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2
The BBC Symphony Orchestra
The author’s father joins the new BBC Symphony
Orchestra as Principal Clarinet. BBC Symphony Orchestra in the 1930s
– conditions, players, conductors (including Sir Adrian Boult, Arturo
Toscanini and Willem Mengelberg), operations, sections A, B, C, D,
E, repertoire performed, and the author’s memories of Toscanini
rehearsing
In 1930 my father joined the newly
formed BBC Symphony Orchestra as one of the principal clarinettists;
the other was Frederick Thurston, later to be my teacher at the Royal
College of Music, where he was the principal
professor of clarinet. The BBC Symphony Orchestra was the first full-time
contract symphony orchestra in Britain. It offered the players a degree
of security and conditions undreamed of until then: a yearly contract
that was likely to be renewed unless you did something really dreadful,
a month’s holiday on full pay, and four weeks’ sick pay. With these
advantages came some restrictions. Members of the orchestra were not
allowed to accept engagements with any other orchestra, even if it
was on a day when they were not required by the orchestra or during
their holiday period. Permission was nearly always given to any player
who was offered a solo or chamber music engagement.
Another condition of the contract,
certainly for the principal players, was that they must have a telephone,
still quite unusual in the 1930s. This was so that they could be contacted
at any time if there was a change of programme or if they were required
to replace a colleague at short notice. It seems that some players
had developed the practice that if the phone rang on one of their
free days, whoever answered would always say that the person required
was out and that no one knew where they were, or when they would return.
At that time (during the 1930s) the
orchestral manager was particularly disliked, probably rather unfairly,
because he carried out the Corporation’s policy extremely efficiently.
He also had an unfortunate name and a rather forbidding appearance.
Mr Pratt had eyes and ears everywhere. Should any covert date be accepted
and come to his ever-watchful attention, the unfortunate musician
would be called to account and threatened with instant dismissal should
this offence be repeated.
In 1939, just before the war, we were
in the middle of lunch one Sunday when we heard the front-door bell.
A few minutes later the maid knocked at the door and said, ‘Mr Pratt
to see you, Sir.’ Before there was time to reply the dreaded Mr Pratt
was in the room. Jack Thurston had been taken ill and my father was
required to take his place. Mr Pratt, experienced in the ways of his
flock, had come in person; he knew that phoning might not be the best
way of contacting my father.
This event has stayed in my memory
because as Mr Pratt was leaving, with my father in tow, he asked me
if I liked music. When I told him I had recently started to learn
the clarinet, he said ‘Learn the Eb clarinet, good Eb players are
always in demand.’ I was then thirteen, and it was not until very
many years later that I learned the truth of his words. The higher
pitched Eb clarinet is used infrequently, but always has an important
and exposed part to play. It requires particular study, if it is to
be played well. Few clarinettists, at that time, made the effort to
do this.
Conditions in the BBC Symphony Orchestra
were not only better than in any other British orchestra, but the
salary was regular and at a high level for those days. Tutti players
(often referred to as ‘rank and file’), that is those string players
other than the principals and sub-principals of each section, received
£11.00 a week. Several woodwind and brass principals received £1000
a year. £750 was the average salary for principals, ten times the
national average wage at that time, a far greater differential than
any orchestral musician can achieve now. But this was nothing compared
with what some of the most sought after players in the best Dance
Bands received. A few were earning as much as £45 a week, more than
double the salary of a bank manager. The security and conditions the
BBC could offer and the opportunity to play great music in a fine
orchestra was sufficient for my father to turn down a tempting invitation
to join Jack Hylton’s famous Band. The advent of the BBC and the high
salaries paid to those in a number of dance bands was in stark contrast
to the many musicians who were only able to find occasional employment
and those forced to give up their profession altogether.
