“I think music matters, in and of itself. I don’t think it carries meaning — I don’t think it communicates anything concrete — [but] it has worth just for itself. The interest of a chord progression, of a rhythm, of a timbre. The combination of these elements. This has worth on its own.”
Sam Rudd-Jones
Sam Rudd-Jones is a British composer, pianist, and electronic artist based in London. The rhythms of his music are characterised by the use of grooves from rap and electronic music, as well as endlessly accelerating and decelerating tempos. Sam has worked with performers such as Darragh Morgan, Huw Watkins, and Kate Romano, and ensembles such as the Aurora Orchestra, King’s Voices, and members of the BBC Symphony Orchestra; he was a BBC Young Composer in 2016, and National Youth Orchestra composer in 2017. Sam is currently a Britten-Pears Young Artist of 2024-25, learning with Colin Matthews and Mark-Anthony Turnage; he is also commencing study towards a PhD with George Benjamin at King’s College, London, with an London Arts and Humanities Partnership scholarship. Sam studied at King’s College, University of Cambridge with Richard Causton (2018-22), and studied privately with Julian Anderson (2023-4). He also releases electronic music under his own name.
Sam’s debut album Three Sonatas, featuring performances by Darragh Morgan, Kate Romano, and Huw Watkins, was released on 4 October 2024 on Prima Facie Records — with an album launch taking place at the Voces8 Centre, London. Following the album’s release, we caught up with Sam at the Barbican cinema café, London, to discuss his use of sonata form, comfort zones, music-as-itself, and pushing against genre expectations…
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Zyggy/PRXLUDES: We’re talking following the premiere and release of your debut album, Three Sonatas, which released on 4th October 2023 on Prima Facie Records. Tell me a bit about the record and the process behind the pieces on the album…
Sam Rudd-Jones: So the album takes its title from the largest piece on it, which is ‘Three Sonatas’. Essentially, that piece is a three-movement trio sonata: the violin sonata is the first movement, the clarinet sonata a slow movement/scherzo, and the trio sonata a finale. They all have the same kind of first-movement sonata form.
When I wrote it, I was really into this ultra-formalist way of thinking. I really enjoyed the clunkiness of sonata form. -laughs- I remember reading the idea that your form should arise from your material. It’s funny, I agree with that now; but at the time, I was slightly annoyed by this — I thought “no, you know what? I’m gonna make the structure like a concrete building, and pour in a first subject, pour in a second subject, pour in a development…” Which is, apparently, the opposite of what natural sonata procedure — or any formal procedure — is. I think that is true, [but] it was fun to be very consciously structural.
It has these framing movements in-between — a prologue, two interludes, and an epilogue — little palette cleansers. It’s trying to draw attention to how formalised, ordered, ritualistic even, that the structure is. The seven movements run semi-continuously, and create this great big block of structure.
While the ‘Three Sonatas’ piece constitutes the bulk of the album, you’ve also recorded a number of solo works for the record…
There’s the ‘Variations’ — which I suppose are also very formalist by their title! Solo violin’s a challenging genre — I don’t know if you’ve given it a spin… I think it’s not controversial to say the Chaconne of Bach’s D Minor Partita is kind of the clear winner of “best solo violin piece”, and it’s not really even close. I think there’d not be many people who would debate that. -laughs-. I think the cyclical harmonic basis of a Chaconne or Variations is key, because you don’t have much going on with the violin; [so] by having a variation structure with a repeating chord progression, you can kind of imagine that chord progression going on throughout the piece even when it’s not literally there. It slightly remedies the issue of sparseness that you get in solo pieces — it gives something very rigid to build upon, because you otherwise just have this endless melodic line.
Then there’s ‘Jeux d’eau’ on the album — a pretty transparent tribute to the Ravel and Liszt pieces of the same name. I played those, and I think at the piano Debussy and Ravel is where I’m most at home. So much of that’s inspired by water. I think it’s clear that I like genre interplay, I like having something to push against — sonata form, variations — [and] there’s almost a canon of “water music” from Liszt, Ravel, Debussy. That gave a springboard to write a solo piano piece; and I wanted a vehicle for myself to play, of course. It’s proved quite a divisive piece, I’ve found…
In what ways do you feel like the piece is divisive?
