(See Cover) In the gilt and white splendor of Carnegie Hall, the little ceremony seemed as homey as a washtub fiddle. “Old Buck eyes are as proud as can be of this fine, fine orchestra from Cleveland.” announced the man from the Ohio Society of New York. “My gosh.” answered the man from the Cleveland Symphony Orchestra, “we’re proud too.” The Manhattan audience that had assembled for the first of the Cleveland Orchestra’s current series of three New York concerts greeted this dialogue with faint, perfunctory applause. It was in no mood to encourage chatter: there was a great orchestra onstage waiting to be heard.
In seasons past. New Yorkers regularly infuriated Cleveland by suggesting that its orchestra played well in New York only because it was playing in New York; the boys from the provinces always rehearse for months to sound their best when they come to the city. But last autumn, Cleveland joined in the battle of the bands that marked the opening of Manhattan’s new Philharmonic Hall and came away the master of the great orchestras from Boston, Philadelphia and New York. Home-town fans, who had been ardently convinced of Cleveland’s orchestral supremacy for years, were suddenly confronted with astonishing international applause. London and Paris had already acclaimed the Cleveland—and New York was chiming in.
Charming & Terrifying. Encouraged by the acclaim, music lovers in Cleveland behave like sports fans elsewhere. They have airport rallies when the orchestra comes home from tour. They chant, “We’re the best! We’re the best!” and carry placards reading “Bravo!” They have a Meet Your Orchestra radio program that features chummy interviews with tuba players and treats double-bassists like second basemen. They have been known to stop musicians on the street to plead for autographs and crowd the stage door after concerts to shake the hands of fiddlers. And in store windows all over town, they mount pictures of their hero, the glowering, inescapable Maestro George Szell.
In this pep-rally atmosphere, no one is more devoutly convinced of Cleveland’s orchestral supremacy than Szell himself, to whom all the excitement is a glowing reflection of his own musical genius. At 65, Szell (pronounced sell) has spent 50 years on the podium, a life cycle that began as Wunderkind in Richard Strauss’s Germany, then progressed to enfant terrible in Szell’s Cleveland. He arrived in Cleveland in 1946, pruned and rebuilt the orchestra, educated its audience, charmed its angels, and terrified everyone, until he reached a point of supreme control and superb accomplishment. Now, after 17 years, he calls his orchestra “this glorious instrument—an instrument that perfectly reflects my musical ideals.”
To make the Cleveland the peer of the world’s old and honored orchestras, he has been hard with his players, cagey with his patrons, and often unkind and intemperate with anyone who finds no place in his scheme of musical excellence. In the process, he has divided the musical world into two camps—Szellots and enemies.
Philadelphia Conductor Eugene Ormandy has sworn him his undying enmity, and a young Western conductor who once studied with him now says. “Szell is one of the world’s great musicians and a cold, cold sonofabitch.” But to Szell, such opinions hardly matter. His only concerns are music and his idea of music’s greatest instrument, his Cleveland Orchestra. “The balance of musical excellence has recently shifted.” he says with an icy smile, “from the East Coast to—the Midwest. A critic has said that.”
The balance of excellence had already shifted from Europe’s orchestras to America’s. It took a long time for Americans to realize this. In their self-consciousness about Old World superiority in culture, they shyly awaited concessions of defeat from abroad before they claimed victory at home. In fact, of all Europe’s orchestras, only the Berlin Philharmonic and the London Philharmonia are the occasional equals of the five leading American orchestras (see box). And now that Europeans admit it, Americans have begun to brag about it.
Fifty-four years ago, Gustav Mahler, cursing his luck, wrote home to Vienna from his new conductor’s office at the New York Philharmonic. “My orchestra,” he began, “is the genuine American orchestra, phlegmatic and without talent.” However bad it was, though, the grand spectacle of the symphony orchestra, playing heroic classics in the elegance of the concert hall, seemed to suit the American taste better than opera and better. even, than the stage.
In Boston and Philadelphia, society has preened itself for concerts ever since their orchestras began playing. Several Main Line families in Philadelphia (where they say “going to orchestra”) have held the same seats at the Academy of Music since 1900, and in Boston (where they say “going to symphony”), the Friday afternoon concerts always have an audience filled with Cabots, Lowells, Hornblowers, Forbeses and Websters. No one in Boston cuts the swath of Mrs. Stanley McCormick, however: for years she has bought two season tickets to the symphony’s Friday afternoons—one for herself, one for her coat.
