Nerves (Ch.13 Pt.4)

Erick Friedman's words haunted me. "Let's imagine a surgeon patting himself on the back after an operation. 'I did everything I could and followed procedure', the surgeon gloats. 'It was a success. Unfortunately, though, the patient died.'"
I had laughed at first. Mr. Friedman had a knack for dramatizing. He occasionally launched into a soliloquy replete with theatrics at our lessons. "The surgeon's attitude might be analogous to a teacher who has taught a student to play but not to perform. What good is it, Margie dear, to play well if, in the end, you can't face the public? If you walk on stage and experience a sudden burst of adrenaline, how do you over-ride this?"
I nodded my head without saying a word. I loved studying the violin and wanted to learn all I could about music. But the pressure for becoming a soloist was mounting with competitions on the horizon. I was beginning to have doubts about a lifelong career. I glanced at my mother, dutifully scribbling notes in the corner, but kept my thoughts to myself. The last thing I wanted was to let her down, for her heart was set on my becoming a concert violinist.

"Do you ever think how many talented artists fall into oblivion because they cannot get over their fear of public performance?" Mr. Friedman picked up his violin. "Learn to balance and guide the bow properly or this could happen—" He drew the bow so that it trembled uncontrollably from frog to tip. I recognized immediately one of the crippling symptoms of stage fright. I had recently viewed a performance of the Beethoven Concerto with violinist, Yehudi Menuhin, whose bow ricocheted along the strings in what was supposed to have been slow sustained passages. The audience granted him a standing ovation nonetheless, as he was a legend. Was Menuhin's disease in late life the result of improper training, undiagnosed childhood trauma, or a medical condition?

I had never really thought about anxiety till that point. As a matter of fact, in all my youth, whatever tremulations I experienced on stage might have been classified as garden variety nerves. In the past, I had weaved the technique known as visualization into performances. I didn't know what I was doing, but I invoked composers and made up libretti to help set the varying moods. I conjured up seasoned performers, such as violinist Joseph Silverstein, alongside of me on stage. They were guides, so to speak, and their imagined presence helped to soothe and calm. I'd then lose myself in the magic of the moment. But at these lessons, I had fallen under Erick Friedman's spell, and absorbed the flow of his words like a sponge soaking up an unstoppable leak. It occurred to me, suddenly, that perhaps I never understood what it was that I was doing in all my years of playing. Whatever confidence I had in myself was beginning to evaporate. I was no longer merely a pupil of Mr. Friedman's, but a stricken patient in dire need of rehabilitation. Perhaps my disease had progressed too far.

I listened to Mr. Friedman with rapt interest, as if in an altered state, hoping to cling to any cure. My eyes never left his when he spoke. I tried to memorize his face, for it was one I loved.
"There is nobody more high-strung than Jascha Heifetz," Mr. Friedman said with conviction. "I can recall when he sometimes played passages for me at lessons that his face would flush; can you imagine? He was obviously grappling with anxiety. But Heifetz always played perfectly because his muscles were so relaxed and controlled that he could surmount any discomfiture. As a matter of fact, when I watched him I was almost afraid to breathe; I thought I might blow the instrument right out of his hands. Nathan Milstein was the same way. Whenever you find a great player, you'll find a relaxed player, and one who understands the instrument."

Looking back, Mr. Friedman's observations were both liberating and crippling. I learned to practice in a state of hyper-awareness with relaxation as a goal. Passage work became effortless as a result. My left hand began to unclench; the fingers moved with precision and ease. I could play faster than ever before. But keeping the inner control to draw the bow slowly and delicately produced terror in my heart. The seed of fear had been planted in my brain, and I couldn't shake it loose. It dawned on me that to have a solo career would be like exposing myself naked to the world; I was hardly an exhibitionist.

I won the Boston Symphony Young Artist Competition performing the Paganini Violin Concerto. The competition was mainly an audition for conductor Harry Ellis Dickson, who had selected me at the age of ten to appear with the Boston Pops at the Esplanade. To perform for Mr. Dickson by this time, at age sixteen, felt as if I were playing for an old friend. I wanted him to hear my progress. The following day Mr. Dickson telephoned the house and, according to my mother, spoke of my audition with keen admiration. He was delighted to learn that I had made a switch from the Galamian factory of violin playing to Erick Friedman, a concert artist whose approach to teaching might prove refreshingly unconventional. Mr. Dickson reminisced about the collaboration between  Friedman and Leinsdorf during the recording sessions of Prokofiev's Violin Concerto with Boston Symphony for RCA in the 60's.

I was engaged to perform at a youth concert at Boston's Symphony Hall as soloist on November 7th, 1975. Mr. Dickson had requested the final movement of the Paganini, which I had barely learned. The young audience, he felt, would grow restless with a lengthier composition. And he assured my mother, who by this time had soared up to the clouds, that he'd offer a glowing recommendation to Boston Symphony's music director, Seiji Ozawa, for future performances.

Meantime, I checked off the days on the calendar as my debut at Symphony Hall drew near. At school, my heart pounded every time I thought about stepping on the venerable stage. My blood ran cold as I imagined performing for an audience of thousands, even if they were mostly screaming school children. I understood what Mr. Friedman was suggesting in terms of conscious relaxation, but wondered if I could put his remedy into effect during the heat of the moment. I felt that everyone would be disappointed if I failed to succeed: my parents, Mr. Dickson and my beloved teacher.

I wanted out. I wanted out of becoming a concert artist. Or at least I wanted a choice. But after all the years of sacrifice, the hard won praise, the family quarrels, the commuting back and forth to New York from Boston, I dared not tell a soul, least of all, my mother.

