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--
[WindSong Press Ltd.]
In June, 1948 Adolph Herseth started his
fabulous career with the Chicago Symphony
Orchestra. On June 7, 1998, the Chicago Symphony Orchestra will Celebrate
CSO Principal Trumpet Adolph Herseth's 50th Anniversary with Star-Studded
June 7 Tribute Concert, Gabriel's Children.
During the years, many articles have been written about Mr. Herseth. One of
the finest was in the September 1994 issue of the Smithsonian where Jim
Doherty's For All Who Crave a Horn That Thrills, This Bud's for You
appeared. For this special occasion, the Smithsonian and Mr Doherty have
granted WindSong Press permission to reprint this during the month of June.
During Mr Herseth's tenure, the Chicago Symphony Brass Section grew to be
considered the finest in the world. References were made worldwide about
The Chicago Brass Sound. Many members of the CSO Brass Section have
commented, "We are supposed to fit between Herseth and Jacobs." They were
the bookends of perhaps the greatest brass section of any symphony
orchestra.
In the section about Adolph Herseth in Arnold Jacobs: Song and Wind, Mr.
Jacobs stated "I said it years ago and I'll say it again that Bud Herseth
is the finest brass player I have ever worked with. He is a marvelous man.
I am proud to have known him and proud to have worked with him. I consider
him a friend." This has also been translated into Norwegian.
An orchestral section is a team effort. Those who had the privilege of
playing with Mr. Herseth are listed in the Trumpet Section of the Chicago
Symphony Orchestra 1948-1998
Of Norwegian decent, Mr. Herseth has traveled to Norway in 1977 for a
seminar. Ole Utnes' has a web page about Bud Herseth from Norway.
Congratulations Bud and thank you for 50 great years!
[Image]
For All Who Crave a Horn That Thrills, This Bud's for You*
By Jim Doherty
From Smithsonian, 5 no. 6, (September 1994): 94-103
Reprinted by permission of Smithsonian.
Adolph (Bud) Herseth is a down-to-earth guy but there aren't many trumpet
players who can generate such a heavenly sound
Bud Herseth and I are in the basement of his two-story stucco house in Oak
Park, Illinois, the town where Ernest Hemingway grew up and Frank Lloyd
Wright got started in the architecture business. It s a basement pretty
much like any other low ceiling, bare light bulbs, concrete-block walls.
Two things stand out.
In the back, where you might expect to find a workbench or a table saw,
there is a makeshift music studio. Here the ceiling is covered with
acoustical tiles, and several rugs are thrown across the floor. Some 50
horns of various configurations are scattered about, together with a couple
of hundred mouthpieces, several plastic bottles of valve oil and reams of
sheet music. A chair, occupied by Bud, faces a music stand.
The second thing is the noise. Bud plays the trumpet for a living, and this
is where he practices. When I phoned earlier to ask if I could sit in on a
session, he invited me to come right over. After ushering me downstairs, he
gave a brief lesson in the history of the trumpet, illustrating it with
examples from his collection, including a straight, valveless bugle of the
type once used for battle signals and ceremonial fanfares. Now, having run
through a brisk routine of warm-up exercises, he is rehearsing a number for
an upcoming concert.
It is a hellishly difficult piece. His face is as scarlet as a radish from
the exertion, but he plays without a hint of strain. Some trumpeters make
you nervous. They seem to be silently pleading, "Please, chops, don't fail
me now." Not Bud. With him it is simply a matter of "Just do it!" He is
sitting with his feet planted firmly on the floor, his back ramrod
straight, his ample gut protruding over his belt. He glares with unblinking
eyes at the music on the stand. Falter? Fracture a high note? Blow some
air? Forget it. Isn't even a possibility.
As for the racket he is making, words like "celestial" and "stupendous"
come to mind. At times Bud fuses the robust pealing of his instrument into
a core of sound so focused, so dense, I can't help but wonder if he's about
to undertake a feat of alchemy, somehow transforming what is, after all,
mere pulsations of air into a palpable substance a torrent of silver,
perhaps, that fills every inch of the room, encapsulating us in music like
a couple of insects drowned in amber. Talk about power. If the man could
generate electricity with that thing, he'd light up half the state.
The soloist pauses, hums several bars, sucks in a breath and forges ahead.
When he has finished, he pushes his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose
and grins. "Marvelous tune! Lovely tune! Knocks me out every time I hear
it. Sensational! Fabulous!"
