Symphonies & Scorpions: Rap on Rhapsody
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Rap on Rhapsody
Saturday, April 19
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The rehearsal this morning of Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini went smoothly enough. The piece, chock full of engaging melodies and dazzling pyrotechnics, has become the standard teeth-cutter for budding piano virtuosi. And when the pianist slides into the immortal eighteenth variation, audiences inevitably emit an audible sigh of recognition and relish, perhaps rekindling nostalgic memories of the figure skating gods Oleg Protopopov and Ludmilla Belausova, the Commies we loved in spite of ourselves, during the golden age of pairs skating in the 1960s. I get why the Rhapsody is so popular but, as with much of Rachmaninoff’s music, there’s a lot of filler and his string writing can be awkward and clumsily unidiomatic. Compare that to a score by Mozart, where the music is uncannily suited to the capabilities of each and every instrument. As my former Utah Symphony colleague, bassist Jamie Allyn, once noted, even Mozart’s pizzicato chords are perfectly registered to suit the instrument.
[image error]The 18th Variation. The Protopopovs, poetry in motion
The young piano soloist, Behzod Abduraimov, hails from somewhere in the former Soviet empire. It’s his first time with the BSO and no one has ever heard of him. I asked Tony Fogg how he ended up on our radar. It turned out that Abduraimov had performed in China and had achieved some popularity there. A surprising number of fine artists find a niche on one continent but are virtually unknown on another. Garrick Ohlsson, for example, is a superlative pianist but his presence in Europe doesn’t match his profile here in the US. With the fine violinist Isabella Faust, who has performed with the BSO on a few occasions, it’s almost the reverse. In Europe she’s a superstar; here, she’s definitely a presence but not a household name. When tours are undertaken on more familiar territory, according to Tony, the BSO would have more input in deciding upon guest artists, but for China they took the recommendation for Abduraimov at face value.
Though it lacks poetry, Abduraimov gives a creditable account of the Rhapsody, but his interaction with the orchestra is sporadic, and he sometimes tends to bolt ahead. He would have benefitted from a lesson in elegance and poise from the Protopopovs, but I’ll chalk that up to youthful exuberance.Dutoit makes his best effort to disguise any impatience.
Trunk-ated
After the rehearsal I descend into the dingy catacombs of Symphony Hall to seek out my wardrobe trunk for the tour. The BSO travels with twenty-five of these behemoths. When aligned backstage, they stand upright like giant, mutant dominoes. I believe they were constructed sometime between the time of King Arthur and King Richard, for they are mighty fortresses. Each six-foot tall, two-hundred-pound metal-clad trunk opens like a book and contains compartments to accommodate four musicians’ gear, including a space to hang tail suits, tuxedos, or dresses, and two drawers for shirts, shoes, and accessories. (Street clothes and anything else musicians take on tour are packed in their own individual luggage.) To prevent the suits from flopping around inside the trunk and getting wrinkled, there’s a removable wooden bar that clamps into the inside of the door. The doors snap shut with large clasps and have a big brass lock. If I am not mistaken, our wardrobe trunks were the predecessors of the iron maiden as an instrument of torture.
As BSO tours typically start at the beginning of the week so as to fit snugly into the orchestra’s Boston concert schedule, the ritual of packing wardrobe trunks takes place after our Saturday night Symphony Hall concert.
For many years, musicians often packed their wardrobe trunks sparingly in order to be able to stuff as many exotic, generally legal souvenirs into them by the end of the tour. One esteemed colleague, violinist Gerald Gelbloom, who was my teacher, mentor, and close friend until his untimely death in 1982, had a sly MO. (Gerry was the prototype for the character Solomon Goldbloom in my novel, Devil’s Trill.) He would pack only those concert dress shirts that were ripe for the scrap heap, and would toss them in the trash after each concert, one by one, so that by the end of the tour he would have empty drawers to load with booty. Since 9-11, souvenir packing practice has become verboten for security reasons—we’ve had to fill out forms stating precisely, down to the last cufflink, what we’re packing—and also because the already formidable weight of the trunks becomes unmanageable. But I’m not sure all that many people (musicians and customs officials alike) are taking that edict too seriously.
The wardrobe trunk John Demick assigned me for the tour is #11 Upper. When I finally find it and unlock it in order to hang my tails coat, I notice that scrawled on the wooden crossbar, in unmistakable handwriting that I hadn’t seen for decades, is the name Gelbloom.
That I would now occupy Gerry’s old wardrobe trunk, #11 Upper, is nostalgia and ambivalence combined. Many years ago, the BSO was on a New York tour, and Gerry and I went to the Carnegie Deli for brunch. One thing about Gerry—he was always trying to game the system and get the best deal on whatever came his way. Remarkably, he was generally successful at it. So, when we were at the deli he ordered a humongous smoked fish platter. Though he knew he’d never be able to finish it, in those days the Carnegie Deli gave BSO musicians a ten-percent discount and Gerry just couldn’t pass up such a bargain. He figured he’d pack whatever he couldn’t eat into the wardrobe trunk and, since it was the last day of the tour, he’d retrieve it when we got home to Boston. Chalk one up for cunning.
A week later, it was time for our next concerts at Symphony Hall. Gerry and I descended into the basement to fetch our tails from the trunks. When Gerry opened his, we were knocked backwards, like the supporting cast of a cheap exorcist movie, by a God-awful stench. “What the hell?” Gerry said, and with nose pinched, dared to investigate. Had something died in there? Not quite. Gerry had forgotten about his smoked fish.
So, thirty-plus years later as I packed my gear for the tour, I thoroughly sniff the drawers of #11 Upper. Nothing. I exhale.
Getting in the Groove
At the concert tonight, Dutoit really seems to have regained his mojo. The first couple performances were very good, but tonight’s is even better. I had started to think that maybe age had crept up on him a bit, but now I can chalk that up to mere jet lag. Tonight he’s in full swing. The love fest continues.
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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.
