Edward Tait

Part of what’s given me direction over the past couple of years, especially the last year, is trying to finally fulfil the ambitions I had when I was young. This in itself, however, is a little bit misleading to say. My plans were widely unrealistic and of-the-moment, back when I really had no real-life responsibilities outside of boarding school, and spent too much time manifesting while also correcting myself constantly on what I was doing. The result was making lists and lists and plans and sketches of what I would do, emphasis on would. Since deciding to become a composer, in time for my last year of school, I held the burden of these ideas a little bit too much. I still wanted to achieve all of it, while trying to advance my career as a composer, and commit to a serious relationship at the same time. It’s only recently that I’ve started to shed all of this burden, by taking another approach to all these achievements. I know what my aim is in my career, what my dream job is, and through that, I can tailor things and sharpen my other ambitions a bit more. This may mean they don’t necessarily look the same, but perhaps that’s not a bad thing. I feel much more satisfied now that they’re more likely to happen. I’ve got plenty of old ambitions and recent ambitions which I’m trying to balance out across the present day, and the future, but the most important ones of all will, I hope, be the ones I chase after and mould my life around, probably without even trying. That’s what passion is. While they are still strong as ever, I want to make the absolute most out of life, and this, I think, is the best way to bring that about.

I only made a decent professional-style CV as recently as May this year, and since doing, I realised something. I realised how important or surprisingly unimportant certain things I’ve done have been. This can give us a lot of direction on the most ideal decent career, through a balance of evident passions and evident experience. That’s an oversimplification, but hopefully my point is clear. Some things are clearly building towards other things, rather than an entire identity, which is the danger that I see a lot of people falling into.

It’s been a while since writing, I admit, so apologies to any of my avid readers. A lot has happened. Music lasts a whole life, I think, or does it? Based upon both what I’ve been told and what I’ve experienced, getting into music emerges from a sort of compulsion, where you feel that there is no other alternative for you to do, or at least to be happy. But as with a marriage, for example, for something that high-stakes, such as a career, is that enough? At the start of every new academic year, I’m constantly amazed by the incoming group of musicians, and their absolute undying and untameable passion for what they do. I thought I was alone, but I wasn’t. This brings me a lot of comfort to know. I feel like I’m at the best time of my life now, proud of my recent work, the best girlfriend, enough friends who are supportive, enough future prospect and momentum. Something just feels too right, and I clocked that a while ago. In a few years, can’t say exactly how many yet, I’m going to do something slightly seemingly counterintuitive, given my progress over the last couple of years. Only a few people know what this is, who I trust, and they all sympathise and support my reasoning behind it, which I’m glad about, for this exact reason. It will seem unnatural probably even to me, but it’s been in the works, or at least on my mind, for several years now, in a completely different form, obviously, as I was a completely different person several years ago.

Some of my biggest reasoning behind this decision is largely fuelled to how much is going right at the moment, and that is key. This moment feels pretty great, and I’ve had a lot of these great moments, and while I don’t think things will outright get worse at all, I fear that I am half-stuck in a sort of student’s dream, when it comes for what I’ve been hoping for over the last year. Now over half-way through my degree, I think it’s best that changes now.

I’m doing this in the hope to protect my treasuring of composing as my most unique and personal activity that I can contribute to the world, and that always be my motivation, but in the wrong minds, it is probably admittedly a little hard to sympathise with something like this. The first half of my course has come and gone, and I don’t feel ashamed at all of anything I’ve done. I’ve been the most proactive, creative and entrepreneurial I could have ever imagined when I began studying here. My hope is that this continues throughout my life. As for passion around music, I don’t feel like I’m quite having that consistently all the time, in the way that I see it around others. Perhaps that’s not a bad thing. Again, like a marriage, it starts with the honeymoon phase, which in my case has somehow stretched over about a decade, an exaggeration of course. As a professional, or just if you have been doing it for ages, you very rarely hold the same excitement for it as you do when you first discover it. But you will still continue to love it, until the day you die.

One of the great paradoxes of growing up, is that there comes a point at which you are mature enough to start embracing your youthful and innocently “immature” side again. We all know that teenagers are the furthest possible age from this, as most of them grow to hate almost everything they once loved or did as a younger child, but then typically, a few years beyond that, many young adults, perhaps around 19, 20 or 21, began to appreciate this side a little bit more. I have definitely found this in my own life, and from what I’ve seen, I can understand why people come to this point. The paradox of maturity is that genuinely mature people don’t care about being seen as mature, and there’s a decade-long curve, typically our teenage years, in which we slowly discover this.

Part of the reason we frequently have periods of both extreme peace and extreme stress, is simply that we have many things build up, coincide, and appear to be related. I wonder how much of this is just perception, however. How real really is it? Most of the time, we have a consistent string of good and bad happening throughout our every day, and some of the time, the bad ones can appear to be “on top”, in other words, too big and difficult to ignore. All these things, however, come in waves, at least in the case of activities or responsibilities that we have on a regular basis. This shows that the pressure of numbers really comes into play within even our own mind.

Some music makes me feel too lonely, and it's penetrating. It can make you feel like you're stuck or lost inside your own world. You are made to feel completely yourself, but also the loneliest person in the world. When I compose, every piece has the power to build up its own entire world, where only I can really understand.

I think it’s healthy for us to have rules and customs, even if they are not fully achievable, as they give us individual direction, and help us to work towards constantly improving ourselves. We’ve become too adverse, at least in the Western world, to restricted freedom, that we’re started to let it interfere with our own personal discipline. Government is not the answer to this, but self-government is.