When Dr.Adrian Boult (as he was then,
later Sir Adrian) was appointed Director of Music and chief conductor
of the BBC Symphony Orchestra he was able to attract a number of the
most outstanding players to the orchestra as section principals, some
of whom already had established solo careers. Distinguished artists
happy to accept contracts included Lauri Kennedy, as principal cello,
(in the early 1950’s his son, John, was principal cello with Beecham
in the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra (RPO) and his grandson Nigel is
the splendid, if controversial, solo violinist of our own time), Aubrey
Brain, the eminent horn player (father of Dennis [horn] and Leonard
[oboe]), Eugene Cruft, double bass, Robert Murchie, flute, Bernard
Shore, viola and Arthur Catterall, as Leader. They were joined by
younger artists who were already forging prestigious careers – Frederick
Thurston, clarinet, Ernest Hall, trumpet and Sidonie Goossens, the
harpist.
These players and a number of other
principals were selected on the strength of their reputations. The
majority of the other players gained their places following auditions
held all over the country. As a result many very talented young musicians,
some straight out of music college, were also offered contracts. The
BBC used this method of recruiting, unusual at that time, from the
start and, with a few exceptions, auditions have always been held
when players have been required for any of the BBC orchestras. Today
auditions are the norm, except for players with a known reputation
who will usually be given a few ‘try out’ dates, followed by a trial
period, sometimes quite protracted, before being offered a position.
From when I was five or six, my father
would occasionally take me to a rehearsal where I would meet some
of these legendary players. To me they were ‘uncles’ and ‘aunts’.
It was quite common for kindly and generous ‘uncles’ and ‘aunts’ at
that time to give youngsters a ‘tip’ – they would usually give sixpence
(2 ½p) or a shilling (5p), the equivalent of £5 and £10 today. If
one was ‘nicely brought up’ one had been taught to say, I don’t take
money, thank you.’ But they always insisted and said ‘Don’t tell Dad’.
And so one would take it!
Perhaps, as I have mentioned ‘aunts’
as well as ‘uncles’, it is worth noting the position of women in the
profession at that time. Though there had been women in the profession
for many years, except for harpists there were virtually none in the
symphony orchestras until after 1945. Even during the time I was in
the London Philharmonic and Royal Philharmonic Orchestras, from 1943
until 1960 the only women were the harpists. Even as late as 1948
even the harpist in the Royal Philharmonic was a man.
The BBC Symphony was the exception,
as far as the major orchestras were concerned, though even in that
orchestra only one wind player was a woman, the oboist Helen Gaskell.
It was not until Walter Legge founded the Philharmonia in 1945 that
women players started to be given an opportunity to show that they
could match the men in skill and artistry – and surpass them! It was
more than 30 years before equality of opportunity reigned in all the
London orchestras. In those days of unabashed male chauvinism it was
possible for Sir Thomas Beecham to declare, when asked why there were
no women in his orchestra, ‘I find that if they are attractive they
distract my musicians, and if they are not they distract me.’
One of my earliest memories is of
going to Broadcasting House, shortly after it was built, when I was
6 or 7 years old. My father took my mother and myself on a tour of
the newly opened building in Portland Place, a few yards from Oxford
Circus. When we went onto the roof of this tall building, being a
curious child, I wandered off on my own and was only just rescued
from going over the edge. Many years later – when I was involved as
a representative of musicians and engaged in battle with the BBC about
the creation of Radio 1 and 2 (in order to close down the pirate radio
stations) – I mentioned this to one of the BBC Directors. I had the
impression that perhaps he might have preferred that the outstretched
hand had not saved me from a fatal fall.
When the BBC Symphony Orchestra was
formed, and to some extent until 1945/46, there were far fewer rules
and regulations than there are now. It was quite easy for my father
to take me to rehearsals at the Maida Vale studios where the Symphony
Orchestra usually rehearsed and performed for broadcasts. It is much
more difficult now that everything has become so much more bureaucratic.
