SEARCHING FOR THE MEMORABLE
Tales of a Peripatetic Record Producer - Part 1
The pictures on faded stamps in my mother's collection conjured my earliest notions of far away places. This, allied to a romantic, distant, and escapist disposition at a far too early age, led to my yearning for distant vistas. I would never have known that my early love for music would lead me to most of the places I wanted to visit. I ignore all the years that lead to my becoming a recording producer and to meeting the woman of my dreams and fellow traveller except by reference and begin the story with the place where I am convinced God must live or at least vacation: New Zealand.
It was music that led me there. On a hot, dusty day in Jerusalem, my friend Moshe Saperstein, a wounded Israeli war vet, crazy like me for unusual repertoire and particularly fond of the English romantic composers played a record of New Zealand composer Douglas Lilburn's music. It evoked the magic of a place that I thought I would never see. Skip a few years and I am the General Manager of a very small and obscure record label in New Jersey called Stradivari Classics. It was the boom time of the classical record business. The compact disc was still fairly new: it had saved the business of classical music on records from near extinction creating a stampede to record everything and anything for the new medium. What's more, the cost of production was declining and there were orchestras from eastern Europe to the South Pacific offering reasonable quality at very reasonable prices . Little Stradivari had carved out a small niche with the first very low priced all digital recordings of standard and not so standard repertoire mainly recorded in the then Yugoslavia with a very good orchestra we renamed the Ljubljana Symphony Orchestra and a talented conductor with the unusual name of Nanut. The LSO - with apologies to that better known institution in London - got good reviews, created expectations, and enough of a name that I received a call from a reputable agent with an very interesting project. Would I be interested in the first modern recording of Samuel Barber's 2nd Symphony? My knowledge of the work consisted of two facts: it had been deemed a failure and that although a score existed, all the parts had been destroyed at the composer's request. I was a Barber fan finding his particularly aching romanticism irresistible and took the bait. Who was the conductor and where did he find parts. Also, how were the legal impediments from the Barber estate being handled. It turned out that Andrew Schenck, a conductor of great talent and little luck, had not only found a set of parts that had escaped the publisher's destructive order but had an agreement for one year's exclusivity to record the piece. After meeting Andrew for breakfast in my wrong side of the tracks New Rochelle town house and talking music for hours, my answer was an easy yes. Stradivari operated on a limited budget and my concern was where could we find a credible orchestra at a reasonable cost and schedule sessions within the time limit of Schenck's exclusivity. When Andrew told me his next engagement would take him to New Zealand, the main theme of the Lilburn Aotearoa Overture came immediately to mind.
To the top of the pageI still don't know how I convinced the two businessmen who ran Stradivari Classics to allow a trip to New Zealand. The price was certainly right and the orchestra, now much improved, remains one of the best bargains in recording. I left Newark with two battered cloth suitcases on route to Los Angeles. After a brief, alluring stop in Tahiti, I arrived in Aukland in the early morning hours on a packed Continental 747. (Continental ceased service to New Zealand not long after a flight landed in Aukland out of fuel. They managed to coast in but could not taxi to the gate under their own power. ) How to describe one's first views of the green land of New Zealand in the moments just past dawn? A few twinkling lights from the nation's largest city (and the only place in New Zealand that I have more or less consciously avoided) make little impression compared to the water and hills. Walking the short mile in the dawn light from the international to domestic terminal, a practice I followed for the next ten years, rewarded me with my first sense of the peculiarly beautiful light and colour of the southern skies. Living now in northern Europe not far from the Elbe and the Dutch lowlands, one immediately recognises the quality of light and colour from years of gazing at Dutch landscapes in museums and on record jackets (my own introduction to art.) There were no paintings then known to me that would prepare my senses for New Zealand and its strange combination of nostalgic rural England and south Pacific paradise. There is a place on the drive - now almost a pilgrimage - from Wellington to isolated Cape Palliser on the far southern coast of the North Island - where the pattern of mountain, sea, sky and occasionally the glimmering distant snow caps of the South Island are in perfect harmony and not to be seen elsewhere. When I began to travel, I spent rolls of film on snow capped mountains, now unable to distinguish the Alps from the Rockies as depicted in snapshot. New Zealand was always recognisable. The Air New Zealand flight from Aukland to Wellington featured a full hot breakfast during its short one hour duration - US airlines take note - and a spectacular view of Mount Egmont. It was also my sustained introduction to the New Zealand accent: one vowel described by a Kiwi friend as "ih" with the mouth almost closed and rarely moving. One of my first contacts in New Zealand was a gentleman named Nisbet, pronounced Nisbit. When I addressed him by name in a letter using his pronunciation as a guide to my spelling, he noted "it's not Nisbit, it's Nisbit." (He took Andrew and I out to a fabulous dinner at a fine restaurant on a hilltop overlooking the Tasman Sea. A couple of friendly cats were prowling about, offending a fellow American tourist. The manager promptly and properly answered, "if the food weren't good, the cats wouldn't stay.) I was also charmed by the flight stewardess' introduction, "Ladies and Gentlemen (read Gintlemin), Boys and Girls."
