Ar hyn of bryd mae'r cynnwys hwn ar gael yn Saesneg yn unig.
Ar hyn of bryd mae'r cynnwys hwn ar gael yn Saesneg yn unig.
Ar hyn of bryd mae'r cynnwys hwn ar gael yn Saesneg yn unig.
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As part of our celebration of his 80th birthday, we met with composer and champion of contemporary music John Metcalf to discuss his distinguished career, Welsh music and his hopes for the future
John Metcalf in conversation
LOOKING BACK
What first drew you to composition?
There was a piano at home, and when I was nine, returning from boarding school for the Christmas holidays, I composed a simple Christmas carol. By that time, I had already had some piano lessons with a rather strict teacher, an experience that led me to abandon lessons after only two years. I was also singing in the school choir. Later, at Dean Close School in Cheltenham, I began formal composition lessons at the age of sixteen. I was not a natural instrumentalist, and gradually I came to realise that composition was the most natural way for me to engage with music and express my ideas.
Who were the most important musical influences on your development as a composer?
One of the most important influences on my development as a composer was Graham Smallbone, the Director of Music at Dean Close School. In my final year there, after I had completed my A-levels with rather undistinguished results, I told him that I wanted to become a composer. Graham Smallbone supported that ambition wholeheartedly when very few others did. At the time, I received reports suggesting that I should abandon what one teacher described as my "pipe dream" of becoming the reincarnation of Mozart. Graham, however, took my aspirations seriously and encouraged me to pursue them. Looking back, that belief and support came at a crucial moment in my life. As for my musical influences more generally, they have changed over the years. What has remained constant is a desire to find my own voice. I think my music has gradually become more confident and more personal. In my early years I was often concerned with technique and finding a way forward; later, I became increasingly interested in expressing ideas and emotions in a way that felt genuinely my own.
How do you think your musical language has changed over the years?
My musical language has changed considerably over the years. The early works of the 1970s were influenced by serial thinking, although even then I was trying to find my own way through those techniques rather than simply following a system. As time went on, I became increasingly interested in lyricism, rhythm, and the expressive possibilities of the voice. Along the way I explored many different approaches, including polyrhythm, pan-diatonic or "white-note" music, music theatre, narrative structures, and large-scale vocal works. Each of these opened new possibilities and helped shape the direction of my music. What has not changed is my concern for structure. However freely the music may appear to move, it is always underpinned by a strong sense of form and architecture.
Are there particular works that you regard as milestones along your creative journey?
I would probably say ‘Endless Song’ and ‘Paradise Haunts’. ‘Endless Song’ was important because it seemed to crystallise something that I had been searching for over many years. Remarkably, it was written in a single day, yet it marked a significant point in the development of my musical language. Sometimes a piece arrives with an unexpected sense of inevitability, and ‘Endless Song’ was one of those occasions. ‘Paradise Haunts’ was another turning point. It represented the culmination of my exploration of pan-diatonic, or ‘white-note’, music and opened up a new sense of freedom and lyricism. It feels like a work in which many different strands of my thinking came together.
WALES AND THE LANDSCAPE
How has Wales influenced your music?
The Welsh landscape has been a profound influence on my music, although not always in a literal or descriptive sense. I spent the first six years of my life on the Gower Peninsula, surrounded by places such as Three Cliffs Bay, Oxwich Bay and Port Eynon. Those years were rich and free, and the beauty of that landscape left a deep impression on me. Having spent much of my life living in places of great natural beauty, I think that has inevitably shaped the way I think and feel about the world. What interests me is not so much landscape as scenery, but landscape as memory, atmosphere and identity. Certain places become part of one's inner life, and music can sometimes express that more powerfully than words. Wales has provided me with a sense of place that has remained constant throughout my life, even during periods when I was living and working elsewhere. That influence can be seen in works such as ‘Mapping Wales’, ‘Inner Landscapes’, ‘Mountains Blue Like Sea’, ‘Ynys Las’, and ‘Dances from Forgotten Places’. These pieces are not intended as musical postcards. Rather, they reflect an attempt to translate into sound something of the emotional and imaginative resonance that particular landscapes can evoke.
To what extent do place and environment shape your compositional thinking?
It is a difficult question to answer because it is extremely hard to be precise about how place and environment influence a piece of music. Music does not describe landscape in the same way that a painting or a poem can. Nevertheless, particular places can exert a powerful imaginative influence. I can perhaps answer the question by referring to my piece ‘Dolbadarn Castle’. The work was written in response to J. M. W. Turner's painting of the same subject. What interested me was not simply the physical appearance of the castle itself, but the atmosphere surrounding it: the sense of history, isolation, and the relationship between the man-made structure and the landscape in which it stands. Turner was not merely recording a building; he was creating an emotional and imaginative response to a place.
Having lived and worked at Ty Yfory in the Teifi Valley for many years, has that environment influenced your music?
