The
Music Goes Round and Around
by Basil Tschaikov
1
It
must be in the Genes
Sir
Thomas Beecham’s return to the London
Philharmonic Orchestra in 1944. The
author’s family roots – the Royal Concertgebouw
Orchestra in the 1890s, escaping the
East European Jewish pogroms, arriving
as refugees in England near the turn
of the century, playing in cinema orchestras
and other groups in England in the first
two decades of the 20th Century
It
was the 30th September 1944, and the
London Philharmonic Orchestra were in
Wembley Town Hall (now Brent Town Hall).
A small man with a little white beard
walked majestically towards the platform
followed at a respectful distance by
his wife, his manager, the orchestra’s
general manager, the concert manager,
and several other members of the management
staff. He came onto the platform and
took his place on the podium. ‘Good
morning, gentlemen! It is very good
to be back with you again. Let us begin
with the Berlioz Overture – Carnaval
Romain.’ Those few words of greeting
were the first I heard in Sir Thomas
Beecham’s rich, plummy Edwardian voice,
with its inimitable inflection. He had
just returned to Britain from the Americas,
where he had been since 1940, to rejoin
his old orchestra. This was to be our
first rehearsal with him and it was
also my first experience of the great
man. After those first few brief words
of greeting and a swift glance round
the orchestra, up went his baton and
we were off.
The
orchestra had been awaiting his arrival
with some anxiety because it was still
wartime and we all knew that his voyage
across the Atlantic might be long and
dangerous. In fact the rehearsals and
the tour to follow had to be delayed
because he had arrived back three weeks
later than expected. Now, on the morning
of his first rehearsal, scheduled for
10 o’clock, everyone had been ready
and we were keen to get started. True
to form, he was well-known for frequently
being late, on this occasion he was
over an hour late.
Though
I had already played with several fine
conductors I knew at once that this
was something special. As soon as we
started the Carnaval Romain Overture
by Berlioz I was immediately aware that
the allegro was so alive and
vibrant and the slow section that follows,
though still taut rhythmically, had
the flexible lyricism that I soon came
to learn was characteristic of this
remarkable conductor. Then back into
the allegro six-eight again.
With mounting excitement we approached
the main theme. Just when the first
allegro melody returns there is a big
accent. At that moment an astonishing
thing happened. Beecham gave a great
lunge, to emphasise the accent, and
stuck the baton through the palm of
his left hand. It went right through
and came out the other side. He was
immediately rushed off to hospital leaving
a bewildered and worried orchestra wondering
what would be the outcome.
In
the afternoon he returned with his left
hand bandaged and his arm in a sling,
but in good humour and his usual ebullient
self. After a short tour – Watford,
Leeds, Huddersfield, Sheffield, and
Peterborough we returned to London,
where for so long Beecham had had an
enthusiastic and adoring audience. Not
to the Queen’s Hall, the scene of his
former triumphs before the war, as this
had been destroyed by a bomb in 1941,
but in the wide open spaces of the Royal
Albert Hall. On the 7th October 1944
I had my first experience of a ‘great
occasion’, the first of many wonderful
concerts over the next 16 years during
which I had the good fortune to play
under Sir Thomas’s direction.
I
had joined the London Philharmonic eighteen
months before Sir Thomas’s return, just
before my eighteenth birthday. I did
not expect to be able to remain with
the orchestra for very long since once
I was eighteen I knew it would not be
long before I would receive my call
up papers. It was unlikely that I would
be considered fit for a unit that would
go into action, but I thought I would
be expected to undertake work of national
importance instead. I had a short and
slightly wasted leg, caused by an accident
when I was a child. In the event I was
designated unfit for military service
on that account. I received this news
with mixed feelings. Naturally I was
delighted to be able to continue playing
in the orchestra, but at the same time
I felt uncomfortable at having to explain
why as an apparently healthy young man
I was not in the army.
Without
that childhood accident, which at the
time had been serious and kept me from
school for the best part of a year,
the rest of my life might have been
very different, though it was probably
destined that I would earn my living
as a musician. It is rather unusual
now, but in the past there were a good
many musicians who belonged to ‘musical
families’, families such as the Goossens,
Drapers, Brains, Penns and the Tschaikovs
in which grandfathers, father and uncles,
aunts and cousins were all musicians.