To the top of the pageWellington has changed a good bit since my first arrival. It still boasts a sign probably unique for world capitols - Welcome to Wellington, Nuclear Free City. It has been compared to San Francisco and I briefly thought of Haifa, but the resemblance to either city is slight: a similarity of setting. The city is spread out on hills surrounding a bay. I had expected to be met as arranged by an orchestra staff member but various signals being crossed, I received my first taste of Kiwi hospitality: two complete strangers at the baggage queue offered to give me a lift to the depressing hotel demanded by our low budget. I won't name it as it has been long demolished. It is similar to another Wellington establishment in which one of our unfortunate artists briefly resided till he threatened to hang himself from the cord attached to the bare light bulb in the room. It was only his sincere distress that forced us to damn the budget and make the acquaintance of Wellington's fabulous and welcoming Park Royal Hotel, but that was a few years and several records later. Perhaps in a friendly desire to spare me knowledge of the unnameable hotel and spoil my introduction to their capitol city, my new friends took me for a quick motor tour of Wellington. We drove along the coast, waves slashing the shore and the high winds ensuring that no clouds blocked the view of the Rimutaka and other exotically named mountain ranges.
Lunch at a small Chinese restaurant was followed by a street chase: the waiter and proprietor running after me with the change I left on the table. Tipping was not expected nor in this case accepted. That has changed somewhat over the years but I'll never forget the cab driver who not only unloaded all our recording equipment but entered the terminal in search of a luggage cart. When I gratefully handed him a New Zealand fiver, he refused my offer saying, "I can't accept that." Lunch was followed by my first visit to the old New Zealand Symphony recording studio on Willis Street. Here I encountered the phlegmatic side of the Kiwi in the person of Geoffrey Eyles, a lovely gentleman with all the graces and good nature that seem to come with being born on these blessed islands. The antique mixing desk, coffee stained with coffee grinds gumming up the ancient faders along with the less than beautiful acoustics of the room prompted Geoff's friendly greeting "You're going to hate this place, mate!" He was only being honest, another Kiwi trait, and while I had nightmares about the studio long after it was turned into something else more appropriate, we had to make the best of the situation. Radio New Zealand, provider of the recording equipment boasted one DAT machine meaning our backup had to be on analogue tape. The doubts I was silently expressing were not entirely mitigated by the first session the next day.
To the top of the pageAndrew and his wife Lois arrived a day prior to the first recording session. It was a pleasure to spend time with such normal, down-to-earth people. Andrew, a rare gentleman in our cut throat trade, was generally regarded as talented despite the fact that his current post was music director of a tiny, now-defunct orchestra on New York's Long Island. He was the paradigm of my rubric - now applied to many others - that talent was no guarantor of a career in music. Perhaps in his somewhat reticent way, he wasn't hungry enough for the career that his talents warranted. His wife slaved away in the real estate trade while Andrew waited and hoped for the call that would never come. They were both committed Episcopalians, though not in an obtrusive way. Lois, a convert from Judaism, had her counterpart in Andrew's lookalike sister who became an ultra-Orthodox Jew and moved to Israel. When Andrew was ill with terminal cancer, the two women who had both chosen a different faith found a great deal in common. That was still a few years away and unknown to us as we planned recordings that would among other things help jump-start Andrew's career.
We began with Barber's delightful and oddly poignant Overture to the School for Scandal. Andrew and the band were in good form and I could quickly assess their strengths and weaknesses. Its willingness to work was apparent and Andrew, efficient as ever, made the most of our limited session time. After a brief rehearsal, two complete takes provided most of the material for the finished compact disc. We launched into the romantic Music for a Scene for Shelley and once again had a superb first take up to the timpani solo at the end. The banging, cacophony, and general disregard for the printed note led the mild-mannered and genteel Andrew to remind the timpanist amid uncontrolled laughter within the orchestra and in the recording booth that "if you'd look at the music, you might not have to make it up as you go along." This, as another conductor put it, was tantamount to a death sentence from Andrew. Suffice it to say that said timpanist has gone on to fool the critics as a conductor, mainly of self-funded recordings. The principal flute was wonderful. More about Alexa Still later.
