The Main Thing Is Not to Stop

Agita Rando’s musical journey, weaving together Latvian identity and the freedom discovered in jazz

This article is part of a magazine issue explicitly dedicated to women in jazz — artists whose voices, experiences, and musical stories often remain in the shadows. Although women in jazz are increasingly represented vibrantly back home in Latvia, we didn’t want to forget those ladies who no longer live there. Therefore, the hero of this article is Agita Rando — a musician who has lived in Germany for several years but still carries a clear Latvian identity. Her story is an example of how the Latvian sound and cultural feeling continue to live on in other environments, languages, and rhythms.

What follows is the story of a musician whose path has been neither straight nor predictable, but always guided by a love for sound and the instrument, and by an inner restlessness that drives her forward. From her first look at her brother’s piano to studies in various countries, from a strict classical school to the freedom of jazz, Agita’s experience reveals how music can grow alongside a person. Here, family influence and personal calling, daring and doubt, mistakes and revelations, improvisation and discipline all merge. It is a path where every turn — a failure in an entrance exam, a year abroad, or a new instrument — becomes a stepping stone closer to her own voice. In this conversation, Agita tells how she became who she is today: a pianist, organist, composer, and a person who is constantly searching, listening, and growing.

Tell me how you started in music. Did you have a musical family, or did you choose the path yourself?

I am Agita. I play piano, mostly jazz. I am also a church organist. My twin sister is a violinist at the Latvian National Opera, but the first musical person in our family was my brother — he went to music school, and they bought him a piano. Of course, as little sisters, we watched with wide eyes. I realized very quickly that this was my instrument. The piano stood at home, and it seemed to me that everything was ready — you press a key, and it sounds. With the violin, you have to search for the sound, hit the right spot, but with the piano, everything is clean and clear. When we were seven, we went to the children’s music school. We sang the song «Maza, maza meitenīte» (Tiny, Tiny Little Girl), and we were accepted. I hadn’t the slightest doubt — I only wanted to learn the piano. Other instruments didn’t interest me then.

Does your brother still play?

He is a cellist, but he no longer plays professionally on stage. However, he practices every day; he plays the cello at home. This means it is still essential to him. Life often forces you to change your path, even if you have chosen one. Things happen that you don’t plan, and years later, you realize that the dream has come true after all, but perhaps just in a different form. That was the case for me. If there are desires, something of them usually comes to fruition.

It’s pretty rare to hit the right instrument immediately.

Yes, things could have turned out differently. Later, I moved on to the organ, but that’s another story. Back then, music school programs were strict — scales, mandatory pieces, and assessments. Now I teach children in Berlin myself; they have much more choice in what to play, and I try to meet them halfway.

So you finished music school. How did you get to the Music Academy?

First, there was the music high school in Cēsis. My piano teacher in Cēsis was Ruta Cīrule — she was excellent! Until then, I was convinced that I «wasn’t good enough» for high school. I had even come up with a Plan B — if I didn’t get into music high school, I would study to be a musical educator in a kindergarten. But I succeeded and got into the piano department at the Cēsis Music High School, which made me very happy!

In high school, I struggled a lot with nervousness. It often felt as if a hand shook or a note dropped; it was immediately a big «minus.» This stayed with me for a long time, until, gradually over the years, I freed myself from it, and it became easier. I enjoyed my time in Cēsis very much. My mom said back then, «High school years are the most beautiful.» I guess she was right. The academy was also a wonderful time, but in high school, there is still that good feeling that everything is still ahead of you.

When you finished high school, did you know immediately that you would continue studying?

After high school, that uncertainty started again — what to do next? Since I had passed my piano exam very successfully, the plan was to go to the Music Academy, which, of course, I had slightly overestimated because that year there were strong candidates from the Dārziņš and Mediņš schools, and I wasn’t accepted. I took it very hard, and as a result, my first piano composition was born. It was a short chorale, which I modified slightly several years later and played with my jazz trio. It was a surprise even to me that music could be born from such emotional pain.

