John Adams in an interview

"I do everything that interests me."

Adams learned clarinet from his father and played in marching bands and smaller orchestras. His earliest musical experience was a performance of Ralph Vaughan Williams' Fantasia on Themes by Thomas Tallis, which he said "shaped him for life." He began composing at the age of ten, and as a teenager, he heard his first orchestral performance of one of his works. Adams studied at Harvard University, where he was taught by Leon Kirchner. As a student, he occasionally played in the Boston Symphony Orchestra and conducted the Harvard University Bach Society Orchestra. In 1970, he received a BMI Student Composer Award. After graduating, he moved to San Francisco in 1971, where he has lived ever since. In 1997, he was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. Adams taught for ten years at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music before becoming composer-in-residence for the San Francisco Symphony from 1982 to 1985, where he developed the successful and controversial concert series "New and Unusual Music" for its conductor, Edo de Waart. Several of Adams' orchestral pieces are written specifically for the San Francisco Symphony, including Harmonium (1981), Grand Pianola Music (1982), Harmonielehre (1985) and El Dorado (1992).

You started composing when you were ten years old. How did that come about?
I think most children are naturally creative and find ways to express themselves, but most parents don't seem to understand and encourage that creativity. As they say, "Life gets in the way." When I was nine, I heard a children's biography of Mozart that our teacher read to us, and I immediately wanted to be a composer. Of course, I then discovered that I had no idea about harmony and didn't know how to handle forms, but my parents were smart enough to understand that, and they found someone to teach me. My parents were both amateur musicians who appreciated not only classical music but also jazz and show music. So I grew up in a very musical environment, and I think that's always been typical of Americans—we love our popular music just as much as Bach and Beethoven.

You heard the first orchestral performance of one of your works when you were still a teenager. How did that come about?
I wrote a suite for string orchestra that was performed by an amateur adult orchestra in our town in New Hampshire. The concerts were held in the auditorium of a psychiatric hospital, so the audience consisted almost entirely of severely disturbed patients. I remember them slowly streaming into the hall, and the first thing I noticed was the smell. Even at that young age, I realized how terribly bleak and hopeless their lives were. It must have been a great relief, a great joy, for them to hear music, especially live music. I believe it was this experience that made me realize the emotional power of music. It left an indelible impression on my memory that lasts to this day.

You studied at Harvard University with Leon Kirchner. Can you tell us something about your time there?
I studied in the US during a very chaotic period. The six years I spent as a student encompassed not only the disastrous Vietnam War (in which I narrowly escaped military service), but also the Summer of Love, the heyday of rock and soul music, jazz, LSD (which I definitely experienced!), and the birth of ecological awareness. No one used words like "climate change" in 1970, but the brightest minds suspected that this would eventually happen.

At school, I was torn between what my professors were saying about Schoenberg and Webern and what I was listening to in my dorm room, enjoying Jimi Hendrix and Miles Davis. At the same time, I was conducting student orchestras and occasionally playing clarinet in the Boston Symphony. So I experienced what is called "cognitive dissonance," trying to find my own voice amidst a chaos of conflicting influences. Finally, I decided to leave the East Coast and the academic world, which I felt was too entrenched in conservative European values. So I went to California, thinking I'd only stay for a few months. I never came back!

You've now lived in California for almost fifty years. To what extent does where you live play a role in your artistic work?
I get asked that question a lot. The world is so interconnected these days by technology that "place" no longer has the significance it did fifty or a hundred years ago. We all communicate constantly with friends and colleagues around the world via telephone and the internet. My management is in London, my publisher and record label are in New York. I work regularly with the Los Angeles Philharmonic. So where you live today doesn't have as much of an impact on creativity or identity as it did, for example, on Bartók or Sibelius. On the other hand, I can say that I've long been influenced by the landscape of the American West, the mountains, and especially the coast. Several of my pieces bear witness to this influence: The Dharma at Big Sur, Hallelujah Junction (the two piano pieces), both of which are set in actual locations in California, and, on a more subtle level, my orchestral pieces such as Harmonium, City Noir (inspired by the film scores of Hollywood noir), and, of course, my most recent opera, Girls of the Golden West, which deals with the California Gold Rush.

Your orchestral work Shaker Loops brought you worldwide fame. What do you think of this work today?
I have to be skeptical of terms like "world-famous" because we're talking about the very small world of classical music. And even within that small world, the number of listeners interested in anything other than Beethoven or The Four Seasons is even smaller. I'm quite open about how small my audience is compared to that of a pop musician or a film director. Nevertheless, I'm grateful for the appreciation I receive when someone tells me how much my music means to them. That's enough. James Joyce had a tiny audience during his lifetime, as did Walt Whitman, and so I am always aware of how things can change.

