Phonograph Monthly Review, Vol. 1, No. 5 (1927-02)

198 The Phonograph Monthly Review boys playing the lighter classics with shining eyes and exalted faces, and it still gives one a feeling of courage and pride in music. My first experience with a real symphony or- chestra is equally unforgettable. I was about fourteen then and the Russian Symphony Orches- tra needed clarinet players. I brought my instru- ments for a trial and played for Modest Alt- schuler, the conductor. He was a musician of great sensitiveness and believed that tone quality was paramount in a player. His quick acknowl- edgement and immediate engagement of my ser- vices surprised and naturally delighted me. As a partner, another young clarinet player about six years older than myself was engaged and Mr. Altschuler used to work hours with us in private rehearsal. Every number was a revelation to me. At that time very little Russian music was played and this orchestra was the first to perform it, oftentimes the music being in manuscript form. Some of the most important Russian music was introduced into America by this orchestra which gave the first American performances of many of the works of Scriabin, Rachmaninoff, Glazounow, Rimsky-Korsakow, etc. Some of the guest conductors and soloists with the Russian Symphony at that time were Safanov, Sibelius, Scriabin, Elman, Heifetz, Lhevinne, and others equally famous. After a period with the New York Symphony and the Barrere Ensemble, I joined the New York Philharmonic Orchestra, playing under Safanov and Gustav Mahler. A peculiar inci- dent happened under the former conductor. One of the players near me—a clarinetist—had a habit of changing his reed very often. (The reed, as no doubt most of my readers know, is the little piece of cane which vibrates and makes the tone possible in the instrument. It is flat and very thin on top and many players are fussy about its quality.) We were about in the middle of Thus Spake Zarathustra , by Richard Strauss. Safanov, who was conducting, was a man of dynamic temperament and you can imagine the excitement when I tell you what happened. In changing the reed, the clarinetist knocked over the stand of the two bassoon players with his instrument. The latter stand in falling knocked over the first horn player’s music and in trying to be helpful my partner and I threw over the oboe and flute parts! Tears of rage or despair ran down Safanov’s face and since he conducted without a stick, he rubbed his eyes with his hands, pulled his hair, but could not utter a word. I can still see his facial expression at the. end of the symphonic poem as he rushed off the stage and ran up to his room. To make the whole matter as unfortunate as possible, it was his first concert with the Philharmonic Society. But the audience and critics never mentioned it the next day. Probably the critics saw the comi-tragedy and thought it best to be kind. We will draw the curtain on what Safanov said to the orches- tra off-stage. Accidents and humor sometimes have peculiar results. I well remember one trick played by a practical joker on the double-bassoon. The double-bassoon is a very large instrument divid- ing in sections which can be taken apart. The joker removed the lower part of the instrument, carefully placing it on the other side of the or- chestra. On account of the double-bassoon’s great size the absence of the lower part was not noticed by the player. To make the joke complete, the play for which the orchestra was accompanying started without an overture, but with a bassoon solo, a cue which the actor on the stage needed to start his part. The curtain went up according to the lights and the startled singer looked at us with staring eyes and wide-open mouth while the poor bassoon player blew and blew until he frothed at the mouth. The conductor stamped. A silence, then down went the curtain. We who knew what had happened simply roared. And the funny part of it was that the trouble was not discovered until after the first act and in the meantime one of the other bassoon players substituted for the missing part. What happened afterward to the practical joker can be imagined. Another heart-breaking incident occurred in the recording room. I cannot mention the name, but the artist was a great tenor who had been trying to make a satisfactory record of a very difficult aria for almost four hours. At every trial either his voice was in bad shape, the or- chestra made mistakes, or the operators did some- thing wrong. It was just one of those horrid sticky days when everything goes contrary. We had made a number of records of this selection, but not one of them was satisfactory to us. At last we made up our minds to try just once more! This time it was a masterpiece — with our fingers crossed he reached the last high note with everything perfect. At last we were finishing the record, accomplishing in four minutes what we had been trying to do for four hours, when a voice from a friend of the tenor in the back of the room, yelled Bravo! as loud as possible. His shout of congratulation was impressed on the last revolutions of the revolving wax and the record was ruined! Again it is kindest for me to ring the curtain without further details of what fol- lowed. {To he Continued) The completion of “PETER ILICH TCHAIKOWSKY’S BIOGRAPHY AND RECORDED WORKS” by Dr. K. E. Britzius will appear in the next issue.