Nervousness is like inspiration, because you never know when it will visit you. Often a really tricky concert will find you relaxed, while a safer one will find you strangely nervous. Like a phobia, it's not rational, and you can't talk yourself out of it. Bernard Haitink said in an interview, “The last minute before a performance, no matter how often you have done it, you're always looking into the abyss.”

There are two kinds of nervousness. The good kind fires you up, giving you an edge and a sense of occasion. The bad kind disables you, causes tension, makes it difficult to judge tempi and balance, and generally prevents you from doing your best. All musicians suffer from nervousness to some degree and have developed their own stratagems for dealing with it. Alcohol is not recommended.

Bach, Handel, and most of their contemporaries often directed performances from the harpsichord. This has inspired many modern conductors to adopt the same method. Baroque orchestras, smaller than full symphony orchestras, sit close enough to hear the harpsichord. This gives the musicians the rhythmic precision and drive a drummer gives to a jazz band. A good harpsichord-director will know how to “spice things up”: if he's creative and has flair, he can influence the way everybody plays, adding shape, color, and character. In Messiah, most of the arias are for solo voice and violins, accompanied by the bass instruments and keyboard, known as the continuo. Here a harpsichord-director can give his imagination full rein, as Baroque composers did. Arias such as “Thou Shalt Break Them” and “Rejoice Greatly” are full of opportunities for word painting.

At Cambridge I was fortunate to be influenced by the great harpsichordist and Baroque scholar Thurston Dart. His extrovert, imaginative, yet tasteful continuo playing remains an inspiration to this day.

When I was an orchestral musician, some chief conductors had an “in” group in their orchestras. Other players resented this because it created a two-tier hierarchy, the “haves” and the “have-nots.” The little groups were viewed with suspicion and had a negative effect on the orchestras' unity and morale: players outside them felt demeaned, unappreciated, or even insecure. John Barbirolli was an exception: he had a number of personal friends in the Hallé orchestra but was so revered and adored that it wasn't an issue for the other musicians. Before a conductor develops close personal friendships with any of his players, he has to bear in mind the divisive effect of jealousy.

In my own experience as player and conductor, I've found that musicians like their musical boss to maintain high standards yet still be approachable. They want you to be a good musician and a decent human being who's capable of cordial yet fully professional relationships. The professional part needs to be preserved in case a musician has to be criticized or replaced. You can't fire a friend. Most chief conductors stick to this and avoid socializing with individual musicians or small groups. Of course, it's different if there's a big celebration or if a musician suffers illness or bereavement, in which case a note or call from you can mean a lot. I'm not suggesting you should be a social outcast, merely that you should be evenhanded in your dealings with all the musicians, without showing favoritism.

The style, spirit, and expression of any work are mainly captured by the tempo, so it forms a major part of the interpretation. There's seldom one “right” tempo, and it's more critical with some pieces than others. Choice of tempo can be subjective, based on a conductor's musical personality and taste; or it can be practical, based on his knowledge of performance practice, the acoustics of a hall, or the standard of an orchestra. Tempo is a means rather than an end. We all try to find tempi that make the music sound great. In the hands of a talented conductor, an unusual tempo can make listeners and even composers change their minds. An audience notices if a tempo's convincing rather than simply “right.” Luckily, most music lovers have open minds on the subject. As a listener I can enjoy a variety of tempi for a piece, provided I haven't conducted it for a long time. It's different when I perform it: I believe in my tempo with every fiber of my being. Conducting without this conviction undermines an orchestra's confidence and makes it hard for them to play together.