On the other hand standards of discipline, behaviour and speech were
high. But neither Sir John Reith’s highly moral regime or Mr Pratt’s
strictures had much influence on the strongly entrenched drinking
habits of some members of the orchestra. Sir Adrian, a most abstemious
man himself, seems to have taken a fairly relaxed attitude to this
sometimes damaging foible. One or two of his most outstanding principal
players would appear from time to time more than a little the worse
for wear. But, remarkably, these players were usually able to continue
to play extremely well, even when they had become unable to perform
other movements with any degree of accuracy.
One very stout member of the violin
section, an excellent musician, was sometimes unable to maintain his
equilibrium and would fall off his chair. I was told that on one occasion,
when this happened on a broadcast, Sir Adrian whispered to Paul Beard,
who was then the Leader, ‘Oh! Dear! I think Mr.... is not feeling
very well again tonight’. Now that standards are so high and competition
so great behaviour of that kind would not be countenanced for a moment.
The full orchestra of one hundred
and fourteen musicians came together only for the major concerts,
usually in the Queen’s Hall. For the majority of broadcasts the orchestra
was divided into a number of sections, the largest of which was between
75 and 85. However, the studio required for broadcasts had to be large
enough to accommodate the whole orchestra if necessary. A suitable
space that size is very difficult to find.
The Queen’s Hall, close to Oxford
Circus in the centre of London, was much loved for its fine acoustics
and an elegant appearance. When it was destroyed by a bomb during
the war London was left without a really suitable concert hall. At
the end of the war a fund was raised for its reconstruction, but for
reasons never fully explained this money has not been used for this
purpose and the hall has not been rebuilt.
I never experienced them myself but
the horrors of ‘Number 10’ were known to me from childhood. ‘Number
10’ was an old warehouse, more or less under Waterloo Bridge, on the
south bank of the Thames. It was damp and somewhat smelly and quite
inappropriate as the home of Britain’s ‘premier orchestra’, (as my
father always called it – especially once I had joined the London
Philharmonic). But the acoustics were good and the players came to
have a kind of affection for it. The main cause for alarm, especially
for the ladies, was the regular appearance of rats. These would run
about on the rafters overhead and up and down the staircase at one
end of the studio. I never heard that anyone was attacked by these
unwelcome guests. It may be that rats are a music-loving species,
or perhaps this particular colony became so as a result of their association
with this fine band of musicians.
By 1931 the BBC was describing the
Concert Hall that was to be created within Broadcasting House as ‘Where
a Thousand People will Hear Great Music’. It was designed especially
to be the home of the BBC Symphony Orchestra – a very large orchestra
– and it was said that it would provide Londoners with a major new
concert venue.
Quite soon after the Hall was completed
in 1932 it became clear that those responsible for instructing the
architects were unfamiliar with musical instruments and the amount
of space required in which to play them. This first became evident
when the piano was to be installed. The very fine, beautifully panelled
doors, even when opened to their full extent, were just not wide enough
to allow the piano into the hall. This was not an insurmountable problem,
and though troublesome and quite costly, it was not to be worst of
their problems. When all the members of the orchestra assembled on
stage they found that there was insufficient room for all the players
and their instruments. In fact there was not even enough room for
them all without their instruments. This was more serious and though
in the end the BBC did find somewhere else it took quite a while to
do so.
The orchestra had to remain in the
dreaded ‘No. 10’ until somewhere else could be found. Eventually,
in 1934, a more suitable venue was found: a disused former roller-skating
rink in Maida Vale, a residential area a couple of miles from the
centre of London. Over the years a great deal of time and money has
been spent on improving the big studio – Studio One – which has been
‘home’ for the BBC Symphony Orchestra for sixty years. Though devoid
of rats it has never been popular with musicians, perhaps because
the lighting, air conditioning, and the acoustic are ‘un-loving’.
That indefinable something that can make a place a delight to play
in is missing.
In the Radio Times, which provided
details of all the BBC’s programmes, the orchestra was shown as The
BBC Symphony Orchestra (section A), or section B, C, D, or E. Section
A was the full orchestra; sections B and D, usually between 60 and
85 strong, were responsible for the ‘serious’ (classical) music content.
