I knew Richard Rodney Bennett for only a little over 11 years, but his music has been part of my life from my early teens, when I was starting to write my first compositions.
He was a towering figure in British musical life. Premieres of his works were big events. He was a composer, pianist and jazz musician who was outrageously skilled in each of these categories. It seemed unfair that so much talent was given to just one man.
As a young and eager composer, I was obsessed with consuming as much music as I could get my hands on, and I even stole a score of Richard’s first symphony from my local library because I coveted it so much. I couldn’t get enough of his heady mix of strict serialism and sensuous orchestral sound. In the 1950s, he was one of Pierre Boulez’s few students; that alone was enough to give him god-like status. Then there was his translation – done with his friend, the pianist Susan Bradshaw – of Boulez’s complex theoretical book on new music, a bible for young composers in the 60s.
So when I met him in a restaurant in New York just after 9/11, I was very nervous. Everyone, including my teacher and great friend Oliver (Olly) Knussen, told me we’d get on like a house on fire, but that made me even more apprehensive. What if we just didn’t hit it off?
What I remember from the first moment of eye contact was that Richard was a person I immediately felt comfortable with. I was dazzled by his amazing wit and humour. It’s a cliche, but here was somebody I felt I’d always known. Maybe it’s because I knew his music so well.
We met regularly in New York or London over the following years. He was and remains the funniest man I’ve ever met, never dull, always incisive and wise. In the first year of our friendship we emailed each other almost every day. He had this wicked way of writing that was sardonic but always kind. I would provoke him by just listing composers I knew would elicit a withering response because of what he considered their ineptitude. But when he loved a composer, such as William Walton or Thea Musgrave, he would be effusive in his praise. And if we started to talk about the conductor John Wilson, you couldn’t stop him – Richard admired him greatly.
I saw him perform regularly, both solo and with other jazz singers. By his own admission, he didn’t possess the most spectacular singing voice, but his musical phrasing and the way he personalised each interpretation of every song is something I have rarely witnessed and will never forget.
Still, today, almost four years after his death, I miss him so much – his turn of phrase and his accent, with that slight American twang. I spent many hours grieving him at Olly’s house in Snape, Suffolk. We listened to a huge amount of his music that we knew, along with many new discoveries. There is so much incredible music he wrote across so many different genres, it’s almost bewildering. From numerous concerti for instruments from the guitar to saxophone, to chamber music and works for choirs – all composed with consummate skill. And all those film scores! Not just Murder on the Orient Express. I remember Oliver bought a rare copy of the film Figures in a Landscape and we marvelled at the invention and modernity of the score.
If he could read this now, he’d just say, “Oh Marky, don’t be silly,” and sigh enigmatically. What a talent, what a man.
- The BBC Symphony Orchestra’s Total Immersion: Richard Rodney Bennett is at the Barbican, London, on 27 November. Box office: 020-7638 8891.
