately felt she had been given the ‘keys to the kingdom.’ It opened her eyes and she could suddenly see so much. It was an instrument of power, a device through which she could channel her emotions. And her flute has never since lost that force. Needless to say her teaching is highly imaginative and her pupils absorb from her a real confidence in their own playing. 

Another teacher has a much more practical kind of image. Playing his saxophone is akin to sport. He has always much enjoyed the physical sensation of playing the instrument. To him it symbolizes energy and movement and his teaching, he tells me, is appropriately vigorous and full of sporty allusions and metaphors. Another teacher I spoke to closed his eyes, thought for a few moments and said, ‘riding a bike, good teachers, bad teachers, scary concerts, stress, fun…” Yet another (a pianist) felt her instrument symbolizes independence and escapism. She continually takes her pupils on journeys into their imaginations where they visit colourful and vivid places in order to understand and play.

But I was also invited to share in some darker symbols. One teacher friend said her instrument represented pain, another anxiety, yet another: damage. I pushed this last one. She had had some unkind teachers, she told me. ‘I wanted to do lots of expression, but my teacher disagreed. He’s my teacher so he must be right I thought. I must be wrong. But that didn’t seem to make sense. I was not happy.” That person is now one of the best teachers I know. “I want to pass on my love of expressive playing, but I feel bad about playing myself. I rarely do. Even in lessons. But my pupils play with so much expression and feeling.”

So I invite you to think about what your instrument means to you. And what affect it may have over your teaching. There are many, wide-ranging, influences over the way we teach. In one way or another, so many of our experiences and people we know play their part in how we do what we do. But those deeper symbols perhaps have the greatest effect.

Do we need to Practise?

Pupils always find it perplexing that their teachers should ever need to do any actual practice. ‘You’re a professional– you don’t need to practise!’ And we may think, ‘I’ve taught that piece a hundred times – I don’t need to practise it.’

If you do play professionally as well as teach, then the chances are that you do practise! Perhaps quite a lot. But hard-working full-time (or even part-time) teachers often find fitting regular practice into their busy schedules quite a challenge. We need both time and mental energy. Two luxuries often in short supply. So it’s only right to ask: is it worth finding that time and energy? After all we know most of the pieces we teach pretty well don’t we? I’m sure it won’t surprise you to learn that the answer is still a resounding yes - it’s very much worth the effort. 

And here’s why. We need to experience how the piece feels physically and think about the kind of difficulties our pupils may encounter; we need to have all the ingredients clearly to hand; we need to explore and cultivate appropriate metaphors; we need to think about possible opportunities for improvisation; and if our muse is on call and willing, we may even write some useful or fun exercises based on the piece (or at least develop some mentally); we might search for a suitable piece of music (with similar ingredients) to sight-read or play as a duet. And it’s also very important to experience the sheer joy of simply playing a piece of music through from beginning to end. 

Does that seem a lot to do? How about making a comparison with the list of instructions you give your pupils each week (or at least some of your pupils!) But once you get started, and in the best traditions of Simultaneous Learning, you’ll be making all sorts of interesting connections and the time will positively fly by.

As you begin practising each piece try to approach it through the eyes, mind, experience, knowledge and imagination of your pupil. Let’s think about character first. What would appeal? This piece/passage/note is like setting off for a football match or it’s like coming back from a football match (and your team has just won – or lost perhaps); it’s like waking up and you’re still feeling really tired or it’s like floating on a calm lake. Knowing your pupils’ interests is invaluable here. The number of possible images and situations are infinite of course but it’s important to think about them before the lesson – if we wait for inspiration during teaching we may be disappointed – our imaginations may be otherwise engaged. Pupils will almost always respond to a vivid or funny image. An accent is far more likely to be performed with enthusiasm if the player is trying to give the audience a shock rather than just playing that note louder.

As we play take in all the ingredients – the essential building bricks of a pro-active and energetic lesson. How will we make connections between them? What connections would be especially pertinent? Which particular ingredients would fit well together to make interesting warm-up exercises? Do I have time to write a special and personalised little exercise or study? Pupils love these by the way and their delight will certainly balance (if not greatly exceed) the trouble of writing it. Which ingredients does this particular pupil need to concentrate on? Which ingredients would go well together in some improvisation? 

Look at the technical bits and practice them as your pupils might. What problems could they experience? Factor in their size and muscle development. Devise a new exercise to help.

One of the most informative revelations that may emerge from this kind of practice is the occasional realisation that we may have been making assumptions about the piece which inhibit musical or technical fluency. Because we may have taught a piece many times without playing it (or without having played for some time), more subtle difficulties can easily slip by unnoticed. I often practice simple teaching pieces and find particular passages can actually be deceptively awkward. It’s allows us to be more sympathetic! 