Most of my family had been or were musicians:
two grandfathers, my father, a very
successful clarinettist, and his brothers
and sisters; it was likely I would follow
in their footsteps as did my younger
brother. Because of what I learned from
them my memories of the past go back
long before I started in the profession
in 1942.
My
maternal grandfather, David Belinfante,
had been the second clarinettist and
librarian in the Concertgebouw Orchestra
in Amsterdam in the 1890s. Like many
European musicians at that time he was
attracted by the prospect of employment
opportunities in London and Manchester.
In 1900 he arrived with his young family
– my mother, then a year old, and her
elder brother, later to become a professional
violinist.
The
Belinfantes were an old Portuguese Jewish
family living in Lisbon. When the Inquisition
arrived in Portugal, around 1530, they
were obliged to flee for their lives
and seek refuge elsewhere. They first
went to Turkey, where the family remained
for several generations before finally
settling in Holland in about 1660. The
records show that since the sixteenth
century there have been musicians and
lawyers in the Belinfante family.
I
never knew my father’s father. He died
long before I was born. Most of the
knowledge I have of him comes filtered
through the somewhat unreliable recollections
of a rather eccentric aunt. It is a
measure of her eccentricity that she
believed that her constipation – her
main topic of conversation for many
years – had been cured by her spirit-guide,
a holy medicine man of some long lost
tribe.
Grandfather
Tschaikov, as well as being a violinist,
also played the clarinet and the double
bass. He probably belonged to one of
the families of musicians that formed
the Klezmer bands that went from village
to village in Russia and Poland, playing
at weddings and other celebrations.
By the time my father was born, grandfather
had moved on and was conducting small
orchestras on the pleasure boats that
used to cruise from Sukhumi, Sotshi,
and Botumi, on the Black Sea, where
a Mediterranean climate and an abundance
of vineyards and orchards made for a
most enjoyable life. ‘Conducting’ probably
meant that he stood in front of the
orchestra and ‘led’, standing in front
of the other players, playing the violin
and using the bow to conduct when necessary.
This was the traditional style in small
orchestras playing light music until
the 1940s – now only seen at concerts
of Viennese waltzes. It was also the
style adopted by dance and jazz bandleaders,
though they would play clarinet, trumpet,
trombone or piano.
Through
his association with the influential
people he met on these cruises he could
have avoided the consequences of the
pogroms that were then sweeping through
Russia and bringing terror and exile.
He had the opportunity to convert to
Christianity, and this was the course
his rich and powerful friends recommended.
Had he taken their advice he could have
continued to follow his profession as
a musician. But he was a proud and stubborn
man and preferred to retain his integrity
and independence. He set off, with his
large family, for what he hoped would
be a more welcoming environment.
It
is a long way from the warmth of those
Black Sea holiday resorts to Warsaw,
and the journey was to be slow and painful.
One stopping place was Tiflis, now Tblisi,
in Georgia, where my father was born
in 1894. Tblisi is the Georgian word
for hot. Legend has it that 1500 years
ago King Vakhang Gorgasali went hunting
in the woods near Mtskheta, the ancient
capital. His falcon was chasing a pheasant
when it suddenly dropped into a pool
and was boiled alive. The hot springs
that caused this interesting phenomenon
led to the King moving his capital to
Tblisi.
Soon
after my father was born the pogrom
reached Tblisi, making it impossible
for the family to remain there. They
were obliged to set off once again.
This time they decided to make the long
journey to Warsaw. Each Friday evening
at dusk they would all get off the train,
since travel on the Sabbath was proscribed
by their religion, and wait patiently
by the side of the track until dusk
the following day before continuing
on their journey. Once settled in Warsaw
Uncle Anton, who was only about six
or seven years old, was heard playing
the violin by a distinguished teacher
who decided to take him under his wing.
He thought that the boy showed outstanding
talent and that he could become a successful
solo violinist. But after a year or
so the pogrom caught up with them yet
again. This time they decided to leave
mainland Europe altogether.
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