I try my best to wear [it] as a badge of honour; but for some people, they read it as a neo-Impressionist pastiche thing. And then other people — including one pianist, who likes this kind of thing — like the absurd flashiness, and crazed virtuosity. No surprise that a virtuoso pianist would like that… -laughs- But from what I’m gonna be doing onwards, I am gonna try to be less directly referential to 19th, or 18th, or early 20th Century music. Probably because I feel like I’ve done that now.
Something that’s been present in all of the pieces you’ve discussed is a particular referentiality to older forms. You mentioned deliberately using a rigid version of sonata form — what is it about these forms that appealed to you?
I want something to push against, musically. It’s probably not gonna be contemporary stuff, because it’s like: if you decided you were gonna be in dialogue with Ligeti — I guess people could do that, he’s in the canon — it’s verging on the plagiarism category. It’s difficult territory, because he’s a contemporary figure. But using older works… It’s a bit like when T.S. Eliot quotes Greek literature. It’s so far back [that] it doesn’t hit the same tone as “stealing”. I guess it’s the eternal problem of contemporary music: where do you start? What’s your basis, where are you anchoring yourself? For me, a quite explicit dialogue was a good way to do this. I guess I’m using a slightly postmodern frame, in that you’re validating the use of certain elements by making them references. I can’t say that’s my normal space, but there’s an aspect of that that’s unavoidable.
But looking for a starting point: for me, it’s very unlikely to be an external, nonmusical thing. That’s how I operate, that’s how I work. I’m very technically focused within music. I’ve never felt links with other artforms very keenly — bless the people that do, it’s a very rich and stimulating thing if you’re into that (colours, literature) — but not me. I need some music to get going, and it starts there.
You talked a bit about wanting something to push against, structurally — what was it in these sonatas you felt able, or unable, to push against within the form?
The thing I always thought about sonata form is that it’s rather complicated, actually. There’s so many possible procedures, [and] it allows you to have quite a complex structure, and for people to still be able follow it, because they know the template. If you just think about it: you have an exposition that’s repeated, a development, and a recapitulation; [in the exposition] you have a first subject, a bridge passage, a medial caesura, a second subject, a closing zone, and a few emphatic cadences. And then that repeats and you do that all again. And then we’re still only halfway through! If I was trying to pull a structure out of thin air for a contemporary piece, it wouldn’t end up being that complicated. I’d probably have two builds, or something. There’s nothing wrong with that, it works very well — I love Boléro very much. -laughs- [But] it allows you to do something more complicated.
It’s a lot of fun to make something that sounds like a first subject, [or] sounds like a second subject. Even things like exposition versus development — they’re profoundly different spaces, even if you’re doing it with a somewhat modernist harmonic language. It’s very different, the procedures used in each. You can write a first subject block that’s like fifty seconds, and you can be confident that you’ll find a way to continue the piece from there. It’s unlikely that the continuation is going to cause you to massively rewrite that block, and you don’t have have to consider whether maybe that block should actually go in the middle, or the end of the piece, like you might have to in a freer form.
So even with a small piece of material, you can create a whole work out of it — and you don’t have to think too much about form.
Exactly. And each time you start, it’s like: well, I need to get a first and second subject, I need to link those up, and then I need to work out the development and come up with a nice idea for the recap… I mean, they still took a long time to sort out. They can become pretty modular and revisable — I can’t remember exactly many goes I took at each bit, but it took a few bridge passages in the trio sonata before I was happy. You can slide them in and out. It’s convenient, when you’re working on something. It’s one strategy, there’s many others — I can’t proselytize, because I’m not doing it again, I’ve done it now. -laughs- The unintentional echoes will continue though; I’m sure I’ll be writing accidental second subjects in pieces without thinking about it, because it’s hard not to when you’ve done that for a while.
I’d like to pick up on something you said earlier — that you’re technically focused within music. You’ve said before that you like music because “it is the most abstract art form” — what is it about the abstraction of music, as an artform, that resonates with you?