Probably the biggest sea change within the history of western music came at around the time of the Industrial Revolution, with the romantics. Before this, music was almost always written for purposes, dances or celebrations. After this, pieces became more personal and more of actual “works of art” rather than just music to accompany on occasion. This coincided with the growth in form and length of symphonies, concertos and chamber works, one of the core signs romantic composers adding their own personal touch. There’s something interesting I’ve noticed about today’s new music scene… The vast majority of composers receive very few performances of their work, resulting in two things. Firstly, almost all of their works are premieres, rather than repeated performances, and secondly, they become intertwined with a specific event. I’m sure you can piece these two things together, to work out what I’m getting at. We’ve gone full circle in the artistic world, and the “romantic freedom” that we hear in the incredibly varied music of the romantics and early 20th century have almost had to be tailored back again to the lack of performance opportunities that most of us get. And a lot of the time, these performances have very specific scenarios and often unusual lineups, especially for chamber groups, meaning we’re now, once again, composing music to fit purposes, dances and celebrations.

Philip Cashian, what’s his music like? I’ve never really taken time to look into his work, if I’m honest, since I only really knew him as the Head of Composition, and since he’s not my teacher for any classes. Until recently, he was also one of the only teachers here I hadn’t had a lesson swap with, so I guess the lack of familiarity with his work kind of makes sense. The one lesson swap I did have with him, however, I found very useful. Part of me feels like I need a teacher like him, somebody who has the embedded “authority” to tell me that my current professors don’t, backed my the great reputation and career that he has. All professors are different, and it’s good to learn with several over the years if you can, and positively for me, my institution is rich with great teachers.

Having effectively become an “honorary pianist”, I’m quite familiar with how performers view opportunities. A concerto, for most young musicians, is a rare opportunity which they savour, and will direct a lot of their attention to getting right and performing well. These are, of course, not easy to come by, but in pushing for these opportunities, there are often branded as “great experience”. What is the real attraction behind performing a concerto? There are naturally a number of things… It can be just playing the great music itself, as a lot of concertos are great works of art. It could be the “prestige”, or to speak a painfully honest truth, the attention. It also looks good on a CV or professional pinboard, as there are certain skills you get from it. But to be honest, given how hard these opportunities are to get, I think there is an easy alternative to individually tick off each of these factors. Prestige doesn’t just come from size. Performing at Wigmore Hall or King’s Place would beat simply “playing with an orchestra”, in terms of raw prestige. As for great music, there is nothing really to say that concertos are, on average, greater than any other genre, whether it’s solo or chamber. The skills you “get” are a somewhat exaggeration. You don’t get any less from chamber music, in fact more if anything, as you are an equal contributor within the ensemble, rather than a concerto, where you are the “soloist”. What is it that draws people to concertos? I don’t have a definitive answer, just putting it out there.

I have a psychological theory for the ordering of solo piano recitals. It can apply for many different ensembles, but is particularly appropriate for the solo instrumentalist. The “optimum” emotional order opens with the “furious” side to romanticism, before turning to its “intimate” or “Germanic” side. This is followed by a “soothing” item, along the lines of an “impressionistic” piece. The best example I would give is “Jeux d’eau” or a Brahms Intermezzo, which have an emotional touch of “reaching a wise ending”. It is, crucially, something that allows the artist, in the context of his progression, to “open up”. This is also, crucially, the penultimate item. This is followed by the final item, the “ecstatic” piece, along the lines of Debussy “L’isle joyeux”, Scriabin Sonata No. 4 or Liszt Dante Sonata. This allows the artist to “transcend” all of the darkness and turmoil that has preceded it. There are many different variations of this, and points where liberties can be taken, and extra items can be added in, but this is broadly the order in which the “optimum” recital should progress, I believe, from an emotional perspective.

I have a lot of dreams and ambitions, many of which are quite strong and always on my mind. There are many, but they are also somehow all pressing. Almost all of them, however, I've realised, have the same purpose. This is partly due to me compiling them over quite a number of years. They are all a desperate attempt to replay my best memories of the past, things which I wouldn't have appretiated as a young boy. That's my "theory of nostalgia". If you want a really gripping presenation of what this looks like, on a much more apocalyptic scale, watch Spielberg's Empire of the Sun. I've realised this about people, mostly based on my own experiences, but it also strongly applies to plenty of others, based off what I've seen. It is a real waste of energy and time, when you think about it, yet remains a universal motivation. Even recent memories, I've learned, that seem more "realistic" and "achievable", will not be replicated, especially when you build up such a specific idea of the time you enjoyed. Even if you do somehow achieve it, this is not how we should be thinking. Life will give you loads of great new experiences, if you're willing to invest time into them, and eventually, appreciate them.

Last night, I played in Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition, the orchestral version, and I got thinking... It is such a unique piece, which I personally, although not everyone sees in this way, would view as one of the first, if not the first, piece of impressionism. Most of the theoretical backdrops behind impressionism as an art form are tangeable in this piece. To what extent is this down to the orchestration, however? The orchestration was, after all, done by one of the leading "impressionistic" composers, for sake of argument. I'm not entirely sure, but even the piano version has a similar character, but perhaps that's because now that the orchestral version has kind of become the default, it's hard to listen to the piano version without filling in the orchestration in our own minds.

