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The Transition From the Electric Guitar to the Podium: Peter Peyman Farzinpour

 


The Journey from Rock Guitarist to Classical Composer and Conductor

When people see a conductor on stage, they often imagine a straight and traditional path. Conservatory training, years of studying scores, and a gradual rise through orchestras. While that path is certainly valid, my own journey into music began in a very different place. Before I ever stepped onto a podium, I was an electric guitarist. In fact, I’d started out as a rock guitarist with a very wide range of influences from the Beatles to Jimi Hendrix, Pink Floyd to King Crimson, and even artists as diverse as the Sex Pistols, David Bowie, and the Police. That experience shaped not only how I came to understand music, but also how I approach conducting, teaching, and collaboration today.

Discovering Music Through Energy and Diverse Sounds

Playing electric guitar introduced me to music through energy and instinct, and also how wonderful all these differing sonic worlds were (just imagine the difference between the Beatles, King Crimson, the Sex Pistols, and the Police!). There was something immediate about plugging in, feeling the vibration of sound, and connecting with an audience in real time. But it was equally important to be able to appreciate and experience such differing sonic worlds, textures, and even the social statements, musical or sociopolitical, that emerged from such a wide range of music. It was certainly physical, expressive, and direct, but for me, the diversity of the music and what each artist expressed was equally captivating. In fact, decades removed from that sound world where I had gotten my start (which I still love), I’m quite shocked by the younger generations’ limitations as to what they’re willing to listen to and experience. After all, in pop and rock music, one isn’t necessarily thinking about every detail of music in a theoretical way. But nonetheless, one can only experience, respond, react, and communicate in the moment in very different ways through different types of music, and all those experiences and emotions are really meant to be experienced, but only to the degree that one is willing to be open to these divergent sound worlds. Eventually, I would come to understand why all of those different experiences were so important, including the theoretical approaches that existed in that music (at least some of it). One can’t compare the complexity of King Crimson and the guitar lines and lyrics in Police songs to raw noise of the Sex Pistols, wherein there was absolutely no theoretical considerations (in fact, they could hardly play their instruments) — but the point is, each of those artists had something to express, and one could experience very different emotions through those modes of expression.
Those early experiences taught me that music wasn’t just an intellectual pursuit (though there was such a component to it). It was and is something that lives in the body and the emotions regardless of the type of music one experiences. Even now, when I conduct a complex contemporary score or a classical symphony, I try to hold onto that sense of immediacy that music must carry. Music must always be a creative activity, not a re-creative one. The connection between performer and audience must feel alive, and that can only happen by responding to the energy and the many different considerations one confronts in each different performance.

Transitioning into Classical Music

Soon after I’d started playing electric guitar, I was very fortunate to have stumbled into my high school’s jazz ensemble, which opened a completely different sonic world than to which I’d experienced before. But once again, my broad palette in appreciating and wanting to experience various types of pop and rock music made me very much open to exploring jazz, from the very traditional to the very experimental, to which my friends and I in the jazz ensemble were exposed, thanks to our amazing high school music teacher, who also wanted to broaden our horizons. Eventually, my curious sensibility with regards to music opened me to classical music. It wasn’t that I was completely unaware of classical music or unappreciative of it when I was in my teens, but it certainly was an entirely new world as I began my journey into it. Suddenly, I was engaging in music wherein structure, form, and historical context mattered in a much deeper way. I studied composition, conducting, and theory, and I became fascinated by how music could be constructed with such precision and intention. But one very crucial experience from my youth remained with me, which was the love and passion for the extremes that one could discover and experience within the classical sphere. I found that many of my classically trained friends- the ones who’d be playing such music from the time they were very young- they had a very difficult time coming to terms with avant-garde, contemporary classical music, after having spent so many years immersed in the traditional lineage of classical music- the world of Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, and the romantic composers. But for me, it was all living music- whether it was Bach, Brahms, Schoenberg, or Boulez (I imagine some of you may not be familiar or comfortable with the latter two of those composers). Regardless of the category of music or the timeline, it had and has to be performed as something with great energy and passion, as a living art form. Of course, raw emotions are never enough to create great music, if one doesn’t understand all the intricacies within the music. Unfortunately, many classical musicians disregard the importance of truly understanding the intellectual aspects of the music they’re performing with the sentiment that sheer energy and passion will simply bring the music to life. But in fact, the lack of the understanding the complexities of the underlying structures and harmonies of the music and simply performing exclusively with great energy and emotions can have precisely the converse effect which the composer may have intended — one can take the music in the complete opposite direction of its intended emotional sweep and arc and thus, actually lead the audience astray.

