by Sedgwick Clark
New York music lovers were fortunate to hear many performances by the British conductor Colin Davis and the Chicago Symphony’s longtime principal trumpet Adolph (“Bud”) Herseth in its concert halls. Last weekend the music world lost both artists, who afforded me some of the most inspiring musical experiences of my life. How lucky we are to have so many examples of their artistry on record and in our memories.
Colin Davis (1927-2013)
How many musicians give their finest performances at the end of their lives? Colin Davis did. When word of his death at age 85 hit the Internet last Sunday, April 14, his revelatory Beethoven Missa solemnis with the London Symphony Orchestra at Avery Fisher Hall on October 21, 2011, leapt instantly to mind. With infinite wisdom, he had conveyed the composer’s emotional message as never before in my experience. It turned out to be his final New York performance. Six years before, he had led the LSO with blinding commitment in Vaughan Williams’s Sixth and Walton’s First symphonies. Indeed, the Walton far surpassed his highly regarded recording on the LSO LIVE label. And on April 3, 2008, he led the New York Philharmonic in a searing realization of VW’s Fourth Symphony that rivaled the composer’s own hellbent 1937 recording.
In the spring of my first season in New York, 1968-69, Davis led Metropolitan Opera performances of Britten’s Peter Grimes, with Jon Vickers and Geraint Evans, and Berg’s Wozzeck, with Evans and Evelyn Lear–thrilling, both of them. On January 19, 1972, I met him for the first time. It was my third day in my new job as p.r. director at Philips, his recording label. He had just conducted the opening night of a new Met production of Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande, and our office took him to dinner afterwards. Eager to engage him in conversation, I asked him (for some reason I can’t recall) what he thought of composers conducting their own works. “Oh, they’re all terrible,” he replied. Astonished, I asked “Stravinsky?” “He’s awful!” he said, rolling his eyes. “Well, what about Britten?” I asked, thinking I had him there. “He’s the worst!” he exclaimed. I shut up.
My boss told me that he was the only Philips artist who never asked, or had his manager ask, for an advertisement in the concert program. He was unfailingly friendly and relaxed to this new kid in the office, and his delightfully British, mock-serious sense of humor could turn boyishly ribald at times. When joining a group for lunch after a Tanglewood rehearsal, one of the men pointed out that his fly was open. Davis thanked him, saying, “Mustn’t let the little birdie out.” Another time, after a winter concert, two attractive young women with markedly plunging necklines came to the Green Room to tell him how much they enjoyed the performances. Apparently they frequented his concerts, and after they left he expressed worry that they “might catch cold”–a concern he repeated several times later in the evening at my boss’s apartment over dinner.
Talking with him about Sibelius after he had led the composer’s Third Symphony in Boston was a great opportunity. I expressed surprise at how slowly he took the middle movement, Andantino con moto, quasi allegretto. “I love the ineffable sadness of the music at that tempo,” he said quietly. I suggested that he should record all the symphonies with the BSO. When I returned to my office I told my boss how wonderful the performance was and that he should record the cycle. Sibelius not being a big seller, she snapped, “Sedgwick Clark, if you ever tell him that, you’re fired!” Of course I remained mum, but she fired me three months later anyway. Davis did record the seven symphonies in Boston, as well as several other Sibelius works, and they were hailed internationally upon their release.
Colin Davis was Musical America’s Conductor of the Year in 1997 in recognition of his appointment as the New York Philharmonic’s principal guest conductor.
Adolph Herseth (1921-2013)
Friday, January 9, 1970, is a storied date for untold numbers of New York orchestra fans. On that evening at Carnegie Hall, Adolph (“Bud”) Herseth intoned the stuttering trumpet fanfare that opens Mahler’s Fifth Symphony, and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra under Georg Solti proceeded to set a standard of all-out orchestral virtuosity that dominates the field still. Solti was called back to the stage 14 times in 15 minutes by a standing, stamping, cheering audience that refused to leave. Many orchestra players, too, were in no hurry to exit, milling about onstage after the hall lights were turned up, looking out in wonderment at the ovation and waving at audience members who remained to shout their praise. For three days hence my throat was so sore I could barely talk. It was the most exciting concert I’ve ever heard.
