Only the notes you need
Adam Pounds recalls three years of study with Lennox Berkeley
 Adam Pounds in 1977, while studying with Berkeley A young composer can often feel
‘lost’, and in 1976, while I was studying at the London College of Music and
won the composition prize with my Oboe Quartet, I was sufficiently
encouraged by this success to seek the help of a good teacher.
As a student from a modest and
non-musical background I had no contacts amongst the musical establishment. My
oboe teacher John Wolfe, who played in the BBC Symphony Orchestra, took some of
my compositions to show the BBC Music Library and secured me some work as a
music copyist. This brought me in direct contact with the new works of some
contemporary composers from Alwyn to Birtwistle. I also worked for the jazz
magazine Crescendo, and met some more commercially-minded composers,
including Richard Rodney Bennett.
This was a period when Boulez
and the avant-garde were at the height of their dominance of the musical scene.
Although interested in their experiments, I clearly identified myself with the
mainstream tradition of British music and the legacy of composers such as
Vaughan Williams and Holst amongst others.
My partner Dinah, a flautist,
was playing the Sonatina for Flute and Piano by Berkeley at this time.
As neither of us was a proficient pianist, I transcribed the piano part for classical
guitar, so that I could play along with her. Shortly afterwards I heard Berkeley’s
Serenade for Strings on the radio. I was immediately struck by the
inherent qualities of his music: its charm, its depth and, above all, its
craftsmanship. This was a composer from whom I felt I could learn a great deal,
if he had the time to teach me. Without further ado I wrote to him, enclosing
my Oboe Quartet.
 Dinah and Adam at Aldeburgh in 1976 Eagerly I awaited a reply, but
heard nothing for many months. I assumed he was much too busy. Or perhaps I was
aiming too high. Then one morning a reply landed on the doormat. Sir Lennox was
very courteous and apologetic – he had misplaced my letter and ‘it had only
just come to light.’ To my delight he invited me to visit him at home in Warwick
Avenue for ‘a little advice’.
I had lived, worked and studied
in London all my young life but Little Venice was not a familiar area to me. I
had tried to imagine what Lennox Berkeley and his house would be like. On arriving
I was immediately impressed by the beautiful entrance porch. Sir Lennox himself
answered the door, and invited me into the drawing room, where he invited me to
sit in a comfortable armchair. I was struck by the lovely art work all around,
and I felt comfortable and at ease. Sir Lennox had recently been knighted but I
wasn’t aware, then, of his aristocratic background. From the first moment of
our acquaintance he was always dignified, warm and a steadying influence.
I remember that first encounter
clearly. Lennox wanted to know all about me. He asked what I played, what music
I liked and what other interests I had. I felt he was really weighing me up. We
moved to the piano, and he put my Oboe Quartet on the stand and complimented
me on the elements he liked: the bold shapes and the rhythmic devices. He was
interested in my composition process, and in how I conceived a work. I was
waiting for the advice he had offered in his letter, but instead he put an
early Mozart Symphony on the stand. He told me that a sound
understanding of the classics was absolutely essential in forming a secure
technique. Mozart, he believed, achieved the pinnacle of balance and economy in
his style as well as elegance and refinement. Lennox’s advice was ‘write only the
notes you need’. I listened intently while he explained the strengths of
Mozart’s composition and orchestration.
  This was a pattern he was to follow
at every lesson. We only ever looked at a score whilst at the piano; we never
listened to a recording. He evidently expected me to hear the orchestration in
my head – as he could – even if I didn’t know the work. On one occasion I took
a cassette recording of my Divertimento for String Orchestra, together
with a cassette player, as I wasn’t sure if he had the means to play the tape. After
searching for the correct electrical socket, we ended up listening to the piece
downstairs in the kitchen.
At the end of my first encounter
I was grateful he had taken so much trouble with me, especially as he claimed
to have retired from teaching. ‘I think I would like to take you on’, he said
gently, as I rose to go. ‘Let’s say once a fortnight.’
This was a very busy period for
Lennox. He had started work on his Fourth Symphony, and he was busy with
the composition of some vocal music. He had recently been elected President of
the Performing Right Society and he was working with several prominent
musicians on performances of his works.
