Christo remembers his involvement with music since childhood
My first musical achievement was a scholarship to Sutton Valence, a minor public school in Kent where I was sent, aged 8, to endure 10 years of brutalist education or ‘character building’; learning to obey orders, repress one’s emotions and ‘be a man!’
From early years I loved Mozart. The scholarship was granted after a performance of an early Mozart sonata, sufficient to impress the Headmaster and the music teacher of my talent and convince Mother I could be the next Arthur Rubinstein.
It didn’t take long for me to realize that the purpose of musical education at this particular school was to impress the fee-paying parents at the annual speech-day concerts. I got the strong sense that the Headmaster and governors were more interested in showmanship than in providing a good musical grounding.
In the build-up to the big event, HM’s beautiful Bechstein Grand would be ceremoniously wheeled into the Main Hall.
My music teacher, Frank Stokes, was a scruffy fellow with side whiskers and cigarette-stained fingers. His appearance matched his lowly status in the school hierarchy, just one above the science teacher. The Headmaster was a firm believer in a traditional classical education. He regarded science as a dangerous heresy. His musical tastes were primarily Wagner, and Gilbert and Sullivan.
The real touchstone of excellence at our school was SPORT, especially rugger*. Looking back, I think it wasn’t so much sport per se I hated as competition, this insane desire to always be first. I particularly resented having to turn up on a frozen winter afternoon, or in pouring rain, to cheer on the school team with inane cries like ‘On on on, School!’
Hidden behind an attitude of intellectual superiority, which regarded most of the rugby and hockey players as thickos and thugs, was also, I admit, a jealousy of their social status and success in school. I was small, ‘weedy’, and of little value in any ‘manly’ sports – and totally uninterested…
That was, however, until one lucky day I discovered cross-country running, at which I excelled, or at least enough to arrive back early while the other games continued – however not early enough to be selected for any team.
So I was free to spend a sizeable amount of games time, which was almost every afternoon, in the music practice rooms.
As a small child I remember experiencing moments of blissful lucidity, which would arrive unexpectedly and leave me in a state of wonder, sometimes lasting hours or whole days.
These often occurred after hearing a particularly beautiful phrase of music, or getting lost wandering in an unfamiliar part of London. However ‘lost’ I was, I was never far from a tube station, to take me back to familiar territory, or to my Mother’s office in Victoria.
These rare treasured moments gradually disappeared after I started school.
However, one afternoon, back early to the music room, I had an experience that remains vivid in my memory. At that period of my life I was severely depressed (a condition unrecognised and unacknowledged at the time). Perhaps this was a trigger for what happened.
I started my practice by playing a few scales, up and down the piano, nothing unusual, but suddenly as I got faster, ‘I’ vanished! I was no longer there – just an awareness of my right hand gliding up and down the piano all by itself.
The feeling, which lasted just a minute or two, was pure bliss. Of course, I had no context for such an experience at that time, and tried to recreate it again and again, but never succeeded.
The final school concert was my last day at school. In a zombie-like state of terror I gave, accompanied by the school orchestra, an excruciating performance of the first movement of Beethoven’s 3rd piano concerto, with just enough vigour and ‘chutzpah’ to fool most of the musically-illiterate parents, as well as the Headmaster. Mission accomplished!
For years I hated Beethoven’s 3rd… It had been technically too difficult for me, and not of my choosing.
A few years later I was lucky enough to hear the great Rubinstein himself perform at the Festival Hall in what must have been one of his final UK concerts – unforgettable!
From the moment he entered the Hall you were aware of his extraordinary silent presence, which held the audience spellbound long before his fingers touched the keys. Chopin never sounded so intimate and exhilarating.
My own triumphant debut at the Festival Hall happened many years later, after Pune 2, when I finally returned to the UK.
My life had changed dramatically after years with Osho and my exposure to Indian and sannyas music, which had given me a whole new outlook and understanding.
On a day trip to London, walking along the South Bank, I decided to pop into the Festival Hall for old time’s sake and have a cup of tea. As I wandered around, I noticed the changes since my last visit many years before, including an upper seating area around which were placed several grand pianos. My attention was caught by a German Blüthner. I had heard of this legendary make, apparently a favourite of Rachmaninoff, and longed to give it a go.
There appeared to be no-one around and, to my amazement, the piano was unlocked. So, without further ado, I sat down and slowly brought my hands down on the keys, utterly enchanted by the rich mellifluous tone and lightness of touch.
In a kind of carefree abandon, for about 15 minutes I improvised simple melodies over familiar chord patterns. Finally I paused, and as I put my hands on my lap I became aware of some shuffling behind me. I stood up in anticipation of Hall officials arriving to eject me.
To my amazement, I saw that several rows of chairs had appeared and I was being heartily clapped by a small audience. I bowed deeply, quite overwhelmed, and left the building hurriedly.
I continued my walk, not wanting to wait for an overpriced tea, but feeling thoroughly refreshed and rejuvenated.
* That’s rugby for a foreigner
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