Phonograph Monthly Review, Vol. 2, No. 7 (1928-04)

246 The Phonograph Monthly Review April 1928 tions to the great wealth of recorded works. More often as time passes will the names of less famil- iar works and composers appear, until even the most critical, the most modern, or the most classi- cal taste may find enjoyment to its heart’s con- tent. Though even today there is such diversity offered that it is hard to see how anyone can fail to find music to his taste, in variety too great to permit of monotony. How can unprejudiced con- sideration of the facts of this article lead to any other conclusion? More pertinent still, how can intelligent, cultured people longer deny them- selves the joy and inspiration that come from living with good music? A breathing space—but no more. For we have but finished our modest exposition of what the phonograph world has done in the brief time since modern recording was developed; we have just shown that today’s repertory of the phono- graph is very much more than “the more popular of ordinary concert programs,” while tomorrow’s will in truth be “all the music of all the world”; when along comes Mr. Louis Sherwin in The American Mercury (March, 1928) with his “Re- port on the Music Industry,” and proceeds to lambaste us poor gramophiles for quite the op- posite reason. Mr. Haggin, by inference, he lambastes twice as hard. (Don’t cheer, boys; the poor devils are dying!) Mr. Sherwin, I suspect, is a Superior Per- son. I gathered as much from reading this para- graph : “From where I write in a modest and almost shabby quarter I hear for the third time this evening the wailings of the Liebestod through the medium of a neighboring and thrice accursed soundbox. When that is over the people across the way will turn on the records of the Seventh Symphony which they recently bought. At no hour of the day am I sure of being free from the necessity of listening to Donner building the lordly bridge to Valhalla out of crashing chords in the brass and thund’rous rumbling of tympani. To hear all these works I used to walk lunchless and dinnerless through the bitterest New York blizzards and be well repaid. But now they are rapidly becoming as loathsome as one of Cantor Jolson’s mother songs. Sounds that once were of unholy joy to me hold nothing but holy terror. The only compositions of Chopin I can endure are those either too difficult to record on piano-player or Victrola, or too unpopular. Thank God, most people detest Bach!” There you have it. First the new art of re- corded music is damned because, born yesterday, it does not yet contain records of all the music in the world; then for good measure it is damned again because it contains too much good music and, worse still, is alleged to have “popularized and vulgarized” the greatest of the arts. You will find it all set out in Mr. Sherwin’s rather peevish article, and you will vastly enjoy his un- conscious humor. Now, first of all, let us grant Mr. Sherwin his Liebestod and his Entrande of the Gods . Per- sonally I should have called out the fire depart- ment. But the Seventh Symphony, now . . . that’s something else again. In my thirty-four years I have lived in single houses, double houses, apart- ment houses; in what might he called ordinary neighborhoods and in neighborhoods that thought well of themselves; and never have I heard on a neighbor’s phonograph anything more “classi- cal” than a Strauss waltz! Should I of a stilly night hear the strains of Beethoven’s Seventh, I should fold my hands and scan the skies for the approach of the Herald Angels. Thousands of “Masterworks” and “Masterpiece” sets are being sold daily in these States, the good Lord knows, but where dwell the purchasers I have never been able to discover. Perhaps I don’t mean that quite literally: but I do mean that while there may be a few of what Mr. Sherwin would call “the wrong people” who have mistak- enly bought a handful of better-class records and proceeded to make nuisances of themselves the vast majority of such records are bought by people at least as intelligent and considerate as Mr. Sherwin. Lunchless and dinnerless through the dre’ful New York blizzards, did poor Mr. Sherwin go, forsooth, that he might save the wherewithal to hear music performed. Tut, tut, Mr. Tutt; so did—and do—we gramophiles, and think nothing of it, (and as a rule say nothing of it either.) No; this, I trow, is what riles our genial critic: (0, cruel is the scalpel, lads, and yet how merci- ful!) that enjoyment of music which once belong- ed exclusively to a privileged few has now be- come available to every man and woman of intelligent appreciation and ordinary means. There is no vulgarization, no popularization of good music by the phonograph companies; they are performing two commendable tasks: first, in meeting the long-existing demand for worthy recordings of the masterpieces of music; second, in seeking to stimulate the dormant love of good music which I believe is to be found in most intelligent people. Let us tell Mr. Sherwin the worst: there is nothing too difficult to record; and most buyers of better-class records do not detest Bach. All of which means, of course, that the day of musical snobbery is ended. But the future of musical appreciation, I fancy, is safe with people who will if necessary sacrifice food and wear old clothes, just as did Mr. Sherwin, to obtain the music of the masters from Pales- trina to Prokofieff—and still retain a decent amount of modesty and toleration. The thought of broadmindedness recalls one of the glories of that Boston in which I obscurely but unashamedly dwell, namely, the musical re- views of our justly celebrated Transcript . H. T. Parker, as everyone knows, is among the ablest musical critics now practicing in America. It is a privilege and a pleasure, then to quote from his recent review of a recital by Fritz Kreisler; for, in words far better than mine, he gives pause alike to those who would sneer at music they denominate either “trifling” or overfamiliar, and those who would make the cry of “popular”