Dang Thai Son: ‘People are only silent when music Speaks’

As you said, Dang Thai Son is a pianist. But what exactly is your connection to the piano?

I was born into a family where music was always present. My mother and my aunt, Thai Thi Lien and Thai Thi Lang, were the first two Vietnamese musicians to study piano professionally, so I was exposed to music from a very young age—around three or four years old. Some of my earliest and most vivid memories revolve around the piano. To me, it felt like a game of sound. I would sit at the piano, pressing different keys, discovering melodies and songs. Those moments were thrilling—they were my very first encounters with music.

Everyone has a language, a way to express what they think and feel. For me, that language is music. The piano is like my closest companion. There are things I would hesitate to share even with my family, but with the piano, I hold nothing back.

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At 26, you became the youngest Vietnamese artist to be awarded the title of ‘People’s Artist’. How did that recognition shape your career and perspective?

I consider it a great honour, but I do not believe such accolades should ever be the ultimate goal of an artist.

You are an Asian pianist with many “firsts” and “mosts” to your name. To achieve this, you must possess a rare and exceptional playing technique. Can you share more about your approach?

Art consists of two elements: technique—the craft, the virtuosity—and the message an artist seeks to convey. Technique can be learnt in school; I was fortunate to receive a solid foundation at the Tchaikovsky State Conservatory in Russia. But the more crucial aspect of artistry is having something meaningful to express through music. Technique serves only to refine and articulate that message.

What an artist communicates is shaped by life experience and a deep curiosity about the world. My own life has been full of challenges, which in turn have given me a wealth of experiences. Though I was born in Hanoi, from the age of seven, my mother and I were evacuated to Ha Bac (the historical name for the provinces of Bac Giang and Bac Ninh). Much of my childhood was spent there, planting trees, herding buffaloes and cows—just like any other country boy. Looking back, these experiences were invaluable.

At the time, my technical abilities could not compare with those of students who trained abroad. However, I gained something else—depth. In my childhood, human connection was different. We were all evacuees, bound by shared circumstances. We divided every meal, every book, every joy and sorrow. Those experiences shaped me and, ultimately, made me more empathetic as an artist.

You are regarded as Vietnam’s foremost pianist. Are there any challenges with the piano that you feel you have yet to overcome?

For me, music is not like sports—there is no need for challenges or feats of endurance, such as jumping higher or running faster. The true fulfilment comes when I have the technique and skill to transform what exists in my mind into sound. That, to me, is the greatest joy. At this point in my life, I can confidently say that this is no longer a struggle. In the past, I needed to refine my ‘skills’; now, everything happens instinctively.

“If I were to hear another artist perform live and feel that their playing reached a level I could never attain, it would be Vladimir Horowitz”, you once said. What was it about Horowitz that made him seem so untouchable?

I have never had just one idol—my inspirations have changed over time. But admiration is one thing, and imitation is another. Each artist possesses a unique talent and essence. If you simply try to mimic someone, you will never surpass them. The most important thing is to discover one’s own voice, to embrace one’s individuality, and to develop from there.

Of course, I may lack certain qualities that Horowitz possessed, and when I listen to him, I feel as though I am being compensated for those. But, conversely, I also have qualities that are entirely my own. Comparisons in art are difficult—it is not about being better or greater, but about expressing something distinct.

You primarily perform timeless masterpieces from the world’s greatest composers, such as Beethoven, Chopin, Schumann, Grieg, Mozart, and Rachmaninov. Which of them moves you the most when you play?

I think everyone knows my answer—it is Chopin. Perhaps because his inner world resonates deeply with mine. There are many parallels between his life and my own, and his nature was innately more emotional. As I mentioned before, art that is too smooth is never truly compelling. Chopin and Beethoven both endured turbulent lives, which is why their music remains so extraordinary.

Recently, I have been playing more works from the French Impressionist repertoire, particularly those of Claude Debussy and Maurice Ravel. Beyond their sonic beauty, there is also a personal connection—I inherited an affinity for French music from my mother, who was my first teacher and was herself influenced by the French school. I absorbed that sensibility and later came to appreciate the refinement of French artistry. These composers now form a central part of my recent performances.

Objectively speaking, we live in an era of far greater advantages than the so-called ‘golden age’ of piano playing—our instruments are superior, we have more highly skilled musicians, and life is richer in both material and intellectual ways. Yet we seem to have no composers who match the genius of Chopin, Bach, Schubert, or Mozart. Why do you think that is? Has classical music reached an insurmountable peak?

I believe this phenomenon is not exclusive to classical music—it extends across all art forms, from painting to literature. Today, everything is increasingly specialised, with art becoming more fragmented into countless subgenres. In the past, there was only classical music, and people dedicated themselves entirely to it. Now, there are hundreds—if not thousands—of musical genres competing for attention.

Society evolves, and new influences emerge from every direction. We should not lament this change. It reminds me of Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris—in every era, people tend to romanticise the past, believing it to be superior. Yet they, too, were living through artistic and cultural transformations of their own.

Do classical musicians such as yourself feel lost in a digital age where people pay more attention to a singer’s appearance than to their voice, to the visual effects of a music video rather than the message it conveys, and to their personal lives rather than their artistic contributions?

Today, society is divided into countless tastes, each with its own audience. In the past, choices were limited, so people’s focus was more concentrated. Now, there are many different ways to experience music, and that diversity has its own advantages. People gravitate towards what resonates with them, and as long as they find joy in it, that is what matters.

Beyond classical music, folk music is a cultural heritage that must be preserved for the Vietnamese people. In your view, how should this be done?