That's Bud-speak for "I like it." It s a good thing, too, because he's
going to be playing it a lot in the weeks ahead. Typically he puts in three
basement sessions a day, practicing 40 or 50 minutes at a crack. But this
is a down-to-earth guy in more ways than one. He's been married to the same
woman for 51 years, has three grown children and five grandchildren. He
enjoys fishing, playing golf and rooting for the Chicago Bears. He has a
fondness for good food and drink. He once described himself to me, in the
course of a long, bibulous dinner at his favorite Spanish restaurant, as "a
bit of a smartass."
Bud counts among his friends and the musicians he admires most a disparate
group of trumpeters that includes Maynard Ferguson, Doc Severinsen and the
late jazz artist Dizzy Gillespie, who was famous for his upthrust horn and
bulging cheeks. Gillespie, a black man, once kidded him: "Bud, how come
your cheeks don't puff up when you play?" Bud replied: "Diz, how come your
face doesn't get red when you play?" Bud himself is not a member of a jazz
band. This fall he will begin his 47th season as the principal trumpet
player with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.
The Chicago has long been recognized as one of the world's great
orchestras, and Adolph Sylvester Herseth has had a major role in the
evolution of its distinctive sound. The trumpet is the most strenuous of
all instruments, and the most conspicuous. The trumpet section is a
symphony orchestra's offensive line. It provides the muscle for those
clamorous big moments in Bruckner, Beethoven and Strauss. It is also called
upon to punctuate, embellish and support. A good trumpet section is steady,
confident, aggressive. The Chicago's is not good, it is spectacular, and
Herseth, its leader, is the main reason.
Although he is not well known to the general public, to the cognoscenti of
symphonic music the world over Bud is the premier orchestral trumpeter of
his time, and perhaps of all time. Fellow musicians hail him as "a legend,"
"a phenomenon" and "the prototype." Critics knock themselves out singing
his praise. He is a hero to brass students at music schools. Wherever the
Chicago goes on tour, young players mob him.
It s unusual for an orchestral musician to receive such adulation, but Bud
is special. To do what he does on the concert stage, finishing off grace
notes with extraordinary finesse, handling bravura solos and lyrical
melodies with equal aplomb, consistently setting a virtuoso standard that
inspires his colleagues to do the big things and the little things superbly
night after night, week after week takes the concentration of a surgeon,
the panache of a showman and the nerves of a fighter pilot.
Bud is more than a great instrumentalist. He s a walking history book. He
has played under Bruno Walter, who was a close personal friend and
associate of the Austrian composer Gustav Mahler; Fritz Reiner, who knew
Richard Strauss; Pierre Monteux, who knew Stravinsky; and even Stravinsky
himself.
Just as Bud knows conductors Leopold Stokowski, George Szell, Eugene
Ormandy, Erich Leinsdorf and Leonard Bernstein top a short list of other
celebrated maestros who have taken guest turns in Chicago conductors know
Bud. "Some musicians of great stature become, in effect, the artistic
consciences of their orchestras, Daniel Barenboim, the Chicago's current
music director, told me not long ago. "Bud Herseth has been the artistic
conscience of this orchestra for many years.
Playing the horn professionally was the furthest thing from Bud's mind when
he was growing up in Bertha, Minnesota (pop. 500). His parents, both
music-loving Norwegians, expected each of their four children to lake up an
instrument. Bud was given a trumpet when was 7. Since his father was the
school superintendent, It was assumed that Bud would play at community
functions as well as in the school band; he got over the trauma of
performing in public at an early age.
He met his future wife, Avis Bottemiller, in fourth grade. She, too, played
the trumpet, though not with quite the same devotion. Sitting out on the
front porch of her house, Avis could hear Bud practicing at his house. When
he stopped, she knew he was probably on his way over to see her.
Bud attended Luther College in Decorah, Iowa, his father's alma mater.
(Bud's class ring, dated 1910, is actually his dad s.) He majored in math
and planned on going into actuarial work, but World War II intervened and
he ended up playing in a Navy band. When he got out of the service, he went
to the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston on the G.I. Bill.
A couple of years later, he auditioned for what he assumed was a low-level
position with the Chicago. The conductor at that time, the flamboyant
Arthur Rodzinski, was so impressed that he announced: "Well, you are the
new first trumpet." Bud was stunned. He was 26, fresh out of the
conservatory and barely knew the repertoire. "I guess I'd better go home
and practice," he said.