People’s favourite composer tends to be the one they know the most about, which makes total sense, as a lot of what attracts you to a composer is built upon their contrast to the stereotypes of other composers. For example, my favourite composer is Ravel, who a lot of people, who do not like impressionistic music, would not like. However, only due to my knowledge of his massive body of work can I view him as one of the most stylistically diverse composers of that period of history. Somebody who doesn’t know his music well might not know this, for example, his more “romantic” works, like the String Quartet, or more “jazzy” works, like the Piano Concerto in G major. There are composers who I have, previously, dismissed, due to a lack of knowledge of the stylistic range of their work, such as Liszt and Prokofiev, which I have been completely proved wrong in within recent years, growing to love them in the process.

Humility is often described as having a modest view of one’s own importance, but in practice, it is far more complex than it first appears. At its core, it’s is not about denying one’s strengths or shrinking oneself, rather, it is about maintaining an honest and balanced understanding of who you are, recognizing both your abilities and your limitations, while treating others with equal respect. It is an internal orientation more than an external performance. However, in everyday life, humility is rarely judged from the inside. Instead, people tend to assess it based on outward behaviour, and this is where confusion begins. Many equate humility with quietness, hesitation, or self-effacement. Someone who downplays their achievements, avoids attention, or speaks cautiously is often labeled as humble. Conversely, someone who speaks confidently, acknowledges their strengths, or takes initiative may be seen as less humble, even if their internal attitude is grounded and respectful. This reveals a common misunderstanding, that humility and confidence are not opposites. Confidence is about trusting your abilities and expressing them openly. Humility is about how you relate to those abilities, and to other people. A person can be both confident in what they know and humble about what they don’t. In fact, that combination often reflects a deeper, more genuine form of humility. The problem is that confidence is visible, while humility is largely internal. As a result, confidence can easily overshadow or distort how humility is perceived.

Adding to this complexity is the fact that outward behaviour can be performed. It is entirely possible for someone to present a veneer of humility, speaking modestly, deflecting praise, or avoiding the spotlight, while internally believing they are superior to others. This kind of “performative humility” may arise from social expectations, a desire to be liked, or even a strategic effort to avoid criticism. In such cases, the appearance of humility does not reflect its substance. On the other hand, genuinely humble individuals may be overlooked or misjudged because they do not fit the expected mold. If they are articulate, decisive, or comfortable acknowledging their strengths, others may interpret these traits as arrogance. This highlights a key limitation in how humility is commonly assessed. External signals are ambiguous and often filtered through personal and cultural biases. Because humility is an internal quality, it cannot be reliably judged from isolated behaviours or first impressions. It reveals itself more accurately over time and through patterns.

A more meaningful way to recognise humility is to look beyond surface-level traits and consider deeper questions. Does the person accept being wrong? Are they open to learning from others? Do they treat people with respect regardless of status? Do they feel a need to be above others, or are they comfortable standing alongside them? These patterns point to something more enduring than tone or style. True humility is not about appearing small; it is about not needing to feel superior. It allows for confidence without arrogance, self-awareness without insecurity, and respect without pretence. Judging humility purely from the outside is often misleading. What we see are behaviours shaped by personality, culture, and circumstance, not necessarily the underlying mindset. To understand humility more accurately, we have to consider the quieter, less visible aspects of how a person understands themselves and relates to others.

People often say that composing by itself is not a sustainable living for anyone, by itself. I’m not disagreeing with this view, but I think there’s so much more nuance to it than this. The fact that a lot of composers teach composition, in order to make most of their living, is not necessarily a financial sign. It is also due to their genuine qualifications and knowledge in the field. Yet I also understand that it has become the sort of “go-to” supporting day job for composers. This is not just a musical phenomenon, however. Entrepreneurs, before they’ve set up their breakthrough company, almost always do some kind of other job beforehand, often related to their industry, although not always. The difference in this approach then becomes more about how you see yourself and your career. When people describe their careers, or give themselves a job or career title, they have to decide whether to use one of two approaches. The first is the “portfolio” approach, such as calling yourself a “composer” or “entrepreneur”, neither of which are actually jobs in their own yet. Instead, they are culminations of a portfolio of work that you’ve built up. or the “job” approach. The second is the more literal “job” approach, such as “teacher” or “lawyer” or “electrician”, where these are clearly definable jobs, with skills which you gain, and then once you’ve gained, you can do that job. I’m not saying either way is better. They carry all sorts of different implications, especially with creative workers, like musicians.

Never ask a composer to explain his voice, as he'll always get it wrong. Similarly, if a composer doesn't talk about his voice, we'll be able to see it for ourselves. I think I've found myself quite a lot more in 2nd year. If 1st year was about maturing emotionally, 2nd year is about maturing professionally. It is onyl recently that I've started to discover many of Britain’s greatest living composers, like Thomas Ades, James Macmillan, Hans Abrahamsen, George Benjamin, Gary Carpenter, Helen Grime, and a handful of others, who I obviously knew about, but are now starting to hit me in a more direct way.

Composers spend years trying to find their voice, but some will realize that it's a waste of time, for them. It's not a right of passage... It doesn't just happen because you push yourself to, otherwise it's not at all natural. It instead comes with experience and you coming to terms with your calling in the ongoing conversation, which all artists have a place in. It is, ultimately, not a problem if you don't understand your place yourself. As long as you keep doing what you are doing, and well, then your place will be established, even if you don't notice it. It's a sad contradiction, which is necessary to keep in mind.

