Back
to Chapter 9
10
The
Great and the Good
Playing
for great, good, very good and outstanding
conductors – in the London Philharmonic,
Royal Philharmonic and Philharmonia
and elsewhere – Victor de Sabata, Bruno
Walter, Charles Munch, Thomas Beecham,
Herbert von Karajan, Otto Klemperer,
Lorin Maazel, Colin Davis, Simon Rattle
and many more.
What
is it that makes us consider some conductors
‘great’? What qualities do they possess
that distinguishes them from those we
assess as good, very good or outstanding?
Are those we think of as great always
dead? It seems to me that I remember
artists, composers and politicians being
referred to as ‘great’ during their
lifetime. Perhaps because we now see
them so often on TV and no longer treated
with the deference accorded them in
the past we only think of them as personalities
or celebrities.
It is
difficult to describe what it is that
a very few conductors have that makes
us believe they are great, yet we always
recognise it when we are in its presence.
We sense that they are beyond the ordinary,
have remarkable ability, are in some
way unique and have something extraordinary
that separates them from most of the
rest of us. In some way they command
our respect and inspire us.
All
the very best conductors, those that
my colleagues and I would consider great,
combine the authority and control I
referred to in a previous chapter with
the self-confidence that allows them
to respond to musicians in the orchestra
who have solo passages to play. This
interplay between conductor and members
of the orchestra is one of the elements
that leads to an orchestra playing ‘better
than it can’. The whole orchestra is
inspired by the conductor and by the
playing of individual musicians in the
orchestra. Together, they combine to
produce a great performance.
Because
there are so many less good than good
conductors, orchestral musicians quite
often feel that the conductor stands
in the way of them playing as well as
they can. Every musician who has taken
part in a great performance will tell
you that this is only possible with
a great conductor. However demanding
he may have been, and however extreme
the demands one has to make on oneself,
the reward of taking part in a great
performance is what makes playing in
an orchestra worthwhile. It is something
very special. One is enlarged by being
part of something much bigger than oneself.
When
one takes part in a performance of a
great piece of music with a great conductor
in a fine orchestra it is like being
an eagle flying over Everest. At other
times one may only fly over Mount Blanc
and that is very pleasant, too. However,
a lot of the time one is coasting along
just above a range of hills. Unfortunately,
there are quite a number of occasions
when one is at ground level and, on
the darkest days, even down in a valley.
From
1943 until 1979 it was my good fortune
to play with many of the very best conductors
who came to London: in 1943 in the London
Philharmonic Orchestra (LPO), from 1947
until 1960 in the Royal Philharmonic
Orchestra (RPO) and finally in the Philharmonia,
from 1955 (while still playing in the
RPO) until 1979. Over these years I
also played with nearly all the other
orchestras in London, either as a deputy
or an extra, in particular with the
London Symphony Orchestra (LSO).
I worked
with several of the conductors I refer
to in more than one of these orchestras.
The very best of them obtained excellent
performances from whichever orchestra
they were directing; other conductors,
though very good, would get much better
results with one orchestra than another.
The
London Philharmonic Orchestra (LPO)
Towards
the end of the 2nd World War, from 1944,
many conductors who had not been to
Britain for a number of years came to
conduct the London Philharmonic Orchestra.
Some were probably at the height of
their powers and came with the advantage
of an established reputation. The first
to arrive was Sir Thomas Beecham, about
whom I have written earlier.
No one
I can recall had a greater or more instantaneous
effect on an orchestra than Victor de
Sabata. We knew very little about him
other than that he was the musical director
at La Scala in Milan. On his arrival
for his first rehearsal with us he presented
a rather romantic figure. He was quite
tall, walked with a limp and had the
face of a Roman emperor. He wore a wide
brimmed black hat and wore his overcoat
over his shoulders like a cape. Quickly
removing his hat and coat he stepped
on to the podium. ‘Good morning, Gentlemen.
We start with Dvorak Symphony.’ We played
through the whole of the New World
Symphony, from beginning to end as if
it had been a performance. It was tremendous.
Incredibly volatile, his unique conducting
style at once electrified the orchestra.
We had all played this symphony many
times before, but never quite like this.
