The footie fan is back...
I’m sitting in Sofia’s Hilton Hotel opposite a besotted football supporter with a pseudo-mohican hairdo and three days’ growth of beard. He’s wearing a faded Aston Villa T-shirt and cradling a pint of beer as if it’s a natural appendage to his arm. I can’t see his eyes because they’re hidden by orange-tinted shades. As I near him, he’s launching into a tirade against "Man United, Chelsea and Spanish football".
He flirts with the Bulgarian lovelies floating around the reception. His language is peppered with four-letter words. He could be any slightly dissipated middle-aged British lager-lover littering any bar in Europe. Except in this case he also happens to be the most talented and acclaimed classical musician of his generation: Nigel Kennedy, the former child sensation, now turned 52-year-old versatile musician. But, as I find out, age has not diminished the rebel inside him.
Even his critics can’t decry Kennedy’s talent. When he plays he is transformed into an impassioned genius. It’s as if he goes into a catatonic trance – he seems hardly conscious of anything around him. A scarred nape of his neck, home to his violin during thousands of performances, testifies to his commitment and concentration. Of course, he denies being touched – as ‘twere’ – by greatness. "I don’t think of myself like that because I’m always trying to improve," he says. Indeed every ‘morning’ he practises two to three hours of Bach on his violin. His neighbours get a free concert, I point out. "Except they’re not best pleased when they get one at three o’clock in the morning," he says. Oh!
The rockin’, tourin’ violinist
I shouldn’t imply that Kennedy is anything but friendly and warm-hearted. The footie fascination is slightly overbearing but never aggressive. He kisses the hands of the female hotel staff. If you didn’t know who he was, he could be any beer-drinkin’ Smithie, certainly no ‘aristocrat’ of the music scene. Perhaps that’s one of the secrets to his success. He’s given classical music and, in particular, the violin, street cred. He’s made it trendy for the masses to go to a Kennedy concert. It could be a carefully cultivated image – and I suspect it is – but one that has certainly boosted and broadened his appeal.
When you see Nigel (I’m surprised he hasn’t changed that first name) with his entourage exchanging banter about attempted sex frolics and brushes in hotels you’re reminded of a rock star on tour. The previous night, for example, Kennedy claims to have survived a near miss attack by an enraged Polish ‘tank’ who objected to his girlfriend taking a shine to Nigel in his hotel suite. He’s great mates with all the members of the orchestra, cheerfully joshing one of the guys as a cowardly mother...... for not intervening during aforementioned ‘near miss’ incident.
Aside from the footie and frolicking he also has a slightly little-boy-lost look about him. His aide de camp has to take care of him. He’s just flown in from Poland and he’s tired. He now spends most of the year in Krakow with his Polish wife (where he loves walking in the mountains "away from all that man-made ....") but he also lives in London and Malvern, home to his 12-year-old son – Sark – from his first marriage whom, he says, he makes sure to see at least 10 days a month. Nigel has strong views on thrusting child musical prodigies into the limelight too early. "It can really be destructive because it interferes with their normal life. The same goes for these young tennis stars. Not that I have any concept of a normal life," he says quickly.
Reinvention?
Britain is a strange place. Sometimes I think you have to be British to understand it. Many British men like to dumb down. The days, for example, of a Peter O’Toole ‘Oirish’ type going to drama school and being grilled with elocution lessons until they perfect the Queen’s English are long gone. Nowadays, the reverse would probably apply; posh actors have to pretend to come from inner city backgrounds. Kennedy could be the musical world’s equivalent of this.
Some commentators have made great pains to comment on his ‘mockney’ accent, implying it’s a Guy Ritchie-type affectation. Indeed, as an eight-year-old pupil at the Yehudi Menuhin school, interviewed on a BBC programme called Town and Around, the young Nigel spoke just like a cute, precocious classical violinist prodigy would. He could have ended up talking like Gabriel Hershman.
Much has been made of the way he changed that. But to imply it’s pure affectation is to miss the point. It’s become part of him and in a way – I have to say – it suits him. He’s naturally boisterous and likes to debunk traditions. He just doesn’t do ‘square’. Kennedy was, however, viciously attacked for his approach to classical music by the late arts administrator John Drummond who called him "a Liberace for the Nineties" and criticised his "ludicrous clothes and grotesque, self-invented accent". But Kennedy’s speech patterns now become him. "I done that quite well..." he’ll say apropos something, for example, more bona fide cockney than mockney. But somewhere along the way did he consciously reinvent himself? Nigel looks abashed. "Look, every time you make a new record or buy a new T-shirt you’re reinventing yourself. That’s what people do every day," he says.
