It was raining buckets in Paris' Boulevard Poissonniere one night last week as six taxi drivers shouted and gesticulated at the door of the Hotel Violet. "What kind of a circus is this?" cried one. "We'll get wet as pigs," complained another. "This calls for an extra tip." Eventually, the taxicabs got under way, carrying 16 American girls dressed in flowing silver-grey silk and toting violins, violas, cellos and a string bass; their conductor, Boris Sirpo, and a few assistants. In sum total they were the Little Chamber Orchestra from Portland, Ore., and their destination was the National French Television studio in Rue Cognacq-Jay.
The orchestra's dampened debut before France's TV watchers was a cloud-high point of a seven-week European tour that had already won raves in Finland, Sweden, Norway, Denmark and England. As the French cameras blinked on, Conductor Sirpo led the girls through a solemn, contemplative Corelli air, a Vivaldi piece (with violin solo by tall, blonde Claire Hodgkins), some modern variations by Alexander Tansman and an allegro by Stamitz. They played with fire and discipline that astonished their listeners—and played everything without a sheet of music. When they had done, the TV crew crowded around, and the studio audience burst into applause.
Part Payment. The triumphal tour was the kind of stuff that winsome movies are made of. The girls themselves range in age from 15 to 28, have been rehearsing for their tour for the last two summers. Conductor Sirpo, 60, is a harddriving; expatriate Finn who wants the old countries to understand the deep-down values he has found in the U.S. "I felt the need to repay America for giving me so much," he explains, "and for a music teacher, music is the only way to repay something. I wanted to show Europeans what young Americans can do in music, to let them see something of the culture and spiritual power our country can produce."
Conductor Sirpo abandoned his own conservatory in Finland when the Russians invaded in 1939 and headed for the U.S. Since 1945, he has been teaching at Portland's Presbyterian Lewis and Clark College, where as many as 70 students brave his celebrated sternness to play in his student orchestra. One reason: beneath the rigorous vigor lies a puckish streak that relieves the direst stress. For example, Sirpo was once felled on the podium by a minor stroke, and somebody shrieked that he had been shot. As the cops arrived, he regained his speech and muttered solemnly: "My wife did it." On another occasion, the Sirpos had just moved into a house that was supposed to be haunted. Sure enough, ghostly sounds wakened the couple, and Mrs. Sirpo suggested that he investigate. "No, my love," said he. "You go; your English is better." Money Back. The girls take their tour with all the seriousness that a dedicated Finn and a Presbyterian education can instill. "It's like a mission," said one.