In fact, I have never taken part in
any performance of this work as rewarding
as those we did with him.
During
the next few years de Sabata conducted
a wide-ranging repertoire with us and
though he never used a score, at rehearsals
or concerts, his ear was so discerning
that I felt that even in the loudest
orchestral passages he could hear every
note I played. At times he asked for
such extremes of dynamic, from the quietest
pianissimo to the loudest fortissimo
that he quite frightened us. On one
occasion, when we were recording the
Third Symphony by Beethoven with him,
he demanded that the strings play the
spiccato passage in the third
movement very quietly indeed. When playing
spiccato the violinist uses
a bouncing stroke of the bow to detach
each note. Especially to do this very
quickly and very softly is extremely
difficult. After several attempts that
did not satisfy him, one of the first
violinists said, ‘Maestro, it
is getting worse – you are frightening
us.’ de Sabata, eyes flashing replied,
‘You are frightened, I am frightened
– we must do it.’ He remained a legend
for all of us who played for him at
that time and one of a handful
of truly great conductors
Bruno
Walter was a man with a very different
personality. He was charming, courteous
and urbane. His approach to music was
essentially lyrical. To play Mozart
and Schubert with him was a delight.
I still have a programme for the concert
he conducted with us in January 1947
at the Royal Albert Hall – the Overture
Leonora No.3 by Beethoven, Mozart
Symphony in G minor No.40,
and the Symphony No.9,
the great C major, by Schubert.
Now, nearly sixty years later I remember
it as one of the great concerts I was
fortunate to take part in. His tempi
might be thought rather slow by today’s
standards but for me the ‘heavenly length’
of this beautiful symphony by Schubert,
though even longer than usual in this
performance, was quite wonderful.
It was
with Bruno Walter that I first played
a Mahler symphony. At that time, in
the 1940s, Mahler’s music was practically
unknown in Britain and was considered
long and boring. In the 1939 edition
of The Oxford Companion to Music, in
the article on German and Austrian music
Mahler is only mentioned in a paragraph
about the ban the Nazi regime imposed
on the performance of music by Jewish
composers. In the very short article
under his name it states, ‘He left nine
symphonies which have been taken very
seriously in Germany and Holland but
have never had much hearing elsewhere’.
His 4th Symphony was the
first one we played, perhaps because
being the shortest and least complicated
it was felt it would be the easiest
one for the audience to accept. Later
we also played the 1st Symphony.
It is now difficult to understand the
opposition there was to his music, not
only from the public but also from the
musicians in the orchestras.
In many
of his compositions Mahler makes use
of techniques that in the late 1940s
and early 1950s were resented by musicians
in Britain and elsewhere. They resisted
playing in ways that they felt went
against not only good taste but also
against some of the techniques they
had practised so long and hard to perfect.
String players were instructed, at times,
to glissando, slide from one
note to another. At its best this style
can be heard in the recordings made
by the great violinists Fritz Kreisler
and Jascha Heifetz and other outstanding
string instrument players in the first
part of the 20th century.
The leaders of the many small light
orchestras playing in cafes, restaurants
and holiday resorts were still playing
in this way in the 1940s. Increasingly,
conservatoire trained musicians had
come to see this way of playing as vulgar
and old fashioned and to be avoided.
Wind players were instructed by Mahler,
at certain points in the music, to raise
their instruments so that they pointed
straightforward, rather than at an angle
to the ground. Clarinettists and oboists
in particular were unhappy because it
affected their embouchure and to begin
with many refused to follow this instruction.
After the mid-1960s, as performances
of the Mahler symphonies became increasingly
popular, the complaints disappeared.
Charles
Munch was another conductor the LPO
played under many times. He had immense
charm (and the most beautiful smile
I’ve ever seen) as well as the ability
to inspire. Before he became a conductor
he had been a fine violinist and was
the leader of the famous Leipzig Gewandhaus
Orchestra when Wilhelm Furtwangler was
their conductor. He could on occasion
be rather wayward. I remember that when
we were to play a Brahms symphony, that
for some reason it seemed he did not
want to conduct, he barely rehearsed
it at all. But to play the French repertoire,
Debussy, Ravel, Berlioz and Rameau with
him was really a great joy. In particular
I remember wonderful performances of
Daphnis and Chloe, L’Apres Midi d’un
faune , La Valse and in particular
La Mer. Years later I remember
playing it again with him with the Philharmonia
in Vienna in the wonderful Musikvereinsaal.
