IT was like any sort of marathon, I suppose. I didn't quite know what it involved until I did it. This year, with a 9.30 a.m. start in the subdued interior of the RDS Concert Hall on what seemed the most gloriously sunny day of the year, I started with the jury and kept step with them over eight days of sometimes glorious music-making. That amounted to no less than 53 hours of playing. Or, since I brought the music with me, I can look at it another way - as a stack of music which by the end of the semi-finals had reached a height of three feet and weighed over seven stone.
As a public event, the Guardian Competition (which until 1994 was under the banner of GPA) reaches its climax in the finals. The two nights at the National Concert Hall are glitzy social occasions and the television cameras relay live to the nation the young players' endeavours in some of the staples of the concerto repertoire. But, over the years, I have found myself much more drawn to the earlier rounds. For a start, young pianists have far greater experience at recitals than concertos. They seem less nervy when they've only themselves - and not also a full symphony orchestra - to account for. And also, the pressure seems to rise as the field narrows.
In all honesty, I have to admit the idealistic enthusiasm behind the plan to hear absolutely everything was quickly tempered. The first round, for all its peaks, includes extensive plateaux where technical proficiency dominates over musical inspiration. Here, the Dublin competition's open outlook on programming - play what you like, what you think makes a well-balanced programme - gives the listener ample scope for reflection.
"Ability to play in a variety of musical styles" is one of the competition's demands which players approach with a wide range of strategies. It's not what you play, it's the way that you play it, would seem to be the message, here.
Veterans of the Dublin competition know to expect a moment of unpleasant drama as the bell is rung for the first time to stop a player exceeding the time allocation. The ringing of the bell, however, is by no means terminal. It happened in an early round to Philippe Cassard, winner of the first competition in 1988. And, this year, Corrado Rollero, who'll be heard in the finals tomorrow night, was rung out in Round 2 before the end of Schubert's late B flat sonata.
Hearing not just so much music but so many players - up to 16 a day - is a slightly dizzying experience. The peaks are easy enough to recall, the plateaux become something of a blur.
It doesn't take long to get around to wondering what the international jury makes of it all. Juries, understandably, worry a lot more about technical proficiency, musical style and note accuracy than do audiences; the David Helfgott phenomenon is currently providing good witness to that. I remember hearing Artur Rubinstein claim in an interview once that on a scale of 20 he'd given marks of either 20 or zero, on the basis that neither you can play the piano or you can't". And, without being that extreme, a pianistically expert jury is hardly likely to disagree as much about the quality of the piano playing as about the merits of the music-making.
Not knowing the tall briefing the jury members get, I follow the competition with the simplest of two-question procedures. Do I want to hear this performer again? And, on the basis of what I've already heard, do I want to hear them in what they're offering next? For seasoned jurors, who may have beard a number of competitors in other contexts or have had them as pupils, the decision has to be a lot more complex.
My own choices tallied with 14 of the jury's 24 at the end of Round 1; with seven of the 12 at the end of Round 2; and with four (two strongly-felt, two less so) of the six who made it into the finals. But as to the remaining two, I'm still at a loss as to the nature of the musical thinking behind the jury's decision.
My own choices tallied with 14 of the jury's 24 at the end of Round 1; with seven of the 12 at the end of Round 2; and with four (two strongly-felt, two less so) of the six who made it into the finals. But as to the remaining two, I'm still at a loss as to the nature of the musical thinking behind the jury's decision.
The competition's best advertisement has always been its 1988 prizewinner, Philippe Cassard. The worthy 1991 winner, Pavel Nersessian, seems to have remained largely resting on his laurels in his native Russia. The winner in 1994, Davide Franceschetti has yet to deliver consistently on the suggestions of promise that prompted the jury to award the first prize to a 17-year-old. At this stage in its existence, the competition is badly in need of a strong first prizewinner to send out as a fresh ambassador into an ever more competitive musical world.