Herseth was principal trumpet of the most famous brass section in the U.S. from 1948 to 2001, and when he died at age 91 last Saturday his stature as a local hero was fully acknowledged in the press. John von Rhein wrote in the Trib: “For more than a half-century, Adolph Herseth’s distinctive sound and playing style were the bulwark of a brass section whose fabled power and brilliance have long been the sonic hallmark of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. He was a legend, in the finest sense of that much-abused word.”
The next time you play one of those fabulous Chicago Symphony Orchestra recordings with Rafael Kubelik (Mercury), Fritz Reiner and Jean Martinon (RCA), or Georg Solti (Decca/London), pay special attention to the trumpet playing. You have seven CSO recordings of Ravel’s orchestration of Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition to choose from.
Adolph (“Bud”) Herseth was the first orchestra player to receive Musical America’s Instrumentalist of the Year award, in 1996.
Looking Forward
My week’s scheduled concerts (8:00 p.m. unless otherwise noted):
4/19. Carnegie Hall. Dresden Staatskapelle/Christian Thielemann. Bruckner: Symphony No. 8 (Haas edition).
4/24 at 7:30. Zankel Hall. Young Artists Concert. Steven Mackey: Ground Swell. John Adams: Gnarly Buttons. Carter: Double Concerto. (John Adams and David Robertson, instructors.)
4/25 at 7:30. Zankel Hall. Young Artists Concert. Ives: Three Places in New England. John Adams: Shaker Loops. Andrew Norman: Try. Michael Gordon: Yo Shakespeare. (John Adams and David Robertson, instructors.)




A Stirring Evening (and Music)
Wednesday, April 24th, 2013By ANDREW POWELL
Published: April 24, 2013
MUNICH — Members of the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra venture six times a year to Lake Starnberg, some 20 miles southwest of here, to play chamber music at the Evangelische Akademie Tutzing, or EAT, as its website favicon reads. A mid-season program (Feb. 24) paired quintets by Mozart and Schumann in the venue’s airy music room, drawing skilled performances. But extra-musical ghosts disturbed this particular offering: concert tickets include a guided tour of EAT — once a lone lakeshore chapel, later a castle, palace and U.S. Army HQ — and our evening began with docent tales of, among other matter, a 1945 American troop obliteration of the palace library, Dwight Eisenhower’s name being dropped for good measure.
What? The troops fight their way into Bavaria, set up at Tutzing Palace to administer a new basis for democracy, and are remembered for trashing books? So much for perspective. Then again, Tutzing can seem stuck in the 1920s and 30s: Adolf Hitler’s beer-hall putsch buddy Erich Ludendorff is grandly buried there and the former fishing village memorializes “Hitler’s pianist” Elly Ney — Carnegie Hall attraction in 1921, ardent Nazi by 1933 — on its much-visited Brahms Promenade. Physically the town has changed little over the decades.
Our thoughts stirred by the guide’s earful, we crossed the yard for musical respite. Mozart’s G-Minor String Quintet, K516, resounded in handsome proportion and balance. Antonio Spiller, first violin, stressed the cheery second theme of the opening Allegro emphatically enough to prepare for Mozart’s abrupt turn in the closing movement. Leopold Lercher, Andreas Marschik and Christa Jardine partnered him attentively throughout, even if they couldn’t quite match his poise and confidence. Cellist Helmut Veihelmann intoned with care, but the ear craved more of a grounding, more cello volume. In the Schumann Piano Quintet, after a coffee break and snowy stroll by the lake (pictured), unrestrained collegial exchanges and pianist Silvia Natiello-Spiller’s buoyant passagework found color aplenty, even kitschy color. Marschik took the viola part.
EAT’s buildings date to medieval times. The small chapel got wrapped in a castle in the 16th century, its watery and Alpine views appropriated. Sundry owners and architects later morphed the premises into a modest post-Baroque palace. In 1947 the Lutheran Church assumed control, followed by ownership two years later in a 350,000-Mark deal. Tranquil seminars and coffee-table conferences now prevail along with occasional music events, such as those of the BRSO ensembles.