Sections C and E, with 40 to 55 players, played ‘lighter’ music.
A great deal of the music performed
by sections C and E, still at that time played with the original orchestrations,
has had little place in radio or concert programmes for some years.
Too often when it has been played it has been re-orchestrated for
a smaller orchestra than the original. With the advent of the commercial
radio station Classic FM, some of this lovely music is being heard
once again as the composer intended. The programmes section C and
E played included works by Delibes – the ballet music from Coppelia,
La Source and Sylvia; Massenet, and Messager (a favourite
was The Two Pigeons ballet music); Bizet’s Jeux d’Enfants,
and the orchestral suite from his opera Carmen; the lovely
Wand of Youth suites by Elgar; and music by Coleridge Taylor,
Grieg, Niels Gade, Edward German, Percy Grainger... They also played
the inspired and delightful shorter compositions by Brahms, Schubert,
Tchaikovsky, Sibelius, and Saint-Saëns, not to mention Beethoven,
Mozart, and many others.
This music is often difficult technically
and needs to be played with bravura and style. Just as much time is
needed for rehearsal as for symphonies and concertos, and nowadays
rather more because the repertoire is unfamiliar. Sadly, when it is
performed – and even when recorded – it is too frequently under-prepared
and un-stylistically performed.
It is a measure of that strange musical
snobbery that is still endemic in Britain that in that otherwise excellent
and highly informative book The BBC Symphony Orchestra by Nicholas
Kenyon, there is virtually no mention of this music which between
1930 and 1941 made up about half the Symphony Orchestra’s broadcast
output. Composers such as Eric Coates, Lehar, Satie, Britten, and
many others, whose music we know but would be hard put to name – Haydn
Wood, Montague Phillips, and Fraser-Simson, for example, all received
first performances or first broadcast performances from these two
sections of the BBC Symphony Orchestra (section C or Section E) under
one or other of their two principal conductors.
At the beginning and for the first
eight years Joseph Lewis was their most frequent conductor. Joe Lewis,
as he was affectionately known by everyone, came from Birmingham.
He was not a very good conductor but was unpretentious, a really delightful
man (he even welcomed me with grace and charm when I was only about
eight or nine). He gave the players time to express themselves in
the music without getting in the way too much – always a virtue in
an indifferent conductor. In 1938 he was succeeded as staff conductor
by Clarence Raybould. Though a fine musician he lacked Lewis’s charm,
was pretentious, and did get in the way.
But, of course, the main virtue of
the BBC Symphony Orchestra was that in 1930 it set extremely high
standards, which were to influence orchestral performance in the years
to come. It was the first orchestra in Britain to combine first class
players throughout every section with conditions that allowed them
to display their potential. It was the BBC’s declared intention to
match the world class orchestras in Vienna, Berlin, Amsterdam and
New York, Philadelphia and Boston. The Symphony Orchestra’s sheltered
position within the BBC provided the opportunity for the performance
of a far wider repertoire, especially of contemporary music, than
any of the other British orchestras of the time. This still remains
true today.
Sir Adrian Boult, was often characterised
as rather a ‘fuddy-duddy’ (he was nicknamed ‘Saidie’ by the orchestra),
and thought conventional as a musician. In fact he was remarkably
catholic in his musical sympathies and adventurous in his programme
building. His choice of programme for the orchestra’s first concert
shows this very clearly:
The Overture Flying Dutchman
Richard Wagner
Cello Concerto Camille Saint-Saëns
Symphony No.4 Johannes Brahms
Daphnis and Chloe Suite No. 2 Maurice Ravel
It required considerable courage in
1930 to include Daphnis and Chloe, completed only 18 years previously,
in the inaugural concert of a newly formed, and in some circles controversial,
symphony orchestra. In their public concerts and studio broadcasts
under his direction the orchestra performed a remarkable range of
music. Between 1930 and 1950 the BBC and Boult continually extended
the repertoire of the orchestra bringing to an ever increasing radio
audience music that until then only a very small number of music lovers
had been able to enjoy.