Such devotion, of course, is not limited to the big cities or to the grand orchestras. At the turn of the century, there were 30 orchestras in the U.S. and Canada; now there are over 1,200, nearly half of them founded in the past 20 years. Radio and television have crippled the other performing arts, but music’s electronic voice has stimulated its audience to come and hear the real thing. “Listening to a record on a phonograph,” says the assistant conductor of the Cincinnati Symphony, “is like getting kissed over the telephone.”
Today, nearly every town big enough to have a ballpark has a symphony orchestra too, though many play just as badly as they did for Mahler. In some places, they are merely the poodles of rich old ladies, who coo over the conductor’s accent and glory in the yearly fund-raising drive that proves their devotion to the arts. But in other towns, the symphonies are the one cosmopolitan touch that makes life bearable away from the cities for afterhours musicians and music lovers. And in a hundred or so cities, they are living centers of culture, sober public trusts as important as the library or the art museum.
Sympathetic Barbers. In its growth, the symphony orchestra is now a voice that is more distinctively American than any other in serious music. Its repertory is top-heavy with German works (Beethoven is played nearly twice as much as Tchaikovsky, the most popular non-Germanic composer), and it has no hampering patriotic duties to the national culture: it plays very little music writ ten in its own land. But its hybrid birth and its international spirit spare it the national mannerisms that mark most European orchestras, and it plays with a freshness and flexibility that make each orchestra unique.
World War II doubly decimated European orchestras. Battles and the bombing of cities savagely diminished a whole generation of musicians, and in places under Axis control, Jewish musicians disappeared into exile or concentration camps.
Of those who survived, many got to the U.S. — a whole new wave of emigre musicians who enriched American musical life.
While many of their colleagues at home grew flaccid in chairs guaranteed them by state contracts, in the U.S. they found a spirited and highly competitive atmosphere. They also found a rising climate of orchestral prestige.
The American conductor — a temperamental twin to the operatic tenor — has shared the orchestra’s celebrated status; some, indeed, have defined it. In Europe, many a conductor has become a stoop-shouldered civil servant or a traveling virtuosity show. But in the U.S., a first-rank conductor can settle down comfortably, find a sympathetic barber to whom it seems reasonable that he must look even better from the back than he does from the front, and seize the authority to make music in his own style.
If all goes well, several years in the same town give him a closeness to his orchestra that he develops into musical accomplishment — as Paul Paray did in ten years with Detroit, and as Robert Whitney is doing in Louisville, Izler Solomon in Indianapolis and Hans Schwieger in Kansas City. Occasionally, as with Szell in Cleveland, the orchestra’s sponsors share the maestro’s boundless aspirations, and stand back while he takes the orchestra as far from home as its excellence makes it welcome.
He can count on a high place in local society, and, unless he is careful, cuddling up with the dragons and dragon ladies who run so many orchestras can easily do in his music while it velvets his life. In Seattle, Conductor Milton Katims has gently urged his salary up to $37,500 a year, about as much as the mayor and the school superintendent earn together, and nearly 20 times the pay of the men who fill the back chairs of his orchestra. In San Francisco, conductors come and go at the whim of J. D. Zellerbach and his fearful board, and in Los Angeles, a conductor who does not take tea with “Buffie” Chandler is likely to find himself conducting in Weehawken.
Refined Art. Beyond all that, a conductor has to be alert to troubles within his orchestra. Men who have gone too far in an effort to make music a democracy (as Charles Munch did in Boston and Dimitri Mitropoulos did before he was shooed away from New York in 1958) may find themselves watching helplessly as their musicians betray them in a thousand ways. The New York Philharmonic has made a refined art of ignoring any inept visitors among the conductors who substitute for Leonard Bernstein each year: the players keep all eyes studiously away from the podium in hopes of informing the audience that it is hearing their performance, not the maestro’s.
The class warfare of musician and conductor is as old as ego. But to Szell, the whole scrap is an empty one. “We are all in the service of music,” he says, “and we must approach it with all the good will possible.” Because he is the most authoritarian man now conducting, this means play it his way, or else.
Szell harbors a hidden fondness for musicians, but he keeps it under perfect control. At work with his orchestra, he is so immaculately severe that a few players complain of his cruelty, hinting darkly that he has driven a musician or two into emergency mental care. Others feel that he is so coldly unresponsive to their feelings that he pushes them past the point of artistic aspiration, rehearsing so much that they pass their peak before concert time. “If you really want to hear how good we are, come to rehearsal,” says a Cleveland violinist.