To the top of the pageDespite spending most of the daylight hours in the dingy setting of the old Symphony House, my love affair with New Zealand began during those days of recording. During the ten years in which New Zealand was an eagerly anticipated highlight, at least two or three times yearly, I saw much of the country and made enduring friendships. Ask me now after forty odd trips to New Zealand where I want to live and the unhesitating answer is New Zealand, somewhere in the Wairarapa Valley with a view of the mountains and the sea.
The orchestra's esprit somehow overcame their (legitimate) curiosity about how we were going to rehearse and record these difficult works in the short amount of time we had available. They never let me down and after five days, all the music was recorded on a small box of DAT tapes. Needless to say, I guarded these with my life. Remember, there were no backups. The recording, edited and mastered at my favourite studio, Master Sound Astoria, went on to a distinguished career, becoming the first budget recording to make the Billboard chart of best selling records in the United States and was nominated as best record and best orchestral record in the first OVATION Magazine Awards. With suitable irony, the magazine folded before the Awards were given. I received more than one letter from people who told me that this disc was their first acquaintance with the music of Samuel Barber.
I remember reading at the height of the anti-romantic sixties that "we didn't need the likes of Barber anymore." This from a writer who referred to a famous line of Tennyson's as a "text from a minor English poet" without even identifying the author. I'm happy to say that Barber has rejoined the pantheon of great composers and that the hodgepodge of 60s avant-garde is already passe. A very fine writer once wrote about the "pained-eroticism" of Barber's music. This is close to the mark and I am proud that I got to record much of Barber's music including several important premieres. Many of these records were made in New Zealand and most with Andrew Schenck though neither of us knew as we planned the next recordings and basked in the success of the first that Andrew had very few years left to live.
To the top of the pageThe last day of this first trip to Aotearoa held the only sight-seeing I did. The orchestra's leader, Isador Saslav, combined a lovely old-world violin sound with the voice of a New Jersey union electrician. He lived, not inappropriately, in Brooklyn, a suburb of Wellington with absolutely nothing in common with the eternal home of the Dodgers. He was a great Shaw devotee among other pursuits and told us that we must visit Rotorua if we had any time. Andrew, his wife, and I boarded a flight - my memory, surely wrong, is of a DC-3 or even a Dakota - for Rotorua. A young boy sitting in front of me, no more than five or six, with a an open, friendly expression, gave me a cheery, Hello Mate, and we were off. I've never been one for towns and if Rotorua was the only place in New Zealand I've never returned to, count it to a day wandering around the the city and never getting to the brilliant countryside surrounding the settlement.
Returning to the States, my head was full of plans for the next Barber recordings with a promise to myself that I would see some of New Zealand the next time. Not too many months after the release of the recording, I received a call from an Austrian gentleman who ran the new and promising Koch Import Service. I knew them as the ambitious distributor of several good independent record labels. Michael Koch asked me quite directly if I were interested in his distributing Stradivari Classics in the German speaking European territories. When I arrived at their office in a Long Island town as grimy as Stradivari's New Jersey base, the subject quickly changed: would I be interested in starting a new classical label for Koch? He was interested in creating, but more importantly in owning repertoire. Even then, the end of the compact disc's honeymoon as the new format on the block, it didn't strike me that the world needed a new classical label. I listened politely as Koch answered my incredulous "Why would you want to invest in a new classical record label?" His answer, "Because we are a music company" gave me a glimmer of hope. My positive response was made easy by a call from a good friend early in the next week.
To the top of the pageArias and Barcarolles
I mentioned my dilemma to my first-class secretary, Kathleen Karcher. Kathy's suggestion, typical of her good sense, was to ignore it for the time being. That time was very short as Marvin Schofer, an agent and friend, asked if I would be interested in producing the world premiere recording of Leonard Bernstein's new work, Arias and Barcarolles. The title, according to the official story, came from a comment made by President Dwight Eisenhower to Bernstein, about how he preferred tuneful music to "all them Arias and Barcarolles." Compactly (and inexpensively) scored for two singers and two pianists, the music was a delicious Bernstein romp about relationships, pained, strained, and and poignant. Schofer told me, everything was set up, including studio dates, cast, and most importantly, the imprimatur of Leonard Bernstein. One of the singers was Judy Kaye, a Tony Award winner for Phantom of the Opera and the other was William Sharp who remains one of the most stylish baritones around. The pianists were two of the best young talents as well: Steve Blier and Michael Barrett. The price was right and I triumphantly rang Michael Koch to ask if he was interested in the package to start the new venture. For me, it provided a raison d'etre to start a new label. I resigned as General Manager of Stradivari Classics saying good-bye to the two nicest bosses I ever had. I also made sure that Koch would fund the next trip to New Zealand for more Barber! Though these pages are strictly speaking about travels and the Bernstein was recorded in New York, it was the prelude to eight wonderful years of recordings round the world and as such deserves more than a mention here.