The one thing that concerns musicians more than anything else, almost uncontestedly, is money, whether it’s making a living, paying others, or having any sort of extra funding to be entrepreneurial or organise “unessential” musical activities. Make no mistake, however… all the “unessential” musical activities are absolutely essential, as every concert influences somebody deeply, and of course, the performer, especially a young performer, will remember it and cherish it and be grateful for it, unless they’re complete snobs, and only want to be involved in performance platforms of the highest prestige, which is a really unhealthy way to view the world. As for funding, I think the way my festival has played out, having launched just a couple of weeks ago, and looking forward towards several more concerts, has revealed to me something quite important… There is a deeply enthusiastic audience for almost everything. Setting up something like a music festival can be a push, but as long as you can find a community of listeners, friends, and anyone who is passionate about coming to concerts, you will always end up with enough to at least break even, and to feel satisfied with your work. I would be proud of myself even if this festival only turns into a modestly-sized local festival, with a recognisable audience, because at least it’s to generate great music, and also it’s mine. Something I’ve always wanted is to have my own business, or something significant and influential that can be mine, which I like to think this is. Perhaps this is the way forward for a lot of people worried about the future of the music world… We need more entrepreneurially-minded musicians to start up smaller and local music festivals, concert series, or even just one-off concerts, or whatever is needed to keep our great art form going!

If there’s one thing I haven’t talked about enough, it’s cinema, and the importance that it’s had on my search for identity growing up, just as books have done for many people throughout history. There are a handful of films and series, completely unrelated to each other, which fed me the wisdom I needed to find my place in the world, sometimes the most random and unexpected films you could imagine. As heartwarming as it is, it is heartbreaking to talk about, as it brings up a nostalgic craving for a time when these where I was starting to find myself, back when my life felt a lot more “optimistic”. Purcell was my “optimistic” world, on the whole. My old teacher, Mr Longstaff, told me that we find certain films, music and even places so happy or so sad simply by association, and in completely personal ways. In the tiny chance that any of the relevant people are reading, when I go to Hartspring Meadow, I think of the soundtrack to Empire of the Sun. When I go to the golf course, I think of Kleptomaniankrow. When I watch Cobra Kai, I think of CenterParcs, which is a particularly weird one. When I listen to Chopin Ballade No. 4, I think of my optimism-driven start to Year 13, especially during my first few weekends of full-time boarding. When I read Nineteen Eight-Four, I think of Fort William, because that’s where I first read it, and have that spiritual connection with it. With Rachmaninov Concerto No. 2, I think of the first few weeks of RAM, again, really fuelling my confidence during this short period. Even with my own music, when I listen to my Elegy for clarinet and piano, I remember some of the very comforting few weeks I had after getting back together with a girl, after a short breakup. When I listen to Schubert Symphony No. 5, I remember my grandma, who loved it. I liked it then, but never really truly understood this feeling until years later. That’s the same with all of these things I’ve mentioned, either through times, places, and of course, certain people. Thinking of these things gives me a terribly conflicting sense of nostalgia, where I remember them well, and how good those times were, but also that they will never happen again.

A lot of people see the fundamental flaw of us humans as being irrationality, and this has ultimately lead to the rise of so many “motivational” and “disciplinary” writings and videos, in order to get people to overcome these “flaws”. This is not the same with everyone, it should be pointed out. Looking at students, for example, especially at a conservatoire like mine… Some are absolutely career-driven, and have effectively given up on having a good time, drinking, or having any sort of a traditional “university experience”, as if they have, in their own words, “outgrown” that. Many others, in fact, most others actually allow time to grow up and have a good few years, after all, the university years are meant to be the prime of your life, so it’s important that it should be enjoyed. What are humans if we never have a go at leaning into our irrationalities? If nothing else, pretty much all art is irrational, yet it is the most important thing in the world, to me at least, as it is to pretty much everyone else at my college. It is very easy to push ourselves too much to be undeniably 100% rational, such as with a schedule or a diet, to the point where we forget that we are human, and have passions and motivations, which may go against the logic we praise so much. So don’t be afraid to go to McDonalds, have a drink, learn a piece of music we’re not ready to yet, be late for a class after running into the rain, or the snow, making a move on a special girl, having a laugh, taking an undeserved day off work, simply if you’re feeling down, questioning your teacher, within reason obviously, as they are always trying to do the best for you. All of this is important to live through. Irrationality isn’t a weakness… It’s the one thing which takes away our obsession with strength.

I have a theory on technology. I recently watched a video of kids from the 50s and 60s, who were asked what they thought the future of the world would look like, and, you guessed it, they imagined robots, automation, machines, and so on, taking over everything, and remarkably quickly as well. I’m pretty sure they said within about 30 or 40 years. Things obviously didn’t turn out to be anywhere near as extreme as that, but then I got thinking about something of a similar topic. Strides in technology, from 2000 until now, have drastically bumped their way up, around the pace at which those kids from the past imagined it would, yet since it previously hasn’t been that quick, our expectation has gone right down. This can be visualised a simple double-curve, with our rate of expectation starting very high, and levelling off over time, and the rate of technological advance starting steady, and ramping its way up until today. The obvious question then is, where is the crossover point? I reckon it’s already happened. I think we are already well beyond the speculative stage, and we are already beginning to play second fiddle to technology itself. We have had our expectations lowered way too much, to the point where we’ve societally allowed the rate of technology to outsmart ourselves. I find that a little scary.

Many composers say that you should be able to justify every single note in a piece of music. I don’t agree with this, as I think it opens up the doors to so much waffle, in attempt to justify everything. It’s almost impossible to. Once you get to a certain point in your musical instinct, you have to trust it, and that’s definitely better than people desperately trying to find a “reason” behind everything they’ve done, when there often isn’t a reason. It’s done by vibe and artistic progression, and you can’t put that into words, in the same way that you can’t explain, in words, the greatness of an individual composer or work of music.