Szell also offends players by being so devoutly musical that at times he is scantily human. When a violinist took a bone-jouncing spill down a long flight of stairs, Szell heard about it and asked in horror,’ “Did he crush his fiddle?” When a visiting member of the Berlin Philharmonic expressed astonishment that Cleveland’s musicians would put up with a man like Szell, a Szell man mused: “It’s ironic. Over there, they have democracy. Here we have the Third Reich.” To most of the players though, particularly the first-chair men. Szell’s demands are justified by Szell’s achievements: genius, they are convinced, is its own excuse.
Sculptor’s Hand. On the podium, Szell is formal and correct—his beat firm, his style understated. His baton moves stolidly. but his left hand—often called the most graceful in music—is a sculptor’s hand, shaping and molding each sound, grasping the fortissimos, summoning the dominant voices and, for excited counterrhythms and violent colors, fluttering like a bird caught in a storm. “Between conductor and orchestra,” Szell says, “a great deal must occur below the conscious level. There must be an understanding that is mystical and even occult. The freshness of the eyes, the mood—each movement must transmit itself to the players as an unmistakable musical signal.”
Szell’s signals spring from an orderly and highly developed sense of the orchestra, which he regards as an extension of his baton. “My urge to polish and finish details has resulted in a playing style here that distinguishes ours from any other orchestra,” he says. “The extreme care and cultivation of each of the elements of phrasing and articulation result in a delivery that puts vital musical qualities into relief—a relief that may have gone blurred before in a hundred hearings.”
Some critics have found Szell’s voice in French music distressingly guttural. Even some of his own musicians are displeased with the maestro’s appreciation of the romantic repertory. When Szell schedules Debussy’s La Mer, the boys in the band-room call it “Das Merde.” Szell’s few shortcomings are all in this direction. His music sometimes lacks the panache necessary to take life, the exuberant joy in filling the air with sound that marks the music Boston has heard for years and that Ormandy makes in Philadelphia. Such criticism wins only a lofty bat of the eyes from behind the maestro’s thick glasses. “It is perfectly legitimate to prefer the hectic, the arhythmic, the untidy.” he says, “but to my mind, great artistry is not disorderliness.”
The articulate clarity and precise balance that Szell has brought to the Cleve land give its performances a depth of detail and an intricacy that approach chamber music. The “chambermusic sound” is Szell’s preoccupation, and before the Cleveland rehearses any new score, Szell adds to it a whole vocabulary of his own signs and symbols that refine the musical directions until the maestro’s ideas are inescapable. His musicians respond to his directions with astonishing agility. Once, when Szell assured a guest pianist that the orchestra would follow the piano in the first notes of a concerto, the pianist prankishly swooped into the music at double time; the orchestra spoke back in perfect echo, and Szell beamed with delight from the podium.
New Mozart. With his watchmaker’s taste for orderliness and for small details, Szell is misty only about his early years, casting much of his childhood into the narrow closet that contains the very few things he has ever forgotten. He was born in Budapest and grew up in Vienna as the only child of a Hungarian father and a Slovak mother. His father was director of the Wach-und-Schliess Gesellschaft (“Wake-Up and Lock-Up Company”), a private door-shaking police force for Vienna’s gentry. At four, George expressed both his musical precocity and his podium personality by reaching up and slapping his mother’s wrist whenever she struck a wrong note on the piano. Three years later, Szell had two music teachers—young girls who came to his house every day to discipline his practice and teach him theory—and before he was ten, he was the master pupil of Vienna’s famous piano teacher, Richard Robert. The following year, even English papers were calling Szell “the new Mozart.”
Szell managed to survive his Vienna days without picking up any Gemütlichkeit. A few days before his 16th birthday, his fellow piano prodigy, Rudolf Serkin, noticed some of Szell’s own compositions on Professor Robert’s desk. Serkin, then only twelve and in deep awe of Szell, took the pieces home and practiced furiously so he could play them for George as a birthday gift. When the day came and Serkin played through his gift, Szell cut him into the carpet by saying “Serkin! How can you play such trash?” The remark still makes Serkin wince, and it still makes Szell chuckle.
In the summer of his 17th year, Szell was vacationing with his family at the Bad Kissingen spa when the conductor of the visiting Vienna Philharmonic was hit in the groin with a tennis ball and knocked out of action. He turned his baton over to Szell, who had been pestering him all summer, and Szell was an immediate success. The following year Szell was in Berlin, appearing as conductor, pianist and composer at a concert of the Berlin Philharmonic. Richard Strauss heard Szell play his transcription of Strauss’s Till Eulenspiegel, and soon afterward chose him as his assistant in Berlin. Though Szell continued to give occasional piano recitals, he made up his mind to devote himself to conducting from that point on. Today, Szell elaborately insists that he abandoned the piano because a committee of the world’s three greatest pianists called on him and begged him to retire.