It’s a very personal thing, to start with. I think music is the most abstract artform — that’s almost factual — I think one has to consider that. But it’s personal, because I’m really at heart a very mathematical thinker. Music’s probably the only art form I could just about dip my toes into, besides maybe abstract painting… I was never gonna try writing, in any form, or something like that. That’s what appeals [to me] about music — it’s really technical, in a way.
But by saying that, what I’m trying to get at is: in a lot of places — I feel it’s especially common now — people will say their music is inspired by, or is about, x or y. It might be about nature, or queerness, or social media. In a way, that’s great; if you’ve got something that’s genuinely inspirational to you, then that’s fantastic, mine it for all it’s worth. But there’s a subtextual point: it almost feels to me like the implication here is music per se — music qua music — doesn’t actually have any interest, and doesn’t really matter; it only matters insofar as it can be linked to something that does matter. Music doesn’t matter, but link it to nature, which matters… -laughs- It’s interesting to say: no, I think music matters, in and of itself. I don’t think it carries meaning — I don’t think it communicates anything concrete — [but] it has worth just for itself. The interest of a chord progression, of a rhythm, of a timbre. The combination of these elements. This has worth on its own.
I think when we listen to music, and value it, that actually is what we value. Because it’s hard to talk about it clearly, especially for people who are not “technically educated”, for the average music enjoyer. “Oh, I love the 1-6 progression there, the way this has a non-diatonic mode”: I believe they do feel that — they hear it, and they like it, but that means the technical stuff is almost out of reach in music dialogue. But that’s what it’s about; the joy of how pitches, and rhythms, and timbres, rub off on each other. I explicitly want to say this is worthwhile — this is what I’m interested in. It’s a fine line; the links are fine, but if it must be linked to something else — it must be linked to something in the real world — it feels like it’s undermining the worth of music.
I guess one could argue it’s denying the materiality of the sound itself.
Right. You have to answer the question: why is your work not a poem, or a play, a painting, a film? If you can’t be sure why it’s music… I love generic titles like ‘Symphony’, or ‘Concerto’, or ‘Sonata’. It says “I’m not gonna give you anything, no link to the real world”; no provocative poetic title. I like it, because it says you’re gonna have to work out what this means to you. But that makes it intensely personal, in a way. If there’s literally no link in the music to the world, you have to make it all up yourself.
You choose a provocative title, and you have to fulfill it; things are read in its context. I’m not suggesting anyone call a piece “Electricity” — it would be really generic — but let’s say you did: you’ve got a lot to fulfill there, don’t you? Everyone’s gonna ask, where’s the flowing electrons? -laughs- But what’s nice is, if you give [the piece] an abstract title, you control the expectations within the music; things can change, you can handle that.
And then, because you’ve abstracted it enough — the audience are able to find their own interpretations within it.
You know the cliché that “great art is open to interpretation”? It’s rather true. You’re trying to create something that people can project onto, [that] they can read their own meaning — whatever that is — into it. Surely you feel it when you go to the piano, and you play a certain chord; and you feel like there’s an exact spot in your brain that one [chord] touches? It’s nice you can hit very certain spots, and play with that a bit, without having to say explicitly what they are — because it kills the magic.
I’m really reminded of academic fields like new materialism, or spectralism on the composition side — is that something you see yourself exploring in the future?
Yeah I would like to. I’m always a bit scared of things I don’t know very well. Especially spectralism — the people who do it are so dedicated to it, that I can’t imagine just dipping my toes in. I’ve mostly worked with chamber instruments, in contexts where you’re a bit limited on the timbral front. Getting completely involved with that might be tricky. My hands are full with pitches and rhythms — I do my best with timbre, too, but there’s only so much you can deal with… -laughs-
But the more exposure you’ll have to different ensemble groupings, the more comfortable you’ll get exploring timbre.
That’s true. I’ve been writing for pianos and violins for the past two years or so — that’s home ground. I like my comfort zone. -laughs- I’d advocate for the comfort zone, actually; I think most great art is actually created within the comfort zone. That’s maybe a controversial opinion… You need to push it occasionally, but comfort zones are great.