Scheherazade at Interlochen (Ch.12 Pt.1)

I had returned to National Music Camp at Interlochen for a second summer in 1975. Not out of choice, but because my mother fell in love with the place, a music camp in northern Michigan surrounded by lakes and forests that offered a rich regimen of music and art classes. "Oh, if only I could be you," she'd intone at each visit. If it had been up to me, I'd have returned to Meadowmount. There I could at least have tested the waters of independence and crashed midnight parties. But at Interlochen there was little chance for enterprising escapes. I'd live in a rustic log cabin with eleven other girls my age under the watchful eye of a counselor, and partake in cabin clean up with my two friends: the broom and dust bin.

Though my violin teacher, Dorothy DeLay, had invited me to Aspen, it was J. Frederick Müller, my manager, who sold the Interlochen experience to my parents. As guest lecturer and adult workshop coach, Müller had an established presence at the camp. I had been his discovery; the poster child for the string instrument company Scherl & Roth. But by the time I went off to Interlochen, solo engagements had become increasingly difficult to obtain. At sixteen years of age, I was no longer a child sensation.

The World Youth Symphony Orchestra extended its arms to talented youngsters from every corner of the globe. If you glanced up at the stage of Kresge Auditorium, you'd find these words emblazoned like the Ten Commandments: Dedicated to the promotion of world friendship through the universal language of the arts. And that summer of 1975, students traveled from as far away as Romania, Israel, Finland and Iceland. Everywhere you turned you'd hear foreign dialects. National Music Camp at Interlochen would be—how did my mother put this?—a broadening experience.

The day began with a bugle call, or reveille, at 6:45 A.M. It could have been the the military, as far as I was concerned. Dressed in uniforms of red sweaters, white blouses, and navy blue knickers, campers resembled American flags as they tore out of their freezing cabins for breakfast. Teeth chattered at the speed of 64th notes. The morning air smelled of lake water, damp earth and fresh baked bread from the cafeteria. At breakfast, over a bowl of granola and milk, I found myself noticing that some of the gawky, pimply-faced boys from the previous summer had turned into striking young men with sideburns and light mustaches. Camp uniforms didn't offer much to see, of course, but male voices had deepened, and unbuttoned shirts revealed tiny tufts of chest hair.

Me and Jeannie Wells Yablonsky at Interlochen

At the Bowl, Jeannie, my stand partner, was diligently practicing the music even before the orchestra tuned. We were to rehearse Rimsky-Korsakov's "Scheherazade" a symphonic suite based on "A Thousand and One Nights". The conductor, an ape-like figure with white hair silenced the orchestra. "Boys and girls, how many of you know the story of Scheherazade?" I heard giggles from the back rows and turned around. One of the newcomers, a Romanian violinist with stringy hair was showing off her Paganini left hand pizzicato to new admirers. "Young lady!" shouted the conductor. "We'll have none of that during orchestra." He held up his score for all to see. "As told in the Tales of the Arabian Nights, the Sultan Schahriar, convinced of the faithfulness of his many wives, has sworn to put to death each one of his wives after the first night. But the Sultana Scheherazade," he pointed to me, "depicted by the solo violin, saved her life by spinning tales to her husband during a thousand and one nights."

A gentle breeze rustled the pages of our music. Jeannie speared the part with her bow and giggled nervously. The conductor lifted his arms to usher in the theme of "The Sea and Sinbad's Ship". My bow was poised in mid air to play a high E after an introduction by the harp. But then, my eyes landed on the principal violist seated diagonally across from the first violins. He swayed with the music; a lock of wavy brown hair had fallen over his forehead. He flicked it away, glanced up, and beamed at me through black-rimmed glasses. It was Scott Woolweaver, the cutest boy in all of Interlochen. I sunk my bow into the string and lingered on the first note to begin a four bar rhapsodic cadenza. This might be the summer of night after night of wondrous tales, I found myself thinking.

"Scheherazade" by Sergey Smirnov

Imaginary Acts (Ch.11 Pt.2)

"Sugarplum," says Dorothy DeLay after listening to my run-through of the G Minor Bach Fugue. "Imagine leading a four part choir whenever you play this. Point to the alto in the opening to introduce the fugal subject; then, two bars later, indicate to the tenor, finally, gesture to the soprano to join with the others. Bring out every voice for your audience to hear. Fugues are daunting for the average listener."
I nod with apprehension. My recital at Paul Hall begins in four hours, twenty minutes, and twelve seconds. I wipe my clammy hands on the skirt my mother sewed for the event.

"Let's talk for a moment about the summer," she says, lifting a tub of Darigold cottage cheese from the coffee table. "I hope you'll attend Aspen, so that we can continue our work together. Great outdoor concerts and picnics, too."
I mutter something incomprehensible about my mother and Interlochen. The truth is, Fred Müller, my manager, has sealed a deal for a summer program. I've been awarded full scholarship to Interlochen, and that's that. Müller has convinced my mother I might be named concertmaster for the World Youth Symphony; my mother imagines her daughter following in the footsteps of Joseph Silverstein, Boston Symphony's legendary concertmaster.

"You have your mother come upstairs after the recital, OK? It'll be easier for us to discuss plans here in my studio than backstage at the hall, where I might get distracted by others."
You mean, accosted by other stage parents.
"If your mother has objections to Aspen, I need to understand her reasoning."
I force a smile. I'm aware that Dorothy DeLay has a degree in psychology as well as music, but my mother has a Ph.D in Obstinacy. No amount of analytic reasoning will change her ways.
"Are parents really allowed up here?"
"What dear?"
"You know. Isn't there some sort of, um, policy? Like, no parents allowed on the fifth floor."
Miss DeLay sets the tub of cottage cheese on the coffee table and darts a disapproving glance. "Oh, these hare-brained institutional policies, Margo. For every rule, there's an exception. Speaking of exceptions—"

I tuck the violin under my arm and distractedly etch a circle into the carpet with my bow. Somewhere I had read that Piatigorsky, the great Russian cellist, had begun one movement of a Bach Suite in a concert, and detoured into another. The week before, Robert McDuffie, Miss DeLay's prize student and not exactly a wimp, perspired uncontrollably during a performance while fighting his way through a fugal episode of Bach.
Why did I agree to this recital in the first place?