Given the pre-concert assertions and the irksome notion of book destruction, this U.S. listener decided on a little post-concert research. Quick findings: Eisenhower did spend time in Tutzing in the 1940s, returning there repeatedly for off-duty art lessons in 1951, but where he stayed isn’t clear; and the palace library did vanish during the 1939–45 war, but whether the honors fell to the U.S. Army isn’t clear at all. And regardless of what happened to the books, the American presence achieved positive results in Tutzing starting immediately.
Indeed, one life-saving story would well serve EAT’s docent and his Bayerischer Rundfunk (BR) pre-concert narrative. On the night of April 29, 1945, a train of prisoners — Russians, Romanians, Hungarians and Poles — pulled into Tutzing station. 800 in number and mostly men, they had been dispatched from Bavaria’s newly wound-down Mühldorf concentration camp, east of Munich, to the Tyrol, and to slaughter at the hands of waiting SS personnel. But a providential delay occurred — Tutzing is 90 minutes from the Tyrol — attributed variously to a faulty locomotive, a righteous local flagman, and even a prescient German commanding officer.
The next morning, on the same day that Hitler turned the lights out and Munich fell to the Allies, the XX Corps, part of George Patton’s U.S. Third Army, reached the town. Little fighting ensued because Tutzing was a Red Cross safe zone. The troops soon located the Benedictine Hospital crammed with wounded German soldiers, and the makeshift care beds arrayed in the high school and other buildings. Then they found the train, confronting directly the horror of camp survivors and at first wrongly concluding that Tutzing itself had been a camp location. The prisoners were told of their freedom, and the weakest removed from the train for treatment.
Decisive action followed. The American command seized a number of Tutzing homes for emergency use, instructing the locals to double up with their neighbors. The less seriously wounded of the German soldiers now lost their hospital beds to Mühldorf survivors in critical condition, the majority of them Jewish Hungarians. Although educated by the Reich to resist the enemy to the bitter end, many Tutzingers waved white flags for the U.S. troops, engendering whistles of censure from their more determined neighbors.
On May 1 the troops located a Nazi school campus on high ground in the next village, Feldafing, and rapidly commandeered it to serve as a new home and care facility for the former prisoners, now officially “displaced persons.” (Novelist and social critic Thomas Mann had owned a condo retreat in one of the campus buildings. He lived in Munich for 40 years before fleeing the country upon Hitler’s ascendancy in 1933.) On the morning of May 2, a working locomotive having been procured, the Todeszug crept back three miles the way it had come and transferred the survivors, giving them real beds and room to roam. Months later, after it became clear across Germany that ethnic groups among former prisoners did not always get along with each other, each displaced-person facility would become designated for a specific group, Feldafing for Jewish Hungarian survivors. With a population that eventually climbed above 4,000, the site would gain a reputation as “a place … to find missing people.”
The war raged for another five days before tacit German surrender May 7 at Reims. American troops requisitioned Tutzing Palace on June 7, setting up Army of Occupation HQ there three days later. This remained operative until the end of 1945, a pivotal command center at the very start of the 10-year Allied Occupation of Germany. In context, the books seem inconsequential.
Photo © Evangelische Akademie Tutzing
Related posts:
Brahms Days in Tutzing
Tutzing Returns to Brahms
BRSO Adopts Speedier Website
Tonhalle Lights Up the Beyond
Petrenko Hosts Petrenko
Tags:Andreas Marschik, Antonio Spiller, Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra, Bayerischer Rundfunk, BR, Christa Jardine, Commentary, Dwight Eisenhower, Elly Ney, Erich Ludendorff, Evangelische Akademie, Feldafing, Helmut Veihelmann, Lake Starnberg, Leopold Lercher, Lutheran Church, Nazi Germany, Review, Schumann, Silvia Natiello-Spiller, Symphonie-Orchester des Bayerischen Rundfunks, Thomas Mann, Tutzing, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
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