SOME MUSICAL ENCOUNTERS

by Ignace Strasfogel*

Until its fateful third decade, Berlin was the music capital of the twentieth century. Any aspiring composer or performer who hap­pened to grow up there was, as a matter of course, exposed to the highest standards, the busiest, most exciting of musical scenes.

There were, among others, composers like Arnold Schoenberg, Franz Schreker (who was my own teacher of composition), Ferruccio Busoni, and Paul Hindemith. The great conductors included Wilhelm Fürtwängler, Bruno Walter, Erich Kleiber, and Otto Klemperer, and there were three full-time opera houses, each with its own public and its own particular viewpoint.

The chief advantage for a young musician in such a scene was, of course, the chance to attend the unforgettable performances of

these great conductors. Moreover, there were the occasions to ob­serve them in rehearsal and in various personal encounters. (...)

At the N.Y. Philharmonic. Some years later, the course of events took me again to New York. At Klemperer's invitation I joined the New York Philharmonic as official pianist, and later on as assistant conductor (Klemperer at that time shared the season with the music director, Toscanini).

This post in the new world-center of music proved to be another ideal spot to witness and absorb the practical application in day-to­day work of top-level artistic standards. One could closely observe the various demands conductors make, the manner and technique employed, and the resulting interaction with the orchestra.

Toscanini, who actually came to the concert podium relatively late in his career, was in all he conducted the servant of the score, as he personally saw it. In historical context, this was of course to his everlasting credit. As a dedicated Italian, he restored to Verdi's work the original intent, dignity, and integrity - all of which had been routinely violated by mediocre conductors and singers alike. The quintessential dictator, Toscanini could be rough with the orchestra. Yet the men sensed that he was toughest with himself, deep down humble and sincere. So they forgave and really played for him. No need to mention the Toscanini temper tantrums,* were it not for the notable exception to the rule I once witnessed. At a rehearsal of Beethoven's Missa Solemnis, his gorge rising, Toscanini suddenly grabbed the big score with both hands, ready to fling it to the floor as was his custom. But then he hesitated, meekly putting it back on. the stand. It had all his markings!

Klemperer and Walter. When it came to guest conductors, this same orchestra's responses varied considerably. The eminent Otto Klemperer, whose rather bizarre behavior became a trademark, nevertheless imposed his conceptions by meticulous, consistent rehearsing, step by step. Eventually and without fail he did get what he wanted. But along that arduous road there were some confrontations. (...)

Another frequent guest was Bruno Walter, whose artistic profile differed sharply from both Toscanini's and Klemperer's. The most amiable of conductors, he was basically a lyricist, favoring delicate shadings and flexibility of rhythm. This was not easy to achieve for an orchestra primarily drilled for accuracy to the ultimate degree. Particularly since Walter was so conciliatory, virtually pleading with them. "I am not happy," he would exclaim. (In his Memoirs Bruno Walter writes about this tendency of his, which at times impaired his authority over an orchestra.) In the end, of course, he succeeded, but not without a costly struggle. His style of conducting was not conducive to orchestral precision nor was that his aim. I recall his revealing remark: "When one conducts for precision, one does in­deed get precision. Period!" Wisdom from a great musician.

As is by now rather evident, guest conducting, like every good thing, has its drawbacks, particularly when it comes to the bread-and-butter* repertory. The orchestra knows all these pieces. "What can you teach us? "Perhaps the primary element here is in the mat­ter of tempo. Any conductor worth his salt has his own built-in con­cept of tempo, his own life-pulse, as it were. And within artistic limits, everyone is so entitled. As William Steinberg, in a moment of Olympic detachment, once said to me: "I don't care. I still prefer my own wrong tempi to the wrong tempi of my colleagues." Amen!

Stokowski, noted guest. One noted guest, legendary Stokowski, when confronting the New York Philharmonic, encountered some problems of his own. Fresh from Philadelphia, where he had built that fabulous orchestra in bis own image, he brought with him some strong convictions. A pioneer in orchestra seating, free bowing, acoustical innovations,* and a very personal style of conducting with­out baton, he faced some recalcitrance.* The Philharmonic musicians, traditional in orientation, resented his "improvements." And the famed Stokowski sound failed to materialize, even when it came to concert time.

Only once, during his Philharmonic engagement, was there a sin­gle light moment. Rehearsing a work of the Romantic period, Stokowski stopped with the admonition: "Gentlemen, don't play so mechanically." A burst of laughter from the orchestra. Stoki was taken aback, until there came the explanation. Evidently a short time before, the Mexican conductor/composer Carlos Chavez, at a re­hearsal, had demanded of the Philharmonic: "Please, genltemen, play more mechanically!"

Sir Thomas Beecham's appearances with the New York Philhar­monic were rather unique. His programs consisted almost entirely of works by English composers, most of which the orchestra had never played. From a high stack of scores he would grab the first piece, conduct a run-through,* not stopping for corrections, then throw the score to the floor and go on to the next number, at times singing the tune lustily. He paused only for intermission, and for one single time when the orchestra sightreading, simply broke down. He was perfectly content to let matters rest, until concert time. The aston­ishing thing was that the concerts went off very well, and certainly very much to the public's liking! Either he did not care to rehearse, or he simply did not know how. In any case his sound musical in­stinct and enthusiasm always seemed to carry the day.

Stravinsky's tempos. The scene now shifts to the Metropolitan Opera, which I joined early in the Bing* regime as assistant con­ductor, later moving on to full conductor after my successful debut directing Eugene Onegin and Vanessa. One of the important mile­stones was the new production of Stravinsky's Rake's Progress con­ducted by the brilliant Fritz Reiner.* Soon the musical staff got into full action. We were armed with pocket metronomes to impose the composer's very own metronome markings as printed in the score.

Thus we coached the entire cast according to Stravinsky's wishes, while certainly our conductor, Reiner, was a most exacting, precise music director.

After a week of intense music ensemble rehearsals, Stravinsky was invited to a run-through of the music with piano. He seemed very pleased - with a single exception. Most of the tempos - of course, his own from the printed score - he found too slow! The re­quired adjustments were duly undertaken.

Here, again, the eternal question: what is the right tempo? It was evident that only when confronted with hearing his music played, and - more important - sung, did Stravinsky feel what the tempo giusto* should be. In the abstract he had no real perspective. (And so it has gone with numberless examples of nineteenth-century composers and their own music. Beethoven, Wagner, and Verdi, among others, later on in their lives gave up putting in metronome marks altogether, learning from practical experience how misleading they could be.)

The single aim. In their individual, different ways, conductors of quality share the single aim: to bring music to life. Theirs is the in­sight to discern the essence of each piece, its style, structure, and prevailing mood. As they tend to be men of strong convictions, much has been made of their rivalries and disagreements.

The fact is that every artist in his quest for truth can use the stimulation of opposing views, and periodic self-examination can be revitalizing. In art, as in life, the one thing to fear is stifling con­formity.

From: High Fidelity, 1983. Abridged

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 801