After the Menuhin School, Kennedy studied at the Juilliard School in New York under Dorothy DeLay. At the age of 16, Kennedy was invited by Stephane Grappelli to appear with him at New York’s Carnegie Hall, despite threats from teachers that his classical career would suffer. Jazz has been a passion for him ever since. Kennedy travelled to New York in 2005 to record his first ‘proper’ jazz album. Other musicians on the album were the Miles Davis alumnus Ron Carter on double bass, Jack DeJohnette on drums; and saxophonist Joe Lovano. Kennedy declared that at least half of his output would be jazz-related from then and, true to his word, his choices of compositions have become more erratic, even bizarre, ever since.
Clashes with the establishment
Kennedy has played Jimi Hendrix and last year even recorded his own version of the Dr Who theme outside the Royal Albert Hall. The orthodox musical establishment may condescend but Kennedy appears unfazed. "People can think whatever they want to think," he says.
Rather like a teenager deliberately chooses a wayward partner to rile the parents, is antagonising the establishment – perhaps – just a teeny-weeny part of the fun? Kennedy’s certainly had his run-ins with the ‘stuffed shirts’. In May 2008 he withdrew from the Classical Brits concert after organisers vetoed his choice of music. He originally wanted to play an excerpt from a Mozart or Beethoven concerto but time constraints put paid to that.
He then opted for a gypsy violin piece, Czardas by Vittoria Monti and rehearsed it with the classically trained (but eminently voluptuous) female quartet Bond. But organisers said he could not appear with them either. Kennedy then withdrew. "This was going to be one of my best performances of that music, not just musically but as a visual TV spectacle as well. However, the Classical Brits’ committee have had other ideas. Seeing that the words ‘music business’ still place the word ‘music’ first, I am not going to let some old farts dictate my musical decisions," he said at the time.
Kennedy has always been one to go against the tide. "I don’t like music with boundaries. I’m currently working on an electric project with a very talented Polish musician called Anna Maria Jopek. I like musicians who write their own music," he says.
One of Kennedy’s persistent bugbears is the lack of rehearsal time in British concerts. Until his appearance at the 2008 Last Night of the Proms, he had expressed his intention of not appearing on the classical concert scene in the UK capital with a London orchestra. "I insist on three or four sessions prior to a concert, and orchestral administrators won’t accommodate that. If I didn’t care about getting it right I could do three concerts in the same amount of time and earn three times the money. But you can’t do something properly in less time than it takes," he said.
For this, his third concert in Sofia he has brought with him a special hand-picked Polish crew. "I met them all separately at jam sessions in the jazz club near where I live," he says. "I thought: that’s the drummer I want, that’s the bass player, and so on."
Ode to a football team
Nigel’s heroes are energetic musicians like the late, hell-raising drummer Keith Moon of The Who. It’s that verve and danger that he seeks to bring to his own concerts. Not that
Nigel will emulate rock star behaviour by throwing TV sets through hotel windows, of course, but he definitely reveres them. "I performed with The Who back in 2000. I think it was one of the last concerts with ‘The Ox’ – the late John Entwistle. We summoned a terrific amount of energy. Real team rebellion."
‘Rebellion’ is one of Kennedy’s favourite words. Other friends he’s performed alongside include Kate Bush (who appeared on his This Is Your Life tribute back in 1990) and Paul McCartney. Nigel’s favourite actor is Gary Oldman because, he says, he looks and talks a bit like him.
Kennedy takes his music everywhere but, currently, one country is excluded. "I do actually have a problem performing in the Zionist entity (Israel). It’s very sad, actually, because there are so many talented Jewish musicians there. I have many Jewish friends who feel exactly the same way," he says. Pressed for his reasons by Ha’aretz, Kennedy said: "I was shocked to see these walls, it’s a new apartheid, barbaric behaviour: How can you impose such a collective punishment and separate people?"
Such serious barbs are unusual for Kennedy who, it would seem, plans to grow old disgracefully and light-heartedly. He wants to keep rebelling until he dies. He dismisses other questions about his future plans. "You can’t plan ahead. But I do want to write an anthem for Aston Villa football team. Other than that I have no expectations," he says.