One of his first numbers with the Chicago was Richard Strauss "Ein
Heldenleben." The guest conductor was Fritz Reiner who, after listening to
the new man at rehearsal, asked someone in the brass section, "Where did
you find that jewel?" When Howard Barlow, another formidable maestro, heard
Bud for the first time he inquired, "Where did you learn to play like that,
New York?" "Nah," Bud replied. "Bertha."
It s a strange world Bud got himself into. Consider, for example, what
happens at the beginning of every concert. One moment you see a hundred or
so formally attired men and women up on stage sawing, plucking, blowing and
otherwise tormenting their instruments like so many crazed penguins. The
next moment another penguin comes rushing in from the wings, points a stick
and suddenly chaos becomes music.
Think about it rubbing taut strings with horsehair, vibrating lips on
coiled lengths of tubing, whacking animal skins with mallets, and so on,
all to produce sounds in accordance with instructions written down by
individuals who for the most part have long since departed Earth. It's
ridiculous. As a lover of symphonic music, I ve often wondered what it
takes in the way of preparation to get from the ridiculous to the sublime,
and so I made arrangements recently to sit on the wide, shallow stage of
Orchestra Hall with Bud and the Chicago's 109 other musicians during a
rehearsal.
I am surrounded by violins. Bud and his three trumpet cohorts are sitting
in the middle of the back row, behind me and to my left. The noise of the
musicians warming up is too hideous. It is hot out here under the lights.
The rest of the hall is dark, except for the clusters of tiny illuminations
that decorate the box seats.
Barenboim, a stocky figure with a familiar, heavy-lidded look, ascends the
podium. He is wearing a long-sleeved white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the
throat. The onetime prodigy's face is still youthful, but his short hair is
graying now, and thinning. The first order of business today is Five Pieces
for Orchestra (Op. 16), a series of intricate poems by the apostle of
atonal music, Arnold Schoenberg. Barenboim hurriedly pages through the
score, stopping frequently to critique the previous day s rehearsal. He
asks the clarinets for more crescendo at a certain place. He asks the oboes
for a different sound somewhere else. "May I just say this once more?" Now
he is addressing the entire orchestra. He seems almost excessively polite,
and the musicians, in turn, give him their full attention. "It is a
question of the thinness of the sound," he says, raising his baton.
When conducting, Barenboim does not hack and slice the air like his dynamic
predecessor, Georg Solti. (It was said that Solti seldom finished a
rehearsal without exposing his navel.) His hands move gracefully,
unobtrusively; his head tilts to one side with his mouth half open, his
eyes half closed. He seems far more intent on listening than leading. When
the flutes chirp brightly, he flashes them a warm, appreciative smile.
Suddenly Barenboim interrupts. Excuse me, clarinets, but I don't think you
understand this line . . . violins, maybe here you can give me just a
little more sound." The rehearsal moves along in fits and starts. At one
point, Barenboim abruptly drops his arms and gapes at a violinist in the
front row. "You're playing sixteenths!" he exclaims. "Should be
thirty-seconds." A woman sitting near me sighs and mutters, "Oh, come on,
Daniel."
During a break, Bud and several others relax in a corner of the players
lounge and compare Barenboim and Solti as rehearsal conductors. Nearby,
four men are involved in a bridge game. Several women are browsing the
notices on a bulletin board. "Solti was efficient," Buds saying. "He knew
what was possible. Danny is not yet reconciled to the fact that not
everything is possible. He's very fussy, but he doesn't try to be as
Olympian as Solti. He'll kid around and joke with you."
When Bud arrived in Chicago, the orchestra still had both feet planted
firmly in the 19th century. Over the first 50 years of its existence, it
had been led by only two men, both German by birth, and it was steeped in
the Germanic musical tradition. That meant ample servings oft'ns,
Beethoven, Haydn and Mozart, and a strong reliance on players with an Old
World background.
Many of Bud's new colleagues were aging masters who had immigrated to this
country years earlier. Some were so set in their ways that they still
affected the black rehearsal jackets customarily worn by musicians in
Europe. For them, music was not a job, it was a calling.
Although it was a good orchestra in those days, the Chicago had not yet
achieved the stature of the Philadelphia, the Cleveland or the New York
Philharmonic. It was said that it was capable of playing great concerts but
seldom did. Then the board of trustees hired Fritz Reiner, one of the
symphonic world's last grand autocrats.