Back then, with a high school diploma, you could already work as a teacher in a music school, so I went to the Valmiera Music School and told the director, «I want to work as a piano teacher.» He immediately replied: «From September 1st — we’re waiting for you!» Thus began my «adult life.» Quite simply. Waking up at seven in the morning, taking a bus from Cēsis to Valmiera, and classes starting at nine. Theoretically, a stable job, my own office, a teacher’s chair, but somehow I couldn’t come to terms with all that yet; I still wanted to study and learn something. After all, I was still so young! After four years of working in Valmiera, I went to Riga.

And then came the organ?

Yes, in Valmiera, I had free time at lunchtime and often went to St. Simon’s Church to practice the organ. During high school, I had learned it as an elective with Lelde Krastiņa — those were my first foundations in organ playing. I quickly realized that I liked this instrument very much. At that time in Latvia, you couldn’t really study organ playing as part of a complete program at the academy — more as an elective — so at first, I didn’t even think of it as a professional path.

At the Spiritual Seminary in Riga, there was an opportunity to learn the basics of church music through a three-year program. I enrolled there, finished the three years, and then it felt like, yes, now I can try to enter the organ class at the Music Academy, and this time I succeeded. I got into the organ class and studied with Ligita Sneibe, a fantastic teacher! I was thrilled; it was a big miracle! The idea was to become an organist.

Did you study only in Latvia?

Not only. During the academy, students were offered the opportunity to spend a year in Germany, where I had the chance to study at the Lübeck Academy of Music and to work as a church musician in the Travemünde congregation. At the time, it seemed impossible to many because a year is a long time — others had boyfriends, children, commitments. I was almost the only one who actually said: «Yes, I want to.» To be honest, I didn’t really believe that they would choose me. That year in Germany was one of the turning points in my life. I am a patriot; I love Latvia. This year, specifically, being outside the country developed me considerably, both musically and as a person: I learned German, my self-confidence grew, and I became more independent.

After a year, I returned to Latvia and graduated from the Music Academy, after which my second trip to Germany followed — this time to Bremen. I passed the entrance exam and was accepted into the University of the Arts Bremen, in the class of professor and organist Hans-Ola Ericsson. My teacher Ligita had studied with him herself, so it seemed like a logical continuation to me — one «school,» a similar vision. I played my diploma exam in the Bremen Cathedral, which was a very emotional moment for me — a beautiful instrument, a great responsibility. It was an indescribable feeling!

At what point did jazz piano enter?

I have always liked jazz, even during high school. Parallel to the organ, I tried to start learning this musical style on my own — analyzing chords and harmonies and listening to many recordings. I liked it very much! At the Bremen University, there was a jazz department, and at one point, I realized I would try to apply; I wouldn’t tell anyone — if I didn’t get in, no one would know, and no one would ask. That year, about ten pianists applied for jazz piano; they took two — one guy and me. It was utterly unbelievable to me!

In the entrance exam, I played three jazz standards; they also tested the basics of jazz music theory; I had to play one classical piece, and I also sang, but I don’t even remember what. Everything seemed absurd, but the main thing, of course, was the specialty.

As a mandatory subject, I chose jazz singing. Later, I changed it to percussion. For two semesters, I learned the drums — rock rhythms, bossa nova, ballads, swing. In the end, for the exam, I played «Blues for Alice» — with all the accents — plus a bossa nova piece and a ballad. The teacher praised me a lot, probably also because my organ experience helped me coordinate hands and feet.

The fact that you switched from organ to jazz doesn’t seem strange to me at all; after all, Bach is considered the inventor of the «walking bass,» so there is a connection!

It seemed strange to me at first, too, but the more I think about it, the more I realize — it’s actually logical. In Bach’s music, there is a lot of what we later call jazz thinking — independence of voices, harmony, rhythm. If you add a swing feel to Bach, it’s almost jazz at times.

Jazz studies liberated me a lot. I learned that even in the classical repertoire, one is allowed to think more broadly, improvise within the style, and not be afraid of a «wrong» note as long as it doesn’t create a sharp dissonance that makes the audience cringe. Previously, when playing Bach, I was paralyzed by the thought: «I must not make a mistake.» Now, thanks to jazz, I feel freer.

In Bremen, I worked a lot as an accompanist, especially with a choir. The conductor often praised me: «You have a great rhythm, a sense of harmony.» This was when I was already studying jazz. Compared to pianists who tried to play every note from the score, my accompaniment was freer precisely because it came from improvisation and an understanding of harmony.