Your works are considered modern classics of minimal music. What is it about this kind of music that appeals to you?
It amuses me when I come to Europe and see that I'm considered a "minimalist." I don't think anything I've written since 1990 can really be classified as "minimalist." But people are stubborn and cling to their classifications. My earliest works, dating from the late 1970s and 1980s, show the influence of minimalism because of their regular pulsation, the use of repeating motifs, and the essentially tonal harmonic language, all of which are hallmarks of the "classic" minimalist pieces by Reich and Glass. But from the beginning, I was against the rigidity of that kind of musical method. I wanted to create a musical language capable of greater expressiveness, one that was less "regular," that allowed for more dramatic contrasts and surprises. I was—perhaps because I was also a conductor—too aware of the subtleties and complexity of the great works of Debussy, Ravel, Stravinsky, and Bartók, and couldn't imagine writing in such a strict, simplified style as the original minimalists. Nevertheless, they, Reich and Glass, had an enormous influence, and I believe that American minimalism changed the course of contemporary music by offering a musical experience refreshingly free from the terribly opaque and inaccessible styles of the European avant-garde. This was, of course, very controversial 30 years ago, when figures like Boulez or Elliott Carter were so highly regarded and kept insisting that their vision of the future was the only correct one.
That said, my earlier works, such as Shaker Loops, Harmonium, and parts of "Nixon in China," clearly show influences of minimalist techniques.

While your works have always been, and continue to be, very frequently performed in America, a renaissance in the performance practice of Adams's works has only been observed in Europe since 2010.
I'm not so sure about that. I think I've been very fortunate among American composers to have my work performed frequently in Europe since the early 1990s, especially in the UK and the Netherlands. My operas are performed more often in Europe than in the US. "Nixon in China" is still performed frequently—okay, not like Puccini, but certainly more often than most contemporary operas! Four different productions of the same opera were planned for 2020, but of course, they were all canceled because of the pandemic. My orchestral music is played very frequently in the UK, Scandinavia, and France. When I conduct in the Netherlands, I have a large, very enthusiastic audience. So I'm very happy with the attention my work receives. I love conducting my own music, but I'm delighted that so many conductors, from the older generation around Rattle and Tilson Thomas to younger ones like Dudamel and even younger, understand this music and perform it so frequently. Gustavo Dudamel has decided to direct a completely new production of "Nixon in China" at the Paris Opera next season. I will give a concert performance of "The Death of Klinghoffer" at the Concertgebouw and also conduct the European premiere of my latest opera, "Antony and Cleopatra," at the Liceu in Barcelona, ​​both in 2023.

If there is one disappointment for me, it is that my operas have not yet been embraced in Berlin and Vienna. The Berlin Philharmonic performed an entire season of my music and released a wonderful CD box set of performances by Rattle, Dudamel, Petrenko, Gilbert, and myself. It was an unforgettable experience, and I intend to return. But when it comes to opera, the administrators of these two famous cities consistently resist. And not just mine, but apparently all American operas, even those of Philip Glass. Why is this? Do you believe that our American operas are inferior and unworthy of their audience?

How do you see the differences between Europe and America?
I don't think there's a significant difference. The British audience seems to be the most knowledgeable and well-informed. The French audience is the most enthusiastic (at least in my experience). And I have the most fun with Dutch musicians, who seem to understand my musical language most instinctively. Last autumn, after not conducting for 18 months, I had wonderful experiences with orchestras, of all places in Lahti, Finland, and with the Rotterdam Philharmonic, who played my large, demanding pieces with great commitment and expression, almost as if they knew them by heart. In fact, I've reached a point where, when I'm invited to conduct and suggest one of my pieces, many orchestras say, "No, we played that piece of yours just two years ago." That's a problem I'm happy to have!

How would you assess your personal development as a composer? Are there cycles, phases?
That's too difficult to answer. I can say that the hardest thing for me is the transition from "composer" to "conductor." When I've been at home for a while, leading a quiet, mostly solitary life, I always find it traumatic to have to change my personality—almost like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—to become an extrovert in order to stand in front of an orchestra of 80 or 100 players, many of whom I don't know. It never gets easier, even though these days I often work with orchestras I know, like the Los Angeles Philharmonic, the Cleveland Orchestra, or the LSO. I have to work hard to transform myself into a completely different person, but somehow I manage it, and after the first rehearsal, I usually feel comfortable, and I enjoy interacting with the musicians. I learn so much when I'm with them. I couldn't imagine making my own music if I didn't also have this other life as a conductor. And it's not just my own music—I do everything that interests me. Of course, I'm not going to be hired to conduct Mahler, but just in the last few months I've had the great pleasure of conducting, for example, Ravel's "La Valse," Bartók's Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta, and Sibelius's Symphony No. 1. That keeps my mind fresh, so I don't get stuck in a rut with only my own music on my mind!

Interview by Florian Schär | Classicpoint.net | February 8, 2021