Someone,
not really a conductor, the orchestra
always enjoyed playing with was Richard
Tauber, generally remembered as one
of the great tenors of his time, equally
at home in the Mozart operas as in operettas
and musicals. He proved, if proof is
needed, that formal lessons in conducting
and conventional technique are not required
in order to obtain wonderful performances.
Danny Kaye, years later, displayed this
same talent. Tauber brought a Viennese
charm to his Mozart and Schubert and
an innate musical understanding to everything
he conducted. Unfortunately his vanity
did not allow him to wear glasses in
public and this limited his repertoire
as it meant he had to conduct everything
from memory.
Eduard
van Beinum, then principal conductor
with the Concertgebouw Orchestra in
Amsterdam, worked a great deal with
the LPO. A very fine musician, he was
a restrained, undemonstrative conductor
who obtained very fine results in a
wide repertoire. He was greatly respected
by the orchestra who really enjoyed
working with him. He was also a kind
and remarkably tolerant man. When we
were recording The Songs of a Wayfarer
by Mahler with him in 1946 or 1947,
our regular bass clarinettist was absent
for some reason and his replacement
on that day was less than up to the
standard required. In one very quiet
passage for the three clarinets this
player just could not play as softly
as necessary. He was either too loud,
or came in too early, or did not come
in at all. Finally, after a number of
unsuccessful attempts he became so nervous
that he produced the dreaded ‘squeak’.
Rather than being cross and humiliating
the player in front of the whole orchestra,
as many other conductors might have
done, he let it pass and left recording
that section until another day when
another player had been engaged. It
is a great pity that he died before
he had made as great an international
reputation as surely
he would have done.
The
Swiss conductor Ernest Ansermet, famous
for his performances of the music of
Stravinsky, was engaged by Decca to
record the music Stravinsky had composed
for the ballet Petrushka. Today
this is accepted as a regular work in
the concert repertoire. In 1946 it was
still a very exciting and difficult
composition for the orchestra. At that
time we were still making records in
the 78rpm format. Each side of a record
lasted about four minutes without any
facility for editing. If there was anything
unsatisfactory – a wrong note, poor
intonation or ensemble, or a cracked
note in the brass, the whole side had
to be recorded again. Decca allowed
10 three-hour sessions to record this
40-minute work, more sessions than would
normally be allocated for recording
a piece of this length even in 1946.
But it was worthwhile; this recording,
the first major recording to make use
of Decca’s new full frequency recording
technique, FFRR, was a great success
and won an award. Years later I remember
recording Petrushka again with
the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, in
the ‘long play’ 33rpm.format, when we
were only allowed two sessions. On that
occasion quite a few of the musicians
in the orchestra had never played Petrushka
before and so it required rather more
retakes than usual to splice the performance
together to produce an acceptable recording.
In 1946
when Leonard Bernstein came to conduct
the LPO he was still very young and
full of New York ebullience and chutzpah.
He had recently had a great success
with the New York Philharmonic and did
not seem to be at all impressed by the
LPO, no doubt finding it lacking in
the kind of ‘attack’ he was used to
with American orchestras, and nothing
like as virtuoso as the New York Phil.
For their part the orchestra did not
like him because he was young, brash
and far too sure of himself. None the
less, I recall the performances were
good, even if performed through gritted
teeth. He survived this brief encounter
to become one of the most outstanding
conductors of his time and a remarkable
many faceted musician: a virtuoso pianist
– his recording of the Ravel Piano Concerto
in G major remains one of the best still
available – and a fine composer. As
a composer he is probably most widely
remembered for West Side Story
and Candide. But his symphonies
and much orchestral, choral and chamber
music still remain in the repertoire,
though not performed so frequently.
Later, after a similarly false start
to that he had had with the LPO, he
established a very good relationship
with the LSO. In time they came to like
him very much and they did many splendid
concerts and recordings together. He
was less successful when working with
the BBC Symphony Orchestra where on
one occasion there was an unfortunate
confrontation between him and some of
the brass section on a ‘live’ TV broadcast.