The football fan then takes another swig of his beer and departs. He will dedicate the whole of the following day to rehearsals. And he wants his audience to be as close to him as possible because, in his words, it creates "an electric light of human interest". For all his waywardness and blokeish persona, Kennedy is, undeniably, a perfectionist at his trade.
He flirts with the Bulgarian lovelies floating around the reception. His language is peppered with four-letter words. He could be any slightly dissipated middle-aged British lager-lover littering any bar in Europe. Except in this case he also happens to be the most talented and acclaimed classical musician of his generation: Nigel Kennedy, the former child sensation, now turned 52-year-old versatile musician. But, as I find out, age has not diminished the rebel inside him.
Even his critics can’t decry Kennedy’s talent. When he plays he is transformed into an impassioned genius. It’s as if he goes into a catatonic trance – he seems hardly conscious of anything around him. A scarred nape of his neck, home to his violin during thousands of performances, testifies to his commitment and concentration. Of course, he denies being touched – as ‘twere’ – by greatness. "I don’t think of myself like that because I’m always trying to improve," he says. Indeed every ‘morning’ he practises two to three hours of Bach on his violin. His neighbours get a free concert, I point out. "Except they’re not best pleased when they get one at three o’clock in the morning," he says. Oh!
The rockin’, tourin’ violinist
I shouldn’t imply that Kennedy is anything but friendly and warm-hearted. The footie fascination is slightly overbearing but never aggressive. He kisses the hands of the female hotel staff. If you didn’t know who he was, he could be any beer-drinkin’ Smithie, certainly no ‘aristocrat’ of the music scene. Perhaps that’s one of the secrets to his success. He’s given classical music and, in particular, the violin, street cred. He’s made it trendy for the masses to go to a Kennedy concert. It could be a carefully cultivated image – and I suspect it is – but one that has certainly boosted and broadened his appeal.
When you see Nigel (I’m surprised he hasn’t changed that first name) with his entourage exchanging banter about attempted sex frolics and brushes in hotels you’re reminded of a rock star on tour. The previous night, for example, Kennedy claims to have survived a near miss attack by an enraged Polish ‘tank’ who objected to his girlfriend taking a shine to Nigel in his hotel suite. He’s great mates with all the members of the orchestra, cheerfully joshing one of the guys as a cowardly mother...... for not intervening during aforementioned ‘near miss’ incident.
Aside from the footie and frolicking he also has a slightly little-boy-lost look about him. His aide de camp has to take care of him. He’s just flown in from Poland and he’s tired. He now spends most of the year in Krakow with his Polish wife (where he loves walking in the mountains "away from all that man-made ....") but he also lives in London and Malvern, home to his 12-year-old son – Sark – from his first marriage whom, he says, he makes sure to see at least 10 days a month. Nigel has strong views on thrusting child musical prodigies into the limelight too early. "It can really be destructive because it interferes with their normal life. The same goes for these young tennis stars. Not that I have any concept of a normal life," he says quickly.
Reinvention?
Britain is a strange place. Sometimes I think you have to be British to understand it. Many British men like to dumb down. The days, for example, of a Peter O’Toole ‘Oirish’ type going to drama school and being grilled with elocution lessons until they perfect the Queen’s English are long gone. Nowadays, the reverse would probably apply; posh actors have to pretend to come from inner city backgrounds. Kennedy could be the musical world’s equivalent of this.
Some commentators have made great pains to comment on his ‘mockney’ accent, implying it’s a Guy Ritchie-type affectation. Indeed, as an eight-year-old pupil at the Yehudi Menuhin school, interviewed on a BBC programme called Town and Around, the young Nigel spoke just like a cute, precocious classical violinist prodigy would. He could have ended up talking like Gabriel Hershman.
Much has been made of the way he changed that. But to imply it’s pure affectation is to miss the point. It’s become part of him and in a way – I have to say – it suits him. He’s naturally boisterous and likes to debunk traditions. He just doesn’t do ‘square’. Kennedy was, however, viciously attacked for his approach to classical music by the late arts administrator John Drummond who called him "a Liberace for the Nineties" and criticised his "ludicrous clothes and grotesque, self-invented accent". But Kennedy’s speech patterns now become him. "I done that quite well..." he’ll say apropos something, for example, more bona fide cockney than mockney. But somewhere along the way did he consciously reinvent himself? Nigel looks abashed. "Look, every time you make a new record or buy a new T-shirt you’re reinventing yourself. That’s what people do every day," he says.