First performances in Britain included
compositions as diverse as Schoenberg’s Erwartung (conducted
by the composer) and his Variations for Orchestra op.31, Mossolov’s
Factory (more usually known as Music
of Machines), a number of Alban Berg’s major compositions including
the Three Orchestral Pieces op.6, 3 pieces from the Lyric
Suite, the Symphonic extracts from Lulu, the Violin Concerto
and the first complete performance of Wozzeck – in the studio,
with an all British cast – for which there were 18 rehearsals. In
1934 the orchestra, for whom this music was both strange and difficult,
found this number of rehearsals somewhat of a strain on their tolerance.
In the event it was a considerable success and Berg later expressed
himself ‘delighted’. Other major works premiered in Britain included
symphonies by Bruckner (9th), Mahler (9th) – and the first London
performances of symphonies by Roussel (3rd), Martinu (2nd), and Stravinsky
(Symphony in C), the Dumbarton Oaks Concerto, also by Stravinsky
(when I was 16 and was about to start at the Royal College of Music
Sir Adrian allowed me to sit next to my father in the orchestra during
a broadcast of the Dumbarton Oaks Concert. I doubt if that
would be allowed now) and important compositions by Webern,
Strauss, Bartók, Hindemith, Kodály, Prokofiev, Shostakovich,
Copland, Piston, William Schuman and Chavez.
British composers were particularly
well represented with world premieres of works by Delius, Walton (1st
Symphony, 2nd Facade suite), Bax, Ireland, Lambert, Bliss (the
Colour Symphony, in its revised version), Vaughan Williams (4th and
6th Symphonies, Piano Concerto, Serenade to Music), and Britten
(Piano Concerto).
This wide ranging repertoire that
included many works that made use of harmonic and rhythmic innovations
and instrumental techniques that were completely new and strange to
the musicians, was broadcast before the invention of tape recording.
Each programme, whether relayed from a concert hall performance or
from a broadcasting studio, was played straight through. There was
no possibility of ‘editing’ or re-playing short sections, where there
may have been some false entry or poor ensemble, and then splicing
it in.
Many of the most outstanding conductors
were attracted by the standard and growing reputation of the orchestra.
As well as the best British conductors, Sir Thomas Beecham, Sir Hamilton
Harty, Sir Henry Wood, and Sir John Barbirolli, there were visits
from the great names from around the world; Bruno Walter, Monteux,
Koussevitsky, and what was considered the ultimate stamp of approval,
Arturo Toscanini. He was given complete freedom with rehearsal time
and everyone, including Boult, treated him with the greatest deference.
All except Edgar Mays, officially titled Assistant (Orchestra and
Artists). His job was to see that the orchestra was correctly seated,
that there were the right number of chairs and stands, and that anything
the conductor and soloists might need was provided. He was a large
man, probably, though I am not sure, with an Army background. He certainly
had the manner of an ex-Sergeant Major; jovially tyrannical, he had
a loud voice and a pronounced Cockney accent. He was not at all intimidated
by Toscanini and would welcome him when he arrived for rehearsal,
‘Well! How’s it this morning Tosci!’ At the interval of rehearsals
he was prone to put his arm around the diminutive conductor’s shoulders
and inquire if Tosci ‘would care for a cuppa?’
In the first half of 1939, the BBC
mounted the London Music Festival and invited Toscanini to conduct
all the Beethoven symphonies and the Mass in D. I was starting to
get really interested in music and so my father thought it would be
a treat for me to attend one of Toscanini’s rehearsals even though
this had been strictly forbidden, since this conductor like many others
and most musicians intensely disliked having anyone present at rehearsals.
Because of his fame and the press interest in his every move, as well
as his own volatile personality, his response to intruders could be
volcanic.
The rehearsal was held in the elegant
Queen’s Hall, where the concert would take place the following day.