Some people are more demonstrative and flamboyant than others. Nobody wants to stop a conductor from being himself or expressing what's in his heart, but controlling the size of gestures does have many advantages. It makes an orchestra “come to you” instead of you throwing everything at them, creating better concentration and closer rapport. Otherwise, they're forced to “filter out” half of what you're doing. From a practical point of view, it's hard to hear what's going on if you thrash about too much, because air is rushing past your ears and you'll probably get out of breath. Big gesturing is often rhythmically inaccurate; it encourages everybody to play loud so the audience only hears the brass and percussion. For much of the time, good orchestras play together by listening and sensing what to do, as in chamber music. A conductor needs to capitalize on this skill and not thrash it out of existence. Conductor Antal Dorati made this scathing comment: “Useless and exaggerated conductorial gesturing is especially disgusting because it is unnecessary.”

Berlioz, Mendelssohn, and Wagner represent opposite poles in conducting. Berlioz's beat was “neat” and “exact,” according to Russian composer Cesar Cui, and Mendelssohn's “movements were short and decided,” as described by composer Ferdinand Hiller. Wagner's style was different: “not that of a dry Taktschläger [time beater], but, rather, of a musician who spoke from the soul … through gestures that were pure music,” according to conductor Arthur Nikisch. Wagner's style, which showed the music rather than the beats, caused problems in London. The Prelude to Tristan and Isolde nearly fell apart because the orchestra, unfamiliar with the piece, couldn't tell which beat of the bar Wagner was on. His assistant Hans Richter wrote in his diary, “The musicians often did not understand the Master's beat.” Richter saved the show by jumping up and giving the musicians a clear six-in-a-bar. Wagner had a free and subjective approach to tempo, unlike Berlioz and Mendelssohn who took fewer liberties. The London critic Henry Smart wrote in 1855 that he reduced tempo by as much as a third in Beethoven's lyrical passages. Cesar Cui preferred Berlioz to Wagner in conducting Beethoven, because Wagner “often shows affectation, and introduces accelerandos of doubtful sentimentality.”

Nearly all conductors would say that eye contact is essential. Herbert von Karajan was a famous exception: he seldom looked at any player, but his superhuman powers of concentration established a strong connection with his musicians.

Eye contact communicates when to play and how to play. It's not merely a way of giving cues; to a sensitive musician it can convey expression, style, and mood. It can serve as a reminder of something important from the rehearsals, and it gives individual players a strong sense of involvement. It also makes them feel the conductor is open to what they're doing, creating two-way musical communication. At a first rehearsal, musicians sitting at the back look at a conductor in the hope that he'll look back at them occasionally. If they're ignored for more than ten minutes, they give up and retreat into their parts. I often did this myself.

What does a conductor actually do? How much effect does he or she have? Can the orchestra manage without one? Why don't the players look at the conductor more? Is it necessary for the conductor to play every instrument? What about interpretation? What happens at rehearsals? Why do some conductors “thrash around” more than others; does it mean they're more talented or more involved? Who's the boss in a concerto, the soloist or the conductor? How do the orchestra members manage to play together for somebody whose beat looks unclear? How does a young conductor learn the job and start a career?

These are some of the questions I've addressed in this book; they appear as topics (e.g., beat, ear, ego, memory, nervousness, rehearsing, tempo) under various headings (e.g., “The Conductor's Mind,” “The Conductor and the Musicians,” “The Conductor, the Composer, and the Score”). Each article begins with an anecdote or saying and ends with quotes from musicians, often expressing opposing views. Naturally, many topics are interrelated. Some are more technical than others, but they are all accessible to music lovers. There are suggestions for further reading and the occasional cartoon.

I feel strongly that we need to keep our connection with the great conductors of the past who've “passed the baton” on to us. As a young player, I was fortunate enough to work with Charles Munch, Jascha Horenstein, Vittorio Gui, and Adrian Boult—all of whom were around in the days of Arthur Nikisch (a favorite of Tchaikovsky), Fritz Steinbach (a favorite of Brahms), and Hans Richter (Wagner's assistant).