The
LPO engaged a number of conductors who
came to Britain for the first time in
the early post-war years. One of them,
Sergiu Celibidache, at that time a very
young man, made a considerable impression
and showed great promise. He had at
one time been a footballer and was still
rather wild. Later he made a considerable
reputation as a conductor of great integrity,
though rather eccentric. He was one
of the only conductors with an international
reputation who came to dislike commercial
recording to such an extent that after
a few years he refused to do any further
recording.
As well
as Charles Munch two other very good
French conductors were engaged by the
orchestra: Paul Paray, and Jean Martinon.
Like Munch they conducted a lot of French
music, a great joy to me – the repertoire
is so dominated by the Austro-German
composers. The orchestra liked Paul
Paray very much. He got very good, exciting
performances and we were sorry he did
not return. He had been a fighter in
the French Résistance and was
extremely tough. On one occasion he
refused come onto the platform at the
beginning of a concert until he received
his fee – in cash! He was the Principal
Conductor of the Colonne Orchestra in
Paris from 1945 until he went to Detroit
in 1952 where he had a very successful
career with the Detroit Symphony Orchestra
before returning to Paris again in 1963.
Though he continued to conduct in France
until his death in 1979 he never returned
to Britain. Jean Martinon was also admired
by the orchestra. He was a fine musician
and a very good conductor and the orchestra
did a number of very good concerts with
him. He had a considerable success but,
perhaps because of his easy personality
and the fact that when he first conducted
us in 1945 he brought Ginette Neveu
with him, who was so charismatic and
such a wonderful violinist, I remember
her more than him.
Three
more conductors who had some success
with the orchestra were Albert Coates,
Erich Leinsdorf and Nicolai Malko. They
could not have been more different from
each other, though each succeeded in
getting good results. Albert Coates
was already elderly at the time and
went out of his way to be pleasant to
the orchestra. He had made his reputation
before the war in Britain and also in
Russia and by the time he conducted
us was rather too easy going and laid
back to get outstanding results. In
contrast Erich Leinsdorf was fairly
young, not particularly agreeable, but
showed that he had real ability. Many
years later I took part in a number
of recording sessions with him when
he conducted some extracts from the
Wagner operas with the LSO. By then
he had established himself as an outstanding
concert and opera conductor. Though
he was able to get first class results
he did not inspire orchestras sufficiently
to receive the accolade ‘great’. Nicolai
Malko was a good conductor of the old
school; authoritarian, efficient but
not inspiring.
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Of course
we played frequently for British conductors,
most notably Sir Henry Wood, Sir Adrian
Boult, Dr Malcolm Sargent (still to
be knighted) and John Barbirolli (again,
still to be knighted) and then, when
he returned from the USA, Beecham. Sir
Henry will always be remembered for
his part in creating the Promenade Concert
season, the ever-popular ‘Proms’. He
was also the first truly English conductor
to make a great reputation. I only played
for him a few times after I joined the
LPO in 1943 before the Prom season that
summer when the orchestra were
to do all the concerts in the first
two weeks of the
season.
I was looking forward to this and the
opportunity to play a large repertoire
with him but, sadly, he was taken ill
and was able to conduct only the first
two concerts before he became too unwell
to continue.
I don’t
feel that Boult’s talents were sufficiently
recognised at the time by those who
worked with him. It is true that even
those who played for him for many years
in the BBC Symphony Orchestra were often
unable to tell what he was doing with
the very long baton that he favoured
and though he could be dull there was
some music he did extremely well. I
remember several performances of the
‘Great’ C major Symphony by Schubert
that were very fine. The part he played
in the formation of the BBC Symphony
Orchestra in 1930, his selection of
the players that would make it, at that
time, the best orchestra in the country,
and his subsequent role in bringing
a very great deal of new music to the
public’s attention was a very considerable
achievement.
