Post by lee on Sept 19, 2016 21:47:09 GMT 1
It is often forgotten that Karajan guest conducted these orchestras during his time whilst head of the Berlin PO. As I'm sure most of you know, there are also recordings available of these concerts, although the American ones are easier to get hold of than the others at the moment. However, I stumbled across this anecdote the other day from the memoirs of František Sláma, who was a principle cellist of the Czech PO:
When Herbert von Karajan died in Salzburg on 16 July 1989, an article in Concert Life mentioned the fact that he had never conducted the Czech Philharmonic. This isn't entirely true; I'd even say that our two encounters with Karajan tied in with interesting circumstances which no-one who was around at the time will forget in a hurry.
We first came across Karajan in Vienna in 1956 where we were playing the New World Symphony at the Wiener Festwochen. When we went on for the second half of the concert, the head of the festival appeared in his box. The entire audience turned their heads to look at him, just like they do during a tennis match, and Karel Ančerl on the conductor's rostrum had to wait quite a while before the Maestro had finished greeting all the local celebrities in his midst. When the New World Symphony was over, there was a burst of applause which was topped off by Karajan who, after Ančerl had come back out to take his bow for about the fourth time, stood up and gave us a standing ovation. After that he came to hear us regularly, whenever we performed in Vienna, despite the uneasy political climate of a world divided by the Iron Curtain and a good deal of prejudice which has very little to do with music but often influences its fate.
In 1970 we found out that we were going to perform with Karajan at the Salzburg festival the following August. Although none of us let it show, we were obviously a bit jittery and nervous - apart from the Vienna and Berlin Philharmonics, only a few world orchestras were given an opportunity like this and it was generally known that Karajan was very particular about whom he conducted. The old hands in the Berlin Philharmonic told us that "Herbie" wasn't the rod of iron everyone made him out to be, but we took that information with a pinch of salt: his firm hand was obvious the very first time we heard them play - they had such precision of style and perfect execution. Apart from that, we saw their work schedule in the Philharmonic Club during a visit to Berlin; it was extremely gruelling in the light of what we were used to, there was just no comparison. They were recording a series of Brahms symphonies at the time - first of all they performed the work on tour in Germany, then at a concert in Berlin and, immediately afterwards, at night, they would record it. The Berliners claimed that this was the most expedient time for everyone, although they had to work flat out.
Even though we played in Salzburg many times, we had only experienced Karajan as "tourists". Round the back entrance to the Great Festival Hall enormous crowds gathered whenever the maestro was to appear: the gate opened and a car with black-tinted windows glided in. That was enough to send everyone off into a state of euphoria - he was such a legend in the city. But during our time with him, however, we realised that his personality cult was fostered for the most part by the people around him; he certainly wasn't the type to get worked up if someone opened a door clumsily or coughed during rehearsal. The whole time we were working with him he seemed perfectly natural, patient and focused, and we didn't find an ounce of arrogance in him. But his arrival on the concert platform was precisely the ceremony described by the press. About a quarter of an hour before the rehearsal was due to start, Karajan's secretary gave us precise instructions as to what this ceremony would entail, and then he stressed, ten minutes before the maestro's arrival, that there had to be absolute silence. We didn't take this "absolute Ruhe" to be absolute, and so, here and there, you could hear someone touching his strings or uttering a whispered remark to his neighbour. The maestro still hadn't arrived. In the end, our orchestral secretary had to say something to ensure total silence: "I'm sorry gentlemen, but we have to hold out for these ten minutes." These words had their effect. But it was still quite some time before Karajan's steps could be heard coming towards us from the depths of the backstage area. He wasn't in any hurry, and it took him an exceedingly long time to reach the podium, as if the conductor's room were located somewhere at the other end of the huge Festspielhaus. The stage was plunged into darkness and a single spotlight suddenly and dramatically bathed the Maestro in a pool of light at just the right moment to give us a chance to pull ourselves together and start applauding. He stepped up onto the rostrum, closed his eyes, stretched out his arms, and we began. His gestures were pure sorcery and, unlike the Vienna Philharmonic who were used to this, we occasionally found them quite hard to decipher. But he wasn't one of those temperamental gymnasts "on a spring" the audience love to watch on the conductor's rostrum. His face was a wall of concentration, he was very serene, almost meditative. His right hand holding a short baton was often almost immobile, while he motioned with his incredibly flexible left hand, moving gently and freely from the wrist down. His renowned little finger would trace an almost imperceptible circle to bring the orchestra down to pianissimo, where we would stay until a new flash of the baton would break the magic.
There was something special about our Salzburg concert↗ which we soon realised would be closely monitored: On this occasion Karajan was also appearing as one of the soloists in Bach's Concerto for Four Harpsichords, BWV 1065 and was conducting from the piano. At rehearsal, however, we had mostly been doing the New World Symphony, and we probably only played through the Bach twice. Even so, the response to the performance was remarkable. The public looked up to their Maestro and the time-tested New World Symphony was a success. Karajan conducted theatrically and precisely, his eyes closed this time right to the end, while his body swayed about dangerously, which got us seriously worried at times. After the concert he was all smiles, he thanked us and his proverbial reserve seemed to have vanished. We sensed that, perhaps because of the Bach, this particular evening had meant more to him than the other festival programmes.