I think it wouldn’t be unfair to say that I know the piano well. I know the violin pretty well; my partner’s an amateur violinist, so I have one at hand at all times. But I can’t remember what the flute extended techniques are… Again, there’s people who do that well — the Rebecca Saunders of the world — and they know every instruments back to front. And again, when there’s people who are really good at something, I find it hard to get into it — I don’t want to be a discount extended-technique-knower. I don’t wanna half-arse it. Do you know Gérard Pesson?
Not super well, but I’m familiar with a couple of pieces.
He’s not so well-known here — but I heard of him from someone at Guildhall. There’s this piece, ‘Nebenstück’; it’s a clarinet quintet, and it’s an overpainting-transcription of a Brahms Ballade, Op. 10 No. 4. You see the techniques he’s using — brushing on the body of the instrument, airy sounds — I’ve seen the score, and you’d need like a week with string players to create this. I admire this very much, but I wouldn’t even try and do anything close to this — because it’s not my speciality. That’s [a] comfort zone, isn’t it?
I don’t know. I think there’s kind of two ways of looking at that. You’ve got your comfort zone — stuff you’re very familiar with — but you also need to extend your comfort zone or you don’t evolve artistically.
I think “extend your comfort zone” is a good way of putting it. Obviously, extension is very important to us — it’s a horrible cliché about “stretching yourself” — but it’s probably not your very first attempt at a new zone [which] is great. You have to bring it in to what you’re good at.
I can think of one composer — whose music I like very much but shall remain nameless — that I percieve as having three or four main modes. And all of them are astonishinly beautiful. These modes are definitely in their comfort zone at this point, but their usage of them is very well developed and can express a range of emotions. This composer’s best pieces are truly incredible, really singular. However, I think many people would find this characterisation to be incredibly offensive. -laughs- Unless I was feeling really brave, I don’t think I’d ever directly say it to the composer in question.
The world of contemporary music is so massive — let’s have some humility. It’s like, you’re not gonna do much of it very well; you’re just gonna do a few corners well. This really goes for everyone, including people who are considered really “technical” composers. You have your combinations — you’re really good at a certain rhythmic profile, or a certain anchor-based symmetrical chromatic thing, or diatonic modes with some extra notes — and it makes sense to be a specialist in a few techniques. I guess you choose the techniques so that you can express a range of moods, but there should be no shame in having them. If there are to be lots of composers who are all worthwhile — which is what I’d hope for in a scene — it’s because they should each be uniquely good at their own thing. And I mean “their own thing” in a technical way. That’s what it means to be good within your comfort zone.
The thing is, surely some people find that idea of the comfort zone limiting? Like they’re boxed in…
I choose that word to be gently provocative. We always say “oh, get out your comfort zone, get out your comfort zone” — it’s fun to reclaim the comfort zone a little bit.
I think it’s difficult, as well, because established artists are valued for their range; and upcoming artists are valued for what specfically they do — their thing. So there’s a comparison that you’ll see [in] whoever you admire, the great figures; they’re probably praised for their versatility — “she can write dramatic operas, and she can write virtuosic concertos, she can do introspective solo pieces…” — and one assumed that must be something really important. But when you’re an emerging artist, first you get known for one thing; you get known for something narrow, [but] it’s something you work at, you’re really familiar with.
I get that. You’re praised for having a speciality when you’re first starting out.
It’s kind of a personal point of pride not to do the same thing over and over again. But the criticism of doing the same thing over and over can only occur once people are actually hearing your music. Though as a composer, you still have to try to write whatever you really want to listen to. I think you have to curate prejudiced, strong, knee-jerk judgements — or you can tie yourself in knots forever thinking about why you don’t like x, or whether you should give it another hearing. I don’t love most slow, ambient music and find it boring — it’s a personal thing — I know I’m in the minority here, or I have particularly frenetic requirements. It’s probably unfair to judge music in that blanket a way — but that’s the point of taste: it’s personal, it’s unfair, it’s judgemental. You need to have those reactions to make any progress about what you like.