The recording sessions - four calls of four hours duration each - were held at Master Sound Astoria which remains my favourite place to record music. Unlike the cold stereotypical studio without a pleasing natural acoustic, Master Sound has it all - a lively acoustic, superb equipment and the priceless knowledge, experience and let me add patience of Ben Rizzi, the best recording engineer in the business. What little I know about recording engineering I owe to Ben. A larger than life man with little regard for the modern taste for healthy living, Ben was not stereotypical. A died-in-the-wool political conservative in a business where left wing sentiments were the equivalent of a uniform, there were those who didn't feel comfortable with Ben. I was in recording heaven and I knew that I would be satisfied, from a technical and sound standpoint, with any recording I made in Master Sound. There were also those countless occasions when I would bring in a master tape made in surroundings less perfect that Ben, through the deftest and patient reworking of the original material, would not only rescue the disasters I manufactured but create a gem. The rest of the studio complement included Ben's wife, Maxine, who managed the studio and the very congenial David Merrill, son of the distinguished baritone Robert Merrill. For me, Master Sound was bullet proof - an environment that let me concentrate completely on the artists and the music. Unlike many recording venues, the listening environment was ideal. I always knew that the way I heard the music was the way the recording would actually sound. There were rarely any surprises. When I get to tales of recordings in lonely churches, Lithuania, and Korea, you'll know why this is so important. Master Sound also provided important creature comforts including the best Italian mozzarella, prosciutto and sun dried tomato sandwiches imaginable supplied by a local deli. (I write this from Tuscany and even here in the land of good eating, the memory is still sweet.)
To the top of the pageThe sessions went extremely well. Complete takes, followed by a critical listening sessions, followed by retakes and minor corrections when necessary all happened with a minimum of troubles. The clock, always the nemesis of a recording session, seemed not to move. Avoiding costly overtime and ever aware of the studio's hourly rate was never far from my mind. We had a bit of a pause as we "auditioned" various individuals for a crucial bit of whistling that opens the last of Bernstein's Arias and Barcarolles. The excellent piano tuner - Scott Jones - made a valiant effort but in the end, pianist Michael Barrett supplied a suitably musical whistle for the recording. (Jones met, by chance, his future wife - Koch's Vice President Elizabeth Groves - at the sessions. A happy occasion.)
Editing took a mere eighteen hours in the studio. I was more than unusually nervous as this was our first record for the label and to be perfectly honest, funds were severely limited. Editing for future projects would take place in the Koch Austrian studios where time was not a factor and finally in my own home where I could work round the clock to my heart's content. Here, we worked quickly and efficiently. David Merrill, bless him, agreed to stay all night if necessary to allow us to finish our work. I drove my assistant, Karen Chester, home at three a.m. to her flat in one of New York's less pleasant neighborhoods, marvelling that even at that hour, traffic was miserable. We had finished our first record. The next hurdle was playing it for Leonard Bernstein who asked to hear it on Saturday, three days later.
We had knowingly left a very small mistake in the edited version - a matter of an incorrect octave in the piano part - to preserve a perfectly exquisite vocal phrase. In the sessions, we corrected the error but the musical phrase cum piano error was too good and try as we did, editing in the correction only ruined the beauty of the musical line. I sat up late into the night imagining Bernstein throwing the tape out the window and refusing his sanction for the recording. The window! My fertile brain then came up with the unimaginably silly strategy of opening the window a moment before the offensive phrase was heard thereby distracting the maestro's attention and getting me out of a potentially disastrous situation.
To the top of the pageI was ushered into Bernstein's flat along with Karen Chester and the recording's pianists, Steve Blier and Michael Barrett. Bernstein seemed pleased with what he heard, noting with surprise and delight that we had included the ballet music - beautifully played by Blier - along with Sharp's superb "Lonely Town." At one point, Bernstein asked us to stop the tape. He moved from his desk to the piano and played one of the chords he had just heard saying: I loved that chord when I wrote it, I still love it now."
I was enjoying the moment as well: I too loved that chord and was acutely aware that it in all its poignant loveliness was delaying the moment in which LB would hear the potentially fatal mistake. The tape rolled again with Bernstein making favorable comments from time to time and questioning a few minor points. His enthusiasm seemed complete when our little mishap became audible. "Stop the tape. What was that?" I launched into a feeble explanation and Bernstein, still feeling magnanimous, announced to our general relief and satisfaction that "the whole damn thing is so good, I'll let you get away with it."
