SOME FAMOUS MUSICIANS

I met Rostropovich only once, though I did stand stand next to his wife while she belted out the famous War Requiem recording, with Britten at the helm, in Kingsway Hall in 1963. Many years later I was packing up in the conductor’s room in the Vienna Musikverein after a rehearsal with the Vienna Phil, when Mstislav walked in. To my amazement he shouted out “Maestro Norrington!” (How did he know who I was?) But even more amazing he rushed towards me, embraced me, and kissed me firmly on the lips for several seconds. Somewhat taken aback by this intimate show of artistic solidarity I muttered a few words of greeting and made my way out. I never saw him again.

As a young man I was conducted by several great composers. Walton conducted us (the Philharmonia Chorus and Orchestra) in his Belshazzar’s Feast. He wasn’t a bad conductor, but there are a few tricky corners (as I discovered later with the Boston Symphony in Tanglewood). I’ll never forget him saying: “It’s alright for you people, you’ve rehearsed the piece and know it quite well. It’s simply ages since I wrote it, and it’s only just coming back to me”.

For a year or so, in the 1950s, I enjoyed playing violin in Gerald Finzi’s Newbury String Players. We didn’t know that at the time he was in effect under sentence of death from an untreatable heart condition. But he was charming, always beautifully dressed in tweeds and tie, and only occasionally a bit ratty with our amateur inadequacies. He liked to play some lesser known 18th century English composers like John Stanley and Richard Mudge. But of course we also played his own music, and loved it.

I met Vaughan Williams a few times in Oxford. My Dad was his publisher at the OUP, but he was also friendly with Thomas Armstrong, the conductor  of the Oxford Bach Choir. I remember playing under him in some amateur orchestra in the Sheldonian Theatre. His intensity made a great impression on me, but his quite severe deafness taught me something else: a conductor needs to listen. If he can’t hear he can’t be useful; a conductor has to follow as well as lead. It made me think of poor Beethoven, trying to lead his Missa Solemnis, and not even realising it was finished…

In 1963 I sang under Britten in the Bach Choir (I was a paid extra tenor) and the London Symphony Orchestra in his War Requiem, on tour in Italy and at the premiere recording at the Kingsway Hall in London. I also met him several times in Aldeburgh, where I often conducted his partner Peter Pears with the Schütz Choir. At the end, when Ben was really ill, I deputised for him with the English Chamber Orchestra in Schumann’s Manfred.That was the last time I saw him, sitting quietly in his box with Peter.

THREE IRONIC MOMENTS

With the London Classical Players in the 1980s we often rehearsed in the excellent hall of Holy Trinity Brompton.

I recall arriving one sunny morning, about to start work on the Berlioz Symphonie Fantastique. In a moment of recognition I suddenly realised that there was no place on earth I would rather be at this moment. In a burst of enthusiasm I said as much to another arriving musician.

“Yes” he replied; “I suppose it is quite nice”

A similar moment of bathos comes back to me with Kent Opera. During the1984/5 season I conducted my last production for the company: Michael Tippett’s wonderful King Priam. We had endless rehearsals, and many performances around England for two seasons. Finally we filmed it for television. At the very end of the filming I was packing away my scores and only one player, the tuba, was left. I said to him: “Marvellous piece isn’t it?” He replied: “I never liked it.”

In a Kent Opera orchestral rehearsal the first oboe got annoyed at some suggestion of mine. He suddenly burst out:”Roger, do you never consider you might be wrong?.”  I was quite taken aback, but said:”Of course I do, every moment of every rehearsal. But It’s my job to make decisions.”( I can think of at least one conductor who would have added:”And it’s your job to like them.”)

MEMORIES AND MISHAPS IN AMERICA

Laughter featured quite frequently in my American rehearsals. It’s easier to be funny in English than German. I remember my very first rehearsal in Los Angeles, where we seem to laugh a lot. At the interval the management, who have loudspeakers in the office, came down to ask me if everything was alright? Just fine I assured them. It makes such a difference if an orchestra is having a good time; they never teach that in conducting class. The best moment that morning had been after a slow movement in which the trumpets had not been playing. I asked if there were any questions? The first trumpet piped up:”Yes: English Cathedral; 3 letters; middle one L.” Quick as a flash “ELY” I replied, “But I didn’t realise trumpets could read.” Delighted laughter. I was thrilled that the player didn’t think I would object to his cheeky remark. Some conductors would have been livid. I knew that trust had already been engendered.

With the San Francisco Symphony I was conducting Beethoven, and some of the players got a bit interested in things historical. The first horn decided to use a hand-horn, which I of course encouraged. At one performance he made a couple of hand-horn burbles. The pretty sharp Manager looked horrified; he liked perfection. But when I apologised to the player for leading him into temptation he said: “Don’t worry; I’ve got tenure here”. Admirable man!

