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To many Bostonians, after a fortnight of Munch their orchestra was already beginning to sound a trifle different, more relaxed and spontaneous. Expert ears, such as those of Harvard's Composer Walter Piston, found it "less fat." Composer Aaron Copland thought that "Munch probably looks for sonority more than Koussevitzky. And the orchestra didn't have quite the violence that it has now."
Bostonians would hear pretty much the same kind of programs: Munch's devotion to the moderns is second only to Koussevitzky's. But they would find it a little harder to know the man than his music. Munch's easy assurance on the podium is matched by an often moody shyness away from it.
After concerts he usually hurries out of the greenroom, nods to the waiting knot of well-wishers, then pops into his black Oldsmobile sedan for a dash home to Brush Hill Road in suburban Milton (the former home of the late Bishop William Lawrence). Only when he reaches the sanctuary of his second-story study, with Roger, his chauffeur-valet of 20 years' service hovering around him, does he seem to draw a relaxed breath.
He likes Americans but he is slightly afraid of tackling large groups of them, partly because of language difficulties. So far he has been to only two Boston parties; once there, he charmed everyone he met. He likes to take short walks around the neighborhood with his Welsh terrier
Pompey, once stopped to help a neighbor rake the leaves off his lawn.
Summers in Paris. But most of the time, Charles Munch likes to work over scores at his small kidney-shaped desk or at the spinet piano in his study. On mornings when there is a rehearsal, he gets up at 8, eats an unusually hearty breakfast of bacon, scrambled eggs and tea (says Madame Munch: "In Boston we have not yet found good bread"). After rehearsals, if he has no engagement in town, he scoots back to the quiet of Brush Hill Road for luncheon.
He has already developed a taste for a Boston specialty, New England clam chowder, but his favorite dishes are still pot-au-feu and kidneys cooked with Chablis. "You see," says Madame Munch, "he has a modest taste." He likes a good nip of Scotch, is amazed that he has been unable to find good Alsatian vintages in the U.S.
Once a year, however, as long as he keeps the Boston conductorship, Munch expects to go back where they know about such things. His two-year contract (with an optional third) allows him plenty of free time in the summers, and he and Madame Munch plan to spend their vacations in Paris.
There are many things to draw him there. He is an enthusiastic amateur Egyptologist; his 14-room apartment near the Bois de Boulogne is cluttered with Egyptian statuettes and old Dutch etchings. He also likes to take an occasional lesson in "harmonious coordination of mind and body" at Madame Codreano's "Center for Psycho-Motor Education" (see cut). But he is fascinated with the U.S. and pleased with the thought of staying a while. Moreover, if Conductor Munch grows on Boston, as last week seemed very likely, it was quite possible that Frenchman Munch might develop a taste for the beer, the bread and the beans.
*The others: Amsterdam's Concertgebouw, the Philadelphia Orchestra, the Vienna Philharmonic.