Relief flowed round the room and the tape played again this time to its end without interruption. Bernstein began shaking my hand thanking me for my efforts. I couldn't even begin to thank him for what I've always considered the real beginning of my career. We spent another half-hour chatting, enjoying Lennie's dissection of a review in New York magazine and speaking about Copland, whose music he was conducting with the NY Philharmonic that week. At about five, his assistant Craig Urquardt gently reminded Lennie that it was time to get ready for the concert and we left, again vociferously thanked for our efforts.
I left in a mood best described as euphoric. We had our first record for the new label, Leonard Bernstein not only liked it but would allow himself to be photographed for the cover. I was off to New Zealand in the morning. The recording was an immediate success and earned a well deserved Grammy Award. My first Grammy nomination as Classical Producer of the Year owes everything to Arias and Barcarolles.
A brief postscript to this chapter: the last words Lennie ever spoke to me, not long before his death were: "Did you fix it?"
To the top of the pageNew Zealand Redux
While not generally known for having a balanced sense of priorities, I did insist that continued trips to New Zealand would have to be part of the package at KOCH. With the success of the Barber disc on Stradivari still fresh in my boss's memory, I planned the next recordings in Wellington: two ambitious discs including another world premiere (Fadograf of a Yestern Scene), the rarely heard complete Medea ballet, Third Essay, and the Violin Concerto (with Zina Schiff) as well as Menotti's Sebastian and Dances from Amahl. The sessions were planned in the terrifying but tameable Willis Street studios with Geoff Eyles from Radio New Zealand repeating his role as engineer. I had other plans as well: a serious driving tour of New Zealand's South Island over the weekend.
I had been a fan of Zina Schiff for some time though she was another prime example of my rubric that talent is often a hindrance to a career. She had been the youngest student in the famed Heifetz' master classes and possessed a beautiful sound and romantic temperament (at least on the violin.) When she met a young anesthesiologist and told Heifetz she intended to marry him, the great man told her that she certainly could marry but that if she did, he would never see her again. She married and Heifetz kept his word. The young couple moved to Louisiana where her husband set up a practice and she tried to create a career. The doctor was more successful than the violinist but somehow Zina came to my attention again and after making two recordings with her on Stradivari Classics, I decided to engage her for the Barber Concerto.
We met in Los Angeles Airport and in the course of small talk, she mentioned that her violin was in the shop: she had played a festival high in the mountains and the altitude damaged her very fine instrument. No worries though; she had borrowed 'something' from a student. A nagging fear gnawed at my barely conscious thoughts during the long flight in the confines of economy class to New Zealand. Her suitcases were lost by Air New Zealand, an omen I should have taken to heart.
To the top of the pageAlways the optimist, I greeted orchestra members like old friends. I imagine many of them had less gracious thoughts: Another two weeks trying to both learn and record repertoire none of them had seen. A few were openly encouraging perhaps having heard the results of the previous year's efforts or with a quixotic streak similar to mine. I then stopped by the orchestra's offices intending to plan the all important weekend trip with the orchestra's travel manager Rex. We discussed various routes and possibilities over a large detailed map of the famed South Island, glimmering that day like a siren across the waters of Cook Straight. A flight was arranged to Timaru, a little town on the eastern coast which would put us in striking distance of Mt Cook, our first important destination. Rex cautioned me over a road that he said I should avoid at all costs even though it appeared a straight shot over the mountains on the route home. I took his warning lightly and began to prepare for the first recording session.
A quick review of the scores reminded me that the first two pieces planned, the Fadograf and Third Essay, exposed the band's weakest elements. Though the timpanist of the previous sessions - see Chapter 1 - had departed to pursue other objectives in life, his replacement was a very young man with virtually no experience. The Third Essay begins with a long and dramatic timpani solo. Fadograf begins with an oboe solo. The then principal oboist, unlike the timpani player, had long experience, perhaps too long, and was past his best days. By chance, I ran into him outside a books hop on Willis Street shortly after I arrived and he mentioned he had just returned from holiday feeling rather rested and musically fit. I kept my fingers crossed. I was relieved to learn that the very fine principal horn, Ed Allen, excellent leader of the bass section, Dale Gold, and flutist Alexa Still were all in health and planning to attend the recording sessions. One of the problems I encountered in over forty trips to New Zealand was that while the orchestra with all the principal players on the official roster present and in health was very fine, an illness or holiday by a key player could hold potential disaster. I've done many sessions in London where Terry, the amiable personnel manager of the London Symphony Orchestra, has mentioned the absence of a key player minutes before the call, only to tell me that some famed soloist happened to be available to fill the vacant seat. No similar pool of players exists in New Zealand. Years later, a much improved New Zealand Symphony, strengthened by several very sound appointments, was leaving for lunch when Murray Alford, the artistic manager who always reminded me of an imaginary functionary from a long defunct colonial office, glided in to announce "The second clarinet player has gone home ill. I'll leave it to you then" and glided out the door to his meal. We were fortunate that a member of the orchestra enjoying a solitary sandwich in the studio had the telephone number of the retired principal clarinet player, a nice fellow who lived just up the hill and might be willing to help out in a pinch.
