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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