Having emphasized the point of the gravity of a deep analysis and understanding of the music on the part of the conductor or performer, I have never wanted to lose the raw energy that first drew me to music in the first place. In fact, the reason I fell in love with conducting was quite similar to why I’d fallen in love with playing rock guitar to begin with. At my conservatory (the Peabody Conservatory of Music), two full semesters of conducting studies were mandatory for all undergraduates. Most of my peers found these classes to be either intimidating or just a hassle to all the other tremendous amount of work all musicians undertake in a classical conservatory. But for me and a few others, it was quite different. The very first time I stood on a podium in front of the orchestra, I was, of course, quite nervous. But as soon as I lifted my baton and gave the first downbeat I’d ever given to any orchestra in my life, and this extraordinary sound emerged- a sound that I could actually physically direct with my own body and gestures- I felt the same raw energy that I’d felt many years earlier when I’d plugged in my guitar, cranked up the amplifier (with distortion), and this incredibly powerful sound had reverberated throughout my body. The sensation was extraordinary- both with the guitar many years earlier, and the orchestra years later.

But going back to the the necessity of the merging of raw emotions with the intellectual side music, the father of avant-garde classical music, Arnold Schoenberg, wrote a brilliant essay titled “Heart and Brain in Music” wherein he strongly maintained that even in the most avant-garde and “intellectual” music, one couldn’t separate emotion (“heart”) and intellect (“brain”) within music. Of course, the challenge becomes finding a way to integrate these two perspectives. How can a performance be both intellectually rigorous and emotionally immediate? How can it honor the score while still feeling spontaneous and alive? The answer is at once simple and yet very difficult- one must understand and be so immersed in the score (which takes tremendous effort) so that when one is on stage, the “intellectual” element has been so internalized that it naturally guides the emotion and intensity that is necessary to make the music be a creative and not a re-creative experience and have the emotional intensity that will not only guide the performer, but also the audience. This balance continues to guide my work today.

Conducting as a Physical Art and Art Form

As I studied with my conducting mentor, Emilio Pomarico in Italy, I came to understand that there was a reason for EVERY gesture and motion, in addition to the necessity to completely have the score analyzed and memorized. Over time, I realized that the person with whom Emilio had studied, was a somewhat mythical guru in the conducting world named Sergiu Celibidache. Celi (who for a brief period had become the Music Director of the Berlin Philharmonic after World War II), as he was known, was incredibly well versed in both Eastern and Western philosophy, alongside his incredible command of music. Thus, through this lineage of Celi that had been passed down to Emilio and which I was then learning, I came to understand that conducting wasn’t just about giving clear beats or cues to the musicians or just trying to shape the music. It is about shaping energy and thought through movement, with incredible clarity and also elegance, and with the sense of purpose that I can only compare to witnessing great yogis who have been practicing yoga for decades, not just as a physical exercise, but with the understanding of the Buddhist tradition from which the practice is derived. (Unfortunately, in the West where yoga has become so popular for decades now, it’s viewed more as a physical exercise most often lacking any relation to its very origins.) Hence, the gestures of the conductor must reflect the character of the music in every aspect possible. They must communicate timing, phrasing, intellect, and emotion all at once, but with a nonchalance as if every gesture is a part of one’s natural bodily movement, no different than breathing or walking. Ironically, this seeming ease with which one must conduct can only be achieved through incredibly intensive study over numerous years. In other words, it’s rather similar to yogis who study assiduously with great intensity over decades in order to achieve the “zen” experience that not only they experience, but they also exude. And yet, quite counterintuitively, it is only through arduous work and study wherein one can achieve this “zenness,” which will then allow the raw emotion, energy, yet with great understanding, which one wishes to achieve. Some of you may be familiar with the extraordinary musician, Leonard Cohen (to whom I refer as “last troubadour”). At the height of his career, he entered a Buddhist monastery where he studied and worked intensively for six years, and was ordained as a Zen Buddhist monk. When he restarted his musical career, he, and his music were completely transformed– and yet, still completely Leonard Cohen. (Incidentally, I personally feel that he made his greatest music after this arduous period in his life, and I witnessed him in some of the most extraordinarily ecstatic (in its true sense), emotionally intense, and beautiful concerts I’d ever experienced, towards the very end of his life!)