To the top of the pageThe sessions began well though my joy was short lived. Our rested principal oboe played the three or four best phrases I ever heard from him and then fell back into his more usual routine. The english horn player, an Italian New Zealander just short of retirement, played with a will that was significantly prettier than his sound. (He had been 'remaindered' into the NZSO when the old opera orchestra went belly-up years before.) We finished the Fadograf later than planned, my score full of scribbled notes and decorated with about a thousand post-it notes of things that could be improved providing there was a bit of extra time at the end. We were running seriously late however and time management is an essential part of the record production trade. The Third Essay began and we got further behind schedule trying to coax the timpani player into a bit of confidence and a few of the right notes and rhythms. Very late now and time to start the Violin Concerto. From her very first note, I knew something was wrong. Zina's sound was recognizable but only just. She was struggling with the borrowed instrument. The orchestra picked up on her distress and took part in it, some too eagerly. The session ended with very little result and Andrew and I raced for the airport discussing strategies to make up lost time in the remaining sessions. We considered dropping the Concerto. I felt terribly guilty: I had roped poor Andrew into my travel scheme. While he feigned enthusiasm, I imagine he would have preferred long hours studying his scores.
We were the only passengers on the short flight to Timaru. (I always loved the juxtaposition of English and Maori place names on New Zealand's map with Greymouth just up the coast from Hokitika.) Andrew, always proper, checked his large suitcase. A very frequent traveller and usually in a hurry, I carried only a small weekend bag on board. They lost Andrew's bag - the only piece of checked luggage on our flight. Anxious to get on the road with an eye towards making significant progress before dark, I suggested that Andrew file a quick lost luggage report and deal with it when we returned to Wellington. I glanced around and saw an attractive woman holding an Avis sign and beckoned to Andrew. A few misguided efforts to drive on the correct side of the road notwithstanding, we swiftly left the environs of Timaru. Our conversation focused on the ill-fated recording but I began to reveal the extent of my plans for the weekend: Andrew was always the complete gentleman. He showed no surprise when I outlined a tour taking us from Timaru to Mt Cook, south to Queenstown and then - ignoring the advice we were earnestly given - across the Crown Range to the west coast passing the glaciers Fox and Franz Joseph somehow ending up Sunday evening on the northern tip of the South Island in time to catch some conveyance, commuter plane or ferry back to Wellington. Of course I had scientifically planned everything with absolutely no cushion for car failure, road or mountain pass closure or weather delays. I also, I confess, told a deliberate untruth: that the South Island had no speed limit.
To the top of the pageTalk of our pressing problem with the recording faded as the landscape immediately outside of Timaru became idyllic, pastoral and delightfully uncrowded. The secret of New Zealand, according to Peter Nisbet, was that it is mainly uninhabited. Much of the population is clustered in a few cities with a full million of New Zealand's three in the far northern city of Auckland. It is entirely scenic, nature crowding in on the towns rather than being contained in conveniently accessible parks. Paradise. Darkness began to fall and the lights of dwellings became fewer, dwindling to none. We were making for Twizell, a small town and the gateway to Mt Cook. It's existence had to do with providing a home for workers building the power lines. We both found the town's name enormously silly for no good reason and began to sing songs about Twizell, dear Twizell that I cannot remember. Twizell fortunately had a hotel, full of Japanese tourists, but with two rooms to spare for weary travellers. There was literally nothing to do outside visit the hotel pub and join the lads in a few rounds of Lion Brown - "Measure of a Man's Thirst." We did. The weather was gloriously clear next morning as we set out for Mt Cook or Aorangi, the Cloud Piercer of the Maori. Many New Zealanders I know claim never to have seen the mountain as it is perpetually hidden in cloud. We were rewarded with a glorious view from afar which became more and impressive as we neared the mountain. I'm happy that it was miraculously clear when I revisited Mt Cook on my honeymoon and once again when Tammy and I did another madcap drive years later through the South Island lured by the promise of clear skies.