Sargent
was unique in my experience in that
he was greatly admired by audiences
and choruses, especially by the ladies,
and universally disliked, both as a
man and a musician, by orchestras. Only
in the last years of his life, when
he had somewhat mellowed and his past
was largely forgotten by a new, younger
generation of musicians, did orchestras
come to have a better relationship with
him. His vanity and obvious contempt
for orchestral musicians was such that
he would try to teach even the most
distinguished and experienced players
how to play their part. His publicly
expressed opinion that a musician ‘ought
to give of his life-blood with every
bar he plays’ and that ‘the feeling
of instability about where next year’s
bread and butter was to come from had
made many an artist give continuously
of his best’, did nothing to create
good feeling between him and the orchestras.
These remarks were particularly resented
because in 1933 the orchestral musicians
in London had made a substantial collection
for him when he was seriously ill. The
great violinist Fritz Kreisler said
‘I am sure that musicians the world
over play better for feeling secure.
The more secure a musician feels the
happier he is and the better he plays’.
Years later Sargent was involved in
constant quarrels with several leading
principals in one of the orchestras.
On at least one occasion this led to
him becoming so distraught that he started
to cry when outspoken criticisms about
his ability were openly expressed by
some of the musicians in the orchestra.
This did nothing to raise his reputation
as a man: orchestral musicians are only
too accustomed to very direct and sometimes
wounding criticism.
The
conductor that we admired the most after
Beecham was John Barbirolli, later Sir
John, known by his many admirers as
‘Glorious John’. In the LPO, when Beecham
left to form the RPO, the orchestra
would have liked Barbirolli to have
become their Principal Conductor, but
he had already taken up that position
with the Hallé Orchestra in Manchester
when he returned to Britain in 1943,
after being with the New York Philharmonic,
and was not willing to leave Manchester.
I also worked with him in the RPO and
the Philharmonia, always with pleasure.
He did inspire both the orchestra and
the audience and must join the ‘great’
category. When the Philharmonia toured
South America in the 1960s Barbirolli
conducted most of the concerts. He created
such enthusiasm from the audience that
on several occasions at the end of a
concert, during tumultuous applause,
women bearing young infants would approach
the stage apparently seeking to have
their children blessed by the Maestro.
The last time he conducted was at
a rehearsal with the Philharmonia, in
preparation for a visit to Japan we
were about to undertake in 1970. During
a rehearsal he suddenly became unwell
and was unable to do the tour. It was
only a short while later that he died.
His place for the tour was very ably
taken at extremely short notice by John
Pritchard (later Sir John), an extremely
talented conductor.
The
Royal Philharmonic Orchestra (RPO)
The
Royal Philharmonic was really the only
one of the four London orchestras to
have a Musical Director,
Sir Thomas Beecham. It could be said,
indeed it was, that it was his orchestra.
He not only conducted the orchestra
a great deal he also influenced the
management of the orchestra in every
way. In most British orchestras the
Principal Conductor usually does no
more than about 12 concerts a year,
a number of recordings and perhaps a
tour. Quite often, especially in the
past when there was a great deal more
recording, the choice of a principal
conductor was often determined by the
number of recording sessions he brought
with him. The only other conductors
of a British orchestra that I can recall
who performed a similar role to Beecham
were Sir John Barbirolli with the Hallé
and Simon Rattle (later Sir Simon) with
the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra.
Though
Beecham gave me more pleasure whilst
I was playing in the orchestra than
anyone else and has continued to do
so whenever I listen to the recordings
he made, I can also recall that at times
he could behave very badly and very
autocratically, especially if one of
his favourite players was not available.
On one occasion we were rehearsing with
him in St. Pancras Town Hall when, just
before the tea break, the personnel
manager came to announce that an additional
concert had been arranged several weeks
hence. The principal cello, Raymond
Clarke, a magnificent player whom Beecham
admired and who greatly admired him
in return, said, ‘I’m extremely sorry
Sir Thomas, I afraid I am not free on
that date. I have already accepted another
engagement on that day’. Beecham went
mad, shouting and raving and being very
rude and disagreeable to poor Clarke.
He worked himself into such a state
that he came off the podium and went
storming through the orchestra, kicking
chairs and music stands in all directions,
finally leaving the Hall and the rehearsal.
With anyone else the players would have
found it difficult to forgive this kind
of behaviour. However, most of us recognised
that at times he could behave like a
spoilt child, but forgave him because
making music with him was so rewarding.
