Symphonies & Scorpions: Filling in the Blanks
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[image error]Filling in a Couple of Blanks
Thursday, April 17
Lynn Larsen explains something that’s been puzzling me: How is it possible for a conductor of Dutoit’s stature to be available for four weeks of concertizing on such short notice? The answer: He only had to cancel one engagement. The rest of the time was a planned vacation at the end of an arduous concert season. Lynn reaffirms that the tour most likely would have been cancelled had Dutoit not been free to conduct.
I like Lynn. Some personnel managers pretend they’re Marine drill sergeants. Lynn has a much more nuanced approach to regulations. Case in point. I had forgotten that the dress for Friday matinees in Boston is a black suit, and so had neglected to pack one in Salt Lake. I did bring a dark blue one in case I have to spiff up for some tour functions. Knowing that Lynn is a former Utah Mormon, I ask: “Lynn, I gave away my black suit when I returned from my mission. Mind if I wear a dark blue one?” “Why not?” he replied. “I’m color blind.”
Tchaik Five
Thursday, April 17 for yet another Tchaikovsky Fifth, one of the most battle-scarred warhorses in the symphonic stable, can be a test of a professional musician’s professionalism. BSO violinist Slava Uritsky, a Russian refugee from Cold War days, admits the piece has worn thin for him. “That’s probably because you played it too often when you were young,” I offer sympathetically. “Yes,” he replies, “and even when I was old.”
Because this symphony is such a natural crowd pleaser, many conductors just let the orchestra do its thing and stay out of the way. However, Dutoit spends a lot of time adjusting balances and dynamics, and fine-tuning the brass intonation. I think it’s all for the better, but some of my colleagues are a bit impatient with his fussiness, believing they’re already playing up to the extraordinarily high standards they demand of themselves. One might argue that part of a conductor’s job description is to make things better as he sees fit, even if from time to time he’s wrong. On the other hand, since the musicians take such pride in how they play, both individually and as an ensemble, I suppose they feel such criticism—if it should come from anyone—should be the domain of the music director rather than a guest conductor.
There’s a famous moment of dead silence in the finale of the Tchaikovsky after a big chordal climax. Following the pause are three more minutes of triumphant pomp and circumstance. Many novice concertgoers mistake the pause for the end of the piece (even though it’s not the proper key to finish things off) and invade the silence with raucous applause, raising the ire of veteran audience members. Caroline told me she once had a houseguest who attended a performance of the Tchaikovsky and afterwards he told her that while he liked the piece as a whole, “the fifth movement was totally unnecessary.” When the BSO rehearses the piece, the musicians have a humorous tradition of cheering wildly when they get to that spot, in imitation of the audiences. Sometimes guest conductors are taken aback until they realize the joke. At today’s rehearsal we’re not given the chance, as Dutoit stops us at the crucial moment in order to make a comment. Foiled!
The greatest Tchaikovsky Fifth in my experience was with a famously domineering conductor, Kurt Masur. At rehearsals, he often addressed the musicians as “friends.” That’s when you knew to watch out. The Tchaikovsky performances with Masur were exceptionally fine but for one Friday matinee. Former principal flutist, Doriot Anthony Dwyer (descendant of Susan B. Anthony, and the first woman in the BSO) had great musical creativity but in later years could sometimes be a bit scattered. For example, she once left her flute in a phone booth in England. I’m not sure if she ever got it back. At a big flute entrance in the finale of the Tchaikovsky, Doriot forgot to come in. While the rest of the orchestra oom-pahed on, sans flute melody, Masur’s face turned a furious beet red and his bulging eyes threw darts at Doriot. He pointed directly at her, and started singing her part at the top of his lungs until she realized something was missing. Her.
Toward the end of our rehearsal the clouds part and I have a revelation! Listen for this the next time you hear Tchaikovsky Fifth: After having played the piece at least six thousand times, the derivation of the majestically triumphant brass fanfare at the very end of the Finale dawns on me: the soft, quasi-sinister March at the beginning of the first movement Allegro! Even the forte chords the strings play to support the fanfare mirror the pianissimo accompaniment from that tune. I share this tidbit with Caroline. She’s impressed with my perspicacity, but I’m more impressed with Tchaikovsky. There’s a reason composers like Tchaikovsky are popular. They were smart guys. That made my day.
Auditions and Quirky Conduct(ors)
So far, I’ve made some oblique references to full-time orchestra members versus freelancers, subs, and extras. That deserves some clarification. “Full-time” refers to musicians who won a highly competitive audition for their position in the orchestra and who are members of the bargaining unit for the collective bargaining agreement (also called the CBA, or contract; or as the BSO calls it, the Trade Agreement) between the union/musicians and symphony corporation. After a probationary period lasting up to a couple of years, a musician usually receives tenure, which doesn’t necessarily prevent him or her from being fired, but provides a protective grievance process. A sub—short for substitute, not submarine sandwich—is someone hired for a defined number of engagements to replace a full-time musician who is absent. A sub’s temporary contract is governed by conditions laid out in the CBA. An extra is someone likewise hired on a concert by concert basis, but is playing a part not covered by the full-time musicians; for example, if a particular composition requires extra percussionists. By definition, a sub or extra has no job security. If (s)he makes a big blunder during a performance of Brahms Fourth or sneezes on the clarinetist’s head, (s)he might never be rehired. A freelancer is someone who does a variety of gigs to make a living. Most of them covet the opportunity to be hired as a sub or extra with an orchestra like the BSO, and if they think they might sneeze will be sure to bring a handkerchief.