When I returned from Canada, I deliberately chose to live somewhere simple and relatively remote, where I could concentrate on my work. Composing requires long periods of uninterrupted thought, and places that offer peace, space and a certain distance from everyday distractions can be enormously valuable. In that respect, Tŷ Yfory has been an ideal home. It was designed with great care, integrated into the landscape, and created as a place in which both family life and creative work could flourish. The surrounding landscape, the changing seasons, and the rhythm of life in the Teifi Valley have all become part of the fabric of daily experience. Over many years, that kind of environment inevitably finds its way into one's creative life, even if it does so indirectly.
THE CREATIVE PROCESS
How do you begin a new composition?
The way I begin a composition varies from piece to piece, but structure is almost always at the heart of the process. Before I start worrying about individual notes, I usually try to understand the overall shape of the work. Once I have found the right structure, it often feels as though the piece already exists in some embryonic form and my task is to discover it rather than invent it. The actual process can take many different forms. Sometimes I work directly into the computer; sometimes I write by hand; sometimes I sketch ideas away from the desk altogether. Different pieces seem to demand different methods. When I was writing 'Under Milk Wood', for example, I found myself using all these approaches at different stages of the work. Whatever the method, composition is rarely a straightforward process. It involves a great deal of revision, rethinking, and refinement. One has to remain open to the possibility that an idea which seemed promising at first may need to be altered or even abandoned. Yet there are also occasions when a piece seems to arrive with unusual clarity. My piano piece Endless Song was written in a single day. More often, however, composition is a gradual process of shaping and reshaping material until the structure, character, and expressive purpose of the work finally come into alignment.
What do you enjoy most about the process of composing?
What I enjoy most about composing is the process of discovery. Although a composer is often thought of as someone who invents things, it frequently feels more like uncovering something that was already there, waiting to be found. There is a particular satisfaction in finding the right solution to a musical problem, whether that concerns structure, harmony, rhythm, or the relationship between different ideas. I have often said that "the intellect is enormous fun," and I genuinely believe that. Composition involves constant problem-solving, but it is a creative rather than an academic process. One is always exploring possibilities, making connections, and asking what might happen if a particular idea is taken a little further. Perhaps most enjoyable of all is the moment when disparate elements suddenly come together and a piece begins to make sense as a whole. The structure becomes clear, the material finds its place, and the music acquires its own identity. Those moments do not happen every day, but they are one of the reasons composers continue to compose.
What do you find most challenging?
One of the greatest challenges is learning to let go. It is very easy to become attached to one's notes and ideas, but there are times when a passage has to be revised, rewritten, or discarded altogether. Another challenge is transforming an initial idea into a fully realised work. The inspiration may come quickly, but finding the right structure and developing the material can take much longer. In recent years, I have also found that dealing with incomplete artistic agendas can be particularly frustrating. They can consume a great deal of time and energy, distracting attention from the creative work itself and taking away some of the joy of the work in hand.
Has your approach to composition changed as you have grown older?
Yes, I think my approach has changed. The basic process remains much the same. I am still concerned with structure, with finding the right form for a piece, and with discovering where the music wants to go. Those fundamental questions have never gone away. What has changed is my perspective. As I have grown older, I have become more reflective. I find myself looking back more often, with a greater awareness of the continuity of my work and a clearer sense of which ideas have remained important throughout my life. In recent years, I have also become increasingly concerned with environmental issues and our relationship with the natural world, concerns that have found their way into some of my more recent compositions. There is also the practical reality that composing has become physically more challenging. Since being diagnosed with Parkinson's disease in 2024, I have become more aware of the physical demands involved in the daily work of composing and of the need to adapt to changing circumstances. I no longer take stamina and energy for granted. On the other hand, experience brings its own advantages. I trust my instincts more than I did when I was younger and am less inclined to worry about fashions or expectations. In that sense, I hope the music has become both more personal and more focused.
COLLABORATION
Are there particular performers or ensembles with whom you have especially enjoyed working?
I have been fortunate to work with many wonderful performers over the years, and collaboration has always been one of the great pleasures of my musical life. If I were to single out a few individuals, Keith Turnbull would certainly be among them. We collaborated for almost forty years, from our first meeting at the Banff Centre in 1986 until his death in 2024. During that time, we worked together on a succession of operatic projects, including ‘Tornrak’ (1989), ‘Kafka's Chimp’ (1996), ‘A Chair in Love’ (2005), and ‘Under Milk Wood’ (2014). Keith possessed a remarkable theatrical imagination, and our partnership was based on a shared willingness to experiment, question assumptions, and take artistic risks. Thomas Bowes was another important collaborator. His performance of ‘Paradise Haunts’ brought an extraordinary level of commitment and understanding to the music, and working with a musician of that calibre is always both inspiring and rewarding. I have also enjoyed a long and fruitful association with the harpist Elinor Bennett. She has inspired a number of works, including ‘Harp Scrapbook’, and her deep knowledge of the instrument has been invaluable. More generally, I have been fortunate to work with many outstanding performers through the Banff Centre and the Vale of Glamorgan Festival. One of the great joys of being a composer is the opportunity to collaborate with talented musicians whose insights and musicianship often reveal possibilities in the music that I had not imagined myself.
