Monday
No two days are the same when you are a musician—and that’s precisely what keeps life so thrilling! I am currently at home for just two days, relishing the rare luxury of sleeping in my own bed. Bliss!
Monday mornings are always a flood of emails, so I tackle them first thing. After breakfast, I meet with a young Japanese clarinetist I was introduced to during my last tour in Japan. She’s just completed her studies and is unsure of her next steps. As she speaks, I listen and gently offer thoughts to help her find her own direction. Supporting young musicians at the beginning of their journey means a great deal to me—I remember all too well how uncertain those first steps can be.
At lunchtime, I sit down for a podcast interview about my recent albums: Lines of Life with music by György Kurtág and a Hommage to Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau. It’s not easy to record with farmers protesting in central London, honking horns just outside—but we make do!
Back at home, there’s more admin to catch up on. I give another interview, this one for my upcoming concert in New York later in the week. A few important phone calls follow, then I turn to social media—a task I find both time-consuming and distracting. Still, I know it’s important. I spend some time preparing content for my new Fischer-Dieskau album For Dieter: The Past and the Future, coming out on Alpha Classics on 23 May (2025).
This is my final evening at home for a while, so I cook salmon with prawns and vegetables, pour a glass of Albariño, and enjoy a quiet night in before heading to bed.
Tuesday
I wake up early, as always on travel days—packing, my eternal nemesis. No matter how often I do it, it never gets easier. I collect my suit from the dry cleaners and give an interview to Hungarian National Radio. With an hour before I need to leave for the airport, I squeeze in some score study and practising.
On the flight to Montreal, I am sitting next to a very talkative gentleman who owns a VIP nightclub. He hands me his number and invites me out on Thursday (the night of my concert), but I think I’ll politely decline…
Whenever I travel, I try to adjust to the new time zone immediately. I stay awake during the flight, working on recital programme ideas. It’s late when I finally reach my hotel.
I unpack, try to keep myself awake, but by 10 p.m. I crash, utterly exhausted.
Wednesday
Sleeping well in North America is always a challenge for me—everything feels louder, and the time difference is tough. I wake up to an overflowing inbox of emails from Europe and begin clearing it out straight away.
The sun is shining, reflecting off the crisp snow outside. I have the brilliant idea of going for a walk, but after two minutes in the brutal cold, I retreat. It’s -18° Celsius!
In the afternoon, we rehearse the full recital programme, including Beethoven’s An die ferne Geliebte and Schubert’s Schwanengesang. Later, I return to writing an introduction for a new song recital programme, reflecting on freedom and the responsibility that comes with defending it. It’s important to me as an artist to express what I’m trying to convey through these recordings and performances.
Dinner is at Bouillon Bilk, where I meet the parents of a friend I studied with years ago. They’ve come all the way from Newfoundland to see me… 13 years later. These moments of connection on the road mean so much; they remind me I’m never truly alone.
Thursday
I hardly slept last night. Day two after long-haul travel is always the worst for jet lag. Coffee in hand, I head to the venue for our dress rehearsal. After a light lunch (pho soup), I wander through the Montreal Art Museum. I love spending time with art on concert days as it calms me and brings inspiration.
Later, I rest briefly before returning to the venue. I warm up, steam my clothes, and get into the right frame of mind. I never tire of sharing music with an audience—it’s always exhilarating.
The concert goes well. Afterwards, I do a CD signing, attend a short reception with the promoter, and then I return to my hotel for a quiet evening.
Friday
Same routine: pack up, head out. I’m off to New York. As we circle Manhattan before landing at LaGuardia, the city glistens in the sun—a view I won’t forget in a hurry.
After checking into the hotel and a quick shower, I head to teach a masterclass at Mannes School of Music. The students are wonderfully open-minded and eager. American singers are often quick to absorb new ideas and it’s a joy to work
with them.
Next, I rehearse at Juilliard with pianist Shai Wosner for Sunday’s concert, which features the US premiere of David Lang’s flower, forget me, along with Schubert songs. I take my Leica camera out for a stroll—it helps me see the world differently and allows me to focus on the details.
Saturday
The morning begins with a coffee and conversation with a journalist from The New York Times, followed by a brisk walk through Central Park. It’s sunny but cold. Walking is the only form of exercise I truly enjoy—there’s something therapeutic about it. No wonder the protagonist in Winterreise finds clarity on foot.
Afterwards, another rehearsal. This tour is an unusual one: I’m performing three different programmes with three pianists I’ve never worked with before. It’s keeping me sharp.
In the evening, I treat myself to a fantastic dinner at King. The food is exquisite, and after sampling half the menu, I walk off my indulgence with a long stroll back to the hotel. Tomorrow’s a matinee, so I take the rest of the evening gently.
Sunday
At last, I manage to sleep in a little. I take my time getting ready, pack up my things, and head to New York’s Town Hall for a stage rehearsal. Today’s concert is especially meaningful as we are commemorating what would be Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau’s 100th birthday in 2025. He made his New York debut in this very hall exactly 70 years ago. It is humbling to sing for this occasion.
After the concert and a CD signing, I meet some longtime friends for a drink at an oyster bar next door—despite my aversion to oysters! It’s a joy to reconnect.
Around 7 p.m. I head back to the hotel. But, alone in my hotel room, the post-concert silence feels too heavy. The adrenaline is still running high, so I take a long walk through the city, ending up at a quiet bar for one last drink.
As I return to the hotel and prepare for a sleep, I feel grateful—for the music, the encounters, the journeys. I know that when I wake tomorrow, the coming week will look entirely different. It’s sometimes daunting, often exhausting, but always exciting. My parents taught me to approach life with curiosity. That advice has never failed me.
