The previous occasion I had a conversation with Thomas Adès was amidst a cold and gloomy winter’s day in the heart of London. Adès, a celebrated composer whose creations have graced the performance platforms of the Royal Opera House in London and New York’s Met, turned up late, riding a motorbike, initially leading me to confuse him with a delivery man inquiring for directions. His justification for his tardiness was beyond reproach. He explained that he had been delayed at a meeting with his publisher, Faber & Faber, where he had been introduced to X, and had been captivated by her compelling presence.
Reflecting on his interaction with the notable late writer, he states, “It felt as though I was encountering a character from a legend. Of course, she was an amazing personality and her beauty was remarkable. But it wasn’t merely about her physical beauty. She had an insightful quality. The experience was unlike meeting any other talented or intriguing individual. It was something more. It was as if she possessed a legendary quality.”
We were discussing his latest composition for the orchestra, ‘Aquifer’, which has been commissioned to commemorate the inauguration of Simon Rattle’s incumbency as the principal conductor of the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra. Alongside a rendition of Bruckner’s Fourth Symphony, Rattle and the orchestra will debut Aquifer at the National Concert Hall in Ireland next weekend.
Adès describes his latest creation as “a single-movement symphony with a lowercase ‘s'”. “It’s amongst a select few projects I’ve undertaken in recent years where I’ve felt the desire to bring it to a climax in the key of C Major or a similar tone by any feasible means. Although initially I was mildly mistaken about the meaning of ‘Aquifer’, the term for which the piece is named. I had a particular fondness for the word and believed it would make an apt title. However, it was not until I commenced putting pen to paper that I researched its actual definition,” he admitted.
He describes it as the point where water breaks into our existence, yet it’s more intricate than this. It’s essentially the geological formation that water selects or uncovers to transport it. This might be a simple natural groove in stone. Such an image resonates even more with his perception of the piece, aligning closely to his initial thoughts.
Ades perceives himself as an individual devoted to constructing structures that, to him, ideally possess the solidity and rigidity of rocks and are persistent. The water, in this context, symbolises the enigma that is music, the force or energy it embodies.
Therefore, his role, as he puts it, is to precisely fabricate a conduit for this energy. He envisions this channel to emulate the characteristics of a natural one instead of being an angular, concrete structure. Instead, it should possess peculiarities, whirls, and unexpected shifts in direction, typical of natural formations. He relishes the thrill of discovering a natural spring and contemplates the natural forces that must have transported it there. This is akin to his perception of his purpose in life, and his approach to composition.
Ades perceives himself as working to grasp the natural operations present within these notes, chords, and other elements. He adheres to a primitive belief system that asserts these musical elements inherently possess a unique form of mass and energy, even though no one utterly understands how it functions or why a C must succeed a G. Nevertheless, these energies resonate with him. Thus, he views his role as fashioning the structure required to extract and convey this energy.
The title of the piece was not an initial conception. He experimented with numerous concepts related to wells, springs, and sources. Yet, the myriad of connotations these words encapsulated triggered significant confusion. He needed to offer specific clarity. The term ‘aquifer’ surfaced one day, solving his dilemma.
So, what sparked the creation of this piece? An image of the piece navigated its course toward C major. Several iterations of this came to life, including renditions of songs and a string quintet. The string quintet, in particular, emerged immediately before the conception of the final piece.
Speaking about his recent endeavours in clearing out a shedload of old cartons containing his collective works, he expressed his initial dismay at the sheer quantity of it all. As space was running scarce, he needed to organise these pieces, and in doing so, he found that almost all works would start with six or eight front pages.
He then admits that he often embarks on a series of false starts, a method which works for him eventually. He likens this approach to trying to strike a match or performing a chemical experiment – it takes multiple attempts before a successful ignition or reaction occurs.
When questioned about the common writer’s principle of deleting the beginning paragraphs since they are often just preparations for the subsequent narrative, Adès reflects on this, admitting it could be a possibility. He expresses his fascination for introductions in classical music pieces, citing the first eight bars of Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony as a prime example which sets the tone for the whole composition.
He explains that these introductions serve as a gateway to the proper atmosphere or setting of the piece, comparable to the process of awakening. It can be sudden or gradual, and he provides his piece Aquifer as an instance where it starts out as rapid movements in darkness and transitions into understanding that one is in a fast-moving water stream.
Looking back, once he was able to push past those initial pages, he took much pleasure in writing this work. For him, writing about a water path allows him to rely on the natural flow to guide the progression and direction of his piece.
Adès isn’t inclined to make a distinction between programme and abstract music, citing Smetana’s Vitava as an example— it’s a favourite symphonic poem of his. This particular composition is named after the Czech Republic’s longest river and forms part of a series created in the 1870’s titled Má Vlast, or My Country.
He describes the opening as beautifully capturing the gentle flow of the river’s origin through swift, hushed flute writing, with the rhythmic parts subtly interchanged amongst the musicians. He comments on how he finds this “magical”, and that he appreciates the entire collection; it’s high amongst his favourite orchestra works.
He also speaks with equal adoration about Mendelssohn’s vividly depicted Fingal’s Cave Overture, another piece better recognized as The Hebrides. According to Adès, it’s a flawless symphonic movement that couldn’t possibly encapsulate the location more. His own composition, he says, is essentially a minor addendum to that style of work.
Fondly Adès remembers attending concerts by Rattle, never anticipating that he would collaborate with him in the future. He compares him to a “lightning rod”, and fondly recalls the exhilaration of watching Rattle’s meteoric rise. He believes he shares a deep connection with Rattle when it comes to making music, attributing it to Rattle’s comprehensive perception of the score and his ability to identify the broader ambitions of the music. Rattle’s insight, he says, is akin to that of a composer, and includes the ability to subtly adapt to aspects “that can’t be recorded in music notation.”
Additionally, regarding the rumor that Rattle, originally a percussionist, played a rattle in the debut performance, Adès dismisses it as a misunderstanding, brought upon by his miscalculation of available percussionists. The rattling part is now performed by one of the orchestra’s non-percussion players.
Lastly, an upcoming performance featuring the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra and Simon Rattle is scheduled at the National Concert Hall, Dublin on the 7th of September.