In the old days resourceful teachers would make up cassettes or CDs of pieces for their pupils to listen to. It’s all so much easier today. We simply guide them to appropriate performances on YouTube or Spotify. So with that time saved let’s enjoy more practising and thinking. 

Surprisingly you’ll relish teaching those old familiar pieces a whole lot more. 

© Paul Harris 2010

First appeared in Music Teacher Magazine December 2010 and reprinted by kind permission.

 

It’s all in the preparation…

To remain as effective and responsible teachers, preparation is very important. And that preparation can come in all shapes and sizes. Some requires expenditure of energy, some will conserve and revitalize. Let’s have a closer look at how we can best prepare. 

If we’re involved in wider opportunity-style or whole class teaching then of course we have to do an appropriate amount of preparation to avoid all kinds of possible (let’s settle with) confusion. In such a situation Benjamin Franklin’s memorable maxim ‘Fail to prepare – prepare to fail’ was never more apposite. If it’s individual or smaller group teaching then perhaps the necessary preparation for each lesson doesn’t seem to require such effort. But we all do need some quality time to stay on top of the game. As to using it most effectively let’s begin by reminding ourselves about the very nature of what we are.

We’re human beings – not human doings! We don’t have to be doing all the time. There needs to be some time, each week, when we simply stop doing. Time for re-energizing the batteries; time for reflection; time to let go of problems; time to re-affirm our love of music and our love of teaching. And yes – we do need to do this every week. I am sure some of you are thinking, ‘but I don’t have the luxury of such time.’ Well – things have got to change. It’s vital. You need this time. It’s an essential part of our preparation.

In extreme cases (I’m not sure what constitutes an extreme case, but I’ll leave that for you to decide!) put aside the occasional ten minutes, perhaps once or twice a week. But really I’d like you to do this once a day after some busy teaching. Sit in a quiet room in a comfortable chair and, for the first few minutes just relax and think about nothing in particular. Then reflect on what went well - an enjoyable moment, a pupil suddenly ‘getting it’ or playing a phrase beautifully. Reflect on something that didn’t go so well (nothing wrong with that – happens all the time) but try to think of alternative strategies: could you have taught it differently? Were your expectations too high or too low? Did you make an inappropriate connection? Did you use the wrong vocabulary? What would have made it work better? Such thinking is invaluable. The next time such a situation occurs you’ll negotiate it with much greater success. 

Do you ever find yourself getting frustrated? Why couldn’t he get that rhythm right? I told him how it goes enough times! If these kinds of thoughts slip into your mind then time for reflection is even more important. Pupils rarely get things wrong deliberately. There’s usually a reason and the effective teacher needs to find that reason. It’s almost certainly rooted in some kind of misapprehension or maybe somewhere along the chain of learning, there’s a broken link. We must find it and repair it. That’s the way forward and quiet reflection will often produce the answer. 

So what about some actual practice? Many instrumental teachers do keep their practice going on a regular basis which is ideal. Pupils, especially younger pupils, love to hear their teachers playing and will model and copy a lot of what they do (which is a good thing – we can begin to encourage independence of thought and action as pupils mature). Simple thoughtful practice of pieces we are teaching is invaluable. It will alert us to the particular ingredients from which our teaching should develop, it will remind us of particular technical issues. And as we’re practising our teaching pieces let’s put ourselves into the minds of our pupils. What thoughts might they have about it? What metaphors and images might help them to bring the piece to life?

And what of that most treasured and important part of our teaching equipment? Our imagination. It needs feeding too. Take it to an art gallery or read an inspiring book. Go to a concert or listen (and I mean sit down, eyes closed and really listen) to a favourite performer playing a special piece or one you’ve always wanted to get to know. The internet can bring virtually anything into our houses with the minimum of effort – there’s no excuse!

So enjoy some regular and varied preparation. Ensure you shut down from time to time (you don’t have to feel guilty about it) and just be. Empty your mind and then allow some gentle re-affirming thoughts to fill the space. Both you and your pupils will benefit enormously.

© Paul Harris 2010

First appeared in Music Teacher Magazine 2011 and reprinted by kind permission.

Another flight of the gentle lark

In the Summer of 2000 I had the great pleasure of meeting James Gillespie, editor of The Clarinet Journal, during the International Clarinet Association (ICA) convention in Oklahoma. James asked me if I would like to contribute a regular column. These personal reflections are now reprinted with his permission. The following ‘Letter from the UK’ was first published in September 2010 in The Clarinet Journal, the official publication of the ICA. 

It’s always thrilling to uncover something that no one has known about for many years. In this case I’m talking about one hundred and sixty five years! And particularly so when it makes some unexpected and delightful connections. This all came about when a friend happened upon a very rare concert programme dated January 16th 1845.