"If I'm to stick with this diet," says Miss DeLay, digging into her pocketbook and jangling coins and keys, "I'll
need chocolate. Sweetheart, here."
She crumples a couple of dollars and extends her arm.
I reopen the thick Galamian edition of Bach to examine a fingering.
"Will you bring me a candy bar from the vending machine before your next class? Make that two, actually. I'll be going all day without a lunch break."
I distractedly reach for the dollars after glancing at the notes.
"Thank you, Margaret, and keep the change."


♪ ♩ ♪

Backstage of the recital hall, I begin to warm up; the violin feels alien. I've been told to enter on stage at five minutes past the hour, allowing latecomers a grace period. I tiptoe to the stage door, hold it ajar, and frantically scan the audience. I spot my mother sitting third row center. She's fanning herself with what appears to be several concert programs. I know what she'll do with those programs; she'll send to my sisters, aunts and uncles as proof of my prodigious accomplishments. She glimpses my figure from behind the door, and tosses a bouquet of kisses. I release the heavy door and let it close with a thud. My legs turn to Jell-O.

In less than an hour, I tell myself, the recital will be over. I glance up at a red lettered sign: EXIT. If the performance is awful, really awful, I'll unlatch the fire escape, jump out, and vanish. Kids disappear all the time in New York City.

My mind races as I imagine all sorts of strategies to survive. I recall Joseph Silverstein performing the same Bach G Minor Sonata at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. There's a violinist for you, I think to myself; an artist unburdened by stage fright. I envision him backstage with me, amused as I pace back and forth. His thick eyebrows, two furry caterpillars, raise and dip.
Scared of a solo performance, are you? He brushes off my nervousness with a wave of his hand. What could possibly be more enjoyable than playing Bach? I imagine him saying. Besides, it's not as if you're performing all six sonatas and partitas, as I'll do on my birthday.

I've attended many recitals of his in Boston. Each time Silverstein bounds the stage with the enthusiasm of a diner heading for the buffet table. He squints into the lights with a grateful grin and offers a deep bow to acknowledge his audience. Silverstein then readies the violin to produce—as my mother describes—a purity of tone comparable to vintage wine. He renders the sonata that I'm about to perform with elegant ease. In his supple hands, voices flow in seamless textures, sometimes blending together, other times diverging. But always beautiful. The audience is transfixed by the artist's touch and tenderness. Even the complicated fugue is suffused with gaiety and charm.

A backstage voice bellows. "It's time, young lady." The man, his sullen expression that of an executioner, props open the stage door. It creaks loudly. With quickening pulse, I walk past him, into the lights, and acknowledge the smattering of applause with a prolonged bow and grateful grin. I slowly ready the violin, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. Soon the ordeal will be over. My knees tremble. Joseph Silverstein, I find myself wondering: Are you with me?

Dorothy DeLay at Aspen  © Peter Schaaf; Joseph Silverstein

First Audition for Heifetz (Ch9 Pt.1)

My mother had viewed several episodes of The Heifetz Masterclass on national public television in the 60's. The legendary violinist was filmed live in session with his pupils at the Clark House on the premises of University of Southern California. Before the documentaries were aired, little was known about Jascha Heifetz, the pedagogue. How did he relate to students? What teaching methods, if any, did he use? Heifetz, the performing artist, was sometimes perceived by the public as being cold and aloof. What was he like as a mentor?

"A masterclass is such a useful idea," my mother said, as we walked towards Clark House, located off West Adams in Los Angeles. Her heels clicked against the pavement with every determined step. "Students learn not only from the master, but from one another—clever."

I felt a twinge of anxiety, but not the dread of stage fright, as I often did before playing concerts.

"When you audition for Jascha Heifetz, give it your all."

"I will."

"Don't be shy."

"I won't."

"Show him how appreciative—"

"I get it, Mom."

"Thirteen year olds," my mother said, exasperated. "You think you know everything. But if the professor corrects you, say thank you. Always be grateful for constructive criticism. That's how you better yourself." 

Inside Clark House, a spacious Victorian mansion, we were greeted by Mrs. Reynolds, Heifetz's secretary. She led us upstairs to the famous studio, and explained to my mother that Jascha Heifetz forbid parents to attend classes and auditions. He had been barraged with requests through the years by pushy parents to promote their offspring, and he adamantly refused to have anything to do with them. My mother appeared to understand, as she nodded in compliance, but I could read the disappointment on her face.

  

I stepped into the commodious room, lined with chairs against the wall. I slowly unpacked my violin and rosined my bow. After a few moments of warming up, Mrs. Reynolds opened the door.

In she walked with Jascha Heifetz. He looked older than I had imagined, but the artist was, after all, in his seventies.
"This is Marjorie Kransberg, Mr. Heifetz. She's thirteen years old."
"Hello," said Heifetz, as he strode to his desk in the center of the room.
"The essay?"
"It is here," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to the lined notebook paper on top of a neat pile.
"Thank you."
And she left.
  

"What brings you here?"asked Mr. Heifetz.
I stared at him, in awe. I had studied his face on record jackets and books, right down to the bags under his eyes.
"What can I do for you?"
 "Well—I'd like to—to play for you."

Jascha Heifetz glanced over my essay, a requirement for an audition with him. I felt pangs of guilt for having copied my mother's words in my own hand. But with her incessant demand for perfection, she had left me little choice. I was supposed to have written about my previous history, and my musical goals.
"You played a concert recently—it says here."
"Yes." I flicked my long brown hair away from my face. The room felt increasingly warm.
"Well, how did it go?" He looked up. His icy blue eyes cast a penetrating gaze.

