To begin to grasp Barbara Hannigan’s extraordinary musical biography – winner of the 2025 Polar Prize alongside Herbie Hancock and Queen – it helps to start much further back. A thousand years back, in fact. Hannigan moves effortlessly from medieval music to John Zorn. She conducts orchestras and lends her extraordinary soprano voice. She also composes and rearranges music from distant times and places. Nothing that makes a sound is foreign to her, and she brings the same intensity and passionate spirit to every path she chooses. She is a rare phenomenon, and it is no coincidence that the Polar Prize – arguably the world’s most prestigious musical award (akin to a Nobel Prize) – is presented by the King of Sweden in Stockholm. Stig Anderson created the prize under the belief that “music has no boundaries: it touches, influences, and changes the world.”
Now, in brief, here is the promised history – which begins around 1100 CE and leads up to Barbara Hannigan’s conversation with Musica Jazz.
“Music awakens in man the memory and nostalgia for the harmony he enjoyed before the fall.” So wrote Hildegard von Bingen, a volcanic Benedictine nun with a natural inclination for pluralistic knowledge, in response to Pope Anastasius’s rebuke of her conduct. More open to the outside world than to the cloistered life of medieval nuns, Hildegard added: “He who is great and without blemish dwells in a humble abode, and we can see a miracle and form unknown letters and pronounce them in an unknown melody.” She fully embraced the idea of encyclopedism – or circular education – leaving no branch of knowledge untouched. Music and language were only a small part of her doctrinal legacy, yet her Symphonia harmoniae caelestium revelationum (Symphony of the Harmony of Celestial Revelations) has a scope that was highly unusual for its time. It begins with sixty antiphons for the liturgical year. The renowned medievalist Peter Dronke wrote in 1985: “Symphonia is a key concept for her. It indicates not only the harmony of sounds created by voices and instruments but also the heavenly harmony and the intimate harmony of man.” For Hildegard, the soul is symphonic – a quality expressed in the union of soul and body and in the act of creating music. It is what the Germans call Stimmung – consonance – in which music is both earthly and heavenly.
This spirit of consonance is the common thread that unites Hannigan’s boundless creativity. Despite a busy schedule of conducting, concerts, and masterclasses around the world, she finds time to record gems like Electric Fields, her eighth album for Alpha Classics, featuring Katia and Marielle Labèque on piano and David Chalmin on electronics. The album opens and closes with arrangements of works by Hildegard von Bingen, who also invented a curious “unknown language” – a version of which Hannigan sings on the album, with music by Chalmin. This language, mystical and otherworldly, aimed at utopian and spiritual goals closely tied to music. While linguists and medievalists continue to puzzle over its spelling, morphology, and syntax, Hannigan’s reinterpretation renders it intimate, relatable, and contemporary.
Born in Halifax, Nova Scotia, fifty-four years ago under the sign of Taurus – a sign of tenacity and sociability, according to Dante – Hannigan is the furthest thing from a diva. She might be seen answering questions with clarity, walking in a flower garden, preparing for a daily run, reflecting on what worked (or didn’t) in her recent London Symphony concert, jotting down ideas mid-conversation, pulling a baton from her pocket, conducting her thoughts with her hands, changing glasses, and smiling with self-assured ease. Since moving to Toronto at seventeen, she has studied singing, piano, composition, and conducting with tireless commitment, convinced that labels and genres only limit one’s approach to music. Those who place her in the contemporary classical club may be surprised to hear that she’d love to have lunch with Haydn. She sings Hildegard von Bingen and enjoys Ligeti, Poulenc, Pergolesi, and Gesualdo da Venosa. She rereads Gershwin – her 2017 Alpha album Crazy Girl Crazy, with its accompanying suite, is unmissable – and is a muse to John Zorn, who, like many composers, has written brand-new works for her in this new millennium.
Miss Hannigan, it is a great pleasure to have you in our magazine. It’s hard not to start with the wonderful news of your deservedly awarded 2025 Polar Prize alongside Herbie Hancock and Queen (“Yeah!” she says, making the rock horns). How does it feel, and what do you have in common with them?
