The Rachmaninoff I Know...

Sergei Rachmaninoff (1870–1943)

Russian-born composer and pianist Sergei Rachmaninoff was born in 1870 and died in 1943, at the age of seventy.

The Rachmaninoff I know has been a constant presence throughout my life. Easy to say, right?

My mother was pregnant, and I was an unwanted “bastard” child. She fled her home and stayed at a hostel in Adelaide, playing Rachmaninoff’s Third Piano Concerto to the guests every day. She carried me in stealth. Eventually, my grandparents flew over after receiving the delayed news of a baby being born.

Where was the father? As usual, he was on the run - something he did for his entire life. In those days, a child could be removed from its family for being estranged by the father. Needless to say, a marriage took place within the first few weeks of my birth, and the father fled, never to return.

It would be fair to suggest that the Rachmaninoff I know is interlaced with generational trauma. However, with the fullness of time, much of that has passed. Rachmaninoff is just plain good.

He moved from being a projection of pain to an introspection of life’s realities. To label him as “depressed,” in my humble opinion, is to suggest that the brain should be tightly controlled at all times - never venturing into deeper waters. Rachmaninoff is about as real as it gets. We endure pain. We experience existential crisis. Chocolate is rich and tasty.

Yet everywhere I’ve turned, classical music seems to have its disclaimers ready to go. The further you delve into something, the more tempting it becomes to reduce it to dust. And for what purpose, exactly?

Rachmaninoff will endure, despite my contemporaries at the Conservatorium telling me his music is little more than café fare. To truly understand history - to read about everything - should set us free, not bind us into dogma over which is which and who is who.

Rachmaninoff’s legacy must be protected. I feel this is part of my mission, whether I hold any sway or not. I will always champion his music.

In May 1943, just two months after Rachmaninoff’s death, Charles O’Connell - Head of A&R at RCA Victor Red Seal - wrote in a tribute that Rachmaninoff was one of the most individual personalities in the musical world. Fiercely egocentric, he was perhaps insulated from the influence of his contemporaries. He was a contemporary, but not a modern.

Much has been made of the sombre character of his music, leading many to suggest he was heavily influenced by Tchaikovsky. I cannot agree. His melancholy was philosophical, not morbid. He never felt sorry for himself. He was grave but not grieving - a quality often revealed through healthy cynicism and wry humour, masks of a vital and eupeptic personality.

Serious and sad aspects of life engaged his interest. Death fascinated him as speculation, not fixation. He enjoyed a huge serving of pasta, a bottle or two of Chianti, and a good story. He played tennis, drove boats, bought lots of cars, and lived fully.

This was not the life of a depressive.

But musicians must question the meaning of life if they are to create from a place of both fragility and authenticity.