Back
to Chapter 1
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