It’s great to be here. Thank you! What does winning the Polar Prize mean to me? Hmm, let’s see. When they told me I’d received the award, I was so shocked I didn’t react at all. It was nighttime, and I was on tour, singing works by Zorn and Messiaen. All I wanted to do was sleep. The next morning, when I opened my eyes, my first thought was: “What do I do now?”
I remember when György Ligeti – such a fundamental figure for me – won the prize in 2004. I was moved. I thought about my own journey, which has not always been easy. It’s been unorthodox, but certainly interesting – and most of the time, fun. It’s been built on hard work. I didn’t immediately find out who the other winners were, and I kept wondering until someone told me it was them. Wow! I admire Herbie Hancock tremendously. He invented so much and opened paths both popular and esoteric – all of which have stood the test of time. I listen to him and think, “What’s he doing here? And here?” His influence has been extraordinary. Then there’s Queen. It’s wild to think about. I knew A Night at the Opera very well, and I once played it for Ryan Berti Leo, a very modern and open-minded director who mentored me. About ten years ago, I wanted him to understand the structure and complexity of their work. I remember him sitting in my Amsterdam apartment saying, “I get what you mean. This is layered, complex music. The freedom they achieve is amazing.” What probably binds the three of us is staying true to ourselves – which, to me, is the most important thing in this profession.
Having a talent like yours also has the advantage of attracting composers interested in writing new music, which is good for developing a new repertoire. What must a score have to appeal to you?
Honestly, I often don’t know where a particular composition will end up or what it’s meant for. I don’t ask for specific styles. It just happens. Unlike with pieces I choose to perform – like Haydn’s symphonies (I’m crazy about Haydn), or Bartók and Sibelius – what matters most is that the work has a passionate connection to rhythm and a structural form like architecture. It should be like a building I want to live in and explore. If it draws me in again and again, that’s a good sign. So yes, what matters is authenticity. I don’t care about style – I love all kinds of music. I think Mingus said that too, right?
That’s right. Looking at your upcoming schedule, I see you’re playing with five different orchestras, from Pergolesi to Poulenc to Prokofiev. With so much variety, how do you communicate your artistic vision to each ensemble?
When I work with musicians, I use metaphors a lot. I speak in emotional and dramatic terms – nature, love, animals, spiritual questions, human experience. I don’t focus on technical language. They already know that. Instead, I try to awaken something buried in their memory or imagination. I want them to bring out the sound I’m asking for in their own creative way. I often sing phrases to them – especially with violins or brass – to show them the articulation I have in mind. I never dictate; I provoke a dialogue.
Many conductors come from a piano background. Has your experience as a singer shaped your sensitivity toward individual musicians?
Absolutely. Singing helps me express through breath. Besides, every score contains markings like cantabile – as if asking instruments to sing. I started piano at five and oboe at nine. I studied composition at the conservatory. But singing is the deepest part of my soul.
You should be ninety years old with all you’ve done!
That’s why I won the Polar Prize. You don’t know it, but I’m 150.
Orchestral conducting has evolved dramatically. Some see the conductor as a democratic leader – primus inter pares – others as a tyrant. What’s your idea of a good orchestra?
Every orchestra is a unique ecosystem. In London, Lausanne, or Rome, I find different balances and psychologies. The question is always: what do these musicians need right now? If they’re not hungry, don’t feed them. If they need water, give it. Some need attention, some need space. Sometimes they just need me to “disappear.” My job is to stay flexible. I can be collaborative, but I also know how to take control. Conducting is ongoing training – a state of freedom. Once we find our shared gravity, it becomes a dance. And no one can fly high unless they start from the ground.
In your conducting, you often break baton-use conventions. Sometimes it feels more medieval than 19th-century.
Yes, my hands are very expressive. I don’t like holding the baton because it limits my gestures. I only use it for clear entrances or exits – but sometimes the cue is my fingertip or palm. I want the musicians to follow that, not a stick.
Between conducting engagements, you oversaw the release of Electric Fields. There’s a sense of three powerful women – you, Katia, and Marielle Labèque – for three great composers: Hildegard von Bingen, Barbara Strozzi, and Giulia Caccini. All strong, courageous, and stubborn.