If everyone had the same taste, the world would be a very boring place.
Right, exactly. That’s how I’d consider music, as well; honestly, I think it’s so richly varied, because people have very strongly held different views about what’s worthwhile, what’s not. I can dislike [some] music on a really fundamental level, but be happy we have such a range of things in our scene. I think that’s the craziest thing [about] the contemporary music scene which makes it special, and not like any other genre: it’s a massive tent. It’s so much wider than anything else.
There’s a really great article by Hanna Grześkiewicz about this — that it’s become very hard to define the term “new music”…
Sometimes, I do wish there were agreed-upon things that one was working towards. I think they’re kind of there; it’s just they’re so subtextual. All one can do is take pride in it. Occasionally, I’ll listen to Beethoven and I’ll be yearning for some kind of comprehensive “classical” style — “god, I wish we had this unified thing where we knew what we were aiming towards” — but it’s blown open. Once Pandora’s Box is open, you don’t go back, do you? There’s so many possibilities of rules, or trends, you can follow. The only option is to take pride in the extreme diversity of aesthetics, and try and fit in somewhere.
So let’s take stock of your compositional journey: you’re a Britten Pears Young Artist of 2024-25, and you’ve just started a PhD at King’s College London with George Benjamin, which is taking place until 2027. Where do you see your compositional lexicon and explorations developing?
At a certain level, I wouldn’t be seen dead naming any zones or scenes that I feel that I’d fit in. It’s for other people to do, to some extent. I see myself writing more pieces, really. It depends on what happens — you get opportunistic with ensembles and things. I’m working on a two piano piece at the moment, for myself and Tyler Hay; that’s comfort zone music, actually, because it’s two pianos. I want to write for orchestra, but that’s dependent on external factors.
I know what I’m trying to do musically. It’s hard to put into words, and it sounds worse when you say it out loud. -laughs- I guess I’m trying to not do what I’ve done on this album; push things further. I’m gonna give up on the referential dialogue with older music for a bit — I’ve already done it — [and] be less indulgent in using neoromantic formulations. I’m trying to really think deeply about modernist aesthetic ideas: challenge myself to embody them a bit further, and do things that couldn’t, on a low level, be mistaken for 19th Century musical logic.
I’m always trying to blend electronic music in — always. I’ve been doing it for years. I’m trying to push that further; I think it’s a potentially interesting point that’s not been fully explored. That’s another angle. Especially with rhythm and stuff; I think many people haven’t quite cottoned on to the full implications of what electronic music rhythms could do to classical music.
We’ve not actually talked about your electronic music, yet — despite the fact that being a rapper and electronic artist are both integral facets of your artistic practice. What is it about this method of practice that appeals to you?
Well, it’s different, isn’t it? It scratches a very different itch. I think the expectations of the form you’re writing in — whether it’s a contemporary classical composition, or a two and a half minute electronic track with vocals that are rapped and sung — encodes so much of what you’re gonna do. It guides you a massive amount. Once you’ve had a taste of how differently a form completely changes the process, then it’s hard to go back. -laughs-
It’s become a thing of our generation — there’s very few of us who are exclusively native classical-music-only thinkers. Pretty much everyone’s got a parallel track of all the popular music they like; everyone’s got their zone. For me, it’s always mostly been electronic music in the broadest sense — and hip hop’s included in that. And once you’ve started making music like this: being technically minded, I just get obsessed with the logic of loop-based music, how it’s so different to classical music. How you can tie these loops up, and play with repetition, with variation. You get very invested in all the things you can do.
And I guess one can argue the approach to harmony ends up being simpler…
It’s also an opportunity to use tonality in a much simpler way. I learnt at university about harmony and counterpoint, 19th Century styles. I actually teach it a bit now; it’s like a constant presence in my life. But it’s relevant to writing pop music — there’s pretty big differences, too, but that type of study does foster a pretty deep interest in tonality. And writing electronic music scratches that itch, to some extent; you can work with some really simple tonal elements, and it doesn’t feel hackneyed, and boring, to me.