The Hungarian-born conductor's sinister reputation was more appropriate to
a movie monster than a maestro. But Reiner was also renowned for his vast
repertoire, extraordinary ear and meticulous preparation. He built
outstanding orchestras in Cincinnati and Pittsburgh by firing people. In
Chicago, he discovered that he could work with the considerable talent he
had inherited. First, though, came a period of relentless testing.
When an individual had an important part coming up, Reiner would toy with
him mercilessly to make sure he was ready. One day he made Bud go over the
same demanding passage a dozen times, and then asked him how many more he
could manage. Bud looked at his watch. "I've got till 12:30," he said.
Reiner insisted on perfection. Whether the music was an old war-horse or a
contemporary work by Stravinsky, Hindemith or his friend Bela Bartok, he
was ruthless about balance and intonation. "It is not clean!" he harangued
the players. "It must be clean!"
In due course, with its majestic strings buoyed by the sensational
outpourings of a rejuvenated brass section, America's best unknown
orchestra finally began to make a name for itself. The glorious Reiner era
was succeeded, after an interregnum of several years, by the equally
exciting reign of Reiner's fellow countryman Georg Solti. Intense, antsy,
decisive, Solti was an irresistible force. He had the ideas and the drive
to create a mystique about the Chicago, a mystique that convinced audiences
around the world that it was one of the most exciting ensembles ever to
take the concert stage.
Like any successful conductor, Solti knew the music and had strong ideas
about how it should be presented. What set him apart from many of his peers
was his willingness to compromise with musicians who had their own ideas.
If, for example, he heard Bud do something he didn't like at rehearsal, he
made the correction. "No, no, my dear not da-da-de. I want
biddy-biddy-boo." Next time, though, if Bud still played da-da-de,
typically Solti would relent. "That's fine, my dear. Do it that way."
An unabashed romantic, Solti embraced the hearty Teutonic fare that had
dominated the Chicago's menu from the beginning, but he also served up
entrees of Wagner and the post-romantics Mahler and Bruckner. Indeed,
Mahler's Fifth Symphony, with its emphasis on tremendous performances from
the brass, eventually became identified as the Chicago's signature work;
audiences expected to hear it. At a reception one evening after the
umpteenth performance, Bud went up to Solti and said, "Maestro, I felt
there was something special about the way we played it tonight." Solti
glared at him and hissed: "My God, Bud, I can't stand it anymore!"
The "band," as Bud calls the Chicago, was sometimes referred to during
Solti's tenure as "the perfect orchestra" because each section was so
strong. Knockout performers like Dale Clevenger on the French horn, oboist
Ray Still and Arnold Jacobs on the tuba could blow people away. They were
willing to submerge their big personalities, however, to achieve the
wondrously cohesive effect that became known as "The Chicago Sound."
Every great orchestra generates a distinctive sound. The Chicago's, as it
has evolved from Reiner to Solti to Barenboim, is characteristically
full-bodied and powerful, and no one has contributed more to it than Bud.
"You can't overestimate the pressure of being the principal trumpet in an
orchestra like that," says Charlie Geyer, a teacher at the Eastman School
of Music in Rochester, New York, who played alongside Bud for 12 years.
"You must always be outstanding." What makes Bud outstanding?
"Consistency," Geyer says. "Love of the music. A definite style beautiful
phrasing. Technically clear. A tremendous leader. In his playing, Bud
literally demands that people follow him."
Not, mind you, that the man is perfect. There was the time, for example,
when he removed a valve to lubricate it during a performance. The conductor
signaled for him to play, but there was no sound. He put the valve in
backward. He fixed it and started over. Again, no sound. He had "fixed" the
wrong valve.
Like most orchestral musicians, Bud is not awed by conductors, but he gets
away with tweaking the lion's tail in ways other players would not dare.
"Hey, Maestro!" he once razzed Solti at a post-concert reception. "Anytime
you think I'm not following you, how about you following me for a while?"
Another time, feigning great seriousness, he asked Solti: "Do you know what's
the hardest part of your job?" "What's that, Bud?" Solti replied,
genuinely puzzled. "Getting it," Bud said.