When
for some strange reason it had been
decided to present a series of concerts
at the Earls Court ice rink, Beecham
displayed the autocratic side of his
nature. A quite low platform for the
orchestra had been built on top of the
ice. As we waited for Sir Thomas to
arrive for the first rehearsal, not
surprisingly, we found that we were
getting very cold. Of course, as usual
Tommy was late. Someone must have told
him about the prevailing conditions,
so that when he did arrive he came storming
onto the ice, shouting at the top of
his voice, ‘I have been deceived – I
have been deceived! It’s a disgrace.
Cancel the concert. Everyone go home.’
And with that he went off again. It
always seemed to me he walked with one
leg in 2/4 and the other in 6/8 – I
used to refer to him to my friends as
‘goody two-shoes’ – on this occasion
it was a miracle he did not tumble over
on the slippery ice.
A few
minutes later the personnel manager
came on to the stand and announced that
the concert was cancelled and that we
could all leave. At about half-past
four that afternoon I received a telegram,
as did all the members of the orchestra,
instructing us to return to Earls Court
for a short rehearsal at six-thirty
to be followed by the concert at eight
o’clock. It was quite remarkable that
everyone was still at home and able
to respond to his call to return. When
we arrived back nothing had changed
except that Beecham now seemed to be
in his normal good humour. The concert
went quite well, even though we were
all frozen and it was very difficult
to keep one’s instrument up to pitch
if one had more than a few bars rest.
With
Beecham conducting the orchestra a great
deal of the time the RPO did not have
so many guest conductors as the other
orchestras in London. However, we did
have some very fine conductors, including
Stokowski, about whom I wrote earlier.
We did a great deal of recording with
Artur Rodzinski who was an excellent
conductor though he was not a pleasant
man to work with; a martinet and, possibly
because at the time he was elderly and
in poor health, short-tempered and inclined
to be rude. In 1956 when Gennadi Rozhdestvensky
came to London with the Bolshoi Ballet
it seems that Beecham was impressed
by him because it was not long before
he was engaged by the RPO. He at once
made a great impression on the orchestra.
His conducting style was absolutely
idiosyncratic and his gestures, though
frequently unconnected to beating time
in the generally accepted manner, were
extremely effective. I played with him
in three orchestras, the RPO, LSO and
the Philharmonia and with all of them
he obtained splendid performances. Subsequently
he was appointed Principal Conductor
of the BBC Symphony Orchestra. This
relationship was finally unsuccessful,
largely because he disliked rehearsing,
a rare failing in a conductor. Though
orchestras often feel that conductors
go on rehearsing far too long, Rozhdestvensky
would at times not rehearse a work that
was unfamiliar to the orchestra sufficiently
for them to feel confident that they
understood his very unusual gestures.
Nonetheless,
as I was to learn years later, when
he came to conduct the orchestra at
the National Centre for Orchestral Studies
for me a number of times for concerts
and broadcasts, he could get the most
remarkable performances from an inexperienced
young orchestra with the minimum of
rehearsal time. On one occasion I decided
that we should create the tension of
the recording studio for the young musicians
by asking Rozhdestvensky to record the
suite from the ballet The Miraculous
Mandarin by Béla Bartók.
This is an extremely difficult piece
for every section of the orchestra,
technically and rhythmically, so it
was arranged that there should be two
extra rehearsals with another conductor
before Rozhdestvensky joined us. Rozhdestvensky
was booked for two sessions, 10.00 a.m.
until 1.00 p.m. in the morning and 2.00
p.m. until 5.00 p.m. in the afternoon.
In the morning he arrived somewhat later
than ten o’clock, rehearsed for just
over two hours and decided it was time
for lunch. As he wanted to get back
home to central London (we were working
in Greenwich) he asked if we could restart
at 1.30 instead of 2.00. He rehearsed
a few of the tricky places for about
twenty minutes and decided to record
straight away. He recorded the whole
work without any re-takes or edits,
said ‘ Thank you. Goodbye’ and at about
three o’clock went home. I have played
this work a number of times, with Rozhdestvensky
and with other conductors, and always
found it difficult. Listening to this
recording I find it hard to believe
it was done in one ‘take’, with so little
preparation and with young inexperienced
players.
