In this cautiously loving book we are drawn deeply into Stephen Hough’s life, both inner and outer, in charming, sad, hilarious and, at one point, eye-watering detail. There is a sense of sharing which invites us into a world which some will remember, while readers younger than the author may sympathise or wonder at some of the memories stirred and offered.
We hear of friendships, enmities, loves, frustrations: all those things which help draw the star closer to us, and we can appreciate the nearer warmth and light. There is enough musical detail to whet our appetite but not to bore or overwhelm: if we want more of that side of Hough’s life we can visit his recording catalogue or attend a performance.
Any student of the human condition will appreciate both the frank recounting of a life in some ways so ordinary – neither a misery memoir nor the tale of a silver spoon administered to glittering effect – but a life full of influential people and hard work, one that has been to such tremendous places dark and light; the perceptive consideration of the minds and lives of others around him makes you wonder how there was room for so much music alongside.
As in his performance, he is a captivating storyteller and it’s deeply refreshing to hear frank stories without (much) shock value; to hear faith discussed candidly and unforcedly, and in the near-same breath as the gaudy colours of period wallpaper or the bizarreness of 1970s food. People come and go with detail so tangible that we too are seated on our own chair in composition or piano lessons, or at parties and restaurants – we are allowed, briefly, to join the circle.
Hough serves up this profusion of historical detail adorning the stories as easily as he might spin some fleet ornaments, and with a conspiratorial tone as if we were lucky enough to be seated with him at dinner (or a cup of Gold Blend) – our attention is captured, stuffed, and yet we want more. The style is as appealing as the content, though how he’ll top the cover photo of his young self be-cuffed and sequinned as Liberace remains to be seen.
In his foreword we read of the hope to “paint a portrait that can be viewed with interest without knowing or caring too much about the sitter”, and while I think that he keeps enough back for us not to know too much about him, his style does invite us to care very much. I don’t think Sir Stephen (as he now is) has given too much away in any sense: this is no tell-all, although he tells us a lot, and there is plenty of scope for future volumes as he leaves us on the edge of our seat in New York in the 1980s – this volume is named for Schumann’s Op 15, and from its early vivid blues and oranges, childhood develops twistingly and frankly into early adulthood.
Alongside the social history, religion is there: recounted with that genuine fascination with his surroundings that keeps us turning the pages even when (or because?) the observations are so familiar and matter-of-fact – the sun-catching gold edges of a Bible, for example – but here is more than social record: there is a calling, and much work goes into its discernment. Early Evangelicalism gives way to the profundities of a mystic and numinous faith – it’s unsurprising perhaps that an artistic soul should be drawn to the sights, sounds and smells – but this is two-way traffic. Hough is a composer who understands the liturgy for which he occasionally writes, and possessed of a mind that can engage with profound subjects. The calling has not been to Holy Orders (so far – Hough is older than Liszt was at his ordination and explains his thinking carefully), but who knows what is yet in store?
Hough’s religious experience will resonate deeply with many for different reasons, and it is one of the things in this book which brings him back into our circle again, feeling that here is someone who – superlative artistry aside – is real, and sharing his life with us because it is worth sharing. Here is a deep subject, though, and mind that you don’t lose your place in the world while you emerge into his, drawn in by a half-smile, a sharp observation, and a cup of instant coffee. Let’s hope that his schedule allows Stephen Hough time enough to put his well-travelled trilling finger to further good use in subsequent volumes.
James Davy is organist and master of the choristers at Chelmsford Cathedral
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