Free The Concert Pianist by Conrad Williams Page A

loss,’ said Bulmanion flatly.
    â€˜Not in my opinion.’
    â€˜ Art is long and life is short,’ said Frank.
    â€˜Art is bloody difficult.’
    â€˜You’re at a vintage period in your life as a pianist. Maturity, vision . . .’
    â€˜I’ll be the judge of that.’
    Frank nodded, as if in acknowledgement of Philip’s adverse temper. He could draw the meeting to a halt if he chose. As a rule, people were more in need of his money than he was of their goodwill.
    â€˜I want to be responsible for moving you from the cult fringe to the canonical centre.’
    John made no facial response, but did not demur, either. Only Ursula seemed uncomfortable on Philip’s behalf. Her posture became more erect, as if in disdain of such terms.
    â€˜Cult fringe,’ said Philip ominously.
    â€˜The reality of your position in posterity.’
    This was too much. He had no need of such home truths today. Why was he here? ‘Oh, I see. You can do that, can you? De-cult-fringe me?’
    â€˜With your help.’
    â€˜What Frank means is that you’re not a corporate pianist,’ said John tensely.
    â€˜Well, thank you very much!’
    His agent looked darkly into his palms. He had not anticipated this kind of prickliness. He offered Philip an expression of unsmiling seriousness so as to leave him in no doubt of the critical importance of the meeting.
    â€˜Listen,’ said Bulmanion judicially. He halted for a moment. He knew his mind and wanted others to know it, but as Philip later realised this was not the egotism of power so much as the unvarnished manner of a man who never expected to be liked for himself. He spoke at length, not to proselytise, but to expand an understanding. He did not trouble to ‘sell’ his ideas because he perceived them as facts.
    â€˜You’re an artist. Your whole life is music. That’s as it should be. What you don’t see is the slowly turning wheel of musical fashion. We see it, or think we do, because it’s a function of our perspective. Modern marketing. An oscillation between style and substance. Classical-music recording is one of the few areas where you can’t fake it. The diametric opposite of pop - where you absolutely must. The listener is so sophisticated, the product so incorruptible that style can never triumph over substance. Even so, audiences crave contemporary talent with something distinctive to offer, and that something is more often than not a kind of technical charisma. Awesome virtuosity has always been a calling card. You don’t get in the door unless there’s something sensational about the mechanism, some standout quality that tells the listener, “Wow! With this kind of equipment the unprecedented can happen.” So every few years there’s a Kissin, or an Ivo Pogorelich, or some other whizz-kid. These guys get pulled to the fore and set in the limelight, and suddenly everyone else is made to look kind of “also ran”. The biz has to have tentpole newcomers. But they’re rarely the best or the most enduring, and what we’re now seeing is a thirst for true greatness as opposed to marketable panache. The mass-media culture is so junky and reprocessed there’s an upsurge in the need for profundity.’ He paused, enjoying this last phrase. ‘People want an older kind of pianist. Performances from artists who are miraculously untainted by the emotional shallowness of contemporary culture. It’s a definite trend. And that’s where you come in. Because you’re in a line with the three great British pianists of the last century: Curzon, Solomon, and Hess. Music history is ready for you to take centre stage.’
    Philip looked away in distaste. This was a perspective he found utterly trite.
    Bulmanion was thoughtful. ‘The public domain has limited reputation-carrying space. It’s like a highway, with only so many lanes, which is why in