Being sick for several days has made me realize how fragile my schedule is. Just three non-functional days have thrown off many of my plans, and forced me to rearrange it into some even busier days going onwards. Perhaps there is something to be learned there, that I have way too much on, and that I need to prioritze. Musicians often can’t afford to prioritze, which isn’t always a bad way to live your life, but I think I took it a little too far. I’ve ended up, in say the last month, spending more hours working at the piano than at my composing, simply because of the number of commitments I’ve taken on, which all felt completely “natural” to building up my early career. It is important, however, to step back and say “Why is that?” Or more crucially, “Why do I think that?” I am making up for lost time in the development of my piano technique, but perhaps a bit too quickly. It’s not just piano, of course, and while composition itself is the thing I find the most natural, the course definitely isn’t. It’s supposed to test you, which makes sense, but I definitely can’t afford to “test” myself in the amount of different disciplines which I set myself.

Don’t be ashamed of “the cram”. Not even just with creative people, but almost everyone in the world, with any sort of task-based job, will naturally leave more of the task towards the end of their time limit. This is partly down to motivation, and you familiarising yourself more with the task as you goes on, and also, you simply become more knowledgable as time goes on. It is tempting to force yourself to “get it out of the way as quickly as possible”, which can sometimes by helpful, but not always. This is especially true in the case of art, for the reason of inspiration and wisdom, as previously mentioned. It is absolutely not something to avoid doing, just because it’s “slightly more risky”. The whole world’s fucking risky, so embrace it!

Procrastination, as a word, tends to have negative associations. I have had experiences before, which, making very little sense at all, I actually feel more of a passionate and inspired urge to be creative or finish a task, as a direct result of the sudden "realisation", although obviously it's not quite a realisation, that time is running out. It turns my focus from when to do something into what I'm going to do, meaning right there and then, at that very moment. What's especially weird about this urge is that I don't feel that stressed. If it's an overnight urge, for example, as in, I am completing the project the night before, as I often do, the adrenaline is actually what keeps me sane, contrary to popular belief. It is the most surprisingly effective coping meccanism out there. I am able to stay up all night as a result of me finding a sense of purpose by finally getting on with this task which I've previously put off for so long.

Artists have an awareness of the nature of the world more directly than anybody else in it. We all tend to somewhat awkwardly claim that we get too absorbed in what we do, but that’s because our work is based around how we see the world. Art is also the only lasting thing that tells the future what the past was really like. I think of this when I listen to the late Brahms Intermezzi. They were some of his last pieces, written for the solo piano, a performance metaphor for him retreating his artistic work back to within himself, and when you hear them, you can just feel a huge fountain of age and wisdom and stoicism weighing down upon you, through his music. No matter what age you are, or when in time, you understand his mind through what he wrote. They really are incredible works of art.

Whilst programming a recital, and trying to categorize all my pieces into a genre, in order to come up with some sort of theme, this happened… Ravel is impressionistic, my piece is somewhat impressionistic, Beethoven is, although not strictly, definitely romantic, Brahms is romantic, Liszt is romantic, and finally… Scriabin? Where is he? I initially said romantic, which soon seemed stupid to me, as I realized how out of control and uselessly large the “romantic” era had now become. I changed him to “post-romantic”, which I thought worked, until I realized, why isn’t Ravel there? His music feels equally as “following on from” romanticism to me! Where does the line stop? Here’s an interesting way of looking at it… If the world of romanticism is so huge, which is not something I’m going to try and contest, then why is impressionism, which shares so much in common, and fits within the wider boundary of romanticism, not generally considered part of it, in the same way that, for example, serialism does? Perhaps, is it because impressionism is more distinctive? If so, how and why? It is easy to pose this as a question, but if you think about such an obvious statement for long enough, you can often forget, such as in this case, not to question it. So, here’s an open question, mostly to myself… Why is this?

If you feel like you are being overwhelmed by the number of things you are behind on, simply take them one at a time. Although this might seem way too obvious, it is surprisingly effective. However, there is a troubling level of irony to it. Feeling more at ease with everything going on makes you more self-confident, yet, simultaneously, you need self-confidence in the first place, in order to build up the discipline required to get back on top of things. In order to get past this cycle, taking the leap of faith in the “over-achieving” part of you is sometimes necessary, although it’s certainly not a good idea to overwork it.

A lot of people are hesitant when discussing and listening to contemporary music, on account of it not sounding “nice”. Yet, in the context of supporting music, it is seen as extremely effective, like in film and TV soundtracks. What changes between the two? It could simply be that we are forced to focus on one more heavily than the other, since soundtracks are, as the name suggests, simply supporting another form of media. You could also interpret it relatively, as in, concert composers follow in the tradition of far more “conservative” music, while soundtracks are relatively new, and still, ultimately, a fairly young industry. I’m not completely sure.

I watched an interview with Rubinstein, late on in his life, where he denied being the greatest pianist in the world, and claimed that there is no such thing as “the greatest”, or in fact any way of comparing musicians. If that is true, then why do musicians spend thousands of pounds and several years of their lives studying with the greatest musicians, through teaching? I think it is a little short-sighted to say that there is no such thing as an objectively better musician. A better musician, as well as an artist in general, absorbs knowledge from as many sources as possible, and the more you do of this, the more of a well-rounded musician you will be. This is how you become a great musician, and I think Rubinstein didn’t really think through what he meant. There is a group of the best, and he is in it, and it is important that people like him acknowledge it, otherwise it de-legitimizes the entire musical education industry. As much as I disagree with many of the institutions for artistic reasons, education is also important, and being exposed to new ways of playing, composing and studying music is important. It's not simply, like he suggests, just about being "your own artist".