Readers may recall that I used to teach in a wonderful school housed in an imposing old stately home. The original estate that is now Stowe School was owned by various noble families over the years and during the first half of the nineteenth century it was occupied by the extremely noble sounding Richard Plantagenet Temple Nugent Brydges Chandos Grenville (1797–1861), The Second Duke of Buckingham and Chandos and Member of Parliament for Buckinghamshire.

In January 1845 Stowe had some rather special visitors – Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. Such a State occasion was a major event and the Duke spent lavishly. On January 16th, the second of the three-day visit, he organized a large-scale concert which took place in Stowe’s beautiful music room. It featured, both as orchestral player and soloist a certain Mr. Lazarus. The orchestra was conducted by the famous and flamboyant Mr Jullien and they played selections from popular operas, movements from symphonies as well as a host of occasional pieces. Lazarus himself was soloist in Sir Henry Bishop’s arrangement of ‘Lo, here the gentle lark’, first performed just two years earlier in this version, with flute player Joseph Richardson who played the obligato. 

I found all this particularly exciting for two reasons. Firstly, having researched widely over the past few weeks, especially in Pamela’s Weston’s extensive writings about Lazarus, I could find no previous mention of this performance. 

To discover the second reason we need to look at dynasties. Pamela loved tracing clarinet dynasties. Here’s mine: I was taught, at the Royal Academy of Music, by John Davies (still going strong now in his 90s) who was taught by George Anderson (himself teaching at the Royal Academy of Music up to the time of his death when he was into his 80s) who was taught by Henry Lazarus (who was teaching right up until his own 80th year). Because each of these great characters of the clarinet world had such long working lives I’m only three generations removed from Lazarus. So it was very exciting to discover that Lazarus himself had played in the very same Music Room in which I have given so many performances. I haven’t played there for a while but I’m going to try to arrange a performance of the Bishop for next January 16th – only a hundred and sixty six years later!

As far as his own additions to the clarinet repertoire is concerned Henry Lazarus was responsible for a fair number of still popular works. As a composer he is best known for his operatic fantasias (particularly those on I Puritani and Ernana). He was also the dedicatee of some fine pieces. I especially love the Six Nocturnes by Charles Oberthür and then of course there’s his notable and comprehensive Tutor, “The New and Modern Method” published in 1881. I bought my copy (the new edition) interestingly enough in Los Angeles on a trip there a few years ago! I’m sure many readers will have their own copy on a shelf somewhere. If yours has perhaps suffered neglect recently then don’t forget the many colourful and enjoyable duets it contains. Mine gets used in almost every lesson I give – my pupils love those grand symphonic duets – ideal for warming-up or sight reading. And Lazarus’s instructions for performance are still delightful to read, “when performing before an audience, bear a calm appearance, emit the sounds without showing externally the difficulties that have to be overcome, and it will greatly impress those around you with the apparent facility of your execution.”

Indeed as a teacher Lazarus held some very prestigious positions. He was professor at the Royal Academy of Music for nearly forty years, the first ever clarinet professor at the Royal College of Music and he taught at the famous Military School of Music, Kneller Hall. His obituary, in an edition of The Musical Times, of April 1896, stated simply: He was, in the opinion of many, the most accomplished clarinettist which this country has produced, his playing being characterized by fullness and beauty of tone and an unerring technique. 

The Henry Bishop arrangement of Lo, here the gentle lark, for clarinet, flute and piano is still available from Fentone Music. What are you doing next January 16th?

Why am I a music teacher?

Paul Harris asks, “Why am I a music teacher?”

Here you are reading and enjoying your latest copy of Music Teacher, but when was the last time you thought ‘why am I a music teacher?’ Of course I know we’ve all got the mortgage to pay, but I hope that’s not the reason! Or at least if it’s part of the reason, then it’s only a very small part!

Spend a minute now thinking why you are teaching music. No, really! Stop reading and have a think!

I’d love to know your answer – but I’m not going to try to second-guess. There are many reasons why people teach music, and they are (mostly) good reasons. Instead, I’m going to try to explain why I love teaching music and let’s see whether there’s any overlap and agreement.

First of all, I like music. I like playing it and I like listening to it. A lot. Both occupations make me feel good. There are lots of deeper psychological, social, intellectual and cultural reasons for that, but they needn’t worry us over-much. Many have tried to speculate on what music is for – what music is. Some have taken a scientific stance, some an emotional one, some a philosophical one. Many great minds have addressed the question. But isn’t it interesting that after all this time we still don’t really know. So let’s leave it at that. I like music and I want to share with others something I know can enhance their lives. Similarly, I hope that a major part of your reason for teaching music is simply that you love it and want to share your passion.

But there is something else: something very important. In a world, especially for young people, that is dominated by exam stress, a world that seems to encourage endless judgmental thinking, that causes so many to feel that they are under-achieving, we, as music teachers, really can do just a little something about it. We can help our pupils really achieve. We can help them build that hugely important self-esteem (not ego) that will give them confidence and strength. 

