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FINE CUT FILMS - NONSENSE |
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True Tales of Tommy Sir
Thomas
Beecham.
One
of
Britain's
finest
conductors.
When
Tommy
was
a
young
thing,
his
dad,
a
terribly
rich
man,
asked
him
what
he
wanted
to
do
with
his
life. "I
wish
to
become
a
conductor," the
lad
replied.
Instead
of
buying
him
a
bus
or
clipping
him
round
the
ear,
the
pill
salesman
bought
him
an
orchestra.
And
a
stick
to
wave
at
it.
The
stories
of
the
great
stick
waver
are
legion: One
of
his
mildest
lines
was
delivered
on
a
cold
Monday
morning
in
Manchester.
The
orchestra
was
suffering
from
the
chill,
hangovers,
etc.,
and
the
first
rehearsal
didn't
go
too
well.
After
suffering
for
a
reasonably
long
time,
the
Maestro
silenced
the
orchestra
with
a
few
taps
of
his
baton,
shook
his
head
and
announced, "Gentlemen,
it
sounds
like
an
Eisteddfod". Sir
Thomas
Beecham
and
Sir
Malcolm
Sargent,
although
they
were
both
excellent
conductors
and
shared
a
birthday,
did
not
get
on
too
well.
Beecham
frequently
referred
to
the
BBC
Symphony
Orchestra
as
'The
Sargent's
Mess'.
When
he
heard
of
Sargent's
knighthood
he
remarked, "I
didn't
know
he'd
been
knighted.
Why,
it
was
only
yesterday
he
was
doctored". Sargent
was
conducting
a
series
of
concerts
in
Tel
Aviv
at
a
time
when
there
were
many
Palestinian
attacks.
One
concert
had
to
be
halted
part
of
the
way
through
when
the
hall
came
under
fire
from
the
rebels.
Beecham,
on
hearing
of
this; "I
hadn't
realised
that
Arabs
were
so
musical". He
called
Herbert
von
Karajan "A
kind
of
musical
Malcolm
Sargent". He
wasn't
so
fond
of
the
music
of
Edward
Elgar
(more
fool
he).
He
called
the
A
flat
symphony "The
musical
equivalent
of
St
Pancras
Station".
Oh
well,
I
like
that
too.... Sir
Thomas
was
travelling
one
day
in
a
no-smoking
compartment
on
a
train
belonging
to
the
Great
Western
Railway.
A
lady
entered
the
compartment
and
lit
a
cigarette,
saying, "I'm
sure
you
won't
object
if
I
smoke." "Not
at
all," replied
Beecham, "provided
that
you
don't
object
if
I'm
sick." "I
don't
think
you
know
who
I
am," the
lady
haughtily
pointed
out. "I'm
one
of
the
directors'
wives." "Madam," said
Beecham, "if
you
were
the
director's
only
wife,
I
should
still
be
sick." He
was
asked
once
if
he'd
ever
been
to
a
certain
stately
home. "Oh
yes," he
replied. "I
spent
a
month
down
there
last
weekend". To
a
horn
player
who
had
an
individual
approach
to
rhythm; "I
suppose
I
cannot
expect
you
to
be
with
us
all
the
time,
but
perhaps
you
would
be
kind
enough
to
keep
in
touch
now
and
then". Tuning
up
one
day,
he
asked
the
principal
oboist
for
an
A.
The
man
supplied
the
correct
note
with
an
extremely
powerful
vibrato. "Gentlemen," Beecham
solemnly
advised, "take
your
pick". One day he asked a new member of the orchestra for his name. "Ball, sir." "Oh. How very singular".
A reporter once asked if he had ever conducted Stockhausen "No, but I once trod in some." One particular Beecham story is, surely, among the most re-told of all - that of the rehearsal of the Boccherini-Grutzmacher "Cello Concerto in B Flat". The soloist, Guillhermina Suggia, was not having a good day, to put it mildly, and the great man was sorely pained. He stopped the rehearsal and looked at her sadly. "Madam, you have between your legs one of the greatest instruments that God has devised for man's pleasure, and all that you can do to the damned thing is scratch at it!"
One
evening
he
arrived
in
the
orchestra
pit
at
the
Royal
Opera
House, "My dear fellow, you amaze me!" said Beecham. Then he slammed the score shut and conducted the whole of the opera from memory! And a few quips from the great man: The English may not like music, but they like the noise it makes. A Musicologist is a man who can read music, but who can't hear it. No operatic star has yet died soon enough for me. Movie music is noise... even more painful than my sciatica. Composers and musicians have always starved and, as this is a sentimental country, I think the tradition should be continued. Brass bands are all very well in their place. That place is outdoors and several miles away. That's absolutely typical of Haydn; he goes to all the trouble of writing a Military Symphony and then omits the side drum. Well, we shall have to rectify that. Try
everything
once
except
folk
dancing
and
incest. Composers should write tunes that chauffeurs and errand boys can whistle. On Beethoven's Seventh Symphony: “What can you do with it? It's like a lot of yaks jumping about.” Her singing reminds me of a cart coming downhill with the brake on. The harpsichord - sounds like two skeletons copulating on a corrugated tin roof. Great music is that which penetrates the ear with facility and leaves the memory with difficulty. There are two golden rules for an orchestra: start together and finish together. The public doesn't give a damn what goes on in between. I have been all round the world and have formed a very poor opinion of it.
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