Classical music, in my view, is best summed up by the philosophy of "You can only break rules if you have rules." I mean this just as much in the context of a lot of contemporary music, as in the context of commercially-driven music. My dad, although not a professional anymore, told me something that very few others even allude to, which is that classical music is about rules. I've taken this as more of a benchmarking statement, in other words, pun intended, the rules are the rules, and not the exceptation. In regards to contemporary music, what people should remember, which I have possibly said before, is the metaphor of dissonance. Dissonance, being the theoretical opposite of the rules of classical music, is important to talk about, and, as the metaphor goes, dissonance is like a spice... when used too much, it looses its touch, but when timed and controlled well enough, it is what gives the music its very character.

Analyzing and truely understanding contemporary art and literature and music is an incredibly difficult thing to do, and often requires a reliance upon instinct and personal experience. Nothing connects more deeply to human imperfection than art does, so a human approach must therefore be taken to understand it. This is no doubt recognised across the music world, with several great musicians considering there to be no objective greatest performer in the world. What I wonder, on a similar note, is whether this also applies to composing... There are composers who are almost universally considered to be great, a number which, upon rethinking, adds up and up, as we think of more and more composers who are "simply incredible". Does this say something else about how we interpret art, which is that we always look for the best of what an artist has to say? It has been proven to be true with music, but what about other art forms? When it comes to literature, I think readers tend to be more alertly critical in their reading, as there is a lot more at stake when using languages that everything else in the world is understood through, unlike music, which is far more of an abstract way of communication. What about fine art and painting? I don't know enough about that to comment, so perhaps that's my next point of research?

Most composers can’t compose effectively and successfully unless we know what the product will be. As a way of ensuring our survival in the industry, we write different types of music to appeal to performers, professors, competitions, and finally, ourselves, and we will spend forever trying to determine which one we need at each individual moment. As a result, I think it’s no wonder why young composers struggle to find their “voice”, when we’re having to play this industry game alongside our creative process.

My Sonata for Solo Clarinet, completed as of today, is my first significant exercise in relying purely on instinct, as the guide for my flow of composition, something I was inspired to try after a meeting with my old composition teacher, Brian Elias. It is something I haven’t done before, simply sitting back and letting my ear shape what I write, therefore giving it a very distinct stylistic deviation from my previous works. One of my friends at my conservatoire, also, has been introducing me to a lot of recent clarinet music, again, something I hadn’t touched on much before until around a few months ago, Bernstein and Berio in particular. I feel very as home with the idiom of clarinet writing now, so I wanted to try writing something which, contrary to a lot of my previous works, is a lot more “instinctively-written” or “through composed” or whatever is the best way to describe it.

One of my friends, a pianist, who is also a very talented composer, recently started composing again, after a big creative block. He had been telling me throughout this time that he wanted to start thinking less "academically" about composing, by which he meant less pastiche. This is the very thing which I am often criticized of doing, in my own music. I've come to a point where I'm not going to deny it anymore, as occasionally, I do. I only say occasionally, however, as most of the time, I don't plan it to be that way, and yet people still find parallels of pastiche for themselves, as I've spoken about before. But sometimes, the music I write is pastiche, often when I've got the writer's block, or can't clear my mind of anything original at that moment, for whatever reason. The difference between me, however, and my friend, as well as just about every other colleague of mine who composes, is that I make this part of my composing identity. I don't hide away these pieces of pastiche out of shame, but I perform them, and see them as valuable parts of my creative development. Although, for the same reasons, they are not my "greatest", they are still works of art, and to me, they are important.

Here’s my life experience as a composer… Each chapter of my life is shaped through every process of composition, from having the idea, to planning, composing, although not always in that order, and then eventually performing. I feel a lot more “complete” and satisfied in my life just after I’ve finished a piece that I’m really proud of, or of course having it premiered. It’s therefore very easy, straight after this happens for a long period of time, to feel very dead and empty, for example, after a large concert is over, or after I’ve been really productively creative for a good chunk of time. In the case of the latter, I’ll feel really pleased with myself for that moment, but then I’m hit the sad feeling of “Oh shit, that’s over!”

The last few months for me have been all about balance. Balance between my entrepreneurial and academic sides, as well as balance between my pianistic and orchestral approaches to music. They’re all balancing around the pivot of my composing. I’m setting my standards high again, finally. I’m planning, from now and during the summer holidays, to write my First Symphony. This has been long in the works, and I’ve got sketches and fragments from ever since my trip to Greece back in 2023. That was also a pivotal time in my life, where I was trying to decide what my future was going to be. The inspiring views from the Peloponnese mountains which went on for ever reminded me of those stunningly glorious moments in Mahler, a bit like canvases, enlarged and set to fit the orchestra. I’m going to Crete over this summer, and I hope it will be equally as inspiring, and that it’ll give me the space and motivation I need to write my symphony. That’s all I need, a reconnection with nature and the ancient world. That’s what the greatest symphonist, in my opinion, understood, Gustav Mahler. This symphony is a tribute to my life-long fascination with that man. I hope that my symphony will live up to the tradition of the greatest symphonies, Beethoven, Berlioz, Brahms, Tchaikovsky, Mahler, Shostakovich, which I’ve loved and grown up with, ever since a started out as a composer.