The
Philharmonia Orchestra
When
Walter Legge formed the Philharmonia
Orchestra in 1945, his position at EMI
and the acclaim his new orchestra quickly
achieved enabled him to attract the
most celebrated and sought after conductors.
Arturo Toscanini, Wilhelm Furtwängler,
George Szell and Karl Böhm delighted
the orchestra, audiences and critics
alike. Perhaps Legge’s greatest coup
was to capture Herbert von Karajan for
the Philharmonia in the years before
he replaced Furtwängler as Principal
Conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic
Orchestra. I have already written about
Karajan, probably the most successful
conductor of the second half of the
20th century. At one time he dominated
Europe and had more power than any conductor
before or since. His style was to influence
many younger conductors.
I was
still in the RPO when Toscanini, Furtwängler
and Böhm conducted the Philharmonia,
but I did play for Karajan and always
found it a rewarding experience. I also
played for George Szell. Though he was
an outstanding musician and conductor
I did not enjoy the experience. I do
not think it unfair to say that most
musicians around the world disliked
him
Karajan
conducted the Philharmonia frequently
before he took over the Berlin Philharmonic
after Furtwangler died in 1954. When
I was still in the RPO the Philharmonia
asked me to do a concert with them in
the Royal Albert Hall. This was the
first time I had played for Karajan
and I remember how disconcerting it
was that he kept his eyes closed all
the time. It was so different from Beecham
for whom the eyes were so important.
He was a remarkable conductor who combined
nearly all the qualities required by
a great conductor. The wonderful sinuous
musical line he obtained and the subtle
gradation of dynamic from the quietest
pianissimo to the loudest, powerful
fortissimo was unsurpassed. A good example
of this ability can be heard in the
fourth movement of Respighi’s The
Pines of Rome on the recording he
made in 1958 with the Philharmonia.
His many recordings with the Berlin
Philharmonic are evidence of the breadth
of his repertoire and his ability to
create a truly magnificent virtuoso
orchestra.
I had
the opportunity of witnessing his astonishing
gifts when we were in Vienna for several
days recording the Beethoven’s Missa
Solemnis. I
was
delighted to be able to get a ticket
for a performance of Verdi’s Falstaff
at the famous Vienna Opera House.
My seat was in a box that gave me a
good view of the pit. It was a wonderful
cast: Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, Giulietta
Simionato, Tito Gobbi and with Karajan
conducting. After recording the Missa
Solemnis during the day Karajan
came into the pit that evening and conducted,
without a score, an immaculate performance
of this difficult opera. He demonstrated
some of the essential qualities a great
conductor must have: a fantastic memory,
energy and stamina and a powerful musical
intention with the skill to convey that
intention.
Another
quality nearly all great conductors
share is their ability to conduct ‘light’
music, now seldom played by symphony
orchestras in the concert hall other
than at the famous Vienna Philharmonic’s
‘New Year’s Day’ concerts, or Johann
Strauss evenings that have become so
popular. Barbirolli, Beecham, Charles
Munch and Karajan immediately come to
mind. A recording
of The Skater’s Waltz by Waldteufel
conducted by Karajan with the Philharmonia
is a very good example. In
the
introduction to the waltz there is a
lovely horn solo. On this occasion it
was played by the unsurpassed Dennis
Brain, a great artist in his own right.
Like all great conductors Karajan lets
Brain play expressively and freely.
The player feels he is playing just
as he wants to, but in fact it is within
the context of the conductor’s conception.
Carlo
Maria Giulini, extraordinarily elegant
and refined in both appearance and in
his conducting, was very fine in a wide-ranging
repertoire, above all in his reading
of the Verdi Requiem. He did
it a number of times in London with
the Philharmonia, each time better than
the last, culminating in 1964 with what
may well be the definitive performance
of this wonderful work. A video of that
performance can be seen and heard at
the Music Preserved’s archives in its
Listening Studio in the Barbican library,
within the Barbican Centre, and in the
Jerwood Library of the Performing Arts
at Trinity College of Music. Though
he was not actually a pupil of de Sabata,
he was much influenced by him
and shared some of his charisma and
intensity.
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