I don’t have quite the right frame to do that in my instrumental music. For people who have a well-developed postmodern, or metamodern, aesthetic — they have a way of doing that, and that’s great. They’ve got the appropriate frame, and it works. But for the kind of instrumental music I like, it wouldn’t really work. So [electronic music] gives you an opportunity to explore that. You get that bug, and you just wanna keep making it. -laughs- It feels “of the present” to have two tracks; there’s quite a few people who have two things going on.
Or having two lanes, and finding ways in your practice for them to intersect.
Two people come to mind… Anna Meredith proved it was possible, right? I think her two practices are not so far apart, actually, but maybe that happens over time. I can’t say she’s a direct musical inspiration, though some of her tracks are awesome. She proved you could do it. And there’s Oliver Coates, as well; he started off being this contemporary music cellist — a really good one — and he’s released some electronic dance albums, based around the cello, that are really cool. I met him on NYO [National Youth Orchestra] actually, seven years ago, and we liked some of the same music; [we’re] both massive fans of Autechre, who are the greatest musicians to have ever lived. Slight exaggeration — but only slight. -laughs-
I’m not sure where you sit on this — but for me, it feels a bit disingenuous to keep these two sides of our practices separate, right? Like, if we work in both these disciplines, we’ll always be influenced by non-classical music in our instrumental works — and vice versa.
I’ve only got one damn brain. I’ve been working on quite a few tracks recently — that’s been in my mind — and I sit down, and was writing a piano duo the last few days… And I start thinking in terms of loops, how four-bar phrases are gonna work — in the electronic music sense. And then impregnates your mind, and then it goes back and forth.
It’s quite fun dealing with the issues that creates, right? I’m sure you must have had the experience [of] talking to teachers who are such classical music natives. I envy them, in many ways — it’s wonderful, their knowledge of the repertoire and canon. But there is this massive point of difference. I don’t know what the cultural force is, but everyone our age — instrumental composers, that is — seems to like pop music too, and have their favourite [artists]. It’s something about easy access to culture because of the internet. You’re not gonna be insular.
I guess the idea of being genre-fluid, or “post-genre”, might have been seen as quite a revolutionary thing even five, ten years ago. But now it’s an entirely normal thing.
It’s one of those words I love — and one of those words I hate. -laughs- Genre-fluid’s great — I mean, take in as much as you can without your head exploding. You want to have maximum influence, that’s not gonna discombobulate you. Post-genre… it’s so difficult. I like the idea that within the crazy diversity, there’s these groupings, and scenes; and of course, the artists hate that they might be understood by being grouped with other people. I once made the mistake of asking Steve Reich in a composer Q&A a question with the word minimalism in it — and he doesn’t like that. Whereas most people use that word all the time; it’s pretty useful to refer to [that] scene.
There’s a tension. Artists don’t want to be pigeonholed, of course — but I think there should be commonalities in our language. I think that’s the foundation of interesting music: discourse, dialogue, pushing against genre expectations. That’s what makes a certain thing innovative, or surprising, or different. Most things have been “done” before — but the question of how those different “done” things can interact with each other is really endlessly interesting.
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Sam Rudd-Jones’ debut album Three Sonatas is available on Prima Facie Records – you can stream and download the album at:
- https://www.prestomusic.com/classical/products/9665904–sam-rudd-jones-three-sonatas
- https://open.spotify.com/album/0NCVY9yo5DSuVP5ouNAOGI?si=OLjItULdRUy1hcaQg-65Ng
Learn more about Sam and his practice at:
- https://samruddjones.com/
- https://soundcloud.com/samruddjones
- https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC4KC-b93gL5WLhCilN9YGQw
- https://www.instagram.com/sam.rudd.jones
References/Links:
- J.S. Bach – Partita for Violin No. 2, V. Chaconne (1717-1720)
- Maurice Ravel – Boléro (1928)
- Gérard Pesson – Nebenstück (1998)
- Johannes Brahms – Ballade, Op. 10 No. 4 (1854)
- Hanna Grześkiewicz, ‘I Don’t Know What ‘New Music’ Is’, Alternative Classical (2022)
- Oliver Coates – Upstepping (PRAH Recordings, 2016)