I've realised that artists must be busy, and take on a lot of activities, in order to be true artists. I'm talking even non-musical activities. Anything they do regularly and as a large part of their life brings experience and gives them a more rounded personality, and to be a great artist, or particularly a composer, you need a deep, deep connection and understanding of how the world works. Although I didn't end up going to university, I sort of miss parts of it, for this reason. University allows you to "discover yourself", as people say, in other words, discover where you stand in the world, which every artist has inevitably got to do. I don't for one minute wish I'd gone there, as I'm beginning to love Academy, but still helpful to point out, we can not only learn from mistakes, but often understand ourselves better from facing the consequences of our mistakes, or even simply what could've gone differently. I have, however, tried to make the best of the situation as I can. I'm now reading a lot, and doing plenty of programming and writing and piano repertoirelearning, all to try and reveal in myself a better understanding of how the world function, and where my place is inside of it. If I'm being honest, I think more people could do with doing more of this.

While there are some academic classes at the Academy, which do a good job at keeping our general thinking going, I think more musicians here need to take it more seriously as an individual and personal thing. This is obviously hard to achieve, so I'm mostly advocating purely in hope. Even if it's just as simple as reading books, it is really so important!

Here's something I've given a lot of thought to for a very long time, relating to the age-old question of "What is classical music?" Naturally, as a contemporary composer, whose influences derive mostly from the classical and romantic traditions, I naturally understand how far our type of music has changed since the days of the greatest classicists, Mozart, Haydn, and possibly Beethoven. However, one thing I do understand, is that most contemporary composers who write music that is labelled under the "classical" genre tend to have studied or analysed plenty of older music. This is amplified by the fact that over 90% of "contemporary classical" composers work in academia, and have therefore lucky studied for many years in the field of compositional technique and traditional music theory. Don't get me wrong, I think it's absolutely fine to write cross-genre music, and expand the boundaries of classical, jazz and electronic genres of music, but I also think it's important not to lose track of the masters who really encouraged us to start doing music.

I heard another interesting thing on my film course, earlier today. We watched several random people being asked to sing the theme tunes to Star Wars, Harry Potter, James Bond, and more, which they all did pretty well. Then, however, when asked to sing the music to the Avengers, the highest-grossing franchise in the world today, they couldn’t! They each thought it was just themselves being stupid, but they're not wrong, as they pretty much all felt the same way. An explanation was eventually given, and it was this… “This is why the music is so forgettable… It doesn't challenge your expectations.” So much of the soundtrack to things like the Avengers is not generic exactly, because some of it is fantastic, but often too “predictable”. It should be challenging our expectations more, rather than just following them. All the greatest soundtracks and film composers understand this, including John Williams, Ennio Morricone, and even as far back Bernard Herrmann. It then went on to say the most important thing of all, that perfectly sums this up, which doesn't just even apply to film music... "People don't remember safe choices!"

Some musician accuse other musicians of playing too "strictly in time", in other words, without emotion. On the other side, plenty of musicians also complain about performances that are too much the opposite, with their over-expressivity loosing a sense of technicality in the music. Their main argument, however, isn't in the loss of technicality, but often related to the feeling of momentum that certain music, in particular, requires more than others. I'm not interested in taking either side, but, I should make clear, I agree with both, to an extent. I perfectly understand the need to transcend the robotic nature of technically-driven music, and the need to add a bit of expressive quality, whether through vibrato or whatever else. On the other hand, I do see the argument of the strict metre in music being a way to "contain" the expression. Both are equally valid, and more to the point, I think that all emotional drama in music stems from the conflict between these two ways of thinking. On a similar note, I feel this is also an appropriate attitude towards influence upon musical style. I think the "tension" between trying to push music forward as an art form, and the semi-nostalgic and beautiful nature of music transported back through time, provides another one of the great questions raised by music as an art form. Although other art forms do this a lot of the time, I think music does it the best.

I think too many of us forget the power and importance of music, especially those who have it as their work. I recently spent a long period of time questioning whether it was the right path for me to take, and spent my time honing in on other activities which I also really enjoyed. Perhaps a break from composing might have been helpful, to an extent, as it is easy to become stifled and feel very uncreative, without even having to try. But if I've learned nothing else from the past few weeks, it is that it is the one thing in the world that can't be taken away from, not be any people, institutions, or rules of any culture shifts that hit us. Music is not just an amusing activity for our leisure time. For many of us, it is built into our very humanity. Our instincts and consciences are built around it. That is its value! It's almost beyond value, as it is impossible to find any sort of value without it. I pray that more people continue and begin to learn that with time!

I decided to start a new project! I did ImprovForty a few months ago, where I recorded and uploaded a new improvisation each day, for 40 days straight, to a decent success, which people loved! It did improve my improvising skills too, but I realised that there is one style of music that I particularly love improvising in, and composing to an extent, but most crucially, improvising on the piano. I started a new solo improvisation project called 'Scriabi-visations', and the name sort of speaks for itself! I'm doing regular, most likely weekly, improvisations, in the style of Scriabin. I am currently learning his Fourth Piano Sonata, and a few of his Etudes, so I feel like this will actually really help me to anchor myself in his extraordinarily unique compositional voice. I am deeply hoping for this to be a success, both professionally and personally! Looking back on the last half year, I think possibly the best time in my life was the summer of 2024, before I started at Academy. I wanted back then to be an entrepreneur, and planned my life around that, and I think, on most measures, things were as best as they ever have been. However, nobody actually knew this dream of mine, essentially meaning that it was all really just a construction in my mind, and quite a short-lived construction, all in all.