To do this does require a particular belief and a particular approach to teaching. Firstly, to uncover that belief let me ask you a simple question. After eight years of playing the flute, two pupils take an exam. The first pupil passes grade one (and is delighted), and the other passes grade eight (also delighted). Who has made the greater achievement? Note I’m not asking who has passed the ‘higher’ exam – and what a lot of received opinion and cultural indoctrination there would be in that question! The answer is simple – both have achieved equally. That’s what is important: we can help make both pupils enjoy their own success at their level and, along the way, we can try to teach them not to make the destructive (and meaningless) comparisons that can spoil it all. 

We are all wired differently. One person’s grade one really is another’s grade eight. We all move at different paces and it’s so important to acknowledge that fact. You’re probably thinking, that’s all very well but that’s not how things are in the real world. Well – we’ve got to start changing things! And there’s one very effective way we can: believing that the process is more important than the outcome. The process in getting from zero to grade one, or zero to grade eight must be rich, elaborate, exciting, absorbing and engaging. If it is all those things then whilst the outcome may be important it doesn’t take on an importance that trumps the process. 

And how do we make ‘the process’ all those things? Many readers will know my approach to instrumental and singing teaching which I call Simultaneous Learning. It’s a process where we are continually making connections to deepen and inspire understanding. It’s a process where we teach the ingredients of music to the degree whereby our pupils really ‘know’ and therefore can apply them in all contexts. That’s teaching. And we are continually drawing on our rich imaginations (we all have them) to create ever more activities to help each pupil get from their A (can’t do it) to their B (can do it), whatever their particular pace and however their particular brains are wired. 

So that’s why I love teaching music. That’s why I’m a music teacher. I want to ensure that all my pupils love their music and can really enjoy their ongoing achievements. And the mortgage gets paid too. 

© Paul Harris 2010

First appeared in Music Teacher Magazine December 2010 and reprinted by kind permission.

A Class Act

In the Summer of 2000 I had the great pleasure of meeting James Gillespie, editor of The Clarinet Journal, during the International Clarinet Association (ICA) convention in Oklahoma. James asked me if I would like to contribute a regular column – an invitation that I found both humbling and daunting! The following ‘Letter from the UK’ was first published in March 2010 in The Clarinet Journal, the official publication of the ICA.

Let’s play that guessing game where you try to work out who I’m describing before I’ve given away too many clues. Here goes then: he’s a top, living, English composer who has written a lot of seriously important music for the clarinet including a concerto and a quintet. He belongs to the generation that counts Peter Maxwell Davies, Harrison Birtwhistle and Alexander Goehr among their number (all who have written for the clarinet but none as much as our mystery composer.) Have you got him yet? He lives in New York (and has done since 1979). He has also written some of the most effective film music in the history of the cinema. And he now lives for jazz and cabaret. You must have got him by now! I write, of course, of Sir Richard Rodney Bennett.

Born in Broadstairs, Kent in March 1936 (also incidentally the birthplace of Prime Minister Edward Heath) into a very musical family – mother was a pupil of Holst and a concert pianist and father was a singer, songwriter and librettist. Richard began composing when he was about 13 and wrote his first clarinet work at the age of 16. This was a Concertante for clarinet, strings and percussion, probably for a school friend. It remains unpublished at the present time but is an effective pointer of things to come. There is one highly energetic movement of what was clearly intended to be a longer work. Like so much of Richard’s early music it is written using the 12-tone system. The clarinet writing is idiomatic and quite difficult and he wrote it in just two days. Nine years later came Richard’s second work – a Quintet for Clarinet, String trio and piano. Richard was very much drawn into the music of Elizabeth Lutyens at this time and this quintet drew much from her style. 1965 saw the composition of a Trio for flute, oboe and clarinet. Written for the same combination as Malcolm Arnold’s Divertimento and similarly in six short movements. It’s quite a gritty work again written in a strict serial style – but highly effective in the right programme. It was first performed by Richard Adeney (who also played in the first performance of the Arnold), Peter Graeme and the great Gervase de Peyer.

Next (in August 1966) came the delightful Crosstalk for two clarinets. I wrote about the background to this gem in my June 2007 letter so to cut a longer story short: Thea King and Stephen Trier were in residence at the Dartington Summer School of Music (along with Richard). Thea was chatting to Richard about the need for more duets one evening and woke up the next morning to discover some sheets of manuscript paper slipped underneath her bedroom door. Richard had composed this gorgeous and inventive four-movement suite for her literally overnight! It was given its first performance that very day. 