After the Menuhin School, Kennedy studied at the Juilliard School in New York under Dorothy DeLay. At the age of 16, Kennedy was invited by Stephane Grappelli to appear with him at New York’s Carnegie Hall, despite threats from teachers that his classical career would suffer. Jazz has been a passion for him ever since. Kennedy travelled to New York in 2005 to record his first ‘proper’ jazz album. Other musicians on the album were the Miles Davis alumnus Ron Carter on double bass, Jack DeJohnette on drums; and saxophonist Joe Lovano. Kennedy declared that at least half of his output would be jazz-related from then and, true to his word, his choices of compositions have become more erratic, even bizarre, ever since.
Clashes with the establishment
Kennedy has played Jimi Hendrix and last year even recorded his own version of the Dr Who theme outside the Royal Albert Hall. The orthodox musical establishment may condescend but Kennedy appears unfazed. "People can think whatever they want to think," he says.
Rather like a teenager deliberately chooses a wayward partner to rile the parents, is antagonising the establishment – perhaps – just a teeny-weeny part of the fun? Kennedy’s certainly had his run-ins with the ‘stuffed shirts’. In May 2008 he withdrew from the Classical Brits concert after organisers vetoed his choice of music. He originally wanted to play an excerpt from a Mozart or Beethoven concerto but time constraints put paid to that.
He then opted for a gypsy violin piece, Czardas by Vittoria Monti and rehearsed it with the classically trained (but eminently voluptuous) female quartet Bond. But organisers said he could not appear with them either. Kennedy then withdrew. "This was going to be one of my best performances of that music, not just musically but as a visual TV spectacle as well. However, the Classical Brits’ committee have had other ideas. Seeing that the words ‘music business’ still place the word ‘music’ first, I am not going to let some old farts dictate my musical decisions," he said at the time.
Kennedy has always been one to go against the tide. "I don’t like music with boundaries. I’m currently working on an electric project with a very talented Polish musician called Anna Maria Jopek. I like musicians who write their own music," he says.
One of Kennedy’s persistent bugbears is the lack of rehearsal time in British concerts. Until his appearance at the 2008 Last Night of the Proms, he had expressed his intention of not appearing on the classical concert scene in the UK capital with a London orchestra. "I insist on three or four sessions prior to a concert, and orchestral administrators won’t accommodate that. If I didn’t care about getting it right I could do three concerts in the same amount of time and earn three times the money. But you can’t do something properly in less time than it takes," he said.
For this, his third concert in Sofia he has brought with him a special hand-picked Polish crew. "I met them all separately at jam sessions in the jazz club near where I live," he says. "I thought: that’s the drummer I want, that’s the bass player, and so on."
Ode to a football team
Nigel’s heroes are energetic musicians like the late, hell-raising drummer Keith Moon of The Who. It’s that verve and danger that he seeks to bring to his own concerts. Not that
Nigel will emulate rock star behaviour by throwing TV sets through hotel windows, of course, but he definitely reveres them. "I performed with The Who back in 2000. I think it was one of the last concerts with ‘The Ox’ – the late John Entwistle. We summoned a terrific amount of energy. Real team rebellion."
‘Rebellion’ is one of Kennedy’s favourite words. Other friends he’s performed alongside include Kate Bush (who appeared on his This Is Your Life tribute back in 1990) and Paul McCartney. Nigel’s favourite actor is Gary Oldman because, he says, he looks and talks a bit like him.
Kennedy takes his music everywhere but, currently, one country is excluded. "I do actually have a problem performing in the Zionist entity (Israel). It’s very sad, actually, because there are so many talented Jewish musicians there. I have many Jewish friends who feel exactly the same way," he says. Pressed for his reasons by Ha’aretz, Kennedy said: "I was shocked to see these walls, it’s a new apartheid, barbaric behaviour: How can you impose such a collective punishment and separate people?"
Such serious barbs are unusual for Kennedy who, it would seem, plans to grow old disgracefully and light-heartedly. He wants to keep rebelling until he dies. He dismisses other questions about his future plans. "You can’t plan ahead. But I do want to write an anthem for Aston Villa football team. Other than that I have no expectations," he says.
The football fan then takes another swig of his beer and departs. He will dedicate the whole of the following day to rehearsals. And he wants his audience to be as close to him as possible because, in his words, it creates "an electric light of human interest". For all his waywardness and blokeish persona, Kennedy is, undeniably, a perfectionist at his trade.