Surrender. Szell began to spend his spare time bumming around bandrooms, pestering musicians to teach him the technique of their instruments. At 19 he succeeded Otto Klemperer as principal conductor of the Strasbourg Municipal Theater; at 24 he moved on to Darmstadt, where there was a fresh supply of virtuosos to wheedle. “What stood out in Szell’s talent,” says his old friend Max Rudolf, now a downstate neighbor as conductor of the Cincinnati Symphony, “was his early genius at reading and remembering musical scores.” Szell used that genius for his own amusement—playing full orchestrated scores on the piano in one dazzling transcription that called out all the orchestra’s hidden voices. All his life, playing Till Eulenspiegel has been almost a hobby with him; at any party, at the faintest invitation, he will sit down and race through the piece, and in the old days, he would run a cuff link down the keys to sound the staccato turns of the ratchet that hangs Till.
Before he was 40, Szell had conducted all Europe’s leading orchestras, and it was clear that he was a prodigy who had kept all his promises. He married young, but lost his wife to his ardent first violinist.
A few years later, Szell married his present wife Helene, who had two sons by a former marriage. At the outbreak of World War II, the Szells were marooned in New York, and they decided to remain in the U.S. for the duration. Helene’s children, however, were left behind. One disappeared during the occupation of France as did Szell’s parents, who were presumed to have died in a Nazi concentration camp. The other son rejoined his family in 1945 on the first postwar immigration visa issued in France—a sign that Szell was already in string-pulling position in his new country.
Szell made his New York debut in 1941 as guest conductor of Toscanini’s NBC Symphony. A year later he was hired by the Metropolitan Opera, and soon he was busy as a guest conductor of all the major U.S. orchestras and a good many of the minor ones. The Cleveland appointment was offered in 1946, and after extracting an unconditional surrender on all musical matters from the Cleveland Musical Arts Association,* Szell arrived the following fall to begin the task he had dreamed of all through his gypsy years—”building and shaping an orchestra into an instrument of ideal musicality.”
“Something Is Wrong.” His techniques were as bold as his ambitions. Though he sacked only twelve of the 94 musicians he inherited, another dozen or so moved on to other orchestras where the pace was gentler. For two or three, the chilly sight of Szell on the podium was an inspiration to give up music for the used-car business.
Unlike Stokowski, who is adept at artful cajolery, or Toscanini. who swore so eloquently in Italian that those who understood him refused to translate for others, Szell is a surgeon of small insults; he freezes musical offenders with a long, unblinking stare. His players call him “Cyclops.” He calls first-chair men by their first names, but to others he will simply say, “Clarinet, you’re faltering,” or “Clean up your sound. Bassoon.” For all his cold-eyed demand for perfection, though, to musicians he admires, Szell can be surprisingly warm. “If I play well,” says Pianist Leon Fleisher, “he calls me ‘Schnozzle.’ If I play very well, he calls me ‘Schnozzola.’ And if I play very, very well, it’s ‘Schnozzolone.’ ”
Every so often, the maestro relaxes and shares a joke with his whole orchestra. Szell’s gags, when they come, delight his musicians, but more often than not they also cost him one more friend. When Canadian Pianist Glenn Gould turned up for a rehearsal in Cleveland, he went into his usual piano-bench ritual: up a millimeter, down a smidgen, up just a trifle. down a hair, up . . . Time-and-Motion-Man Szell stared on from the podium as long as he could stand it. At last he spoke: “Perhaps if I were to slice one-sixteenth of an inch off your derrière, Mr. Gould, we could begin.”
But most often, it is Szell who doesn’t get the joke. In 1954. the year Cleveland last won the pennant, Szell’s musicians arranged to play Take Me Out to the Ball Game at rehearsal by way of celebrating. Szell marched into the hall, mounted the podium, raised his baton and said: “First, Mahler.” At the downbeat, Szell was horrified. “No, no, no!” he screamed. “Something is wrong.” The crestfallen concertmaster explained. “Ah, a joke,” said unsmiling Szell. “Heh. heh, heh.” Then right back to work. “First, Mahler.”
Imperfect Footing. Szell claims he would have laughed but he did not know the tune. His blessing and his misfortune is that he remains an Old World personality, bridging two cultures, and finding imperfect footing in the new one whenever he runs into anyone less serious and dedicated than he is himself. At the orchestra’s Severance Hall, he snoops around the box office and the business office, upsetting secretaries and clerks, all the while musing about “a little legacy left to me by Richard Strauss—always consult the box-office man.”