We then had to wait eleven years for the next work – 1977 and the Scena III for solo clarinet. But it was worth the wait - this is a significant work in the unaccompanied clarinet catalogue. It was first performed by Philip Edwards who told me recently, “I very much enjoyed working on it and played it often. It’s atonal in outline and both effective and memorable.” After an arresting opening it develops along slightly Messiaenic lines, inspired by the e.e.cummings quotation found at the start of the music, Then shall I turn my face, and hear One bird sing terribly afar in the lost lands. Lasting eight minutes it’s quite a substantial work. Published by Novello it’s easily available and really worth a look at if you don’t know it. Four years later Richard produced another unaccompanied work – one of his best known – the Sonatina for solo clarinet. A highly effective, tuneful and characteristic piece which was commissioned for the National Clarinet Competition for Young People in 1981. The competition was won by Alex Allen who “particularly loved the beautiful slow movement.” The Sonatina has often found its way onto examination lists but also makes for an engaging and audience friendly concert item. 

Recollections on a Summer's Day

Jack Brymer and John Davies - Two great characters!

One of the delights of mid-August, when virtually the entire nation seems to go into hibernation, is that one can catch up and spend time with friends. I did exactly that recently. My teacher and mentor John Davies was staying with me for a few days and another good friend and clarinetist, John Holmes came to visit. The conversation, predictably, darted in and out of the clarinet world and (during lunch at a rather nice local Chinese Restaurant) it turned (for some time) to one of the clarinet’s great figures. Looking back over all my ‘Letters’ I was surprised to find how rarely he has appeared. He was someone of whom the three of us each had an interesting story to tell, so I am about to make amends. I speak of course, of the inestimable Jack Brymer. 

John Davies first. John and Jack were friends for over fifty years but their first encounters were important for both. During the late 1930s they were living in Eastbourne on the south coast. Jack was teaching in a local school and John had a small dance band that played regularly in a department store (long since gone) called Dale and Kerley’s. Its tea-room was the glory of the town (especially during the summer season) and John would often employ Jack as clarinetist and saxophonist to fill the ranks. Jack would often ‘solo’ when they occasionally strayed into more modern jazz (rather than the palm-court fare that represented most of their repertoire.) Many years later, when John was senior clarinet Professor at the Royal Academy of Music he invited Jack to give a masterclass. In his introduction, John described Jack’s meteoric rise to fame (thanks to Sir Thomas Beecham) as ‘virtually happening in just a couple of weeks’. Jack’s responded (tongue firmly in cheek and with a sparkle in his eye) ‘I’d like to correct John – it was overnight!’

John Holmes is the Chief Examiner of the Associated Board, that global institution that provide graded musical examinations for (mostly) young developing instrumentalists and singers. John had the extreme good fortune to study with Jack Brymer. It all began when John took part in the Shell-LSO competition. Young players would be awarded the opportunity to sit in with the LSO and gain hugely useful experience. That particular year John wasn’t one of the few winners but Jack, in his very generous fashion, wrote personally to break the news. John plucked up courage (Jack after all was the most god-like figure in the clarinet world at the time) and wrote back asking for a lesson. He was in luck. Jack gave him his lesson and went on to teach him for the next five years. 

John has many memories of Jack the teacher. He would be particularly exacting over the tone of chalumeau E. ‘If you can make that sound resonant, full and pure then everything else will fall into shape,’ Jack would say. One exercise was to stand in a corner of a room (or in a cupboard!) and play low Es. The sound would come back at you and you could really work at the quality. Another was to sing the pitch of open G then put the clarinet in your mouth and play it, then remove it and start singing again, then play it… repeating the process over and over again until you reach a stage where sung note and tone where virtually identical. Jack wanted to make you feel the clarinet was very much an extension of yourself. Interestingly Jack would make pretty much the same sound on whatever instrument he happened to be playing. And it would always be exceptionally well in tune.

They would work through the staple repertoire (with Jack continually offering fascinating insights and wisdom) and, from time to time, Jack would recommend less well-trodden works for study. The Krommer Concerto for example was a fairly new find around that time. Jack had discovered it whilst on tour in Japan (when it was spelled Kramar). John remembers being one of the first young British players to study and perform the work. He studied the Mozart Concerto too (which Jack would often perform up to two hundred – or more – times a year.) ‘ You must always imagine there’s someone in the audience who has never heard it,’ he would say. Sometimes they would play duets. Jack had one further (and lasting) influence on his young pupil. Outside the Brymer residence (in South Croydon) sat a gleaming Honda Superdream 400.  It was the motorbike to have (and indeed allowed Jack to get around London and do twice as much as everyone else!) John still gets about on a motorbike to this day.

Finally to my Brymer story (and by far the shortest!) In fact I met Jack and heard him perform on a number of occasions, but the most memorable encounter was when I took my pupil Julian Bliss, (who was 8 at the time) to play to him. We drove down to Surrey and Julian played the Rossini Theme and Variations in Jack’s front room. Julian’s virtuosity was remarkable even then and Jack loved the performance. John Davies came too, and the two old friends enjoyed some very spirited reminiscing. It was all very special.

