Travels with Paul

Abstract

Audition is now time that you graduate. With these words--written on official bond paper from the Juilliard Graduate School of Music in New York City-I was severed from six years of preparation for a career as a pianist. What career and what preparation? None, really, because the realities of musical life that were in store for me were a shock compared to what I had been taught and had dreamed of. It was 1940 and I had no job, no leads, no money, and no plans. As an accompanist, I was fair enough. But an accompanist often has a variety of duties: carrying violins and luggage, acting as unofficial secretary-manager and as official ego-booster and smoother-over; and if the artist is a woman, one must attend to those one hundredand-one little courtesies which no gentleman in our society can comfortably overlook. bills must be paid, porters tipped, accounts kept, and unwelcome male admirers discouraged. There was one delicate lady who, several times daily, needed assistance in closing her suitcases to prevent the possible straining of her wrists. And I remember the tenor who came in on Sorrento in a key completely different from that of the introduction. When he arrived at the high note in the middle, it was several tones beyond his range. So he cracked like crazy, and who got the blame? faithful accompanist who had clung to him, note by note, through the entire debacle. More diverting was the recitative artist who suddenly stripped every bit of clothing from her body at our first rehearsal and demanded, How do you like me as a woman? I hesitated, groping for what might be the proper reply or course of action. Finally, as there in majestic silence she stood, I suavely offered up something on the order of, Uh, very nice, yes, but ... um, well, I'm a married man, and-- Imbecile! she shouted. Americans are fools, idiots! You are fired--get out! Worse, though, was the lack of recognition. Have you ever heard of an accompanist who was considered an artist in his own right? Even the best are looked down upon, because the prevailing attitude seems to be a paraphrase of G. B. Shaw's comment on teachers--those who can, do; those who can't, accompany. I was aware of all this, but after a year of free radio recitals over WNYC and WQXR in New York, I decided that one must bend one's pride a bit and make some money. I put the word out that I was available, and soon had a tour with a violinist. This in turn led me to a singer, who one day mentioned to me that somebody on 57th Street would be auditioning pianists for a tour, so off I went. audition was in a private apartment, and when I entered the anteroom I saw a dozen of the best sight-readers in New York. I almost left. What was the point, I wondered--these guys could read me under the piano bench. But I was already there, so I thought I might as well stay. Two and a half hours later my turn came. I entered the music room of the apartment and something very strange met my eyes. On a table near the piano sat a theremin, an electronic instrument invented by Russian physicist Leon Theremin back in the twenties. sounds it produces resemble stringed instruments in all ranges. Great skill is required to play it in tune, and the musical range is limited only one tone can be sounded at a time. tones are very pure and the overall effect is quite eerie. theremin has been used very effectively in science-fiction films--most notably, perhaps, in Bernard Hermann's otherworldly score for The Day the Earth Stood Still. As I stood in the room wondering what I'd gotten myself into, I was introduced to a very attractive woman, Clara Rockmore, who sat beside the instrument. Sitting next to her was her sister, Nadia Reisenberg, whom I immediately recognized as Josef Hoffman's assistant at the Curtis Institute of Music. Later I found out that Clara had been a student of Leopold Auer, the teacher of Heifetz and several other great violinists. …