Getting over this break-up has been one of the most difficult things I've ever had to do. I still love her so much, but will have to find a way to live with it. I'm not even sure how long it'll take to get over it. Over the last few months, in fact almost half a year, I have been feeling a lot of longing and nostalgia for missing my past life at Purcell, including all the music I discovered, friends I made, people I met, and memories I hold there, and everything else that came with that. I have decided the try and channel and contain all of this through art, to try and put it all behind me. Yet music can be like a time capsule, and the result will be something that can only be described as bittersweet, as bittersweet as you can get. I am writing three pieces for solo piano, mostly for my own self-healing, to try and contain all these pervasive feelings, and hopefully try and put them all behind me. So I really relied on instinct for this one, just sat down and wrote down more or less what I improvised.

I had a lesson swap today, and ended up with an hour's lesson with Rubens Askenar, who I'd heard a lot about already. Although not great with the words at the moment, I feel like I should write at least something, as I did find my lesson with him really insightful. He quoted Stravinsky, saying "Notes are like dollars, don't waste them!" Even in general, he had such an intelligent, but also wise, approach to composing.

One of the biggest challenges of having a vocational job is the balance between work and play. Many people have accused me of being a ‘workaholic’, which not only gives me a big image, but also deflects from the simple fact that I enjoy my work. Dissonance is like a spice. The more you use it, the less effective it is. Don’t use it just simply for the sake of it, as it, ironically enough, becomes predictable and boring, just as much as the simplest possible harmony.

While recently writing a solo violin suite, I suddenly had a thought. Why do musicians love playing their instrument? Is it due to the physical process of playing, or the process of the piece of music itself? Or perhaps, quite simply, the vast body of great repertoire for their instrument? This will naturally have multiple answers, which begs another question... There is a lot of new music that uses every single extended technique in the book, even those that feel uncomfortable and displeasing to play on the instrument. For those who value the meditation in the physicality of playing their instrument, are some of these extended techniques perhaps taking it a bit too far, and even removing much of the enjoyment out of playing? I think it ultimately comes down to the debate of whether the composer's or performer's opinion is of more value. While an extended technique might be troubling for an instrumentalist, it might sound very inventive or even beautiful to the listener, in many cases. In many other cases, however, this appreciation from the listener is not even the case at all, which is how we end up with so many works of new music falling into the danger zone, too far from any kind of public accessibility. There is an obvious reason why these more standard techniques get used over and over again. They are the best ways to produce and build interesting harmonic language.

I was suggested this exercise by my friend Leo. He says the great writers write stuff down during a creative block, even total gibberish, in order to re-establish a flow, above other things. I’ve composed in all kinds of different styles. I’ve been shaped by my musical idols, Stravinsky, Ravel, Shostakovich, and lately Vaughan-Williams. I’ve even had some proud moments in the world, but I’ve still got a long way to go to find my compositional voice. I’ve spent a while trying to absorb music as a whole, by playing more of it on the piano, conducting it, and reading about it, and I’m still not fully there.

I’ve always found it hard to blog, and I think generally speaking, it’s a great challenge for most composers to blog. For us, or for me at least, there are special moments and progressions within the greatest of music itself, which speak on behalf of the beautiful and uncontainable story of life and humanity, way beyond the humble appearance of notes and staves, for there is, out of all notes, a melody, and out of each stave, a voice. It might be the greatest challenge in history to try and translate these moments into words, yet only some will ever truly understand the power of them. That’s the ultimate tragic flaw of the composer.

In many ways, it'shard for a composer to write a truly personal and inward diary, as so much of it can't be understood without the contained expressive power of music. This is why I haven't really regularly tried up until this point, but I've come to realise that I definitely should. I just don't know when that'll be yet. I've questioned music as a career before, more times than I can remember, and have seriously considered professions outside of music. What's brought me back every single time is an unexplainable need for an artistic voice in my life. Music is undoubtedly the purest form of art.

I don’t want to make a habit of focusing on individual pieces, but this one, my first String Trio, just finished, I’d like to dedicate to my recently former English teacher Mr Adam Simmonds, and to my composition teacher Jacques Cohen. It’s three movements, each contrasting in form and mood, but similar in style, theme and message. It was heavily inspired by, despite not even sharing instrumentation, Shostakovich Piano Trio No. 1, which I was listening to and learning around the time of writing this Trio. There is quite a clear personal development throughout the piece. Collectively, it is a nostalgic love letter to the music of the 20th century, yet still more personal than anything I've written before. It tracks the search for individuality, with the 1st movement in very much a strong Shostakovich idiom, which largely drags its way through the 2nd movement, but feels different, and by the 3rd movement, just emerges to quirkily unique to be viewed that way anymore. It finally feels like only I could have written this, and that’s a great feeling to have after a piece of this magnitude. It is, after all, about a good solid half an hour in duration. In a sense, a culmination of my work at the Purcell School, and a note of appreciation to the school, and everything that it's provided to me, which will be coming to an end in just under a year, after what feels like a huge chunk of my lifetime.

On the IMPULSE trip, with my school, I recently met a composer named Tim Ambler. Despite him being a retired retailer and 'amateur' (using his own words) composer, he probably taught me more than many of my music teachers from Purcell. He admired my capacity to take on a side career, in order to make money, and in fact heavily encouraged me to do so, as he did, when he ran offices in Marylebone. He was also so humble, describing his own music as 'cowpat' music, or 'country' music, which I believe to be a massive oversimplification of how beautiful and well-crafted his music is!

This reminds me of my meeting and inspiring seminar with Errolyn Wallen, who taught me about the importance of personality, identity and life in music, and how it's a composer's “duty” to replicate everything in the music of their own. She was also genuinely the first person in my life who asked me the big question of “Why do I write music?”