How important is collaboration in your creative life?
Collaboration has been enormously important in my creative life. In fact, I would go further and say that some of my most valuable musical insights have come through working with performers, directors, conductors, and other artists. One of the things I have learned over the years is that performers possess a wealth of knowledge that composers simply do not have. I remember realising, during a rehearsal with an orchestral leader, that I was sitting in front of hundreds of years of accumulated string-playing experience. It would have been foolish not to listen. The same is true of singers, actors, harpists, and instrumentalists of every kind. They understand their craft in ways that no composer can fully acquire from the outside. For that reason, I have never regarded collaboration as a compromise. On the contrary, it enriches the work. The best collaborations are based on dialogue and trust, not on the composer issuing instructions from a position of authority. Whether working with Keith Turnbull in opera, Elinor Bennett on harp music, or countless performers through the Banff Centre and the Vale of Glamorgan Festival, I have always found that ideas develop most fruitfully through conversation. Music is not made in isolation. It comes into being through the meeting of different skills, experiences, and imaginations. Collaboration has therefore been not just an important part of my creative life, but one of its greatest pleasures.
MUSIC TODAY
What changes have you witnessed in Welsh musical life over the course of your career?
The changes have been remarkable. When I began my career, opportunities for composers in Wales were relatively limited, and there was often a feeling that the most important musical developments were taking place elsewhere. Over the years, I have seen a growing confidence in Welsh cultural life and a much stronger infrastructure to support composers, performers, and new work. One significant development was the establishment of organisations and festivals dedicated to contemporary music. When I founded the Vale of Glamorgan Festival, there was no comparable festival in Wales devoted exclusively to the work of living composers. Although important contemporary music festivals already existed elsewhere, they remained the exception rather than the norm. Over time, Wales became far more connected to the wider musical world through international collaborations and exchanges, while at the same time becoming increasingly confident in its own artistic identity.
How do you view the current state of contemporary music in Wales?
I remain optimistic about contemporary music in Wales. There is a great deal of talent, imagination, and commitment among composers, performers, and organisations across the country. Wales continues to produce musicians of remarkable ability, and there is no shortage of creative energy. At the same time, I do not think we can be complacent. Contemporary music depends on sustained support, adventurous programming, and opportunities for younger artists. The closure of the Vale of Glamorgan Festival in 2024, after more than fifty years of activity, was a reminder that even successful institutions can be fragile. What matters now is that Wales continues to develop its own cultural voice. We should remain open to influences from elsewhere, but we should also have the confidence to sing our own songs and tell our own stories. If we can maintain that confidence while continuing to support new generations of musicians, the future remains very promising.
What advice would you give to young composers today?
The first thing I would say is: do not be afraid to question orthodoxies. Every generation inherits a set of assumptions about what music should be, and part of the composer's task is to decide which of those assumptions are worth keeping and which are not. I would also encourage young composers to collaborate as early and as deeply as possible. Performers possess knowledge that composers do not, and some of the most valuable lessons I have learned have come through listening to musicians and working with them in a spirit of genuine dialogue. Music is not made by decree; it is made through conversation. Finally, I would encourage young composers not simply to accept the musical world as they find it. If the opportunities you need do not exist, try to create them. Much of my own life has been spent building festivals, organisations, and collaborations because they seemed necessary. The musical world is not fixed; each generation has the opportunity to reshape it.
AT 80
What does reaching the age of eighty mean to you as a composer?
Reaching eighty has inevitably made me more reflective. For most of my life I was occupied with the next composition, the next festival, or the next project, and rarely had time to look back. Since being diagnosed with Parkinson's disease, I have become increasingly conscious that composing is physically more demanding than it once was. That reality brings its frustrations, but it also brings a certain clarity and sense of purpose. If there are still musical ideas waiting to be realised, now is the time to realise them. In that sense, reaching eighty feels less like an ending than a reminder to focus on what matters most and to make the best use of the creative time that remains.
What would you like listeners to take away from your music?
I have never been particularly interested in telling listeners what they should think or feel. Music is a form of communication, but it is also a form of discovery, and each listener brings their own experiences and imagination to what they hear. If there is one thing I would hope listeners find in my music, it is a sense of humanity. Whether a piece is intimate or theatrical, instrumental or vocal, I have always been interested in the human experience that lies behind the notes. Music can help us understand ourselves and one another in ways that are difficult to express in words. I would also hope that listeners find a sense of connection: connection to a place, to a text, to a community, or simply to other people. Much of my life has been spent creating opportunities for music to bring people together, and I think that belief has found its way into the music itself. Above all, I would hope that the music invites people to listen attentively—to the sounds around them, to one another, and perhaps even to themselves. If it does that, then I feel it has achieved something worthwhile. And in difficult times, it may also remind us that it is still a beautiful world.