'Thea, have you heard that new piece yet? It's beautiful!' And there plopped another wetransfer in with a recording by Kate Moore, Pete Harden, Calliope Tsoupaki or any other composer. Frans Curvers was at the front of every (world) premiere. Whether it took place in Paradiso in Amsterdam, De Doelen in Rotterdam, TivoliVredenburg in Utrecht or a backstreet church somewhere in the province. If he could not attend in person, he was glued to the radio, his recording device at the ready.
On 29 March 2020, his inseparable concert buddy Floor Vogelaar e-mailed that Frans had died of a stroke. He had turned 91 in January. His death saddens me intensely, because over the past decades I have come to regard Frans as a personal friend. As he built friendships with many in Dutch musical life. In Frans, we lose a tireless lover and promoter of new music.
I got to know him during my introductions to concerts of modern music for the Proms at Paradiso and later Muziekgebouw aan 't IJ. Together with Floor and his other concert friends Evert and Johan, he always sat in the front row. He listened attentively and afterwards he would wittily describe my guest's sometimes peculiar (mis)adventures. If he was unexpectedly absent, I felt somewhat orphaned. Without Frans, the evening wasn't really 'finished'.
Over many years, he had built up an impressive concert archive, which he generously shared with all interested parties. Whenever I was in need of a composition for a radio programme or introduction, he helped me out. He also had unique old recordings and even video recordings of unknown or forgotten pieces. Always accompanied by skilful and witty commentary. When he offered me his FRACUUM (Frans Curvers Music) collection, I could only accommodate it on an extra hard disk.
Frans showed his love for modern music not only in concert attendance and stimulating comments, but also supported it financially. He sponsored concert institutions, was a contributor to the now defunct website www.muziekvan.nu and even commissioned new compositions. In 2014, he was one of the first to buy my #Reinbertbio. Four years later, he gifted each of his grandchildren a copy of An ox on the roof.
Last summer, I visited him at his home in Utrecht, where he had lived with his wife Willy for over forty years. I was to portray him for the anniversary edition of 75 years of Gaudeamus in 2020. He had also attended and financially supported this competition for young composers from the very beginning. He proudly showed me around his house filled with modern art, which turned out to be further stuffed with antique cabinets.
'My father was a shoemaker and made tailored boots, for which he travelled all over the country. If someone couldn't pay, he would say: give me that case,' he says with twinkling eyes. In the leafy garden are modern sculptures, with an endearing hippo on a plinth as the eye-catcher. 'Willy and I were called grandma and grandpa hippo for years,' he says in his tasteful, always slightly ironic tone.
Despite his 90 years, he effortlessly climbs the steep stairs to his spacious study. At a small countertop, he makes filter coffee. While pouring, he places the mugs in the sink "to avoid accidents". His desk is littered with extension cords, crammed with plugs. The computer is connected via a tangle of wires to numerous recording devices, allowing him to record several stations simultaneously. On the walls shelving cabinets full of CDs, DVDs, music books and archive boxes with programme notes from roughly the 1960s onwards.
His technical ingenuity does not come out of the blue: for years he worked at KNMI in De Bilt. He recounts with relish how he improved telecommunications with a programme he developed himself. 'Kwibus I called it. KNMI Weather Service Message Issuing System. It made sure you didn't have to endlessly type the same text for a telex. I'm still very proud of that!'
We come to talk about his origins. Like me, Frans is from Limburg: he was born in Roermond in 1929. 'Do you know that I came into the world thanks to a pianola,' he asks with a grin. 'In 1928, my father knocked on the door of the woman across the street. He wanted to compliment her for playing Chopin on the piano so beautifully. Once inside, it turned out to be a pianola.... One thing led to another. They married each other and passed on their love of music to me.'
Glowing, he shows a watercolour of his father, who played the cello creditably. 'As thanks for a concert, he received the Riemer music lexicon in 1905, with handwritten dedication!' The leather book stands like a trophy in his cupboard. His memory no longer appears optimal but his enthusiasm is no less. A month before our conversation, he started circulating 'Fracu tips'.
The first list includes compositions by Frederic Rzewski and John Adams. 'I tend a bit towards minimalism in my preferences,' he confesses. For a blue Monday, Frans also composed himself. 'But I stopped doing that because I didn't consider myself original enough.' He does see a great future for his grandson Thomas. 'He is very talented, studying pop guitar and composition at the Amsterdam Conservatory.'
A day after my visit, a message drops in my mailbox. 'I had forgotten with my 90 years I needed an afternoon nap. As a result, at the end of the afternoon, I was too dull to remember not to forget my most important contribution.'
'Namely: For me, music is an indispensable medicine. When I'm in the doldrums, and this is quite common at my age, I get out of that doldrums as quickly as possible by listening to beloved music. I would love it if you could add this point to your report, and I'm very curious to hear the rest!'
With this, Frans. Thanks for being there, I will miss you tremendously!
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