A Musical genius describes his love of China, London, Rachmanin off and the Beatles

The Hilton Beijing Wangfujing might be five star but this does not usually necessitate the piano in one of its bars having to be played by one of the world's most famous classical musicians. Vladimir Ashkenazy, the 73-year-old Russian pianist, who has a boyish, almost impish manner, was sportingly obliging our photographer by performing a turn at the keyboard.

Vladimir Ashkenazy, Hilton Hotel in Beijing, Nov.11 2010. Photos by Liu Zhe

"It's out of tune," he laughed, as hotel staff hovered nervously in the background. The piano was not supposed to be played at this time in the afternoon but there are certain guests for which exceptions have to be made.

Ashkenazy was having a rest day after flying in from his home of 30 years in Switzerland before beginning rehearsals for a concert at Beijing's National Center for the Performing Arts, better known as The Egg, where he has been a regular performer since it opened more than three years ago.

The following day would be taken over by rehearsals and then on the day of the concert he likes to get mentally prepared.

"Usually half an hour or an hour of sleep would be nice but sometimes you can't fall asleep. There is no routine really. I get excited but not negatively nervous," he says.

Ashkenazy is renowned on the concert circuit for his punishing schedule, often performing more than 100 concerts a year, despite being in his eighth decade.

He is back in China next month, this time conducting Mahler's 10th Symphony at the Shanghai Concert Hall.

The Russian, who remarkably has been among the elite of world pianists for more than half a century, was one of a few international musicians who played a leading role in bringing Western classical music back to China after the "cultural revolution" (1966-76).

He recalls giving a recital in Beijing in 1979 to an audience, which was somewhat misbehaved being unused to the hushed etiquette of concert halls.

"The noise in the hall was quite unbelievable because they all had squeaky chairs and moved all the time. They also talked to each other, rather than whispered. It is nothing like this now," he says.

Nonetheless, some members in modern Chinese audiences, which are often never short of enthusiastic, are not averse to even answering their mobile phones during a performance.

Ashkenazy says he is never distracted and very much in his own zone when playing.

"I have a good defense mechanism. When I am here (at the piano) I am playing and I had better concentrate. I block the noises out. It is psychologically very special. You are alone and no one can help you," he says.

He likes the new Beijing concert hall, designed by the French architect Paul Andreu and which sits imposingly to the west of Tian'anmen Square.

"The sound is wonderful, absolutely first class. It is one of the best I know, " he says.

He compares it with London, where concert-goers have to make do with the poor acoustics of the Royal Albert Hall, a relic of the Victorian era, and the 60-year-old Royal Festival Hall.

"There is no great concert hall in the most important city in the world," he says with regret.

Ashkenazy has a special affection for London because it was there, while on a visit in 1963 as one of the Soviet Union's highest profile musicians, he decided not to return to his homeland.

"I stayed there on a Soviet passport for nine years. I didn't ask for political asylum. The Brits were marvelous. They gave me a residence stamp in my passport," he says.

From there he went on to have a stellar career, performing around the world and winning several Grammy awards for his innumerable recordings.

He has combined playing with conducting holding many positions, including principal conductor of the Deutsches Symphonie Orchester Berlin. He is currently chief conductor of the Sydney Symphony Orchestra.

One thing striking about Ashkenazy is his hands, not long and slim-fingered as you would imagine but strong muscular slabs, almost like a farmer's. He has suffered from arthritis, which has restricted some of his solo playing.

"They could be better but I can't complain," he says. "I don't know what is a perfect pianist's hand. They mustn't be too small though. I see some Oriental girl (pianists) with tiny hands. They can hardly get an octave and then they get it very uncomfortably. Their repertoire would be limited."

Ashkenazy is universally acknowledged as one of the greatest ever performers of the music of his fellow Russian Sergei Rachmaninoff, particularly the turbulent Piano Concerto No.3, regarded as the pianists' ultimate summit.

"It is enormously difficult, no question, but it is not as exposed as some other pieces, such as a Chopin concerto. With Chopin if you do something not quite right, it is immediately heard. With Rachmaninoff, there are so many notes and different textures, that is not the case," he says.

Does he play wrong notes in performances?

"Nobody is perfect, my dear. We all play wrong notes. Do you think there is a perfect pianist or violinist? No. But you can't always hear it," he says.

Ashkenazy is unlikely to crossover into pop music like some other classical musicians. Does he regard pop music as one or two-dimensional?

"You will get me there. Popular music is almost no dimensional. They (pop musicians) think there is so much they communicate. I think it is so primitive that it is frightening. Of course, there are exceptions. People like (Sir Paul) McCartney and John Lennon gave you something that tugged your heart. But that is rare, just one percent," he says.

Ashkenazy broadly agrees with the classical music consensus that Bach, Mozart and Beethoven are among the three greatest composers of all time.

"Without them, I don't know what music would be. Without these three, music would be very different, including pop, too," he says.

He also wonders whether modern contemporary classical music has much to offer and questions whether music itself has hit an impasse since mathematics dictates there are only a limited number of note combinations and that most of them might have already been discovered.

"Music is an infinity of expression but in combination of notes, maybe not. Maybe there is another dimension of expression. At the moment it seems to be coming to an end," he says.

Ashkenazy, himself, just keeps going. He is in the almost unique position of being able to compare himself in his seventies as an artist to the teenager who won major international prizes in the 1950s.

"I think I understand more what music is all about but whether I communicate it better than I have done before, that is for others to decide," he says.