When I joined the London Philharmonic the violinist Marie Wilson, who sat next to the concertmaster, told me that in an orchestra you have to “set yourself aside.” Your opinions don't count as much as those of the conductor or the leading player in your section. Concertgoers often don't realize how much skill is needed in an orchestra. You're expected to play to a high standard and to respond to leadership as a creative member of a team. Some feel they could never do the job, because they wouldn't want to spend their lives “obeying” a conductor; even some established orchestral players find the situation frustrating.

The best orchestral musicians see it as part of their job to participate in the creative process: “Even though I don't like this conductor and disagree with his tempi, I'm going for broke and I'll play my heart out.” That's what orchestral teamwork is all about. Personally, I felt most comfortable when a conductor knew what he wanted and was going to get it; this set me free within a clear framework.

Because it's so important to pick the right player, an audition day is stressful for everybody. Auditions need to be run efficiently and candidates handled courteously. A wrong choice could be made if a good candidate plays badly because he's put off by poor organization or harsh treatment. I've never agreed with the view that auditions should be as unpleasant as possible so the player with the hardest neck wins. An orchestra needs players who are sensitive as well as tough.

There's a wide range of procedures for auditioning, but this is typical:

The position is advertised, and any suitable players known to the conductor or the audition committee are contacted and told about the opening, in the hope that they'll apply. If there are hundreds of applications, the candidates are screened, and only the most qualified are invited to attend the audition.

An audition committee (usually between six and twelve people) is either appointed by management, elected by the orchestra, or a combination of both. The committee includes the conductor and the players who work most closely with the vacant position: for a first oboe opening, the other first woodwind players would be there. The committee hears the candidates, discusses them, and then votes by secret ballot, with the conductor getting more than one vote. Management and union may be represented, and in some places the full orchestra attends.

Conducting a youth orchestra is one of the greatest contributions any conductor can make to the world of music. Youth orchestras build the future of music-making and provide young people with priceless opportunities. Although the majority of students don't take up music professionally, they all benefit in countless ways from playing in a youth orchestra. Apart from all the musical lessons, they learn focus, discipline, and commitment to excellence.

At age thirteen I joined the National Youth Orchestra of Great Britain as a trainee timpanist. At my first concert I was assistant triangle. The experience inspired me to become a professional musician and a conductor. This unique orchestra has an age range of thirteen to nineteen, with no full-time music students. Many so-called youth orchestras include players in their mid- or late twenties, many of whom already have jobs in regular orchestras. This stretches the definition of “youth” beyond the breaking point.

Youth orchestras can attain amazingly high standards because there's plenty of rehearsal time, so long as the students understand that the whole project is about excellence, not just bashing through big pieces for fun. This is the ideal schedule: at the first rehearsal the full orchestra plays through the entire program, however roughly, to get an idea of the pieces and what they need to work on. Then each section meets separately, coached by a professional player, before the full orchestra meets again.

Some of the greatest creative geniuses can be difficult. It's possible to be a first-class musician and a fifth-class human being—think of Wagner. I'm tempted to wonder whether all art is amoral until I think of Bach.

When conductors behave badly, it's often attributed to “a big ego.” I was at a party where the soprano Elisabeth Schwarzkopf told a Toscanini story. She and her husband, Walter Legge (of EMI Records), were in Milan recording Verdi's Requiem with the conductor Victor de Sabata. When they heard that their friend Toscanini was in town, they went to visit him. He was delighted to see them and asked what brought them to Italy. “Making a record of the Verdi Requiem.” “And who is conducting?” “Maestro de Sabata.” Toscanini suddenly flew into a rage, started throwing things around the room, and had to be restrained by his wife. He genuinely believed that he did a better job than de Sabata, in whose hands his beloved Verdi Requiem would be mangled to death. A blinkered conviction about being “right” was part of his powerful communication with orchestras and audiences. Every conductor needs this conviction while he's performing, but this outburst away from the podium doesn't tally with the touching humility Toscanini normally displayed when he talked about his work. He saw himself as the servant and representative of the composer, striving and often fighting to achieve the vision contained in the printed page.