Having experienced music physically as a performer, and also having experienced this Celibidache philosophical sensibility to conducting, I approach the podium with an awareness of how musicians can feel the music in their bodies, concurrently with great passion and emotion, and yet a sense of calm and understanding, which can help them and me create the most intense performance that I/ we can possibly perform, without the feeling of having an anxiety attack (which is very common for many musicians who end up taking beta blockers to cope) and yet with great emotion and passion. This helps me connect more directly with the ensemble, which helps all of us connect with the audience. It reinforces the idea that conducting is an expressive process that is part of the emotional sense of expression that I had discovered decades ago with rock music, but necessitating a great deal more study and practice.

Bridging Musical Worlds

My journey through these different musical worlds has allowed me to move between them with a sense of curiosity rather than limitation. I am equally at home conducting classical repertoire and highly complex, avant-garde contemporary works, and intricate projects that frequently incorporate multimedia and interdisciplinary collaboration.

This openness is something I encourage in my students as well. Music today can sometimes exist in isolated categories for many people who live in insular, social-media driven algorithms. Audiences are unfortunately not always exposed to a wide range of styles. (In fact, most don’t realize that whatever platform they’re on, musically or visually- whether Pandora, Apple Music, or Netflix, ALL of these platforms are exclusively AI algorithm driven and thus, will keep presenting the same style that one has been listening to or watching, and thus highly limiting one’s exposure to alternative styles). Consequently, it is absolutely incumbent on us musicians to open the audience’s ears and interests to differing types of music. Exploring different genres and forms of musical expression can deepen one’s ability to experience a much greater range of emotions than one would have thought possible. For the musician, it also makes the creative process much more dynamic and engaging.

Influences and Evolution

As I continued my studies, I became deeply influenced by composers such as Schoenberg, Berg, and Webern. Their work challenged traditional ideas of harmony, opening new possibilities for expression. Ironically, even as audiences literally erupted into riots as a result of such an “offensive” harmonic language, Schoenberg would absolutely insist that his music was not revolutionary, but rather evolutionary. It was simply a continuation that had naturally advanced from Bach to Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, and Mahler. And years later, looking back at that music, an astute musician could clearly see the evolutionary lineage. In fact, amazingly, Schoenberg never taught his students how to write avant-garde, twelve-tone music that he and his students came to compose. He strictly taught them traditional counterpoint and harmony. Where they would take that would then be up to them. Similarly, with Emilio, we never studied conducting contemporary music. All the students would start with Mozart and eventually make their way through Beethoven and the Romantics. The idea was, quite simply, if you could conduct the traditional repertoire well, you’d have the tools to conduct any type of music- traditional or contemporary. And of course, he was absolutely correct. Later, as I was drawn to composers like Boulez, Nono, and Haas, whose music explores sounds in extraordinarily innovative and often highly challenging ways (both for the musicians as well as the audience), the traditional conducting that I’d studied with Emilio had in fact set me up to conduct these “difficult” works without the challenges that many conductors might otherwise experience. From a compositional perspective, I’ve always viewed the avant-garde music that I compose to be simply an extension of Bach to Schoenberg, which always emphasised counterpoint (it just happens that the counterpoint incorporates certain sounds and techniques that Bach and Schoenberg didn’t have at their disposal).

