He cherishes the French pronunciation of his name — "Hérisson" — a hedgehog, a low and furtive creature that throws out spikes at a hint of danger. Birtwistle's music is a bit like that, defending itself from casual acquaintance, forcing the listener to make a decision and pay attention. "None of that Classic FM rubbish," he scoffs.
A release of his Moth Requiem by the BBC Singers (Signum Classics) requires a moment of aural adjustment, as the eyes must when entering a cathedral's darkness. But, as the ears clear, the music opens out a space of numinous wonderment, of near-sanctity. I asked Harry, around the time he composed The Last Supper, if he believed in God. "Dunno," he grunted. "Mind your own business."
Enter the world of Birtwistle and you do so on his terms. I heard the leader of the BBC Symphony Orchestra talk of smashing his violin after barely managing to negotiate the world premiere of Earth Dances — for me, the most aptly named, riotous work for orchestra since Stravinsky's Rite of Spring. Harry wasn't bothered.
"What people don't understand, Norman," he said, sitting at his huge draughtsman's board, "is that it takes me three days to score from the top of the page to the bottom, and all I get is a few seconds of music. By the time I'm halfway down, I'm bored with the idea and want to be doing something else."
The loneliness of the long-distance composer is no cause for public sympathy nor subsidy: Birtwistle hates the system of public grants, saying there should be either enough for all, or nothing. What counts is the outcome. I took with me to see Gawain a friend who knew nothing of music beyond neoclassical Stravinsky, a psychologist by vocation, specialising in severe head injuries. When the green knight is decapitated for the first time — as ever in Birtwistle operas, there are irrational repetitions — I looked across and saw tears trickling unnoticed either side of my friend's nose. Once more, I became aware of the visceral force of this man's music, its uncanny ability to reach parts other art cannot touch.
Birtwistle's work does not need my advocacy. It has been taken up with enthusiasm and persistence in Berlin (by Barenboim), Cleveland (Welser-Möst), Paris (Pierre Boulez) and Rome (Antonio Pappano). For all that, it remains a cultivated taste, eluding many excellent conductors and causing many musicians to complain — as the BBC concertmaster did — that it is written poorly for their instrument. Birtwistle is unfazed by the complaint. He aspires to the beyond. If the instrument is inadequate, he would say, build a better one.
If you've never heard a note of Harrison Birtwistle and want to know what the anniversary fuss is about, try to catch a live concert of Earth Dances, or a recording of the processional majesty of his trumpet concerto, Endless Parade. For a fusion of the organic, the aesthetic and the intellectual, enter the world of Pulse Shadows, an hour-long work for string quartet, soprano and ensemble, based on poetic fragments of Paul Celan. It is simply inimitable.
A release of his Moth Requiem by the BBC Singers (Signum Classics) requires a moment of aural adjustment, as the eyes must when entering a cathedral's darkness. But, as the ears clear, the music opens out a space of numinous wonderment, of near-sanctity. I asked Harry, around the time he composed The Last Supper, if he believed in God. "Dunno," he grunted. "Mind your own business."
Enter the world of Birtwistle and you do so on his terms. I heard the leader of the BBC Symphony Orchestra talk of smashing his violin after barely managing to negotiate the world premiere of Earth Dances — for me, the most aptly named, riotous work for orchestra since Stravinsky's Rite of Spring. Harry wasn't bothered.
"What people don't understand, Norman," he said, sitting at his huge draughtsman's board, "is that it takes me three days to score from the top of the page to the bottom, and all I get is a few seconds of music. By the time I'm halfway down, I'm bored with the idea and want to be doing something else."
The loneliness of the long-distance composer is no cause for public sympathy nor subsidy: Birtwistle hates the system of public grants, saying there should be either enough for all, or nothing. What counts is the outcome. I took with me to see Gawain a friend who knew nothing of music beyond neoclassical Stravinsky, a psychologist by vocation, specialising in severe head injuries. When the green knight is decapitated for the first time — as ever in Birtwistle operas, there are irrational repetitions — I looked across and saw tears trickling unnoticed either side of my friend's nose. Once more, I became aware of the visceral force of this man's music, its uncanny ability to reach parts other art cannot touch.
Birtwistle's work does not need my advocacy. It has been taken up with enthusiasm and persistence in Berlin (by Barenboim), Cleveland (Welser-Möst), Paris (Pierre Boulez) and Rome (Antonio Pappano). For all that, it remains a cultivated taste, eluding many excellent conductors and causing many musicians to complain — as the BBC concertmaster did — that it is written poorly for their instrument. Birtwistle is unfazed by the complaint. He aspires to the beyond. If the instrument is inadequate, he would say, build a better one.
If you've never heard a note of Harrison Birtwistle and want to know what the anniversary fuss is about, try to catch a live concert of Earth Dances, or a recording of the processional majesty of his trumpet concerto, Endless Parade. For a fusion of the organic, the aesthetic and the intellectual, enter the world of Pulse Shadows, an hour-long work for string quartet, soprano and ensemble, based on poetic fragments of Paul Celan. It is simply inimitable.
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