This time, Andrew and I were on a tight schedule, and our visit was brief though the mountain was impressive and moving in its solitary dignity. A sole parrot perched on the rental car reminded us we were in the South Pacific. As we left Mount Cook, the skies darkened and sadly the rest of the trip consisted of high speed driving in the pouring rain. Not entirely. We drove across the wonderfully bleak Mackenzie Country, a sort of badlands that could easily be confused with the set for an American western. I turned on the radio looking for a bit of musical companionship to find the FM band devoid of content. No one lived here and I suppose there was no need for entertainment on the radio. We reached Queenstown, Victorian and charming, with a range of snow bound mountains - the Remarkables - defining the distant horizon. A city tolerated by nature with indistinct boundaries and not nature, confined and fenced, shamed into bounded park. Feeling somehow ennobled by the distant peaks and the fjord reaching out to them, I decided to turn up the path leading to the road crossing the Crown Range. There was no more direct way to the west coast and time was still a concern. The rain had stopped, the gate was open indicating that the mountain was passable and as I pointed out to Andrew, it was a direct line - the only one to the west coast and we had to be back early this evening. No speed limit, remember. As we climbed over what was not better than a dirt track at times, despite signs cautioning us to reduce speed to 80 km/hr, we plodded along passing ghost towns from New Zealand's gold rush. Coming into a town called Cardrona, I remember checking my guide book which advised us to stop in for a lovely lunch. The inn in question appeared to have been closed for at least a century and we carried on, Andrew starting to become somewhat concerned. We passed a couple with a young baby nursing a dilapidated and disabled vehicle into some semblance of life. I stopped and asked if we could provide assistance. Not necessary, they cheerfully called back despite my warning that we hadn't seen a single other vehicle since turning our car on to this blighted highway. They waved us on cheerily and we left, reluctantly, both admiring their fortitude and wondering if they were totally sane. (Years later, I was driving through the Canadian Rockies only days after the road had re-opened following winter hoping to hike on the Athabascan Glacier. Shortly after passing the recently opened gates, I saw a hiker walking down the road with a small day pack on his back. As he heard the sound of my engine, he put out his thumb for a lift, with none of the urgency one often encounters. I stopped, remembering the Crown Range couple, and asked where he was going. "North." Obviously. I told him I was only going as far as the glacier area and he seemed content to travel in relative comfort that far. We drove in silence for over an hour passing a single other car in either direction. When I reached the glacier, I stopped the car apologising that I wasn't driving further and expressing my concern that I didn't think he was likely to find another ride. It was already cold and would soon be dark. He thanked me and walked off down the highway.) Back in New Zealand, sections of sealed highway began to appear, reverting to dirt too soon to fulfil their promise of speed and an end to this scenic destroyer of my plans. We eventually reached the west coast, renowned for its spectacular scenery and intense, perpetual rains.
To the top of the pageMy guide book was not particularly helpful as we began to look for a place to retire on Saturday night. It did mention the little town of Haast, a village of white bait fishermen and possessor of a bankrupt hotel which remained open more out of necessity than the government's generosity. We stopped, booked two nondescript rooms enjoying the lilting Irish accent of the receptionist. The hotel had two slot machines which I experimented with, winning about twenty NZ dollars, an an omen of how my luck was to continue that evening. There was an ancient ping pong table and Andrew and I immediately began to play, telling the curious few we were a touring table tennis team from the United States. As evening fell, the hotel - focal point for community social life - began to fill with locals. That evening, the mens' club was holding a charitable "horse race" with toy horses proceeding on a course determined by a roll of the dice. Andrew and I eagerly joined in betting somewhat extravagantly. To to my great surprise, I was the major winner of the evening proceeds and embarrassedly handed over my winnings to the local charity. I began to chat up a pleasant woman named Hillary, an Englishwoman married to the town's sole policeman. It probably wouldn't have been a wise policy but he was abroad for a considerable time on a course dealing with rescuing unfortunates lost in the mountains. We began a very pleasant conversation with nothing more in mind till Andrew, mindful of my virtue, reminded me we had an early start next morning. Hillary and I corresponded a few times over the next year. My first letter was addressed to Hillary (Policeman's wife), Haast, New Zealand.
We continued North next morning along the impressively wild Tasman coast. Rain poured down without pause giving us little opportunity to enjoy the sight of glaciers, mountains, or anything else. We did stop to refuel the car where the taciturn man behind the counter observed that perhaps I was the stranger who was chatting with the policeman's wife the previous evening. We quickly turned north again, me catching a short look of disapproval from Andrew which quickly turned into a grin.
To the top of the pageDespite the ceaseless rain, I fancied that I wanted to return to this coast with few towns. Even the occasional hints of mountain scenery were intoxicating. We reached Hokitika in the late afternoon and the weather being what it was headed directly to the airfield to see if there was anything heading across the Straits. No scheduled flights to Wellington and the fog had shut down Christ Church. New Zealand, like Alaska, is fortunately a land of pilots. There was a light on at the flying club's office and a very down to earth fellow said he would be happy to fly us to Wellington in his single engine Cessna. Heaven. I love small planes and would later take a few lessons with one of the NZSO's cellists who had a passion for flight. Andrew, an avid sailor with a passing interest in aviation, was simply happy that we would reach Wellington in an hour.
