Violinist Randall Goosby believes his primary role is to connect and tell a story

Since his professional debut at age 9 with the Jacksonville Symphony, violinist Randall Goosby has dazzled audiences throughout the world with his technically precise and emotionally intense playing. “Goosby has, without a doubt, the sweetest tones I have ever heard on the violin,” one reviewer wrote last fall. “With a buttered cream technique that belies the perfect fingering and light but firm bowing, he stands out from all of his fellow violinists. This is no showman — the violin is in his soul, and it surely reached mine.”

The instrument in question, incidentally, is a 1708 Stradivarius Cremona “ex-Strauss” that Goosby began playing on loan in January 2023. “I’ve sort of gotten used to it being an extension of my body when I’m traveling,” he said. “Obviously, it’s got to go in the overhead.”

Before his June 5-7 concerts with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and conductor Sir Mark Elder, Goosby, now 27, also talked about his affinity for the repertoire of African American composers such as Florence Price (a Chicago resident from 1927-1953), whose Violin Concerto No. 2 is on the program (along with works by Prokofiev and Wagner) and Coleridge-Taylor Perkinson, the creative freedom of performing lesser-known works, advice he got from his former teacher Itzhak Perlman, and connecting with audiences.

On playing the music of Florence Price

My first exposure to Price’s Concerto No. 2 was actually at the request of the Philadelphia Orchestra. They wanted to record the concerto, so they approached me about it. And I obviously had heard of Price and heard her music by that point, but didn’t know of the existence of her violin concerti. I was like, hmm, this is really interesting music. And it didn’t take long to kind of get inside it and find all of these magical moments and nuances — moments where Price’s voice as a composer and an artist really shines through. It’s really captivating and thought-provoking music.

I think Price is a melting pot of styles. Her voice is very unique in that it sort of originated with southern Black church hymns and spirituals. That was her first exposure to music. And she took that to the New England Conservatory of Music and learned about more European traditions and techniques, then merged that with what is, I think, a quintessentially American style. And so there’s surprise at every turn in her music. And there are a lot of transitions that go very quickly from more of a late-Romantic style to a very quickly moving harmonic rhythm.

And then all of a sudden, you reach this expanse where the orchestra falls into an extremely lush, melodic texture, and the violin is singing in such a way that it almost has an American songbook feel to it. So it certainly feels relatable to me as an American, let alone a Black American.

On his innate connection to the music of Black composers

With the music of Price, as well as Coleridge-Taylor Perkinson and Grant Still and other African-American composers whose experience I closely identify with, in some sense there’s a little bit less decoding to do on my part. Because I feel that our experiences are connected in such a way that there are things said and articulated in the music that feel natural to me.

I don’t mean to say that someone who’s not Black wouldn’t be able to find that. But for me, that’s something I’m aware of before I ever touch the piece for the first time. Ultimately, the goal is to find that level of commitment and vulnerability no matter what you’re playing. But with something like Perkinson’s Louisiana Blues Strut, that piece means a lot to me because I grew up in Memphis, which isn’t that far from Louisiana. Especially as an encore, it’s always a shock to audiences. You’d never expect to hear this kind of down-and-dirty blues played on a 1708 Stradivarius following a Mendelssohn concerto. So I get to sort of shake things up in a way that I think people are pleasantly surprised by with a piece that feels really close to home.

On the artistic advantage of playing lesser-known works

Ten years ago, I was still trying to figure my way around the instrument, how I used the bow, how I wanted things to feel. And now my focus is much more on: What is it that I can put into this music from a personal and interpretive standpoint that’s going to really allow it to speak freely and meaningfully to audiences? So it’s been a great experience playing these works that most people don’t really know. In some way, those lesser-known works are a little bit more of a blank canvas. You don’t have decades of tradition and recordings and interpretations to reference. And so there’s a freshness that has to be brought to interpreting music that’s lesser-known. And, of course, you’re doing that alongside major works of the classical canon. I feel like it’s just the tip of the iceberg I’m discovering now in terms of freedom of expression and artistic connection —not just with audiences, but with orchestras and collaborators as well. In the future, I’d love to continue pairing works that have remained in the shadows with works that everyone knows and loves.