Regardless, these influences- all of them- from rock to jazz, traditional classical music, and contemporary, avant-garde music, they’ve all pushed me to think beyond conventional boundaries. They encouraged me to explore how music can interact with space, visuals, and movement. This eventually became a central part of my work with my own group, ENSEMBLE / PARALLAX, where multimedia and interdisciplinary collaboration became and are absolutely key elements of our performances.

In teaching, I often share my journey with students to show that there is no single path into music. Some come from classical backgrounds, while others have experience in jazz, rock, or other genres such as world music (which I also encourage my students to immerse themselves in). Each perspective brings something valuable to their experience as musicians. The range of emotionally and experientially connecting with music (and audiences) is significantly broadened when one has had such a wide range of experiences oneself.

I encourage students to draw from their own experiences and to see how those influences can inform their approach to music. Technical training is absolutely essential, but it should not erase individuality, or whatever it was that drew them to music in the first place. Instead, it should provide tools that allow each musician to express their unique voice more clearly and with any luck, with a sense of originality (which is incredibly difficult to come by). This philosophy helps students build confidence and develop a more personal connection to their work.

Creativity Without Boundaries

One of the most important lessons I have learned is that creativity thrives when boundaries are flexible. The skills I developed as a guitarist, combined with my formal training in composition and conducting, allow me to approach projects with a broad perspective. But it’s not just music that the musician must be open to; it’s crucial to experience EVERYTHING- every type of artform and the historical elements in which the given artform was created, whether 2000 years ago or in the Renaissance, or twenty years ago, and whether in one part of the world or the opposite part of the world- everything can inform one’s creativity, and an artist can create much richer artwork with such an abundance of knowledge. This is at the forefront of my own creative process, whether I am conducting an orchestra, working with visual artists, or mentoring students — I emphasize to them (and myself) to try to remain open to new ideas. Innovation often comes from unexpected sources and connections. By embracing different influences, we can create performances that feel fresh, engaging, and relevant. And especially in today’s world, when everyone is so accustomed to new, immersive experiences, it’s all the more reason to be open to presenting one’s music in ways that are not as traditional as they once were.