"Um. Fine, I guess." In spite of a burst of adrenalin, and frustration with Mr. Müller's beat, the Tri-State Music Festival concert had been declared a success. More solo engagements and invitations were to follow. "The audience liked my playing," I said.

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

 "How do you know?"
"Well, they stood up."
 Heifetz narrowed his eyes, and studied my face.

"Were they in a hurry to leave?"
His voice remained calm, though his words stung.

"What?"

"Did you ever think, perhaps, your audience was just plain relieved that your performance had ended?"

I giggled uncomfortably. A silence ensued.

"Maybe they were grateful it was over—your playing, that is."

 "I hadn't thought of that," I muttered.

"Or perhaps, the listeners needed to stretch their legs. That can happen, too. You didn't think about that, did you?"
"N-no."

I was taken aback. But then, even though I was young, I recognized that Heifetz's comments were meant to plummet me back to earth; a child performer could easily suffer from a swelled head after receiving adulation from both public and press. I was to learn years later, that Heifetz had a keen sense for people. He could sniff conceit and insincerity, and put those who suffered from such maladies in their proper places, at once, with words as weapons.

Mr. Heifetz lifted my essay again from his desk, and put on his reading glasses. "Do you recognize this hand-writing?"
I nodded. He pursued the interrogation.
"This paper belonged to you?"
"Yes."

"You write something about a bow—grip." And he repeated the word grip with obvious displeasure. "What's the problem? Are you confused?"

"I don't know. I mean, I guess."
Awkward silence.
"I'm not sure if I hold the bow correctly," I blurted, finally.

I felt like an idiot. My mother included a query about right hand technique. The violinist's supple bow arm is to a violinist as breath control to a singer. And she recognized that, though the Galamian approach had its own aesthetic appeal, the disciples of Leopold Auer from the Russian school of violin playing, such as Jascha Heifetz and Mischa Elman, had a vastly superior sound, style and virtuosity. Mother and daughter were both confused on this subject.

"What have you been doing all these years?"

I paused. "What do you mean?"

"Do you hold the bow or not?"

"I do, yes, of course."

"With your fingers?"

I nodded.

"Because you could attempt holding it with your toes. Have you tried that?"
I fumbled for an answer.

"So. What would you like to play? Assuming, of course, that you can figure out how to hold onto your bow."

"I—I would like to play the 'Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso' by Camille Saint-Saëns."

He drummed his fingers on the desk with an expression of boredom.
"I'd like to hear the Mendelssohn Concerto in E Minor, final movement."

 I wiped my hands on my tight-waisted, navy blue skirt, and took a deep breath. I hadn't yet learned the Mendelssohn. I loved the piece, though, especially the Heifetz rendition. I had practically worn out the LP by playing it over and over again on the Hi-Fi. And I had viewed the film, "They Shall Have Music" with my parents. Heifetz had made a rare cameo appearance in that movie, performing both the Saint-Saëns and the Mendelssohn with a youth orchestra. I shed tears as I followed the plight of a little boy who had run away from home, and ended up at a music school for poor children. When the school suffered hard times, and faced possible closure, the boy enlisted the aid of Heifetz. The violinist performed a benefit concert, saved the school, and was a hero.

"Hello?" Heifetz leaned forward at his desk. "Anybody there?"
"I'm sorry. I haven't learned the Mendelssohn," I said. "My teacher at Juilliard says it's too difficult."

"Well, have you heard it?"

"Y-Yes. Many times."
 I'd never admit that when I listened to Jascha Heifetz on any recording, I pretended it was me playing. Now, in front of the legendary violinist, I was suddenly at a loss, not only for words and confidence, but the most important ingredient of all—the notes.  

"It's settled," Heifetz said. "Mendelssohn Concerto—Finale."
He picked up a metal stick—was it a TV antennae?— and tapped it against the desk.
"I'll try to play it," I said.
"Don't try, just do it."

Rehearsal and Lunch (Ch.8 Pt.2)

J. Frederick Müller stood on the orchestra podium, arms outstretched like an exotic bird poised for flight. The baton trembled in his thick hand, for Mr. Müller was plagued by stage fright. He was more at ease as president of Scherl & Roth, as an orchestral arranger, and part-time journalist for Orchestra News. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. As nervous as Müller was, I bordered on frantic. The violin bow skipped along the strings in a flying staccato during the backstage tuning. My mother sat in the audience in rapt attention with the score to the "Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso" propped open in her lap. On stage, I closed my eyes to calm down and concentrate.

Mr. Müller tapped the music stand twice with his baton to start the Introduction.  The orchestra of high-schoolers began at an agonizingly slow pace. I lowered my violin, and tucked it under my arm.  

"Please, Mr. Müller. Can you move the tempo along?" I asked with trepidation.
Mr. Müller nodded and continued to beat time in four, though the opening was marked in two. He hadn't heard me.

 "Mr. Müller—" I repeated.
"What's that? You said something, Marjorie?" The orchestra sputtered to a near standstill.
"We seem to be apart—somehow," I whispered.
Mr. Müller shushed the orchestra. He scratched his large head, and peered over the score; his horn-rimmed glasses had slid midway to his nose.
"Dear?"
"The introduction is too slow," I explained with added conviction. "It feels—"
I hesitated.

"Yes, Marjorie. Do speak up."

"Well, kind of static."

"Oh, why of course," Müller replied, taking a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and furiously wiping the sweat from his face.
"Boys and girls, listen carefully. Our young soloist, Marjorie, requests a faster tempo. Watch me, please. Always, always follow my stick."

A violist hiccuped loudly and all the children laughed. Mr. Müller tapped the music stand with fervor.
"Shhh, boys and girls. Let us begin from the top."

