François-Frédéric Guy had his doubts about becoming a pianist, but fate stepped in to keep him on track, he tells Michael Dervan

What does it take to become a successful pianist? Talent? Musicianship? Good luck? Business acumen? All of these, of course, and a lot more besides. And for a lot of players these days it also involves an extended stint on the competition circuit.

When I met French pianist François-Frédéric Guy in the smoky relaxation of the Café de la Musique in Paris, he was at pains to point out that he was no child prodigy. He sees himself as the opposite of "those very gifted young boys who start to play at nine and do their first concert with orchestra at 10. It took quite a long time to achieve something. I always knew what I wanted to do, but I didn't know the way of doing it. That takes such a long time, to find yourself, to find your way, not to rush."

He served his time doing the rounds of competitions. It was through the 1991 Dublin International Piano Competition that he first came to the attention of Irish audiences. He confined himself to just three composers, Brahms, Liszt and Schoenberg, and, as I noted at the time, "He got as far as the semi-finals, quite an achievement in the circumstances, and certainly showed a real appreciation of the fact that speed is not necessarily of the essence. His finely thought out performances of Liszt's Dante Sonata and Brahms's Third were among the most expansively conceived interpretations I heard during the 10 playing days of the competition."

He entered the Leeds Competition in 1993, when his failure to reach the finals was seen by some commentators as another juicy competition scandal. Guy admits he didn't play at his best, though he also mentions jury members jockeying for position for their favourites as having had an adverse effect on his chances.

By and large, he disapproves of music competitions, seeing their value primarily in the fact they force young musicians to develop their repertoire and provide a public platform for pianists at a time in their careers when concerts are hard to come by. Yet, as he tells it, nothing but good came out of his Leeds experience.

"I remember that Fou Ts'ong was in the jury and he supported me a lot, and he told me, 'François, stop doing these bullshit competitions. Come with me to Lago di Como. There is a place, like the Villa Medici for the composers, where pianists can stay for one year, relax, take time to work, think, meet some incredible people, great pianists of our time, and it will change your life.' So I did. And so it happened."

HIS STAY AT the International Piano Academy Lake Como, which has just seven places, was, "a dramatic turning point. When I arrived there I almost wanted to stop playing the piano. I was not confident enough. I think it's also what the jury in Leeds saw in my playing, somehow. Fifteen years on, I can see that. There was a lack of confidence. When I saw the incredible level of the people who were also admitted in this Lago di Como foundation, I thought, what am I doing here? I can't do this. I wanted to stop."

He consulted with American pianist Leon Fleisher, a pupil of Schnabel whose career was cut short in the mid-1960s when focal dystonia disabled his right hand. Fleisher had already become Guy's mentor at Como.

"I told him I wanted to become a conductor, that I couldn't play the piano at this level. I think I am a musician, that I have something to say, I told him. But I can't play the piano. Okay, he said, though of course he didn't agree with me at all. He wanted to see how far I would go with this psychiatric problem, you know. It really was a psychiatric problem. He told me, okay, fine, stop the piano."

Fleisher took the interest in conducting seriously, and wrote a recommendation that got Guy a much sought-after place on the conducting course at Tanglewood. But then, "someone called me. It was a lady. She had a programme in Radio France and during the summer she worked at the internationally renowned piano festival, La Roque d'Anthéron. She invited me to give a recital there. I thought, this could make me confident, could help a lot."

The time in Tanglewood could not be interrupted, advised Fleisher. It was either one or the other. "I cancelled Tanglewood. I had been too late for the application for Tanglewood, and only with Fleisher was I able to get in. But I cancelled it. He was never cross about it. I think he thought I made the right choice.

"What is the nicest thing in this story is that this woman, who invited me to La Roque, six or seven years later became my wife. Can you believe it? There is no . . . ," he searches for the word, and finally says in French, "hasard . . . Everything is written somewhere."

It's easy to see why Guy would think this way. La Roque d'Anthéron invited him back for the next 10 years or so. La Monde published a big feature about him. He made a CD of Beethoven's Hammerklavier which won glowing reviews. "Suddenly people started to be interested in my playing. I was not playing better than the day before, but . . . " The attention and success boosted his confidence.

"It's very human. You need some recognition. Of course you can believe in yourself, preach in the desert. You have to be really tough. I was tough. I'm still tough. I have a tough character. I'm not like all these young people who want to be here, there, everywhere immediately. I know how difficult it is, especially nowadays."

Fou Ts'ong was also instrumental in the next major career lift. Both Radu Lupu and Murray Perahia had rung him to enthuse about Guy's playing, and he in turn lifted the phone to a friend in Dublin, Peter Charleton, who joined the Guy bandwagon. He promoted concerts in Dublin and in London, at St John's, Smith Square, and then in the Wigmore Hall.

Adrian Jack's enthusiastic reviews in the Independent "helped me a lot" and "Peter convinced Rachel Bostock from Van Walsum Management to come to listen to me at the Wigmore." The connection was simple. Charleton had sung in the same choir in Dublin as Bostock's then husband.

"He convinced Rachel, who has at least 25 concerts a week on her agenda, to go to the Wigmore concert. She came. She liked it, and even came backstage to tell me. One month and a half after that I received a fax, what is your position? Of course I had no agent. Two months later I signed a contract in London. It was the real start of my career.

"I think my first concert was with Bernard Haitink. Rachel called me up: 'you have to go to the Lucerne Festival with Bernard Haitink'. I was really not prepared for this. It was hard to take. It gave me an incredible amount of experience. I grew up suddenly, like the teenagers when they are 13 or 14, suddenly they stretch in a month or two. This happened to me in 1999."

HE HAS HARDLY looked back since. The list of CDs now stretches to almost a dozen, and there's a DVD from a concert at La Roque d'Anthéron. The slow burn, the years spent building up his confidence may have been psychologically trying, but he's fully accepting of the twists and turns of his fate.

He auditioned for Simon Rattle after Leeds, "and even at the time I realised I was not prepared. I did not get any concerts from this audition. We just became a little bit friends." There are no regrets. "I was so provincial, you know. Somehow I'm still provincial, but in the right way now, escaping from the Parisian business, the London business. I protect myself now. Early on, I didn't know anything about the business.

"In my character I am the most enthusiastic man you can imagine. I have an incredible will, too. My life is music. I love music like you can't imagine. It's a part of my body, you know. And not just the piano. When I was at the Leeds Competition - and maybe it's why I didn't win - I was not practising enough, compared to my colleagues. I was listening only to Bruckner symphonies, all day, 24 hours a day, in the countryside. I was not practising.

"My dream was to conduct symphonies by Bruckner and Mahler, to listen to Beethoven string quartets, to be open to 20th-century music, to go to the premières of all the major works, to get to know the composers personally, to make them know that they could write music for me. The piano was an accident."

It was Como that changed all that. "Since that crisis, I have realised that the only way I could express myself in music was through the piano. I have the will and the enthusiasm, but I'm not the leader of a group. I'm very tough when I'm alone, but I couldn't lead an orchestra. I know that now. Strangely enough, I have the feeling I would be too dictatorial. I wouldn't be eaten by the orchestra, but I would be terrible. I would demand so much, musically speaking, that I think they couldn't stand me. They would fear me after two months. Finally, the piano is the way.

"I'm already so happy now, so blessed. I was given so many things. People gave me so many opportunities to express myself. I still think of it as a kind of accident. If Peter didn't sing with Rachel's husband, what would have happened? It could have happened later. Or not. Who knows?"

François-Frédéric Guy plays Bach, Bartók, Liszt and Beethoven at the National Concert Hall next Tues