Jack didn’t record very much as a recitalist but (trawling the Internet) I’ve just found (and ordered) a copy of his famous ABK 16 –‘ The Voice of the Instrument: Jack Brymer playing Mozart, Weber, Schumann, Mendelssohn, Saint-Saens, Holbrooke, Hummel, Curzon, Arnold, Templeton and Poulenc.’ He always recorded in one take and John Holmes, who has the recording, tells me you can literally hear the fun that Jack was having in making this disc. I can’t wait for it to arrive - it will bring the sleepy month of August to a wonderful conclusion.

Tales from up north (or what made you take up the clarinet?)

In the Summer of 2000 I had the great pleasure of meeting James Gillespie, editor of The Clarinet Journal, during the International Clarinet Association (ICA) convention in Oklahoma. James asked me if I would like to contribute a regular column – an invitation that I found both humbling and daunting! The following ‘Letter from the UK’ was first published in March 2010 in The Clarinet Journal, the official publication of the ICA.

I’ve just spent a week in the lovely city of Edinburgh judging their annual music Festival. The quality of playing was very high - a stunning performance of the Lutoslawski Dance Preludes and a heartfelt Brahms E flat particularly stick in my mind.) But I want to pass on two delightful stories told to me by one of Edinburgh’s leading clarinet teachers, Pamela Turley. Both concern slightly unexpected ways of coming to the clarinet. Pam was a pupil of Thea King and now teaches at St Mary’s Music School (Edinburgh’s specialist college for young musicians up to the age of about eighteen) as well as Fettes College (where ex-Prime Minister Tony Blair went to school). She is also one of Scotland’s leading players. But how she came to play the clarinet is really rather enchanting.

As a young girl of about eight or nine Pam decided she wanted to learn a wind instrument. Her kindly mother immediately took her into the sitting room where lived the record player and the nearest record to hand happened to be Rossini’s William Tell Overture. Pam listened eagerly as the music unfolded until suddenly, ‘That’s the sound I want to make! That’s the instrument for me!” exclaimed the delighted young Pamela just as the beautiful Cor Anglais began its lovely solo. “That’s a clarinet,” announced her caring, but not quite accurately informed mother. So, after a number of phone calls it was discovered that an uncle had an instrument hiding away, unused, in a cupboard. Pam worked hard at her clarinet. “When will I start to sound like my recording?” she asked her teacher. Unaware of the very particular ‘clarinet’ sound Pam was craving for the two continued to work hard. After many more months of practice the frustrated Pam again declared to her teacher, “I’m still not sounding anything like it.” So the record was finally produced and the awful truth was revealed. Happily, Pam decided that the sound she was making on her clarinet was just a pleasing as William Tell’s Cor Anglais and she ended up a pupil of Thea King in London. 

In fact Pam’s other story originates from Thea herself. The great Jack Thurston was giving a recital at Rugby School – one of England’s oldest and most celebrated independent schools. His pianist was of course the young (and multi-talented) Thea King. They proceeded through their recital evidently to the delight of the young Rugby boys who hadn’t been exposed to such virtuosic clarinet playing or musicianship. As the recital drew to its conclusion, Thurston finally spoke to his captivated audience. “Actually you know, the clarinet really is quite an easy instrument. Even my pianist can play it.” And he beckoned to Thea to join him in a seemingly unexpected (but in fact very well-planned) duet. Thea’s instrument was already set up and lurking behind a curtain. They proceeded to give a scintillating performance of the Poulenc double clarinet sonata. The boys were stunned and the next morning a surprising number queued up to see the Head of Music requesting that they begin clarinet lessons right away! 

Taking up the clarinet in my case was the result of a letter from school offering lessons on the clarinet or violin. My earliest memory is actually of some disappointment when I discovered that my clarinet split up into small chunks. I was so looking forward to seeing the intrigued expressions of fellow passengers on my train to school as I sat proudly with what I thought would be an extremely long and mystifying looking case. 

Readers will know that Edinburgh University owns both the exceptional Sir Nicholas Shackleton collection of clarinets (there is now a wonderful catalogue available) and also much of Pamela Weston’s collection of clarinet memorabilia. The immense amount of specialist knowledge that Nick had on his clarinets is now contained in the catalogue (which was largely put together by the excellent German writer and instrument expert Heike Fricke). This exceptionally lavish work is available from Edinburgh University at a very modest price. For those of you who with a thirst for clarinet history this is a must for your library!

© Paul Harris 2010 Reprinted by kind permission of the ICA.

