Johann Nepomuk Hummel

Yours truly, when I was still rosy about the cheeks.

It might be a bit much to swallow, but I am here on special assignment from a Higher Power. It appears my work – which was almost completely forgotten during the onslaught of Romanticism – has, in recent years, piqued the interest of quite a few appreciators of fine music.
Actually, my main objective isn’t as selfish as you might think, and I most certainly am not here to boast. My purpose on MySpace is simple: I am here to bring attention to the great music of our past (with the hope of seeing it become more of an example for the future). (I saw that my good friend Wolfgang Mozart had tried it, so I thought, why not.)
I imagine it’s necessary to give a bit of biographical information, so here goes:
I was born on the 14th of November, 1778, in Pressburg, Austrian Empire, now Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia. My father, Josef Hummel, was the director of the Imperial School of Military Music and the conductor of the Theatre Orchestra there. As you can imagine, I got my love of music from him.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the eternal master (and the hardest-working composer that ever lived).

At the age of seven, I began receiving music lessons from the master himself, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Although I was so young then, I do remember Mozart being pleased with my progress at such a young age. He was demanding, though quick to praise. Mozart housed and taught me for the next two years (free of charge). Only two years after beginning my studies with the master, I gave my first big concert.
My father then led me on a European tour. When I arrived in London, I began receiving instruction from Muzio Clementi. I stayed for four years before returning to Vienna. In 1791, Joseph Haydn, who was in London at the same time as I, composed for me a sonata in A-flat. I premiered the piece for Haydn in the Hanover Square Rooms. Yes, what you’ve heard is true. For my performance, Haydn gave me a guinea (which, if I remember correctly, I spent on sweets).
The outbreak of the French Revolution caused me to cancel a planned tour through Spain and France. Instead I gave concerts to earn my way back to Vienna. After returning to Vienna, I received instruction from Johann Georg Albrechtsberger, Joseph Haydn, and Antonio Salieri.

My dear friend Franz Schubert. He never wrote a note I didn’t wish was my own.

It was at about this time that a young Ludwig van Beethoven arrived in Vienna. He and I were both students of Haydn and Albrechtsberger. I must say, we became fast friends. Yes, what you’ve heard is true. I was quite jealous of him, although I can’t say that I felt too inferior. In the years to come, my teachers and admirers lauded both Beethoven and myself as apparent equals. (To be fair, I saw in Beethoven something raw and exceptional that I never saw in myself. He was truly a unique master of his craft.) Sadly, though, my friendship with Beethoven wasn’t enough to temper the animus between our admirers. It seems some of our “followers” saw fit to vilify each other. I like to think it was this unfortunate mess that brought us closer together. Before Beethoven’s death, I visited him in Vienna on several occasions. Following Beethoven’s wishes, I improvised at the master’s memorial concert. (To illustrate just how blessed I was, it was at this event that I became good friends with Franz Schubert, whose music soars with that of any composer I’ve ever known.)

Franz Joseph Haydn, whose work continues to endure.

In 1804, I succeeded Haydn as Kapellmeister to Prince Esterházy’s establishment at Eisenstadt. I held this post for seven years before being dismissed for neglecting my duties. (What can I saw – I’d spread myself too thin.) Following this, I toured Russia and Europe and married the opera singer Elisabeth Röckel. We had two wonderful sons.
I later held the position of Kapellmeister at Stuttgart and Weimar, where I formed a close friendship with Goethe and Schiller, colleagues of mine at the Weimar Theatre. During my stay in Weimar, I did everything in my power to make the city into a European musical capital, inviting the best musicians of the day to visit and make music there. I started one of the first pension programs for fellow musicians, giving benefit concert tours when musicians’ retirement funds ran low. In addition, I became one of the first to fight for musical copyrights against intellectual pirating.
While in Germany, I published A Complete Theoretical and Practical Course of Instruction on the Art of Playing the Piano Forte (1828), which sold thousands of copies within days of its publication and brought about a new style of fingering and of playing ornaments. (Some years after my death, I came to learn that my techniques were influencing 19th century pianists. This was made possible through my instruction of Carl Czerny – always a delightful pupil, as I remember – who later taught Franz Liszt.)

Franz Liszt, whose fearless style of playing characterized the piano virtuosi who came after me.

My main oeuvre is for the piano (the pianoforte, to be exact), the instrument I feel I was born to play. During my lifetime, I wrote eight piano concertos, ten piano sonatas, eight piano trios, a piano quartet, a piano quintet, a wind octet, a cello sonata, two piano septets, a mandolin concert, a mandolin sonata, a trumpet concerto in E Major (usually heard in the more convenient key of E-flat Major), some four-hand piano music, 22 operas and Singspiels, masses, and much more. I know what you’re thinking: What, no symphony? Well, I found myself quite perplexed by Beethoven’s innovations in this arena. I was never able to properly tackle this form myself. (There was that one commendable effort . . . which I quickly destroyed.)
At the end of my life, I saw the rise of a new school of young composers and virtuosi. I quickly found that my own playing fell into disfavor. My Clementi style (characterized by a clean, disciplined technique) opposed me to the rising school of bravura and pyrotechnics displayed by the likes of Liszt and Giacomo Meyerbeer. I began to compose less and less, although I received much respect and encouragement from all directions. I died peacefully in Weimar in 1837.
In December 2005, the BBC aired a one-week feature on me and my works in their “Composer of the Week” series. Astonishingly, they devoted an hour a day for five days to me! It truly is remarkable how much affection one can receive after death.
But, like I said, I am not here to boast. I merely thought you should know how I fit into this whole puzzle we call life.
Yours in music,
Jan Hummel