Enska 2012
They Still Talk About the Time I Gonged the Philharmonic
I had asked Leonard Bernstein, the great conductor, if I could join the New York Philharmonic on tour so that I could look into the workings of a world-class orchestra. Mr. Bernstein said he knew of my work as the “amateur professional” in football and basketball and then asked a rather obvious question. What could I do?
I play a very sketchy sort of piano. My best efforts are “Deep Purple” and “Tea for Two.” Even there I often have to back up and rush my fingers through the obscure parts, in the forlorn hope that they can find their way.
I told Mr. Bernstein about “Deep Purple” and “Tea for Two.” “Well,” he said, “we don’t have much need for those around here.” He sent me off to learn percussion – to join the group in the back of the orchestra in what he referred to as “The Shady Corner.”
They taught me how to hold the triangle and bounce the metal rod off the steel to get different effects. During rehearsals I would stare bleakly at Bernstein over the top of the triangle, metal rod gripped tightly, and look for the slight roll of the eye or some insignificant gesture in the whirlwind of his movements that suggested my time had come. The ping!
Once Bernstein waved his baton from side to side, signifying that he wanted to stop, and then looked at me. “Now, George.”
This was followed by the sound of chairs turning toward me. The musicians knew that Lenny, as everyone called him, was going to have a little fun.
“George, would you play that note for us again?” I picked up the triangle. Ping!
“Again please.”
Ping!
“Once more.” He cupped his hand behind his ear.
Ping!
A pause for effect. “Now which one of those do you mean?” he asked. “They’re all different.”
Guffaws.
But sometimes I’d get an indication that I had played my part successfully. Musicians use a quick little shuffle of the foot on the floor to applaud one another while the music is still going on. When I would get past my entrances without error, feet would shuffle all over the orchestra, very likely out of relief.
Off we went on tour. In London, Ontario, we were scheduled to play Gustav Mahler’s Fourth Symphony, which starts off with 24 strokes on the “sleigh bells” – an instrument with the bells in rows along a center shaft. The score calls for the percussionist to tap the sleigh bells with the tips of his fingers. These notes are enormously important because they are the first thing one hears. The sleigh bells were in my charge.
Mr. Bernstein walked onto the stage, a great accolade from the audience greeting him. He bowed, turned to his orchestra, nodded, and then looked across all those heads at me, poised in the Shady Corner. He raised his baton. I was petrified.
Carried away in my terror, I may have hit the instrument too many times. Or not enough. Or raggedly. In any case, I knew something had gone wrong. There was no shuffling of feet. My fellow percussionists stared straight ahead.
After the symphony ended, Bernstein found me backstage. “You destroyed Mahler’s Fourth!” he nearly shouted. “I never want to hear such a terrible sound emerge from the back of my orchestra again.” As far as he was concerned, I was finished, through!
Soon, the percussion gang crowded around, assuring me that I had nothing to worry about.
“A typical conductor’s tantrum,” one of them said.
“You’ll be back with the orchestra tomorrow.”
Then one of the group, Walter Rosenberger, remembered that in a few nights, in Winnipeg, the orchestra was scheduled to play Tchaikovsky’s Second Symphony, the Little Russian. At the conclusion, there is an enormous, explosive shot on the gong. “It’s a great moment,” he went on. “It comes in like an exclamation point. Then the orchestra plays for a couple of measures, and it’s over.”
The other musicians chimed in. They would ask Mr. Bernstein to let me play the gong in Winnipeg.
The next morning we went to see Mr. Bernstein. He wouldn’t look at me. The percussionists pleaded.
“All right,” Mr. Bernstein said finally. “You can play the gong in Winnipeg on a number of conditions. First, I want you to watch me throughout the symphony. Don’t look down at the music. We all know that you can’t read music. You don’t fool anyone when you turn the pages. About nine minutes into the last movement, I’ll give you a cue the likes of which no musician has ever seen. At that point, smack it!”
Soon I was in Winnipeg, back in the Shady Corner, standing in white tie and tails behind the gong, which hung monstrously from its chains. The place was packed with music lovers who had piled in to hear one of the greatest orchestras in the world, not knowing that one of its musicians could barely get through “Tea for Two.”
Mr. Bernstein appeared from the wings, turned to face us, and the symphony began.
As we got into the fourth movement, I stared at Mr. Bernstein, the big mallet clutched in my hand. Suddenly, out of a flurry of movement, he looked across at me. His eyes opened wide so that the whites of them showed alarmingly in his face. His mouth dropped open, his stick pointed at me, and I reared back. With all that pent-up energy, emotion and fear, I hit the gong so hard that an enormous wave of sound welled up and swept up and swept out across the heads of the musicians – many of them half-turning their chairs to see what had happened – past Mr. Bernstein whose eyes popped even farther.
I’ve gone and done it, I thought. I’ve destroyed another symphony. But then, while the violins sawed their way to the finale, feet began shuffling everywhere across the stage.
The symphony ended. Backstage, Mr. Bernstein’s face was wreathed in smiles. “No one has ever hit a gong that hard,” he said. “If Tchaikovsky heard it – which I’m quite sure he did
– why, he would have been delighted!”
“Piece of cake,” I said.
The musicians still joke about the “Winnipeg Sound.” For years, whenever Mr. Bernstein wanted a really loud fortissimo during rehearsals, he would call out, “I’d like the Winnipeg Sound, if you please!”