Karajan came also to conduct at the Prague Spring festival↗, with the Vienna Philharmonic, and with the Berliners. As always he never missed an opportunity and flew over in his own plane, naturally piloting it himself. His masterful landing at Kbely airfield had people talking all over Prague afterwards.
LD
When Herbert von Karajan died in Salzburg on 16 July 1989, an article in Concert Life mentioned the fact that he had never conducted the Czech Philharmonic. This isn't entirely true; I'd even say that our two encounters with Karajan tied in with interesting circumstances which no-one who was around at the time will forget in a hurry.
We first came across Karajan in Vienna in 1956 where we were playing the New World Symphony at the Wiener Festwochen. When we went on for the second half of the concert, the head of the festival appeared in his box. The entire audience turned their heads to look at him, just like they do during a tennis match, and Karel Ančerl on the conductor's rostrum had to wait quite a while before the Maestro had finished greeting all the local celebrities in his midst. When the New World Symphony was over, there was a burst of applause which was topped off by Karajan who, after Ančerl had come back out to take his bow for about the fourth time, stood up and gave us a standing ovation. After that he came to hear us regularly, whenever we performed in Vienna, despite the uneasy political climate of a world divided by the Iron Curtain and a good deal of prejudice which has very little to do with music but often influences its fate.
In 1970 we found out that we were going to perform with Karajan at the Salzburg festival the following August. Although none of us let it show, we were obviously a bit jittery and nervous - apart from the Vienna and Berlin Philharmonics, only a few world orchestras were given an opportunity like this and it was generally known that Karajan was very particular about whom he conducted. The old hands in the Berlin Philharmonic told us that "Herbie" wasn't the rod of iron everyone made him out to be, but we took that information with a pinch of salt: his firm hand was obvious the very first time we heard them play - they had such precision of style and perfect execution. Apart from that, we saw their work schedule in the Philharmonic Club during a visit to Berlin; it was extremely gruelling in the light of what we were used to, there was just no comparison. They were recording a series of Brahms symphonies at the time - first of all they performed the work on tour in Germany, then at a concert in Berlin and, immediately afterwards, at night, they would record it. The Berliners claimed that this was the most expedient time for everyone, although they had to work flat out.
Even though we played in Salzburg many times, we had only experienced Karajan as "tourists". Round the back entrance to the Great Festival Hall enormous crowds gathered whenever the maestro was to appear: the gate opened and a car with black-tinted windows glided in. That was enough to send everyone off into a state of euphoria - he was such a legend in the city. But during our time with him, however, we realised that his personality cult was fostered for the most part by the people around him; he certainly wasn't the type to get worked up if someone opened a door clumsily or coughed during rehearsal. The whole time we were working with him he seemed perfectly natural, patient and focused, and we didn't find an ounce of arrogance in him. But his arrival on the concert platform was precisely the ceremony described by the press. About a quarter of an hour before the rehearsal was due to start, Karajan's secretary gave us precise instructions as to what this ceremony would entail, and then he stressed, ten minutes before the maestro's arrival, that there had to be absolute silence. We didn't take this "absolute Ruhe" to be absolute, and so, here and there, you could hear someone touching his strings or uttering a whispered remark to his neighbour. The maestro still hadn't arrived. In the end, our orchestral secretary had to say something to ensure total silence: "I'm sorry gentlemen, but we have to hold out for these ten minutes." These words had their effect. But it was still quite some time before Karajan's steps could be heard coming towards us from the depths of the backstage area. He wasn't in any hurry, and it took him an exceedingly long time to reach the podium, as if the conductor's room were located somewhere at the other end of the huge Festspielhaus. The stage was plunged into darkness and a single spotlight suddenly and dramatically bathed the Maestro in a pool of light at just the right moment to give us a chance to pull ourselves together and start applauding. He stepped up onto the rostrum, closed his eyes, stretched out his arms, and we began. His gestures were pure sorcery and, unlike the Vienna Philharmonic who were used to this, we occasionally found them quite hard to decipher. But he wasn't one of those temperamental gymnasts "on a spring" the audience love to watch on the conductor's rostrum. His face was a wall of concentration, he was very serene, almost meditative. His right hand holding a short baton was often almost immobile, while he motioned with his incredibly flexible left hand, moving gently and freely from the wrist down. His renowned little finger would trace an almost imperceptible circle to bring the orchestra down to pianissimo, where we would stay until a new flash of the baton would break the magic.
There was something special about our Salzburg concert↗ which we soon realised would be closely monitored: On this occasion Karajan was also appearing as one of the soloists in Bach's Concerto for Four Harpsichords, BWV 1065 and was conducting from the piano. At rehearsal, however, we had mostly been doing the New World Symphony, and we probably only played through the Bach twice. Even so, the response to the performance was remarkable. The public looked up to their Maestro and the time-tested New World Symphony was a success. Karajan conducted theatrically and precisely, his eyes closed this time right to the end, while his body swayed about dangerously, which got us seriously worried at times. After the concert he was all smiles, he thanked us and his proverbial reserve seemed to have vanished. We sensed that, perhaps because of the Bach, this particular evening had meant more to him than the other festival programmes.
Karajan came also to conduct at the Prague Spring festival↗, with the Vienna Philharmonic, and with the Berliners. As always he never missed an opportunity and flew over in his own plane, naturally piloting it himself. His masterful landing at Kbely airfield had people talking all over Prague afterwards.
LD