Plunk, plunk went the strings, in an unsteady cascade of pizzicato that sounded more like the clattering of skeletal bones.
Müller's tempo remained the same stultifying slow.
"Follow me, follow me," he shouted at the players while shaking his baton. "The stick, the stick. Watch."
I stomped to quicken the pace. Adrenalin caused my heart to pound, and my fingers to fly. The orchestra straggled to keep up. J. Frederick Müller looked faint, as if he needed a supply of oxygen. Perspiration soaked his shirt, and I could hear him wheeze during a Grand Pause, which led to a sequence of three note chords that I tossed off with abandon. Certainly, I had played the final section of the piece faster than all my peers at Meadowmount. Even Lynn Chang!
I finished a whole bar before the orchestra. The young players tapped their bows on the music stands, and cheered. Mr. Müller gulped air, and gestured to the orchestra that the rehearsal had ended.

"Bravo!" shouted my mother from the back of the hall. She had been listening for acoustical balance.
With the Saint-Saëns score in her hands, she walked briskly towards the lip of the stage. I stood and waited for her verdict.
My mother looked up and gave me a wink.

"You're a marvelous conductor, Fred."
He wiped his brow. "Aw, you're just being nice, Frances. I didn't really do anything at all. Just trying to keep up with your daughter and her fast tempi. Whew!"
"No, really," insisted my mother. "You have that certain—something. I've watched other conductors.
None of them have what you have—"
Mr. Müller grinned. The color had returned to his face. He tucked the score into his briefcase and snapped it shut.
"Shall we have ourselves some lunch at the hotel, ladies?"

♪ ♩ ♪

At the Ramada Inn lounge Fred Müller ordered a deluxe patty melt with steak fries and a Heinekin.  

"You deserve a hearty meal, Fred. Eat, enjoy. Conducting burns lots of calories, I'm sure."
"Why yes, Frances. Did you know orchestra conductors enjoy the longest life expectancy?"
"Really? Maybe I should learn to conduct—," my mother said, sipping Sanka.

Mr. Müller laughed. "Frannie, you're a charming woman. Why, that husband of yours, John. He's a lucky, lucky fellow."
My mother put down her cup, lowered her eyes, and fingered a blonde wig hair.
"Anyway, as I was saying. Arturo Toscanini lived to be around ninety years old. Pierre Monteux, Sir George Solti, Ernest Ansermet —all managed long, productive lives. We conductors have a way of fending off the grim reaper, I suppose." He laughed at his own wit.
"Marjorie, dear, you've been so—so quiet. Were you not satisfied with today's rehearsal?"
I looked at him cautiously, without saying a word.
"Did you feel the Rondo went smoothly? Do you have any musical concerns or issues you'd like to discuss?"  
"It was—fine." I picked at my tuna salad.
Translation: Müller, your beat is insufferably slow and erratic, and an accompanist you're not. Is there a God, because if so, I'm praying that we'll make it through this concert without a train wreck. 

"Why, you must be a finicky eater," said Mr. Müller, polishing off his glass of Heineken.
"She watches her diet," insisted my mother. "A young girl must look absolutely flawless for the camera and stage."
"Is that right Frances?"
"Absolutely."
"Then Marjorie takes after you. You're flawless, Fran."
 My mother crouched over her hot drink, and ripped open a package of Saltines.
"Tell me, Fred. Will there be many prominent individuals attending this Sunday's concert? You know, anyone who might have an impact on my Marjorie's future?"
Mr. Müller thought for a while. "I'm quite certain there'll be an audience of highly esteemed individuals. Instrumentalists from all over the country attend Enid's annual Tri-State Music Festival. Why, they typically host 14,000 students from schools across the nation. I understand that the American Brass Quintet will be featured at the Grand Concert, too, alongside Marjorie. They're terrific, Frances."
"Oh?"
"Yes. The trumpeter from that group is New York Phil's youngest player— just a kid 24 or 25 years old.
I think his name is Gerald Schwarz. I'd love to introduce him to Marjorie. I've heard that he's an up and coming—" 

"You don't say," said my mother, biting into a Saltine.

photo of Mr. Müller, my mother and me 1973

Here's Marjorie! (Ch.8 Pt.1)

I was lying on my powder blue canopy bed reading Seventeen, which I pilfered from the Memorial Middle School library, while watching a rerun of "Love Story" with the volume turned down. At thirteen, I was torn between wanting to look younger for concerts, like the child prodigy violinist Lilit Gampel, and wishing to be cool, like actress Ali MacGraw.   

Strains of my parents arguing wafted upstairs, swirling, like the spiral staircase.
"There's only one Heifetz," my mother shrieked. "It'd be the opportunity of a lifetime."
"I dunno what you're talking about Frances. You mean, Marjorie plays the Oklahoma concert as part of her Mid-West tour, then flies off to California? What for?"
"For exposure, John. So she can be in the presence of one of the greatest living artists of all times. Lilit Gampel played for Jascha Heifetz. It was written up in The New York Times Magazine. Why shouldn't Marjorie? And besides, one day she may want to study with him."
My father raged. I could hear his heavy footsteps pacing back and forth. "Jeezus, can't we just be a normal family for a change?"

J. Frederick Müller had booked me for concerts all throughout the Mid-West. My 1973 tour would culminate in Enid, Oklahoma at the Tri-State Music Festival. With Mr. Müller as conductor, we were to perform the Saint-Saëns "Introduction & Rondo Capriccioso" together with an orchestra comprised of three state high-schools. It would be a high profile event, according to Mr. Müller, with artists, music teachers and educators present from around the nation. The "Here's Marjorie" brochure that Mr. Müller designed had been circulated to every school and musical institution as part of American String Teachers Association. I received numerous requests to perform as soloist. And every Saturday, at Juilliard Pre-College, my mother wondered if I might be in better hands under the tutelage of Dorothy DeLay. Parents in the waiting room at Juilliard whispered that Miss DeLay had more clout than the other violin teachers. Her students were gaining recognition and winning international competitions. Isaac Stern had sent Miss Delay wunderkinder from Israel, the Far East, and the Soviet Union. And the students adored her for the tolerance she showed for Juilliard dress code. The secret was out: Dorothy DeLay allowed her students to wear bell-bottomed jeans.