We always began my lessons with
a chat. ‘Auntie’ [the Berkeleys’ housekeeper Babs McKeever] brought us tea
which he took with cream, which seemed very strange to me. The conversations would often stray beyond
music. We discussed the merits of grammar schools versus comprehensive
education, and on more than one occasion he seemed vaguely amused by my
youthful left-wing opinions. Our lessons concluded with my paying a token fee,
which he took almost reluctantly and with embarrassment, before pencilling the
next lesson in his diary, and wishing me well in my endeavours.
During one memorable lesson he
put his Flute Sonatina on the piano for analysis. In his
characteristically modest way he explained how pleased he was with the first
movement and the way in which he had brought the music back to the home key. I
mentioned that this was one of Dinah’s favourite pieces and that it had been my
first encounter with his music, whereupon his interest moved from music to me
and Dinah. He asked how long we had been together. When I told him he said, ‘You
know, marriage is a very good thing. Perhaps you should consider it.’ I’m
sure he would be pleased to know we have just celebrated our thirtieth wedding
anniversary.
Whenever I arrived at Warwick
Avenue for a lesson Lennox’s wife Freda would greet me with a friendly welcome.
‘Lennox will be with you shortly’, she used to say. As he entered the
room I often felt his attire reflected his mood. Sometimes he would appear
formally dressed in a blazer with a handkerchief and tie, and his manner would be correspondingly formal. At other times he was casually dressed – and more relaxed
in his approach.
At each lesson he would set
aside a little time to study a new score, usually by Bach or Mozart, just as
Nadia Boulanger had insisted he and his fellow students in Paris should do.
Sometimes he would use his own work to illuminate a particular technique. We looked
at his Chinese Songs and the Oboe Sonatinain detail. Those
familiar with the latter work will know that the first movement
begins with a note-row. In my lesson he explained how he could have extended this
technique for the whole piece if he had been following serialism faithfully, but
he was quite dismissive of the method. It had served its purpose as an
introduction in the sonatina, but then he had reverted to his own idiomatic
style.
The lessons provided me with a
tremendous stimulus. I was constantly writing and taking work for him to look
at, trying out new ideas. I always sat to Lennox’s left at the piano and played
the bass line of the scores while he played the upper parts – often clenching a
pencil in his teeth, ready for corrections.
Although he was invariably
encouraging, he found some of my work too aggressive. On more than one occasion
he suggested changes – usually harmonic, since he considered some of my chords rather
harsh. Only once or twice I resisted his moderating influence. He rarely dwelt
on the emotional impact of the music, but focused instead on the technique. However,
during my period of development as a student with him I achieved a clarity of
orchestration which was in marked contrast to the heavily-scored textures I had
used in my earlier works, and without doubt his influence has continued to encourage
lightness and purpose in my compositions. I recently looked at the corrections
he made in my scores during 1976 and noted that these showed a practical
concern for the performers as well as for the construction of the music.
 Part of Adam Pounds' Sonatina for Oboe, with Lennox Berkeley's corrections Lennox rarely talked about
himself. When he referred to other musicians with whom he was working, he
always spoke with high regard. He never mentioned his associations with Ravel,
Poulenc or Britten. I only learnt of these much later. When Britten died in
1976 it was the only time Lennox spoke of him, explaining to me about Britten’s
long illness. Later I watched Lennox pay a tribute to Britten on ITN News.
During the period of my last few
lessons in 1979, Lennox had started work on his last opera, Faldon Park. On
one occasion he looked exhausted. Like Britten, he was extremely industrious,
and self-critical.
When I went to the unveiling of
the blue plaque at 8 Warwick Avenue last year I realised that nearly thirty years
had passed since my last lesson there. I remember Onclearly his parting advice,
‘Try and write with performers in mind. Get your music played as often as you
can by as many people as you can – this is the most important thing.’ He said
he thought he had helped me to the best of his ability, ‘but come back and see
me if you need any more help. I’d like to think of you as a friend’.
Teaching composition is one of
the most problematic areas of music education, and I have always considered
Lennox to have been an excellent teacher, as well as a very fine composer. He was
blessed with the ability to encourage and enthuse. On the occasions when we may
have had a difference of opinion, he always left me reflecting on my work, and
this is surely paramount in a composition teacher.
Only the Notes You Need was first published in the Lennox Berkeley Society 2010 Journal. Adam Pounds serves as a Committee Member for the society, which is dedicated to the promotion of Lennox Berkeley's music. |
