At the end of our conversation, Andrew Manze says something puzzling. We’ve been speaking for nearly two hours, about Brahms, Bruckner, Brexit, orchestral honeymoons and the right time for a conductor to say goodbye; about tempi, literature, and how to nourish the imagination. Manze is a maestro, but our conversation is an antidote to the poisonous term. He’s neither brash nor arrogant nor a diva. He’s a witty storyteller, an avid listener and a cultivated host. I’d heard Manze a few times in concert, where the freshness and spontaneity of his performances struck me. I was familiar with his early recordings as a violinist, which convey an almost anarchic spirit. And I kept hearing his name in conversations with musicians. Few conductors are mentioned quite as often as Manze when players talk about their favorite people to work with. It was high time to meet him. Saying our goodbyes, Manze tells me, “When I heard that you were coming, I thought, ‘Gosh, I’m not interesting enough. I’m sure the article will be very colorless.’” What kind of conductor is this guy?
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