"I'm not crazy about Miss Thomas," my mother admitted, finally.
My father wiped his brow with a sleeve. With the exception of Sarah Scriven, one teacher was as good as the next.
"She plays favorites."
"What are you talking about, Furrances?"
"John. If you don't believe me, let Marjorie tell you, herself."
Marjorie Jill! My mother shouted upstairs. I flung the magazine on the floor, turned off the television, and snapped to attention.
"Uh, what?" I had been deep in thought. My hair had grown out, and I could finally pull it back like Ali MacGraw.
"Tell your father about your teacher, and how she favors Stephanie."
My father stood beside my mother peering up at me. From my vantage point, on top of the spiral staircase, they both looked crazed. The top of my father's head had turned gray. My mother wore a frosted wig.

OK, I thought. Here's an opportunity. I never felt at ease with Miss Thomas. She made me cry at lessons.
"Yeah, well, she said I wasn't ready to perform Rondo Capriccioso in public, and that I'm concertizing too much."
"See, John," my mother said, victorious. "That teacher doesn't want anyone in Stephanie's midst."

My father, determined at last to pacify my mother, phoned Mrs. Reynolds, secretary to Jascha Heifetz, at the University of Southern California.
"It's settled," he told my mother, days later. "Jascha Heifetz is willing to hear Margie. She'll need to prepare scales and harpos."
"You mean arpeggios," said my mother.

"And she'll need to write an essay to Mr. Heifetz."

"An essay? What for?"

"She's supposed to put in her own words why she'd like to meet him, I guess. Frances, I'm just the messenger."

"I'll help her with the essay to make sure that it's polished. In fact, I'll write it for her to save time."
"In her own words, Frances—"
 "They'll be hers. Don't worry, John. To think that our daughter is going to play for Jascha Heifetz! Imagine? I wonder what we should  prepare—"
My mother darted me a glance at the top of the staircase where I stood leaning against my bedroom door.  "Well, let's see. You'll have "Rondo Capriccioso" at performance level. Maybe you could brush up on Achron's "Hebrew Melody" or Bloch's "Nigun". After all, Heifetz is an elderly, Yiddishe man."

I shifted from one foot to the other. I had heard Heifetz was a control freak, a man of few words, and an irascible artist.
"He'll adore you," my mother said, blowing me a kiss. "Pretend he's your grandfather."

♪ ♩ ♪

"Whatever you do," said my mother en route to Juilliard by Greyhound. "Don't tell Miss Thomas about the Heifetz audition. It's not for her to know."
We rested our heads on each other's shoulders in the bus, and fell asleep twisted like pretzels, but with a secret pact.
At my 8 AM lesson, I unzipped my music bag and placed Fiorillo Etudes on the music stand. Miss Thomas sat on the window ledge over-looking Lincoln Center. She crossed her legs, smoothed her skirt, and nodded for me to begin.
I held a note too long, out of rhythm. I felt exhaustion from the nocturnal, five hour bus ride. 

"Marjorie," Miss Thomas said. "Observe tempo and meter."
She lunged to the piano for pencils. I squinted at the music and tried again. My fingers felt like sausages.

"Intonation. Here's a red pencil. Next time, you'll have to mark in blue."

I started over after circling the errors, but botched another segment.
"Marjorie. Have you practiced this etude?"
And I thought, who does this woman think she is, Heifetz? I rolled my eyes.
Miss Thomas heaved a frustrated sigh.
"Mar-jor-ie. I would appreciate the courtesy of a reply."
The edge in her voice unnerved me.
"Perhaps Juilliard's not the school for you after all," said Miss Thomas. "It's a privilege to study here. We don't retain students who display negative attitudes by making faces at the teachers."
I lifted the violin to my chin, and began a concerto. I closed my eyes tight to hold back the tears, but it was of no use. The tears had dripped onto the violin. Miss Thomas reached for the box of Kleenex on top of the piano.  

Another lesson would be over, but not soon enough.

A Bus Ride (Ch.7)

Saturdays were busy, busy, busy at the Juilliard School Pre-College Division. Private one-hour lessons with Sally Thomas were followed by concert orchestra with Isaiah Jackson, chamber music, solfege, recitals, string ensemble with Wesley Sontag, and music theory with the cantankerous, chain-smoking Frances Goldstein.  

At  five o'clock sharp, I met my mother in the lobby for the long commute back to Boston. She waited by the elevators, eager to hear a report about my classes.

"Tell me about your day," she said, as we left Lincoln Center to walk down to Port Authority.
"It was fine."
"Fine? That's all you have to tell me?"
I didn't want my mother to know that I flunked Goldstein's music theory exam; Sally Thomas had again made me reach out for Kleenex; and my sight-reading skills in orchestra were so deficient that I was placed in the back of the second violins.

"Hungry?" She asked, as we passed a Sabrett Hot Dog stand in Times Square. The aroma of fresh pretzels wafted into my nostrils. "Fresh salted pretzels, plump, juicy hot-dogs," yelled the vendor. A hot dog dropped onto the pavement. He stooped to pick it up with his fat fingers, and tossed the flying wiener back into the cart.

"Ugh. Gross me out," I said.  

"New Yorkers," said my mother.

At Port Authority, my mother pointed to a sign at the Terminal Deli. Whole Broasted Chicken for $2.99. 

"Now that's a deal," she said. "Let's get that for our supper on the bus. It'll be like a picnic."

After buying chicken and beverages at the Terminal Deli we stopped at a magazine stall. 

"Nothing beats The New York Times," she said, reaching into her coin purse. "How about you, my dolly? What would you like to read on the bus?"
The front page of The National Enquirer featured: Baby born with two heads and a tail.
"Mummy, can I have that?"
"I suppose, but what an odd headline. You think it's true?"