Dentists and Dons

In the Summer of 2000 I had the great pleasure of meeting James Gillespie, editor of The Clarinet Journal, during the International Clarinet Association (ICA) convention in Oklahoma. James asked me if I would like to contribute a regular column – an invitation that I found both humbling and daunting! The following ‘Letter from the UK’ was first published in December 2009 in The Clarinet Journal, the official publication of the ICA.

I’ve recently been watching a repeat, on television, of the highly acclaimed 1976 BBC production of I Claudius. The imaginative and chilling theme music was by the Newcastle-born British composer Wilfred Josephs. It’s twelve years since Josephs died and his significant body of music for the clarinet still remains relatively unexplored territory to most players. So here’s a short introduction to some of these works which I hope will inspire you to have a closer look. You certainly won’t be disappointed. 

Though Josephs was a keen musician as a boy his parents had no intention of allowing him to follow such a dubious profession. Consequently he trained to be a dentist, a career he pursued, probably somewhat half-heartedly, for a few years. But between drillings he was still quietly composing and after winning the occasional international composition competition was finally able to give up filling teeth and devote his life to music. He studied with a number of distinguished composers including Max Deutsch (a pupil of Schoenberg); but his style is rooted in a very accessible tonality and he constantly reveals, like Malcolm Arnold, a fine gift for writing lovely melodies. 

His first major work for the clarinet was a concerto written for Keith Pearson (a pupil of John Davies) in 1975. Lasting just under half and hour and accompanied by quite a sizable orchestra it’s a large-scale work. Ten years later came a work equal in proportion to the concerto and one that should be in every clarinet players’ repertoire – a wonderfully atmospheric Quintet. Following in the tradition of the Mozart and Brahms it is for A clarinet and Josephs writes for the instrument with great skill and sensitivity. It was commissioned by and dedicated to Angela Malsbury (whose playing Josephs much admired). She gave the first performance with the Medici Quartet in August 1985. It has (perhaps uniquely) two first movements! The music is harmonically lush and full of gorgeous melody with a hint of rolling hills – but the landscape is never predictable and Josephs is continually taking the music around unexpected corners. The following scherzo is witty and charming and places considerable demands on the soloist (but they’re well worth the effort!) The slow movement is a magical, languid and heartfelt nocturne lasting nearly ten minutes, the occasional moments of disquiet preventing audiences from slipping into a dream-like semi-consciousness. The final movement is gently energetic and the work ends in a poignantly hazy mist reflecting the closing moments of the Brahms Quintet. Altogether a highly engaging work. Joseph also wrote Twelve letters of a Moral Alphabet (for speaker, clarinet, string trio and piano) a setting of words by Hilaire Belloc also for Angela Malsbury who has recorded it on the Unicorn label.

Again like Brahms, Josephs wrote two clarinet sonatas (in 1988) back to back: the ink was hardly dry on the first when he began the second. Both were written for Martin Powell and, like Reger’s Sonata in F sharp minor, use the A clarinet. The opening movement of the first Sonata (Op 148) is also Brahmsian in its soaring lyricism and occasional rhythmic ambiguity; there are also moments of ferocious energy. The meltingly tender slow movement is a jewel and the scherzo full of high jinks. The expansive melody that opens the final movement is simple and direct though the composer continually demands considerable reserves of technical virtuosity from the performer. The second Sonata (Op 149) begins in rather more dark and dramatic vein than anything we have heard in the first and its three movements (similar in general conception to the Brahms E flat) are more structurally concise compared to its partner. Both works are challenging to play but would delight any audience. The two Sonatas and the Quintet are beautifully recorded by Linda Merrick on the Metier label – do get to know them.
And clarinettists have still more to enjoy. There is an Octet that sits alongside Schuberts’; a delightful Old English Suite for the colourful combination of E flat clarinet, 2 B flat clarinets, basset horn and 2 bass clarinets and a Serenade to the Moon for 3 clarinets and bass clarinet. All in all quite a collection.

About the same time that I Claudius was first screened, children were enjoying a thoroughly charming new series centred around the fantastic adventures of a certain Mr Benn. I loved it - especially the music which, if the credits were to be believed, was apparently written by one Don Warren. But they weren’t to be believed. After some careful research I finally discovered that it was written by the well-known saxophone player Duncan Lamont, who wished to keep his duel life as a jazz artist and composer of children’s TV signature tunes separate! What particularly drew me to the music was the delicious main theme which was beautifully written and scored for bass clarinet and doubled on xylophone accompanied by a small ensemble. Duncan told me he’d originally scored the tune for trumpet, but the trumpet player failed to make the recording session and as there was a spare bass clarinet player about, he instantly re-scored it. Anyway, to cut a long story short I have just arranged and published (Queen’s Temple Publications, QT 118) ten pieces (including the superb title music) from the series for B flat clarinet and piano. They are absolutely delectable. 
© Paul Harris 2010 Reprinted by kind permission of the ICA

A tribute to Pamela Weston (1921-2009)

In the Summer of 2000 I had the great pleasure of meeting James Gillespie, editor of The Clarinet Journal, during the International Clarinet Association (ICA) convention in Oklahoma. James asked me if I would like to contribute a regular column – an invitation that I found both humbling and daunting! The following ‘Letter from the UK’ was first published in September 2009 in The Clarinet Journal, the official publication of the ICA.

