Andrew Parrott: “Understanding the Composer’s Intentions, Regardless of the Period” (2/2)

Founder of the Taverner Choir, Consort and Players, Andrew Parrott has left an indelible mark on the early music landscape with landmark interpretations spanning a vast repertoire—from the Middle Ages and late Baroque (Bach, Monteverdi, Purcell) to British carols. In this second part of the interview, he shares his thoughts on the evolution of vocal practice, the state of music education in the UK, the principles of historically informed performance, and his most recent book, The Pursuit of Musick.

So, regarding the question of instruments—did you already think the same way 40 or 50 years ago? Or were you also among those who said instruments are sometimes extremely important?

Andrew Parrott: I thought everything was important. That brings us right into the authenticity debate—which is really quite superficial. I’m sure I used the word far too loosely at the time, but it served as shorthand for “historical forms.”

What’s the difference?

A. P.: Well, it’s quite interesting: at the time, there were so many misconceptions. People thought we were trying to recreate a specific performance. I never, ever believed that. What you try to do is understand the circumstances in which a piece came into being—but you can’t possibly recreate the original performance. Of course, we do a lot of reproducing, and the instruments are very important. But I remember saying: the principle of trying to understand what composers intended applies to all music; it doesn’t stop in 1750. Beethoven was the dividing line—the point where people distinguished between “real” music and early music. So, playing Beethoven on period instruments was thought to be nonsense. But I said no, the principle applies to everything. It applies to Elgar, a British composer I happen to like. In the 1920s, it’s the same thing. When I listen to Elgar’s recordings (he could record; Beethoven couldn’t), the style is very different from how we perform it today. And it brings certain little pieces—things you might find pretty but slight—to life. They become more expressive, more charged. If you understand that the unwritten portamento between large intervals, alongside clinically precise ones, becomes a meaningful gesture, that changes everything. And, of course now, people are performing 19th- and even early 20th-century music on period instruments. It’s the same principle. Not always, but often, it adds a new or rediscovered dimension to the music and brings it to life. A good example: sixty years ago, pieces by Rameau were known, but not really performed. That’s largely because the performance conventions of French music (which we now know) were so different from the all-purpose modern style. Understanding those conventions has given meaning to that music.

Conversely, Handel’s large-scale oratorios can work perfectly well with modern instruments. And Italian music (Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, for instance), yes, it works. To a large extent. But other repertoire absolutely depends on style—or rather, on a different style that we might not fully understand yet. So I think I was aware early on of how far-reaching the implications were—not just for this or that repertoire or piece, but across the board. And that’s probably why I’ve never run out of things to think about. There’s always some aspect of a performance, even the most charismatic and powerful ones, that still raises questions. And that doesn’t get in the way of performing. It may slow down how fast you figure out what’s needed, but in my experience, a certain openness always helps the understanding of the music.

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