On studying with Itzhak Perlman

One of my very first lessons with him was when I was 14. It was my first time attending his summer music program on New York’s Shelter Island. I went into my first lesson shaking out of my boots, like anybody would who’s playing for an icon like Itzhak Perlman. I was playing a pretty difficult piece that was technically demanding, and I had all these questions for him: “How do you do this? How do you do that? Why do I have so much trouble with this stroke and this shift?“ And after so many questions, he kind of stopped me and said, ”Before I answer any of that, let me ask you a question first.

"What does this music make you feel emotionally? What, in your eyes, is the story behind this music?” In the moment, I hadn’t thought about it. I just wanted to say, "Well, it makes me nervous,” because it was challenging music, and I was playing for him. He said, “Give it some thought and come back to me, and then we can talk about some of your questions.”

Any time I get a chance to teach, I make sure to let the students know, "I’m making suggestions and offering ideas that are purely from my perspective. And at the end of the day, what I’m trying to do is equip you to find your own perspective. I want to give you more options to choose from and give you a bit of a broader toolkit that you can work with to carve out these stories that you yourself, the student, decide.”

And of course, in your formative years, you need direction, and you need instruction, and you need people to tell you, “Hey, try it this way.” I remember so many lessons when I played through something, and Itzhak Perlman asked me how it felt, and I’d give him a detailed account. And he’d, say, “You know what? Just start it again and give me a little bit more, a little bit of something different.” It was never a very specific instruction, because he was always very wary of students trying to imitate him. He didn’t want that. He wanted students to be able to think and express for themselves, not for him or anyone else.

At the end of the day, our job is to connect with people and tell a story. You can’t do that purely by focusing on technique and the physicality and logistics of playing the instrument. It has to come from a place of musical inspiration and understanding. And that’s something that I still, no matter what piece I’m working on, go back to: What is it that I want people to feel when they hear this? Because people don’t go to hear violin concertos to hear great technique and great intonation. Obviously, we always have to work on them. But at a certain point, those things sort of level off. Once you’re done being one of the brighter kids for your age, you have to go out into the world, and everybody’s working on these things. What separates us as individuals and artists, and what makes us unique, is the very question that Perlman asked: “What does this mean to you personally?” So that’s something I still carry with me.

On connecting musically and personally with audiences

With Itzhak Perlman, there’s no persona. There’s no difference in the energy that he exudes when he’s onstage vs. when he’s in his living room. And I think that speaks a lot to his authenticity as a human being and an artist. When I’m onstage, I try to be as authentically myself as possible. And I think it’s really important to find other [non-musical] ways to connect with audiences. Because at the end of the day, I would say the majority of audience members in any given concert space — especially in the U.S. — probably aren’t super well-versed in the language of whatever music it is that you’re playing. And so to assume that people are going to be able to sit down and hear this piece for the first time, whether it’s Price or Tchaikovsky or Stravinsky, and connect with the meaning of it is, to me, a little far-fetched.

Whenever I have the opportunity, especially in recital in a more intimate setting, I always make sure that I speak a little bit to the audience and sort of allow them into my mental space when it comes to processing and dissecting the music. That always provides a kind of lifeline, so to speak, that the audience can grab onto as you pull them through the experience.

They call music a universal language, but everybody connects with it in a different way. And not everyone who’s sitting there in the hall necessarily knows what to be listening for. And they certainly don’t know what you as an individual think about the music.

So for me to assume that I can let people into all of that simply by playing and not saying a word feels like I’m leaving some connection on the table. And I want to make sure that I take every opportunity possible to connect as personally as I can with as many people as I can when I’m playing.