We rushed to Gate 14 with bags, violin case, and broasted chicken. My mother gave the bus driver the tickets. She plopped our belongings onto two seats behind the driver.  

The aroma of  chicken had all ready begun to permeate the bus. A woman across the aisle plugged her nose, and the man seated behind us pulled his coat over his face.

My mother sat down and slowly released the chicken from the paper bag. The aroma intensified. "Here, precious." She split the bird with her fingers. "Your half."

Noisily, greedily, like a woman half-starved in the wild, she ripped the drumstick from the thigh, gnawed voraciously, cracked into the bone, and sucked the marrow.
"This chicken is out-of-this world," she said, waving the remains of drumstick. "I was so busy comparing notes with the other Juilliard mothers that I forgot to eat anything all day. You better dig in, before there's nothing left."
I bit into a tender, succulent thigh and then moved on to a wing. By the time we hit Yonkers Stadium, there was nothing left but a pile of bones.

"Now, what to do with this mess?"  

"Dunno." I wiped my hands on a Towelette and unfolded The National Enquirer.

"Feh," she said. "Let's get rid of it. I'll put it by the toilet. Good idea?"

I popped open a can of Diet 7 Up and read the tabloid with complete absorption. How could a baby with two heads and a tail survive? What about the real-life mermaid?  I flipped to the next  page. 

Twelve year old violinist hailed as Paganini Incarnate! 

It can't be, I thought. I read with wide-eyed amazement about Dylana Jenson, a girl from Los Angeles who displayed such technical prowess that the renowned conductor of Seattle Symphony, Milton Katims, believed her to be the reincarnation of Niccolo Paganini.

Niccolo Paganini, the greatest violinist who ever lived! 
My mother returned to her seat after depositing the chicken bones by the toilet.

"Mummy, read this," I said. "This girl concertizes all over the world. She's appeared on the Tonight Show and soloed with New York Philharmonic under Maestro Andre Kostelanetz."
My mother skimmed the article.
"Well, how about that," she said. "There's so much competition out there. It's a good thing that we have Mr. Muller. He'll see to it that you get concerts, too. And you know, at age eleven, it's not a day too soon."

My mother, Frances Kransberg, loved bus rides. The motion and monotony soothed and comforted her. She'd fall asleep with a faint smile on her lips, awaken for brief spells, babble in hushed tones, and drift back to sleep with her head slumped forward. It was on Greyhound bus trips that my mother shared her innermost thoughts. During an awakening, she had words for my three older sisters, Judy, Susan and Karen, who were now busy with children of their own. 

"I sense that deep down your sisters are envious of you. But if they'd think back, they'd realize I wanted the same opportunities for them. I gave them all music lessons, plus ballet and drama classes, but they didn't take the studies seriously. All in all, I think they might have been spoiled. I wanted Judy, Sue, and Karen to have everything. But through trial and error, I realized that it's not how much you do, but what you do, and how well you do it, that counts. The more energy you pour into one thing, the more you get out of it. Farshteyst?"

To prod my mother on, I'd bate her with questions. I adored being the favored daughter.
"Mummy, what sort of pianist was Judy?"
My mother shook her head. "Your eldest sister Judy was musical, no question about it. That girl had talent. But whatever she played, I couldn't recognize the piece. Counting mystified her, and every composer came out sounding—well, like Judith Ellen. Funny, but true."
"How about in school? Was she a good student?"
My mother tilted her head back and closed her eyes. "A scholar my Judith Ellen was not—but everyone loved her. What a sense of humor she has—such a character. My parents, may they rest in peace, were crazy about her. When Judy was born, she looked just like my Bubbe Chashe. The resemblance was uncanny. Your grandmother took one look at Judy as an infant, broke down and cried. She was convinced that her mother had been reborn. Jewish people are crazy that way. We believe in such things as reincarnation."

"How about Susan?" I unwrapped a piece of Dentyne. A bus ride without gum was unthinkable.
My mother emitted a long, painful sigh. It was the sort of sigh that echoed throughout the entire bus.

"Susan was, what's the word? Combative. Maybe because she was the middle child. I don't know. She wasn't pliable, like you."
"What do you mean?"
"When Susie took violin lessons, she battled not only with me, but with her teachers. She's always had such a temper. I remember she'd get angry out of the blue. One time, when your sisters were rehearsing piano trios, she took her violin bow and thwacked it over poor Judy's head causing it to split into pieces."

"Judy's head?"

"No! The bow, silly."
"What did Daddy do?"
"Your father? You know what a short fuse he has. He threatened, 'I'm not buying another goddamn violin bow! That's the end of the music lessons.'"

"Tell me about Karen, Mummy."
Eleven years my senior, Karen was closest in age to me, and I felt the most tenderness for her.
My mother gazed longingly out the window at the rolling hills and meadows.

"Karen could have become a professional cellist, I think. Beautiful tone and vibrato came naturally to her. But I couldn't get that girl to practice or study for anything. Karen was obsessed with boys. Such a waste of talent and intellect. When God gives you a gift, you should use it."
"Oh yes, Mummy. You're right." I reached out for her warm hand. I took delight in knowing that I pleased my mother more than any of my sisters.
"Oh look, my wonderful daughter, we're just outside Boston. The ride went so quickly—"

The bus driver tapped the microphone and cleared his throat. His deep voice boomed over a loud hiss.
"Sss-Someone's left a pile o' chicken bones by the toilet in the WC. Would whoever left them bag o' bones in the bathroom, kindly refrain from doin' that next time? Please, folks. No more food scraps or bones in the bathroom. Thank you. And remember, go Greyhound."

in photo left to right: Karen, Susan and Judith Kransberg in 1950s

J. Frederick Müller (Ch.6 Pt.2)

Scherl & Roth company owned and operated a large string instrument factory in Cleveland, Ohio. My mother was so determined to purchase a quality violin for me that she arranged for us to meet with a personal representative.