I’m sure that all readers will know of the very sad death of Pamela Weston. She had been suffering from the highly debilitating, enigmatic and still incurable condition known as Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (M.E.) for over seventeen years and had reached the point where life had become intolerable. In a deeply courageous and utterly determined manner, she decided to go to the Dignitas clinic in Switzerland and end her life.

I knew Pamela well, so the following is a personal tribute rather than an obituary-style record of her extraordinarily rich and influential life. Rarely does one meet someone who is at the top of their chosen vocation yet is also able to remain delightful, generous and modest. Pamela was such a person. And, to the enormous good fortune of all thinking clarinet players (as well as many others in the music world) she was driven by a powerful and relentless desire to know everything about the clarinet, about those who composed for it and those who played it, and then to share this information through her many wonderful publications. Many of these books on clarinetists of the past and present are unlikely ever to be superseded. 

I first came across Pamela Weston’s name as a young student when I played pieces and studies from her various imaginative collections for beginner clarinetists. Many of these were published at a time when teaching material was all rather dry and academic. Teachers were no doubt delighted to find that someone had taken the trouble to make very playable arrangements of good music available. Pamela’s own musical beginnings were as a pianist and singer; surprisingly, she didn’t start the clarinet until her twenties. But she was plucky enough to persuade Frederick Thurston himself to teach her and things went very well. During the war years, she also had some lessons with the somewhat absent-minded Stephen Waters, about whom she had some amusing tales which, in her typically generous fashion, she shared with me when I was preparing my edition of Malcolm Arnold’s Wind Quintet (of which Waters played in the first performance). 

My next, and much more significant encounter with Pamela was a little after my first book, The Cambridge Clarinet Tutor, was published. She gave it a lovely review in the Music Teacher Magazine and I decided I had to meet her. My teacher, John Davies, knew Pamela and arranged for us to visit her at home in the delightful Buckinghamshire town of Denham. It was a memorable visit. She was a fascinating host, the conversation was captivating and she signed my copy of Clarinet Virtuosi of the Past. It’s now a treasured possession. I remember once phoning Pamela to tell her that I’d spotted a copy of that very book in a second-hand bookshop for £260! She was really quite astounded. 

Pamela’s enthusiasm for scholarly research into the clarinet’s repertoire has been unique. It was Pamela, for example, who first brought players’ attention to the fact that it wasn’t Wagner who wrote that beautiful Adagio. And then she went on to edit an important edition of the work. Her immensely carefully-researched Weber edition will surely never be replaced. And there are erudite editions of virtually all the major clarinet works as well as her friendly guide to teaching, The Clarinet Teacher’s Companion.

Pamela taught at the Guildhall School of Music for seventeen years during the 50s and 60s. She was a kind, thoughtful and witty teacher and produced many grateful students. She also performed widely at this time and had a number of works written for her. My favourite is the beautiful and highly evocative Three Songs of Innocence by Arnold Cooke which he wrote for her own and very successful Klarion Trio (consisting of herself, Jean Broadley and Eileen Nugent).

In recent years, Pamela and I have had regular chats on the phone as well as the occasional visit. I took John Davies to see her about four or five years ago. We met up in Eastbourne where both were brought up – though their paths never crossed in those now far off days. We went out to a wonderful fish restaurant and the animated conversation was full of wonderful recollections, though by then Pamela was beginning to tire quickly. I’ve driven down south to see her a number of times since; her enthusiasm for work never diminished. 

About six weeks ago I was chatting to Pamela on the phone. It was early evening – the time of day she preferred for telephone calls – and she was her usual chirpy self. She had recently sent me her own concert programme of that historical first performance of Malcolm Arnold’s Second Clarinet Concerto, played by Benny Goodman. I had phoned to thank her for such a generous gift – I had no idea of its significance. We talked for a minute or two. The very next day I received a letter from Pamela with grim news, but it was touched with her own special sense of destiny; ‘Please don’t grieve for me as I am happy to go,’ she ended.

We spoke again a number of times after that, and on August 15th I received my last letter from her. She wrote of John Davies and Julian Bliss; of the performance of the Mozart Quintet which was eventually given just last night (as I write) in Edinburgh, by one of her former pupils, Philip Greene, who planned to start the concert with a moment’s pause in memory of Pamela. The letter ends in her customary positive and generous style, ‘It makes it all so worthwhile, doesn’t it? I was so lucky to have Thurston as a mentor and friend.’
She was much loved and will be profoundly missed.