For most of human history, the music director—who is the principal conductor and artistic director of an orchestra—has had sole prerogative for hiring and firing musicians, and has tenaciously protected that authority. The invention of audition committees comprising orchestra members are a result of mid-20th-century labor muscle in an effort to make the hiring process fair, transparent, and standardized. Still, the role that audition committees play is almost always contractually limited to an advisory capacity. Even if it unanimously disagrees with a music director’s judgment in choosing a new member, as sometimes happens, the music director may still take it upon him or herself to make unpopular decisions, because the selection of new musicians is considered so crucial to his artistic vision.
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With Maestro Seiji Ozawa, who hired me in 1975.
Seiji Ozawa took auditions very seriously; so much so that, to the frustration of the committees, his decision that no one who had auditioned merited being hired occurred a little too often for their druthers. A no-decision meant scheduling an entirely new audition, a process that takes six months to a year. And then the audition itself, another several days of the exhausting, sometimes contentious process of listening to upwards of a hundred candidates by the audition committee in addition to the already hectic performance calendar. As musicians continued to retire and their positions went unfilled under Ozawa, vacancies piled up and it became almost impossible to foresee a time when the full complement of musicians would once again grace the stage of Symphony Hall.
Back around 1980 I auditioned for concertmaster of Montreal Symphony when Dutoit was its music director. I was surprised that the audition was not in the concert hall but in a smaller room, and instead of a committee it was just Dutoit himself. (And maybe a couple other people? My memory fails me.) At that time, I was still learning the ins and outs of the profession and later learned that music directors often have the authority to hire concertmasters at their own discretion, the reason being that the relationship between the music director and concertmaster is so unique and crucial that the standard audition procedure becomes somewhat superfluous. Seattle Symphony, for example, doesn’t even give their concertmaster position tenure, under the theory that (s)he is there at the pleasure of the music director, and if there was a change at the helm the new music director should have the right to choose a new concertmaster.
Even though I had practiced assiduously for two months preparing for the Montreal audition, after playing for a little while I knew it just wasn’t going to be my day. There wasn’t enough zip on my fastballs, and my curveball wasn’t breaking. Who can explain why? Maybe too much moules-frites the night before.
Some musicians are born audition-takers. They have the ability to practice the same things over and over again nine hours a day, the ice running in their veins gets even colder when they hear the word “competition,” and they go for the jugular. For me, it has always been tough to replicate the joy and spontaneity of a real performance at auditions, where musicians are playing against each other rather than with each other, and where the audience, such as it is, is compelled to be ultra-critical of technical details and is less focused on a subjective, emotional experience. I count my lucky stars that in my lifetime I’ve won two of the couple dozen auditions I’ve taken, first with Boston and then Utah. Better musicians than me have been far less fortunate.
Though things weren’t going so well, at least in my estimation, Dutoit was courteous enough to listen to me for a good half hour with what appeared to be a great deal of attentiveness, even though I had given him ample grounds to kick me out after ten minutes. I’ve always appreciated his thoughtfulness on that occasion.
Levine, on the other hand, rarely attended auditions, let alone make personnel decisions. According to what I was told, Levine even declined to attend the audition for principal harp, one of the most strategically important positions in the orchestra, though he was present in Symphony Hall.
As great a musician and conductor as I believe Levine is, and as flowing with compliments as he was at rehearsals, I never got a sense of real connection or empathy from him toward the musicians. His smiling face was often buried in the score as he led the orchestra. The music on the page seemed to bring him profound joy, but the manifestation of the score—the actual sound—seemed a secondary byproduct. It was as if the orchestra were a set of replaceable parts, and as long as he got the desired result, he was happy. Personally, I didn’t mind it a bit, as his desired result was often more than sufficient recompense for any perceived lack of connection with the musicians. The production of Mozart’s Don Giovanni at Tanglewood some years back was incomparably wonderful and memorable. On the other hand, I only played for him on a handful of occasions, and can understand the musicians’ ambivalence to his tenure.
In 1981 I took another audition, for associate concertmaster of the Pittsburgh Symphony, which was supposed to have been a slam-dunk but ended up an unmitigated disaster. At that time Pittsburgh’s music director was Andre Previn, a fine musician with a keen wit and great respect for musicians, who sadly passed away in 2019. Prior to the September audition, Previn guest conducted at Tanglewood, where he appeared regularly. With the associate concertmaster position in mind, Joseph Silverstein, then the BSO’s concertmaster and my former violin teacher at Yale, helped set up a private audition for me with Previn at Tanglewood. After I played for Previn and Marshall Turkin, Pittsburgh’s CEO who was also at Tanglewood for some meetings, they essentially handed me the job. And more.