The skies were clearer in Wellington and the recording sessions finished with no particular noteworthy events. We recorded the Concerto and later made the decision, sadly, not to release it. I was never happy with these recordings: the mastering work I did only made the now happily gone Willis Street acoustics even muddier. Andrew and I made many more recordings but he only enters this story again once. If I had to select the best of our recordings, I would choose the the Appalachian Spring ballet recorded complete in its original chamber orchestra version. Two sessions with a wonderful group of New York freelancers and for me, very satisfying results. My only other recording experience with Zina, this time in Israel, had similar results though not her fault.
To the top of the pageA PROLONGED NEGOTIATION
How to start a record label
When not travelling to exotic locales, the busy record executive whether his company be large or small receives hundreds of submissions each week. They pile up on desks, tables, and the floor until one's normally tolerant assistant gently suggests that either we go through them or throw them out. I've always been fascinated by the unsolicited tape and agree to listen. Learning how to prepare and submit a tape is crucially important for a young artist without significant financial backing or powerful friends. Letters that begin "As you are undoubtedly aware, I am the world's greatest artist" tend not to be helpful. Tapes made by grandmother in the back of the hall on her portable cassette machine are usually jettisoned after a few seconds. Someone once sent me a tape at Deutsche Grammophon accompanied by a letter apologizing that he didn't have any means of performing his symphony, so I would hopefully enjoy hearing him hum the work. Thirty minutes. This was likely a joke but you never know.
When a tape of excerpts from a ready to go master tape by the San Diego Chamber Orchestra with interesting and not too commonly recorded Russian literature appeared on my desk. I asked my assistant to give it a careful listen. Her immediate response was positive and suggested I call them. I listened and agreed. Their conductor passed my along to the orchestra's manager Tamra Saylor. I called and called again every day for about six months. There is a long and storied history of love at first sight. The telephone brings its own rewards. We had a mutual friend who both encouraged and discouraged us. After I had exhausted every possible reason to call further, I announced that it was important for me to come to San Diego to meet her, the conductor, board and anyone else she could think of to finalize the details. I remember walking around JFK in something approaching a trance and almost missing my Pan Am flight to the coast.
I'm not sure anything particularly magical happened at our first meeting, cordial and businesslike, at San Diego's Lindburgh Field, but we found ourselves staring deeply into each other's eyes during a longish car ride while the conductor babbled away. My main concern was how to arrange another meeting and quickly. Fortunately, there were still contractual details to be mulled over and re-explained: I thought some sort of promotional event in California might provide the right opportunity to discuss them in detail and in person.
To the top of the pageTammy had asked me how we ever got any records made if it took so long to complete a simple contract for an existing master tape. Her case was of course different but the question remains: When Michael Koch and I first began to sketch plans for the label on a paper table cloth at New York's Trattoria del Arte, I realized quickly that the only hope for a new classical record label with a limited budget and artists who were not household names was to build a large catalogue quickly. This would allow for income to be generated and most importantly allow in a few short years for compilations and repackaging of existing catalogue - The Best of Obscure American Classical Music performed by Unknown Artists - that provide cash flow for new recordings. I went home that evening prepared to create a business plan calling for sixty new releases per year. As the sole employee of the nascent label, I would have to make almost all the recordings: organize, produce, engineer, and edit. Of course, we could license the odd tape or purchase an existing master but I made the decision that at least ninety percent of our releases would be home-grown. I also decided that we would not be an audiophile label: this came from my personal doubts about my engineering credentials. And yes, Michael agreed with me that we would pursue a very specific niche - American music performed by young artists.
The practical result of this heady conversation was a life-style consisting of three weeks of non-stop recordings followed by an overnight flight to Munich and a long, scenic drive to Elbigenalp, the Tyrolean headquarters of Koch, where I could spend about twenty hours a day for one week editing the crop of recently made recordings. Each finished tape was then walked by me to the nearly adjacent factory to be pressed into compact discs. (I used to fax Tammy daily; she told me they became less coherent as the week wore on. She was right: she had saved a number of the faxes.) There was no opportunity for such niceties as artist review and approval. I was barely functional after a week spent in the basement studio and am still amazed that no disasters ensued. Although I had edited Arias and Barcarolles in the luxurious and nearby Master Sound, the budget for all future releases could not allow for similar largesse. It was cheaper for me to fly to Austria, stay at the company's guest flat, and work around the clock.
More: Reminiscences PART II