I am writing these immortal words on a plane to Salzburg, where the festival is in full swing. Once there, I shall be taking part in two unrelated ‘projects’. (When did that word become so prevalent in the music world? I’m not sure I like it – but there’s no escaping it.) One is the fourth mini-series that I’ve programmed at the festival over the years. I am being joined by my long-standing musical partners (and close friends) Joshua Bell and Dénes Várjon, as well as by some newer friends, in programmes that showcase the greatness of Czech chamber music – works by Suk, Janáček, Martinů, Smetana and, of course, Dvořák. Why is all this music so irresistibly lovable? Perhaps it is because of a particular quality that all these composers share – a childlike innocence, which shines through no matter what the nature of the emotions being expressed. Those emotions differ hugely, from the wide-eyed freshness of Suk’s early Piano Quartet to the profound tragedy of Smetana’s Piano Trio. And then there’s Dvořák: his piano quartet in Eb and the famous Second Piano Quintet are simply irreplaceable. What a wonderful soul he must have had! Somehow I have the feeling that now, in heaven, he is sitting next to Haydn, having a glorious time. Both men were as capable as any of writing bleak, tragic works – and yet, when one thinks of their overall output, it’s surely joy that is the overriding characteristic. Their music makes one glad to be alive.

The other ‘project’ (yuk) in which I am involved in Salzburg is one celebrating the centenary of the great Hungarian violinist and conductor Sándor Végh. If late 19th/early 20th-century Czech composers hold a special place in my musical heart, it has been living Hungarian musicians who have influenced my whole approach to music. I have been lucky enough to work with great musicians such as György Kurtág, Ferenc Rados, Lorand Fenyves, András Schiff, and others; from all of them I have learnt so much that has been invaluable. My first contact with a legendary Hungarian, however, was with the towering figure of Végh – unique violinist, incomparable conductor and (often) terrifying man. My personal relationship with him was a tad complicated – but he was a huge musical influence on me, as on so many others. His centenary is being celebrated at Salzburg (where he lived and worked for the last years of his life) with concerts, and with masterclasses involving musicians from IMS Prussia Cove, an institution founded by Végh (I succeeded him there as artistic director). András Schiff, who performed and recorded extensively with the great man, is taking an important part in these events; one can hear Végh’s musical values shining through András’s playing.

Among all these activities, I have the rather more onerous task of listening to second edits of recordings to be released imminently. If all goes as planned, between December 2011 and January 2013 I will have recorded six-and-a-bit CDs – more than ever before in such a short period. I don’t know quite how this has happened – and I apologise to readers of Gramophone if they get bored with seeing my name. Actually, provided that the session goes well, I love recording; but I hate listening to the edits. I go through them obsessively, asking questions about almost every phrase. But when I’ve done it, I feel liberated; I’ve sent my child out into the world, and there’s nothing more I can do. With the first of these recordings, a recital with Thomas Adès, I felt the weight of responsibility even more heavily than usual. The CD contains first recordings of works written for me by Adès and by Kurtág; they are both, in their very different ways, masterpieces, and it is my job to convey that clearly. But at least I had the composers’ advice to hand. For the Adès, Thomas was at the piano; and for the Kurtág, I emailed the composer a version I recorded on the first day of sessions, and then called him up for comments before re-recording it. It’s going to be tricky doing that when I record the Beethoven sonatas…

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