Pittsburgh’s longtime concertmaster, Fritz Siegal, would soon be retiring, they told me. And though Previn didn’t have the total authority to hire an associate concertmaster, he told me in no uncertain terms that he had the contractual authority to hire the concertmaster. Turkin nodded in agreement. The intimation was clear.
Siegal was going to perform the Ernest Bloch violin concerto on Pittsburgh’s season-opening concert. On the same program was Scheherazade by Rimsky-Korsakov, which has one of the most virtuoso concertmaster solos in the repertoire. Previn invited me to come down to Pittsburgh to be guest concertmaster for the week, and since Siegal would be performing only the concerto, I would be the Scheherazade soloist. He also wanted me to “play for a few of the guys” to formalize what would be my appointment as associate concertmaster. I asked Previn what music I should prepare for “the guys.” Anything you want, he told me.
I decided on the Scherzo Tarentelle by Henri Wieniawski, a well-known 19th-century virtuoso show piece; the Phantasy for Violin and Piano by the famous twelve-tone composer, Arnold Schoenberg; and a couple movements from a solo sonata by Bach. I thought that mix would demonstrate my versatility, and as the first two of those pieces are never on audition repertoire lists, would distinguish my playing from the standard fare.
I arrived in Pittsburgh and had a wonderful time being wined and dined by Previn and assistant conductor, Michael Lancaster. The next morning, I arrived at Heinz Hall, adrenaline pumping, primed to embark my next step to stardom, fame and fortune.
I was approached by one of the musicians. He handed me a list. What’s this? I asked. It’s what we want you to play from the repertoire list, he replied. I was confused. On the list were a dozen orchestra excerpts, including several concertmaster solos, and two concertos. You’re here for the audition, right? he asked. I nodded. You can go into that room, he said, pointing.
I became aware of an army of other violinists warming up for the audition. Something had gone terribly awry. At that point I should have either called timeout and had a discussion with Previn, or packed my bags but, at twenty-nine years old, I was still a bit of a greenhorn. And shell-shocked.
I frantically practiced the excerpts—cramming a month of dedicated practice into an hour—before going onstage to play before a formal audition committee.
Not surprisingly, I totally bombed. Afterwards, Previn called me into his office, offered his condolences and told me if I’d rather not play the opening week he would certainly understand. I suppose I could have made a stink, but diffidence got the better of me, and besides, I didn’t see that bitching would have done any good. I decided to stay and play because I didn’t want the PSO musicians thinking I was as bad as my audition had clearly led them to believe. The Scheherazade went all right, though all week I felt daggers in my back from musicians who thought I had tried to circumvent the audition process. Previn later told Silverstein that I had done a great job leading the orchestra. Kind words, perhaps, but merely a Band-Aid for a wound that left a permanent scar.
One Under the Belt
Though there were a few rough edges to our performance of the Mahler Fifth—forgivable considering the last-minuteness of everything—the first Boston concert with Dutoit went relatively well. Part of the untidiness was the result of the orchestra still getting used to Dutoit’s beat. A conductor’s beat is almost like a fingerprint; they all have characteristics in common, but in detail are very distinctive. With Dutoit, sometimes we played right at the ictus, or point, of his beat. Other times his body language suggested we should play on the rebound, and once in a while it seemed we were about ten seconds behind his beat, as if you were sitting out in the bleachers and only heard the crack of the bat when the ball landed on your head. So everyone just tried to sense the beat at the same time and, amazingly, things almost always worked out because Dutoit was consistent with his gestures and knew precisely what he wanted. Even though figuring out precisely what that was sometimes required a modicum of clairvoyance, one of the things that makes this orchestra so good is its ability to rise to the occasion. Case in point: In this symphony, Mahler wrote some of the most challenging and extensive brass solos in the symphonic repertoire. The BSO’s Principal trumpet, Tom Rolfs, and principal horn, James Summerville, didn’t bat an eyelash and both came out smelling like roses.
I had forgotten how much more boisterous the audiences are in Boston than in Salt Lake City. In Salt Lake, audiences jump to their feet for a standing ovation to everything besides tuning up, but then they’re out the door almost before the conductor’s off the stage. When we finished the Mahler tonight the Boston crowd reacted as if we just beat the Yankees in the 2004 playoffs. (I say “we” as a member of the BSO. As a native New Yorker, I’m actually an ardent Yankees fan and despise the Red Sox. They got lucky.)
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NEWS FLASH: MY FIRST POLITICAL THRILLER, THE BEETHOVEN SEQUENCE, IS SCHEDULED FOR RELEASE ON SEPTEMBER 8! A MENTALLY UNBALANCED MUSIC TEACHER BECOMES PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES! PREPOSTEROUS? STAY TUNED.