A Continuing Journey

Looking back, I am grateful that my path into music was not linear. Starting with the electric guitar gave me a foundation rooted in energy and expression. Classical training added depth, structure, and discipline. And equally importantly, my love and passion for other artforms and history opened me up in ways that allowed my art to come to be shaped and grow. By way of example, my desire to immerse myself in Buddhism and yoga led me to travels in Bali. This, in turn, led me to come to compose a piece of music that I would have never have been able to imagine or otherwise compose. I’d already been exposed to Balinese and Javanese music (generally referred to as gamelan music) years ago, and while I certainly had an appreciation for them, I’d never been moved to compose anything which incorporated sounds or techniques specifically from that music. As it happened, quite by chance, I discovered in one of my inflight magazines (!) that all the Balinese percussion instruments were manufactured in factories in a small town in the middle of the island. Of course, I was determined to go and discover these factories where these magnificent instruments were made. I took the magazine with me and figured that upon showing it to a driver, they’d be able to take me directly to the town and the factories. On that count, I was gravely mistaken. When I hired an experienced driver to take me to this town and the factories, he had absolutely no idea what in the world the magazine was talking about! He conferred with a number of other knowledgeable people in the area, and they were able to locate the tiny town on a map, and at least, we had a relative destination to go to. Once we arrived in the vicinity of the town- more of a village (there were no street signs or anything to guide one to any specific place), the driver asked each person that we’d meet along the way, where the village and factories were. No-one had heard of the “factories,” but at least they had some idea of where to direct us. With tremendous difficulty, I explained to the driver exactly what we were looking for, and the villagers came to understand that we were referring to the people who made these metal objects that were used in their music. We finally arrived at a dirt road where we were directed to the “factories.” Of course, as a westerner, I’d been imagining some grand places, similar to where Paiste and Zildjian percussion instruments were manufactured (those happen to be two of the leading companies that create percussion instruments in the U.S.). As we drove on the dirt road, we began to notice some extremely old shacks with large courtyards, where for the most part, very old men were seated cross legged on the ground, banging and clanging away at metallic objects. Little did I know that those were the “factories” to which the writer of the article had referred! And in fact, they were nothing like factories as we imagine them in the west. Perhaps we might refer to them as somewhat dilapidated workshops, at best. But after over three hours of driving through unpaved terrain and nameless dirt roads and asking dozens of people for directions, I was incredibly excited to see and experience what these old men were doing and making. And once I entered the first of these workshops, I was overwhelmed with a sense of musical awe that I hadn’t experienced in decades. The workshop was run by the owner and several highly skilled craftsmen, who were making these exquisite instruments on the ground, but with impeccable precision and intonation. I immediately asked for a mallet and permission to strike the gongs and various other instruments they had, and they were more than happy to oblige my seemingly absurd enthusiasm. I went from instrument to instrument, testing each one out, and out of curiosity, pulled out my iPhone (which had a tuner on it), and tested the intonation of the instruments. They were perfect — perfectly exquisite. There were several of these workshops, and I made my way through all of them, doing the same thing at each one. For those of you not familiar with gongs, the smaller ones can have a rather high pitched, pleasant tone. But as one begins to strike the larger ones- at least 3–4 feet in diameter- not only do they possess a powerful, low tone, but one can actually feel the reverberation of the gong in one’s entire body, and the sound can waft in the air for quite some time with just one blow of the mallet. On the way back to my hotel, all I could think of was the extraordinary experience that I’d just had, and one that was incomparable to any other musical experience I’d ever had before.

Once I returned home from Bali, I felt changed in so many ways, emotionally, culturally, and artistically. As I’d been experimenting with those instruments on that fateful day, I knew immediately that I was going to compose a piece with them, and with a cultural element of the island in my next piece. As it turned out, I composed one of the works I’m most proud of, titled “Shrotavyasya.” The title translates from Sanskrit as “toward all that is to be heard.” Without going into too much detail, it was inspired simultaneously by the very large gongs I’d experienced on that trip (that had resonated through my entire body), as well as Hindu and Buddhist philosophies, which had been very central to my time in Bali. You can hear and view the live premiere of the piece, along with the multimedia that accompanied it, on my YouTube channel:

You’ll see and hear that this piece doesn’t sound anything like traditional gamelan music, nor does the multimedia look anything like Southeastern Asian art. And yet, the inspiration for both the music and the multimedia were very much rooted in that music and artwork. This is exactly what I’ve been attempting to achieve as a composer, conductor, and educator. In a sense, the entire journey of this article is about the journey of the mind and body, through different experiences, which can enrich all of us, but especially musicians and artists, if we open ourselves “toward all that is meant to be heard” (or to be experienced!).

The journey continues to evolve, as it must, otherwise, one would be relegated to re-creating the same work repeatedly, but just in differing guises. Each project, collaboration, and performance offers new insights. Music is constantly changing, and as artists, we must be willing to grow with it. For me, the goal is always the same- to create meaningful experiences which are highly personal but that hopefully connect with performers and audiences, and that explore the full range of what music and art can be.

For more info about me, please visit www.peymanfarzinpour.com.

You may find Farzinpour's music videos on YouTube:
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