Over a period of months in 2013/14, I interviewed the composer Harrison Birtwistle at his home in Wiltshire for a book of conversations (Wild Tracks, Faber). Each trip had an air of mystery. As I let myself in, the door usually open, I was never sure what I would find. He might say almost nothing, or fall asleep or talk nonstop. Often he would still be at work in his garden studio, huge sheets of manuscript paper spread out before him, pencil in hand, in the middle of a thought. Would my intrusion snuff out a vital spark of inspiration? Not that Harry relied on inspiration. It was hard graft. He worked daily, for hours on end, plagued with a self-doubt only narrowly conquered by self-belief and determination.
His great gift was to see the world as a place of wonder. Ripe plums from his tree, or the sound of a harp, his favourite instrument; tomatoes from his greenhouse or the innovative electronics called “passing clouds” made for his opera The Mask of Orpheus – all were miracles to him. Nothing was humdrum, though he held strong views and there was no reasoning with him over music he disliked: American minimalism (“skimmed milk”), Tchaikovsky (“not interested”), Rachmaninov (“can’t stand it”). He had equal enthusiasms, not always expected: Morton Feldman and Pierre Boulez, Roy Orbison and Dusty Springfield, the Elizabethan viol music of William Lawes.
His work, always a challenge, not a balm, is often described in terms of monumental blocks, but each is made of hundreds of notes that must be selected, rejected, chosen anew, with no short cut. He envied the painter’s ability to make big marks with a single brushstroke. Simplicity and ritual mattered to him, not only in his music. On returning from a trip to Japan, he made tea with all the care he encountered there, delighting in the brushes and whisks and ceremony. He was endlessly funny, with a sublime sense of the ridiculous.
The last time I visited, a few months ago, he was limited by ill health. We sat looking out at his beautiful garden. He was suddenly transfixed. “Look!” I expected to see a rare bird or moth, perhaps. “Rats!” He was watching several playful rodents clambering back and forth through his plants. I could scarcely look. To Harry, they were objects of fascination and – yes – wonder. In everything, he taught us to see, think and hear anew. We will miss him.
Fiona Maddocks is a guest on this week’s Music Matters, which will discuss Harrison Birtwistle’s life and legacy. Radio 3, Monday 25 April, 10pm/BBC Sounds