At Boston Symphony’s Tanglewood Summer Festival one year, Kay and I were in shorts and T-shirts, having a midday bite in the cafeteria answering students’ questions,  when a young staffer came rushing up in what we call a “right state”. He panted out that we were the guests of honour at an important posh fund-raising lunch already in progress in a big tent half a mile away, and that he was awfully sorry they’d forgotten to ask us. I was to give the speech at the end of the meal!

Leaving our snack we hared off to the big event, tried hard to look tidy, though in shorts, and took our places, with due apology, at the top table. During the pleasing spread of food and wine I had a few minutes to think of things to say. Luckily I was not unused to these kind of utterances, and I seemed to manage with a few platitudes and what passed for humorous asides. People were very kind and “frightfully interested”. We were just relieved, and retreated back to ordinary life.

As Music Director of the wonderful Orchestra of St Lukes in New York, I was breakfasting in a restaurant with the Manager Marianne Lockwood and others, before an 1100 concert in Avery Fisher Hall. I was in concert dress (my usual silk Mao jacket) and perhaps unwisely ordered Eggs Benedict. Yes it it was unwise: between plate and mouth an early attempt with knife and fork ended up in a torrent of egg, muffin, and rich sauce, down that jacket.

With 45 minutes to  concert hour, staff and fellow breakfasters swept into overdrive with a will. A whole pail of hot water was produced from the kitchen, I was sponged down like a naughty boy. Towels followed, and total disaster somehow averted. I don’t remember the concert at all, but was rather glad that conductors don’t face the front…

Touring the States with the London Classical Players was an extremely tiring business. The concerts were fine, but before and after were stressful. On these tours each day means a morning plane, to the next city, at 7am. But after every concert Kay and I were expected to be fêted by the evening’s sponsors. Bed at 1am, plane at 7am,- not good, really not good; not for days in a row.

Normally we had excellent drivers who knew exactly what to do. But after the concert in Boston we jumped into the waiting limo, to be met by the question “Where to?” We had no idea, and in the 1980s no mobile phone, nor any number  to call if we had. We sat there while the dotty driver called his office to see who made the booking. No go. We frantically looked at the programme to see who had sponsored. A name ,but the offices were unsurprisingly closed. I still can’t remember how late we turned up, nor how we got there…

AND IN EUROPE

Does anybody remember Fax? It was once the latest thing in communication. But it could be rather unreliable, and I lost more than one job as a result. One was a new production of Don Giovanni in Berlin. Another was a revival of Tristan in Los Angeles. But when one door closes another sometimes opens. Just at that moment came a request to conduct Mozart’s early opera Mitridate in Salzburg. That successful run led to an invitation to be Chief Conductor of the Salzburg Camerata, which lasted for the next ten years. But I never did get to conduct Tristan…

Another loss/gain situation was around the same time, and even more important. When a Tanglewood date was cancelled I was able to accept Rossini’s Semiramide in Pesaro, with the Stuttgart Radio Orchestra. By the time that was over I was asked to be their next Chief, leading to twenty historic years with that wonderful institution.

MISTAKES

With the Israel Philharmonic one year we were playing Beethoven’s 2nd Symphony. To perform the second movement at Beethoven’s tempo is rather hard for all orchestras brought up on Furtwängler and Klemperer, who take it at half the speed prescribed. It needs to be light and elegant. In the concert I was so pleased with the result that I went straight on to the last movement, forgetting the Scherzo completely. After a bar or two the Scherzo became recognisable, and all went well.

I was so horrified by my mistake that I went around the players’ dressing rooms to apologise. To my relief (or should it be chagrin?) the first roomful hadn’t noticed anything. In the second room people had noticed something a bit odd. In the third a wise old owl said “You started the last movement, no?” But in the fourth I only got massive credit for apologising. Apparently no conductor had ever apologised before!

Amazingly I managed to make exactly the same mistake in Chicago a year later. This time I immediately stopped, turned round and apologised to the audience and explained what happened. They giggled. I was about to start the recalcitrant Scherzo when I turned back to the audience and added: “I did the same thing in Israel a year ago, but noone noticed.” Now they burst into loud laughter and applause. How Americans do like to enjoy themselves!

Afterwards there was a post-concert Q and A. Of course someone asked about my gaffe. But instead of being critical the questioner was full of praise! He supposed I had done it on purpose to liven things up, and asked who my script writer was!

It’s in fact true that, when something goes amiss (a broken string, a lighting problem) the “cultured” atmosphere does turn more human. It changes and lightens, and everybody enjoys themselves more. However I never made that mistake again…

Another mistake, not by me but by a chorus, led to more far- reaching repercussions. I was conducting Mendelssohn’s Oratorio Paulus with the Swedish Radio Choir and my Camerata Salzburg, in the Vienna Musikverein. The performance had gone very well until the start of the last movement. Suddenly the Sopranos came in a bar early, and for a second or two chaos reigned. Only one thing to do: quickly stop and start again. Immediately all was well, and we finished the show to much applause. Afterwards several of the Sopranos came to my room in great distress to apologise for their mistake. I forgave them warmly; they are a fantastic choir and were in any case much appreciated.