Somehow my father managed to smuggle me in and I was now sitting very
still, well back in the stalls, which were shrouded in darkness. The
orchestra assembled, tuned up, and then fell silent at a sign from
the ever present Edgar Mays. A small figure appeared at the side of
the platform and as he walked towards the podium carrying a large
score I got my first and only extremely brief chance to see this legendary
conductor. But I was not the only one to have hidden myself in the
darkened auditorium. When the Maestro was nearing the centre of the
platform there was a bright flash of light from near the front of
the stalls. Toscanini turned and hurled the score at the light, and
with a shout of annoyance rushed off the platform. The intruder, a
press photographer, made a rapid exit, Mays returned to tell the orchestra
the rehearsal was cancelled, everyone quickly packed up, and before
I knew it my father and I were on our way down Oxford Street heading
for Speakers’ Corner. Listening to the impromptu speakers and those
who barracked them was to be my alternative treat.
It was only many years later that
I learned why Toscanini reacted quite so violently. I am sure none
of those present on that occasion will have known. It will have been
assumed that this was just another example of his violent response
to what displeased him. Harvey Sachs, in his remarkable book Toscanini,
recounts how on two previous occasions Toscanini had had bad experiences
with flashlights exploding right in front of his exceedingly weak
eyes. Both should have been special and joyous celebrations.
The first time this occurred was at
the farewell concert given to mark the end of his long association
with the New York Philharmonic-Symphony Orchestra (later ‘Symphony’
was omitted. Every item in the programme received rapturous applause
but no sooner had the final work ended – The Ride of the Valkyrie
– than a reporter ran forward and snapped a picture of him. The flash
temporarily blinded him and he rushed from the stage and did not return
again. The next occasion was at the official first concert inaugurating
the Palestine Orchestra (later to become the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra).
This was an occasion of great excitement. Dr Chaim Weizmann, David
Ben-Gurion and the British High Commissioner were present, and the
demand for tickets was so great that those unable to obtain tickets
climbed onto the roof of the hall in the hope of at least hearing
something! Once more the evening ended badly. Another ardent photographer
exploded his flashlight right in front of Toscanini’s eyes.
The relationship between Toscanini
and the BBC Orchestra was always warm and over the years they developed
an extraordinary mutual regard and affection. The recordings the orchestra
made with him in the 1930s bear witness to this. In some way the orchestra
seems to have been able to allow Toscanini to invest his performances
with them with a special kind of spontaneity and freedom.
Another conductor of renown that Boult
invited to conduct the orchestra, Willem Mengelberg, created a quite
different relationship with the orchestra. Mengelberg was the long-time
principal conductor of the Concertgebouw Orchestra in Amsterdam. He
had a considerable reputation and with this orchestra had given many
fine performances (a few recordings made in the 1940s provide evidence)
that were distinguished by extremes of tempi and dynamics and by their
flexible and subtle rubato which was always controlled and
retained impeccable ensemble. He also had a reputation for being abrasive
and on occasion quite disagreeable. When the members of the BBC Symphony
Orchestra learnt that he was scheduled to conduct them it caused some
apprehension.
In the event he made himself unpopular
from the start. At the first rehearsal, after the usual introductions,
he spent a good deal of time balancing the various sections and checking
intonation. Then he started rehearsing the first item. After they
had been playing for about 20 minutes or so he called for the orchestral
manager. In his gruff voice and thick Dutch accent, loudly enough
for the whole orchestra to hear, he said, ‘Iss dis a professional
orchestre?’ It was not uncommon at that time for some conductors to
adopt a rude and sometimes overbearing stance. This fine and proud
orchestra did not respond well to this kind of treatment. Though the
concerts went well the relationship never mended.
In its first fifteen years, the BBC’s
enlightened music policy profoundly affected musical life in Britain.
It played an enormous part in making it possible for everyone, wherever
they lived, to hear an extraordinarily eclectic repertoire, thereby
creating an audience for music throughout Britain that barely existed
previously.
Chapter
3