Szell’s fascination with the box office is no idle pastime. By quizzing the ticket sellers, he learns how his musical-education program is going and whether the audience is hungry for new music or homesick for old. Though he has encouraged young composers by playing their works in the height of the orchestra’s season, he is generally thought to be a conservative programmer. He worries about encroachments upon the classical repertory by music’s popularizers: he would like to play Dvorak’s “New World” Symphony more often, but now that the magic violinists have had their day with it, it has become almost an embarrassment. “The repertory is shrinking,” he says, “but there is one consolation. Every day new people come to life who have never heard Beethoven’s Fifth. They are a small benefit of the population explosion.” In the music that Szell knows and likes best—Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, Haydn, Schumann, Dvorak and Smetana—the Cleveland is hard to beat.
Two Tickets. To those who do not know him, Szell often appears menacing —and to a degree he is. A pair of managers have had their walking papers from Szell. He is a compulsive pedagogue, teaching janitors how to sweep, clerks how to type, chauffeurs how to drive. He looks over press releases and programs; when he walks down the hall and notices a paper in a man’s hand he stops and says, “May I?” When he coaxed the management to spend $200,000 to rebuild the acoustical interior of the orchestra’s grandly opulent hall four years ago, predictably, the man who did the job was Szell’s man. Predictably, too, the job was an amazing success: the first day of rehearsals, the orchestra nearly deafened itself in the lively new room.
Szell’s few close friends in Cleveland say that success has mellowed him, but only rarely do hints of this change drift out to the world at large. On forays into guest-conducting, he always bags a new enemy or two for his trophy room. At the New York Philharmonic, where he will conduct during March, he has always scored low with prideful musicians; when Toscanini died, a musician who was refused an invitation to the funeral said, “All right, but reserve me two tickets for Szell’s.” In San Francisco, where he broke off a conducting assignment and huffed back to Cleveland, many people remain convinced that his only aim was to embarrass the West Coast orchestra. Such accusations leave Szell almost wordless with dismay: “Oh, my,” he will say, “and for once I was trying to be a good boy.” Pressed further he retreats into Szellish humor: “The cause of such troubles? Perhaps the incompatibility of the artistic and inartistic temperaments.”
Cleveland, he says at every opportunity, “is my home.” But the minute his schedule permits, he disappears to Europe, where he plays golf (“gladly but badly”) and heckles his wife in the kitchen. He seldom entertains, but when he does his door may open on the maestro smiling absurdly from inside an apron that says “Whoopee” across the front. And there is the grand piano, the small treasury of art, the cabinet of great wines, the well-set table. Helene, his wife, is dauntlessly affable, but, try though he will, Szell in company seems to be listening to the interior music that he likes better.
Szell has built his orchestra from 94 to 105 players, extended its season from 20 to 26 weeks, signed a brisk recording contract with Epic Records, and won a large new audience for his yearly tours. Associate Conductor Robert Shaw’s Cleveland Orchestra Chorus has been increased to 201 members, and it is now nearly the peer of his Chorale. The orchestra’s women’s committee now has 1,500 members, busies itself with sternly taught courses in music appreciation, then goes out to round up contributions to fill in the orchestra’s immense deficit. The musicians, astonished at being celebrities, have largely resigned themselves to the occasional pain of Szell’s whip; 67 of them now own homes in Cleveland, butchers wave to them at the supermarket, and, as one says, “even the bank knows you have roots if you’re in the orchestra.”
Almost Aristotelian. Content that he at last has the glorious instrument he has heard in his inner ear all his life. Szell still works tirelessly, training young conductors, learning new scores. His pedagoguery is perfectly undiminished: he gives golf lessons to golfers who play better, teaches tailors how to cut his tails so that the coat will not flap while he conducts: tight armholes, ballooning sleeves.
Occasionally, he gets off an almost Aristotelian aphorism: “Music,” he will say, pinching the bridge of his nose, “is indivisible. The dualism of feeling and thinking must be resolved to a state of unity in which one thinks with the heart and feels with the brain.”
His demands on musicians are still deadly. While rehearsing the Berlin Philharmonic for a recording some time ago, he worked the players so hard that their manager said: “Come, come, Szell, you’re going at this as if it were a matter of life and death.” Szell looked stunned. “Don’t you see?” he said. “It is! It is!”
*No small trick. When Lukas Foss was appointed musical director of the Buffalo Philharmonic last December, the orchestra’s executive committee warned him that the box office demanded he play the music of the masters—”not bizarre music or just his own music.”
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