It seemed that the audience were scarcely aware of the little stumble and I thought no more about it. But a week later I received an extraordinary letter from the Radio, claiming that I had tried to ruin the reputation of the Choir by stopping and starting, making it seem as if it was all their fault. Well it was their fault; but I had saved them from looking a lot worse. I was astounded that managers could come to such an aggressive and completely false conclusion when they were not even present in Vienna. But they were not to be moved by my reminding them of the facts, and of the poor Sopranos’ abject apology straight after their mishap.

A year earlier I had had great success with the Swedish Radio Orchestra, and had been booked for several future concerts. I looked forward to a fruitful relationship with them, especially since  it was the first orchestra I ever met who actually asked if they could play with Pure Tone. We had talked of a Brahms cycle, and a Beethoven cycle. Now suddenly  I was in disgrace (for quick thinking?). Those bookings with the Orchestra were all cancelled, and I’ve never been back. The Camerata were as puzzled and angry as I was. But some yer win and some yer lose…

LET’S FACE IT

Arriving in front of yet another new symphony orchestra I often felt intimidated all over again. Sometimes I said so: “Ihr seid so viele, und ich bin so wenige”. You are so many, and I am so few. That broke the ice a bit, but I would sit there while they tuned wondering how I could possibly  have the nerve to tell them what to do. However a few moments later, as the music got under way, everything was just fine; I suddenly knew exactly what I was doing.

In the performance of a very difficult work,- say the premiere of a brand new and abstruse modern piece, I would be fearful of making mistakes. I found the solution to be not to worry more, but on the contrary to smile and convince myself that I was enjoying it.  Things went along much better then.

THE REAL LAST POST

A musical memory returns me from school days. In the Cadet Force we had a Summer Camp, under canvas, somewhere down near Pirbright in Surrey. We went by train from Waterloo, and got to the station by marching along the streets in Column of Rout. But my memory was of a beautiful summer’s evening, at lights out. As we lay peacefully there in the dusk, in our six-man tents, after a tiring day of pointless fake battles, a bugle played the Last Post. We are all used to it at funerals, but actually it’s simply the last call of the day. It runs through some of the day’s calls: Reveille, Cook House etc. and finishes with the Good Night. “Good Night, Good Night to you All” with that touching extra, last high note. It sounded to me at that moment, like the most beautiful melody in the world.

A SPECIAL PLACE

One of my absolute favourite groups  of buildings in the world is the centre of Oxford University in Broad Street, opposite Trinity College where we lived for several years.  You have the Old Schools, the Radcliffe Camera, the Clarendon Building, the Divinity School, and the wonderful Sheldonian Theatre. The Sheldonian was a very early Christopher Wren design, commissioned for University ceremonies such as degree-giving. It’s extremely attractive, if rather uncomfortable to sit in. But it has magical acoustics, and the paramount distinction of having had both Handel and Haydn conduct their music in it. As a boy I heard many choral masterpieces there for the first time, including the Matthew Passion, the Sea Symphony, Elijah, and Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis.

The latter took place on a very hot summer afternoon, with all the windows wide open. Just before the Credo a colossal peal of thunder and lightning crashed over our heads. Was the Almighty disapproving? It certainly felt like it. Torrential rain immediately followed, and the performance was held up while two dozen windows were closed. Eventually the magnificent work was completed,- perhaps the greatest ever written? I was thrilled to have heard it in this enchanting building,- but got very wet walking home.

Years later I was engaged as a solo tenor there once or twice. I particularly remember singing second tenor to the lovely Wilfred (Bill) Brown in the Oxford Bach Choir’s first encounter with the Monteverdi Vespers. Singing the echo in the Audi Coelum, high up in a gallery, was exciting. Bill  challenged me with more and more complicated extemporary decorations, which of course as echo I had to get exactly right. Phew!

Even more years later I conducted a number of concerts in this sacred spot. A semi-staged Poppea with Kent Opera, and several appearances with the London Classical Players and the Age of Enlightenment. Always a thrill to be in the Sheldonian.

CONDUCTORS’ PAY

Why are conductors paid so much? Now that I’m retired I can safely say that I would happily have worked for half the fee people often pressed upon me. Of course I didn’t want to get less than my colleagues; that would be foolish, no? But 100 times what a rank and file player makes is an awful lot. In Britain fees are not too extreme, but on the continent they can easily be 3 times British ones. And in Japan you can double that, which is really remarkable, if somewhat agreeable at the same time. Three weeks in Tokyo could just about make half my income for the year! It certainly means one is readier to give charity concerts for no fee, and to accept small fees for worthy but impecunious orchestras, and I did both. But the normal structure makes one uneasy about some really quite boring, or even incapable conductors receiving fees they cannot possibly deserve. Seems you don’t have to be good to get well paid. But it certainly made me prepare impeccably, constantly trying to better my technique, and give everything I musically could to each band. I hope it showed.