The Dvořák concerto was the first piece of ‘classical’ music with which I ever fell in love. I must have been, I think, about ten years old, and I became obsessed with it in a way that had only previously happened to me with Beatles songs. I listened to the concerto – at least, to the first movement of it, since I was too lazy to turn the record over – every day. At first, it was always Rostropovich’s recording, with Sir Adrian Boult conducting. (Many years later – of course – I told ‘Slava’ Rostropovich about this. ‘Which one you listen?’ he demanded. ‘The one with Boult.’ He pouted. ‘Talich and Ozawa better.’) In subsequent years, I branched out into other recordings, eventually coming across the classic Casals / Szell version, which became, and remains, my favourite.

I was soon begging my teacher, Jane Cowan, to let me begin learning it myself. Finally, when I was twelve, she gave in and let me make a start – what a thrill! Just to play that cello entry, with its electrifying rhythm and rich chords… I felt like a star. After the lesson, my father arrived to pick me up, and, proud as anything, I played it to him. His hands flew to his ears. ‘Agh – hideously out of tune!’ Humph.

Anyway, determined to prove him wrong, I worked hard at the concerto; and
in 1973, at the age of 14, I got to play it in concert, at my teacher’s summer festival in Austria. How it sounded, I have no idea. (Not much has changed – I really don’t know how it sounds when I play it today!) But for me it was an experience beyond compare.

Something of that excitement remains with me every time I play the concerto. To listen to that wonderful first tutti, and then to enter with that heroic declamation; to pass from that to the tender intimacy of the second subject; to feel the painful nostalgia of the slow movement, and then the joy, turning in the coda to aching farewell, of the finale: it is a unique emotional journey. This is Dvořák at the peak of his powers, music filled with all his characteristic qualities: the glorious melodies, the incredible rhythmic vitality, the unbreakable connection to the folk music of his homeland. But there is another, equally important, aspect of the genius of this work that has perhaps been somewhat overlooked: Dvořák’s astounding mastery of form and development.

As I implied earlier: when I was ten years old or so, I would have said that this concerto was my favourite piece of music. I wouldn’t say that today; but I would say that I love it more deeply, and just as passionately, as I did then. In the more than fifty years (groan) since I first performed it, the magic of the piece has never faded – and I trust that it never will. It is a true masterpiece, and as such feels different, says fresh things to me, every time I perform it. And of course it will feel, I know, quite new when I come to play it with the OAE, one of my favourite orchestras, and with Maxim, one of my favourite conductors.

This blog is an extract from our programme of Vienna 1897: Brahms’ Last Concert where we will be joined by Steven Isserlis and Maxim Emelyanychev at the Southbank Centre on Wednesday 24 June.