That’s true! They’re all stubborn – wait, let me write that down (she pulls out her notebook). I met Hildegard when I was nineteen, recording something for a film. Her way of thinking and inventing her own language reminds me of John Zorn or Claude Vivier. For this album, we were just searching for interesting music. We didn’t intentionally look for women, but we landed on Caccini and Strozzi. Barbara Strozzi is a powerhouse. So are Katia and Marielle – together we were like a “power triangle.”
The album’s improvisation is based on Strozzi’s “Che si può fare?” How do you define improvisation?
I’m glad you asked. Improvisation isn’t indulgent freedom – it requires deep awareness. Are you talking to yourself or establishing dialogue? That’s what matters. Music has invisible subtexts. Improvisation has always been part of my life – I used to do it for dancers and microtonal groups. I stopped for a long time but returned in 2015, recording an improvised album with Massimo Pupillo. Since then, I’ve started improvising again with Zorn.
What is it like working with Zorn?
Extraordinary. He wrote six pieces for me over eight years. I toured jazz festivals and included his music in my classical programs. He’s a powerful inner light – he helped me grow immensely.
This brings us to electronics and AI. You worked with Stockhausen. Your new album uses electronics. What’s your take on these developments?
I’m still forming my opinion on AI. But I’m convinced humanity will remain in the driver’s seat. Like Herbie Hancock – criticized for using electronics – he mastered the tools and created something original. It’s all about who’s using the tools and why.
Speaking of environments: you were born in Halifax and now live in Finistère. Do “extreme” places affect your creativity?
Yes. I don’t need constant nature, but I need space. In Finistère, I’m surrounded by green, I can see the sea, the tide. I take the same run every day – but it’s never the same. The details change. Boundaries become launching points for curiosity.
Electric Fields refers to electromagnetic fields – attractions in constant motion. Do you see a musical parallel across history?
Yes, you’re right. One thing attracts another, creating a kosmos of connections. You may find yourself somewhere unexpected – but that’s where you need to be.
You were recently named Reinbert de Leeuw Professor at the Royal Academy. How did he shape your path? What does teaching mean to you?
Reinbert was music, one thousand percent. He never imposed, only offered: “This is the only way I know how to make music.” His sense of time was unique – no metronome! I once wrote “no tempo” in Stabat Mater to honor that approach. Music should breathe, and mystery is part of it.
And your approach to teaching?
I go to the Academy a few times a year. I don’t want good students – I want creative individuals. They’re surprised when I ask them to smile or respond emotionally. Grades don’t matter – the final product does.
Some music can sound abstract and difficult. How do you build challenging programs?
I’ve built trust with my audience over time. I only include music I love. Passion is contagious. Even Bruckner can challenge people – it’s about the unknown. That’s what excites me: bringing people into it.
Your social media videos are compelling. Do you think video helps people engage with music?
Definitely. Music tells stories differently from any other art form. You just need to observe it in silence, then let sound give shape to the image. It’s sacred. Ancient cultures understood this.
One of your most touching roles is Elle in La Voix humaine. You staged it with three screens. How important is visual storytelling?
I love that piece. Each detail matters. Since 2019, I’ve been digging deeper into Poulenc’s world. No one should ever say, “We know this piece already.” There’s always more to discover.
Last question. Do you have a favorite key to sing in?
That’s funny. I love A-flat – maybe my favorite. E-flat major too. F-sharp minor is beautiful. C-sharp is wild – it creates instability. I love diminished and augmented harmonies, microtones, bending and linking tones…
Out of all the musical history, is there a period you’d like to live in for a while?
Oh, many! I’d visit Gesualdo’s time to see how it really was. Then Haydn at Esterházy, or on tour in London and Paris. I’d also drop in on the Persians – not for long, just enough to understand their religious world and how it led to Zoroastrianism. A few months, tops!
Barbara Hannigan, always traveling through time and sound, says goodbye as she heads out for her daily run – and back to Spot, Louiza, and Elizabeth Taylor, her three cats. Creatures from another world, a magical one.