This is not just an issue in Vietnam—it is a global trend, from Europe to Asia. If we are indifferent, folk music will fade into obscurity. It requires consistent support from cultural institutions, policymakers, and philanthropists to be revived, nurtured, and sustained. The key lies in bridging tradition with the present. A prime example is Trong Com, reinterpreted in a contemporary language by composer Dang Huu Phuc. As the performer, I bring its sound to life from the very first notes, ensuring its connection with modern audiences.

Trong Com is an intriguing fusion of classical piano and Vietnamese folk music. Do you plan to create similar works in the future, as a way of bringing Vietnamese music closer to the global stage?

Always. However, as a performer—much like an artist who must exhibit and sell their paintings—you must also understand your audience. The programme must be balanced. If I were to perform only such pieces, they might be well received in Vietnam, but on an international stage, organisers have different expectations. While I am keen to bring Vietnamese music to the world, we must also acknowledge the commercial considerations of the industry.

At present, composer Dang Huu Phuc and I have a close working relationship. He is five years my senior, and we are from the same generation—both having studied at the Vietnam Music School, experienced evacuation together, and followed similar artistic paths. This deep understanding has led to ongoing collaborations, and we are planning to release more projects together.

I once read the opinion that “Quan họ singing, in its purest form, should never be accompanied, yet most listeners do not realise this. Instead, pre-recorded instrumental backing tracks are commonly used, which is not authentic.” Looking at the broader picture, do you believe that fusing traditional and classical music with modern genres such as EDM, R&B, or pop is the only way to keep them alive?

I believe there are two approaches. Some people seek authenticity—just as one visits a museum to view original paintings. But at the same time, creativity is essential. We need to preserve tradition, but we cannot be confined to a singular, rigid interpretation of it.

As for blending folk, classical, and contemporary music: Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! (laughs heartily). I wholeheartedly welcome such innovation. It is every composer’s right to experiment, just as it is every listener’s right to embrace or reject new interpretations. The more creativity we foster and the more we incorporate elements of our time, the richer our artistic landscape becomes.

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In your opinion, should major media channels promote a wider range of music, such as contemporary, folk, and classical music, alongside the dominant pop music from Vietnam, Korea, Europe, and America, to enhance the public’s musical knowledge?

The dissemination of music should ultimately be guided by those with the expertise and authority to shape musical discourse. As a musician, I can only offer my personal perspective, but I do not hold any formal responsibility in this regard.

What are your thoughts on the current state of classical music in Vietnam?

Classical music in Vietnam has a history dating back over a century, making it one of the earliest established traditions in the Asian region. However, perhaps due to our deep pride in this legacy, we sometimes overlook the fact that other nations have surpassed us. While many sectors in Vietnam are advancing rapidly, classical music must develop at a faster pace—we are now falling behind several neighboring countries.

It is often said that only when material needs are met can people turn their attention to cultural and artistic pursuits. Vietnam’s economy has progressed significantly, and there is no shortage of affluent individuals willing to invest in the arts. Yet, why has Vietnam struggled to produce world-renowned pianists as it did 30 or 40 years ago?

This is partially true, but not entirely. For instance, last year, there were no notable international achievements, but this year, we have Khanh Nhi, who won third prize in a major competition in England. Nhi studied in Hanoi before continuing her education in Singapore, Austria, and now the United States. Her journey reflects a common pattern among young Vietnamese musicians—success often requires training abroad.

At present, Vietnam lags behind countries such as Japan, South Korea, China, Taiwan, and Hong Kong in the field of piano. Since the number of students studying abroad remains limited, our progress in international competitions has been relatively slow. Given our rich musical heritage, strong tradition, and abundance of talent, it is difficult to pinpoint the exact reasons behind this stagnation—it may, in part, be due to structural and institutional challenges.

Having achieved significant success both at home and internationally, you must be training a new generation of pianists to follow in your footsteps. Could you share some insights into this?

I was first appointed as a professor in Tokyo before I even turned 30, officially beginning my teaching career in 1987. It has been a natural progression, and nearly 40 years have passed since. As a performer, my interpretations have deepened over time, but in terms of physical dexterity, I cannot compete with younger pianists in their 20s and 30s. Much like in sports or any discipline requiring physical endurance, there comes a point when age shifts one’s role toward coaching. The same applies to music.

Last June, my students and I performed in Vietnam. Among them, Bruce Liu and JJ Bui—both Canadian pianists—have won prestigious awards. Another student recently secured a major prize in both Japan and South Korea. As the saying goes, there is no need to polish one’s reputation—quality speaks for itself.

In 2021, one of your students won the Frédéric Chopin Competition—an event where you yourself made history as the first Asian to claim victory 40 years ago. Could you tell us more about this?

A pianist’s career is primarily centered on performance, but teaching has played an equally significant role in my life. I have been an educator for more than 30 years, and my student’s triumph at the Frédéric Chopin Competition in Poland stands as a milestone—an unprecedented occurrence in the history of major international competitions. Winning the competition myself was a great achievement, but seeing my student accomplish the same was even more extraordinary. Teaching has thus evolved beyond a profession for me, becoming an enduring passion.

Finally, do you have any advice for pianists or students studying piano in Vietnam?

I commend anyone who learns the piano, regardless of their aspirations, because it enriches their knowledge and appreciation of music. Even if one does not pursue a professional career, understanding music enhances one’s ability to discern quality and depth in what they hear.

For those considering a professional path, it is crucial to ask yourself: Do you love music enough? Are you passionate enough? Are you willing to make the necessary sacrifices to pursue this career? Music brings immense joy, but it also demands significant dedication. Only those truly prepared to commit to this journey should pursue it professionally.

This article was published in the January 2024 issue of Tatler Vietnam.

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