So jazz taught you not to be perfect.

Yes. Jazz freed me from the fear of making mistakes. When I play my jazz concerts with a trio or quartet, I no longer worry like I used to, only a tiny bit, which is no longer that paralyzing anxiety. Playing Bach, I get more nervous, but not as much as before. In classical music, I always felt an enormous pressure: «It must be perfect.» Jazz taught me — it’s more important to live in the music than just to «perform» it.

Then you started composing more. Tell us about your composing.

Previously, I was afraid to call myself a composer. It felt like I couldn’t consider myself one because the real composers are Mozart, Bach, and Beethoven.

There was a piano class evening in Bremen where everyone had to perform three pieces. I couldn’t decide which jazz standards to play — it felt like others would play all of them better. Then I thought to myself, «Invent something yourself!» I remembered my old, unwritten piece from my youth that had stayed with me. I wrote it down, modified it a bit, and added a melody. I wrote two more — one ballad, one faster piece. When I played them, the teachers and classmates praised me. Then I thought, maybe it wasn’t so bad after all?

It’s interesting that after almost every piece, I think: «This is probably the last one; the ideas will run out.» But they don’t. The next piece just comes. Sometimes it feels like I compose more than I practice. At home, I have a digital piano with headphones, and I like to write at night. I write down ideas, and in the morning, I’m glad I did, because everything would have been forgotten. A piece stays in my head only after a couple of days; on the first day, that hasn’t happened yet. I write my compositions by hand. I really like paper, pencil, and staff lines. Yes, we live in the age of Sibelius and computer programs, but I want to sit old-fashioned with a notebook. I write clearly so that colleagues don’t have to guess whether it’s a D7 or a D9.

Do you call yourself a composer now?

It’s still hard for me to say it out loud. I have great respect for composers who have studied composition at the academy, who write choral works and symphonies. I feel more like a person who creates pieces — «little pearls.» But yes, objectively, I write original music, I play it in concerts, people buy CDs, they come up to me and say it moved them. Perhaps that is already enough to accept that «composer» isn’t an exaggeration. If someone asks me what I like to do best, I would say — listen to good music, compose, and play piano. These three things alternate constantly.

Tell us about your daily life — work, discipline, fatigue.

I have three «lines» — work as a church musician (organ, services, a small choir); then there are the piano students; and then there is the creative life — composing, practicing, concerts, various projects, and organizing them.

Sometimes it seems I lack «classical discipline.» Some people consistently play scales every morning from ten to eleven. I would rather follow what is burning at that moment — sometimes I compose for several days in a row, then comes a period when I practice more. I realize more and more how much a simple walk helps me. When everything piles up — information, fatigue — I go for a short walk and return with completely different energy.

Listening to you, it seems to me that at times you are your own worst enemy — always telling yourself «I’m not good enough.»

It may have been like that before. Less so now. I can say quite confidently that I am a good church musician. I know how to accompany the congregation and find the right tempo so it’s easy to sing. Others often tell me that too — and here I no longer need to add: «Really? Do you think so?»

As a jazz pianist, I always feel there is still room to grow, but I see progress. I recently listened to a recording made about 20 years ago during my studies. There was a lot of tension there — a kind of «throwing myself» at the jazz language. Now I play more freely. A teacher in Bremen once told me, «When you finish school, you will go your own way. Your way won’t be a copy of Oscar Peterson. You don’t necessarily have to play bebop!» Foundations are essential, but in the end, we have to find our own path in music and our own sound. It’s good that I am not a good copier of other interpreters! I am often called a «Nordic jazz» pianist — a northern sound, northern light, melody, a bit of sadness. In my time, I listened a lot to Miles Davis, Chet Baker, Bill Evans, Keith Jarrett, Herbie Hancock, Michel Petrucciani, Lyle Mays, Pat Metheny, and Brad Mehldau. I could go on and on! Later, Scandinavian musicians — Bugge Wesseltoft, Iiro Rantala, Esbjörn Svensson, Jan Garbarek. Right now, I really like Bill Laurance. I guess all that has settled somewhere inside.

The most important thing — not to stop. To develop in music, to grow as a listener, to develop as a person.