A big-bellied, moon-faced man opened the door.
"Welcome to Scherl & Roth. I'm J. Frederick Müller, president of the company."
"Nice to meet you," said my father, removing his hat. "We're the Kransbergs from Massachusetts. I'm John, this is my wife Frances, and youngest daughter, Marjorie, the budding concert violinist."

"So, you're a violinist, young lady," Mr. Müller said, bending to my eye level.
"Where, and with whom do you study?"
I stared at his horn-rimmed glasses perched upon a snub nose.

"Answer the gentleman," my mother urged.
"Juilliard."
"Oh?" Mr. Müller asked, evidently impressed. The name Juilliard had cachet.
"Yes," said my mother. "Our Marjorie studies with Ivan Galamian's first associate, Sally Thomas. In fact, she recently returned from Meadowmount, the prestigious summer school. Everyone agrees that her violin is inadequate at this stage of her development. We heard a young girl, Stephanie Chase, who plays on a magnificent instrument—it might even be a Strad, and she's signed with management all ready. This is what our Marjorie is up against in terms of competition. Can you show us your finest?"
"Bear in mind," said my father. "I'm only a furniture dealer, so we're concerned about cost—"
"I understand. I'm sure we can find just the right instrument for your daughter."

"She'll also need a good bow, and strong case," added my mother.

"Tools of the trade," laughed Mr. Müller as he led the way to his office.

"I'll go to the store room and be right back. Please folks, make yourselves at home."

My father whispered as he glanced around the office. The walls were lined with framed posters of Germany.
"Müller—a German name, Frances. You think, deep down, that he's a Nazi? I'd say he's probably in his mid-fifties."
"Oy John, you think?"
"Müller doesn't have to know we're Jewish. Don't say anything, Frances. Promise me. It'll just make everyone uncomfortable."

Mr. Müller returned to his office with a stack of violin cases.
"So. Where are you folks from?"
My parents gave each other knowing looks.
"We traveled all the way from a little town in north-shore Massachusetts," said my father. "It's just a bit north of Salem. You've heard of Salem, haven't you, Mr. Müller? The witch trials. Frances grew up in Salem—"
"We're of the Jewish faith," blurted my mother.
"That's nice," said Mr. Muller unfazed by my mother's random statement. "Many of the world's greatest violinists are Jewish." And he went on to name a few. "Mischa Elman, Jascha Heifetz, Isaac Stern, Nathan Milstein, Itzhak Perlman and Pinchas Zukerman, right? Maybe you'll be famous some day, young lady. The world awaits a great woman violinist. Here. Try this one. And I have some bows for you to play on as well. Nurnbergers—fine German made bows."

Mr. Müller sat down on his swivel chair, leaned back, and clasped his hands behind his head.

I lifted a mud brown violin to my chin, and decided to show this J. Frederick Müller that I wasn't just any kid playing the fiddle. From repertoire that I heard others perform at Meadowmount, including works by Mendelssohn and Wieniawski, I played excerpts with unbridled passion, stomping my foot for heightened effect. I, too, could be a rising star.

From the look on Mr. Müller's face, I thought he might tumble off his chair.
"Why that's remarkable," Mr. Müller exclaimed. "You are—how old?"
"Just eleven," boasted my mother.

"Oh, this selection will never do."
He swiveled around in his chair and grabbed the wretched, muddy violin from my hands.
"I'll go to the vault, young lady, and bring you back a magical violin."

Mr. Müller returned with renewed energy and a bounce in his step. "Here you go, Marjorie. What you played on a moment ago was a factory made Roth. But these violins were handmade by Ernst Heinrich Roth. He was the maker responsible for carrying on the tradition of fine German craftsmanship to America. The Grandpapa, so to speak. Anyway, Ernst Heinrich crafted each instrument to the exact dimensions of the Cremonese luthiers, Stradivarius and Guarnerius."

"Margie, play the same repertoire as a moment ago, so we can make a comparison," said my mother, her voice taut with anticipation.

"You must be a musician, Mrs. Kransberg. Are you?"  

"Only an amateur violinist, Mr. Müller. I enjoyed playing in Brookline Civic with Harry Ellis Dickson. Oh, the fun we had—"
"But Margie gets her musical talent from her old man," my father winked. Everyone laughed.

  

I played through a wide range of repertoire. My mother's eyes were closed. She listened intensely to every note.
"Ooh," she gasped. "What a magnificent sounding instrument. I prefer this one to all the rest. It has carrying power."

Of all musical instruments, the violin is praised for being the closest to the human voice. My mother used to warn me if I became angry, the violin would growl in response, and betray my anger. If I achieved inner serenity, the violin could soothe and soften the hearts of those who listened to its song. I tested as many violins as Mr. Müller encouraged me to try that day in 1970, and chose the one that responded to my demands with a rich, varied tone.  

"Your daughter is a marvelous talent," said Mr. Müller, after I laid the chosen Roth in its case. "She could be a soloist all ready."

"Really?" asked my mother. "How might our Marjorie secure concert engagements? She hasn't an agent or manager—"

"I tell you what, Mr. and Mrs. Kransberg. If you purchase a violin from Scherl & Roth, through my connections with Music Educator's National Conference and American String Teachers Association, I can assure you that this company will put your daughter on the map. Why, we'll get the word out nationwide that Marjorie plays on one of our instruments, and we'll have her booked for concerts in no time at all. I'll personally launch her career."

"Mr. Müller!" My mother drew in a breath as she uttered his name. "You're our angel." She turned to my father. "Remember John, when I spoke of seeking a benefactor for our Marjorie? Here he is—
J. Frederick Müller."

In photo: Me featured on cover of Orchestra News 1971