In his cramped quarters at Orchestra Hall, Barenboim recently told me how
he turned the tables on Bud one night. During a rehearsal of Brahms Fourth
Symphony, he asked Bud to play a particular note an octave higher than it
was indicated in the score. "No way, Maestro," Bud said. "This performance
is being recorded, and I'm not going down in history as the man who did
that." When it came time during the concert, Barenboim looked expectantly
at Bud, who shook his head no. Afterward Barenboim called Bud into his
dressing room and delivered a long, fancy speech about how much he had
enjoyed working with him over the years. "But tonight you disappointed me,"
he concluded, whipping out a rubber chicken and presenting it with a
flourish." Tonight you chickened out.
Joking aside, Barenboim's story illustrates an essential aspect of Bud's
personality. He is tough. Early in his career, a car accident cost him a
half-dozen front teeth and split his lower lip so badly 13 stitches were
needed to close it. A mere mortal might have feared the end of his playing
days. Bud had his mouth rebuilt and six weeks later resumed his seat. His
lip was numb and his mouthpiece felt funny, yet somehow he produced the
same gorgeous sound. He can't explain it.
That pretty much sums up Bud's whole approach. He refuses to make a big
deal about "technique." Playing less to do with the mouth than the ear, he
says. "You have to start with a very precise sense of how something should
sound. Then, instinctively, you modify your lip and your breathing and the
pressure of the horn to obtain that sound.
"A lot of potentially good horn players have been screwed up by teachers
who insist that the only way to play is the way they play. That's a crock.
Each person has to do it his or her way. There's no secret about how you
learn to make a good sound. You work your butt off."
To succeeding generations of Chicago players and symphony goers, Bud has
become the personification of the same iron discipline those old men in
their black jackets once represented for him. "You have to have the
discipline," he says. "If you don't come with discipline in your soul,
somebody's going to put it there." Translated, that means practice,
practice, practice.
Bud's routine has varied little since he and Avis moved into their house on
South Clarence Street in 1949. On a concert day, the orchestra typically
schedules a 2 hour morning rehearsal; the concert itself may run 2 hours or
more. On a non-concert day, there may be two rehearsals, one in the
morning, one after lunch. Bud usually catches the 9 o'clock train a few
blocks from the house for the ten-mile ride into the city. He warms up for
15 or 20 minutes before leaving and again before rehearsal starts. On
"free" days, he puts in his three sessions downstairs.
The work week is seven days long for Bud. He seldom skips practice on
weekends and holidays and doesn't go anywhere without taking a horn or
mouthpiece. It's not the amount of time he puts in that's so draining; it's
the intensity, the physical stress and the pressure. The concert season
extends from mid-September to Christmas. After a two-week break, it
continues until the end of May. The orchestra plays an eight-week summer
season at Ravinia, an outdoor performing arts center in the suburbs north
of Chicago. There usually is an extended foreign tour in the spring or
fall, as well.
For all this the musicians are well paid. The union starting salary exceeds
$70,000. Most players make more than $100,000; Bud probably earns at least
half again as much. But the money, he insists, is not what keeps him going.
It is (and you can envision the boy from Bertha when he says this) the
simple thrill of being there. "I get to play with all these great
colleagues, to play the world's greatest music under the world s greatest
conductors and with the world's greatest soloists, and I've been able to do
this for, what, 46 years? Somebody's kidding me!"
If Bud can look back on many good times with the Chicago, some were better
than others. The verdict is not yet in on Barenboim. Bud is fond of him,
but not everyone is enthusiastic. A brilliant pianist, Barenboim enjoyed a
long relationship with the Chicago as a soloist and guest conductor before
taking over from Solti three years ago. Since then, he has received the
kind of tough scrutiny that befalls anyone who succeeds a legend.
Taking the measure of the maestro
Critics inside and outside the orchestra have grumbled that the Chicago is
losing its edge, that it is inconsistent, that Barenboim has yet, in that
overworked phrase, to put his own imprimatur on the ensemble's work. There
are others, however, who believe the engaging maestro has lately begun to
do just that. Barenboim's supporters say he is more subtle and
sophisticated than Solti, more attuned to nuance and less concerned about
showy effects.
More is at stake than purely artistic considerations. The Chicago, like any
major symphony orchestra, is a nonprofit operation. Since subscriptions and
ticket sales cover only about 40 percent of its $36 million annual budget,
the orchestra must raise the rest. Other challenges, not just for the
Chicago but for ensembles all over the country, center on the nagging
question of cultural elitism the need to broaden the symphony's narrow (and
aging) constituency and reinvigorate the traditional repertoire.
Such cosmic considerations are the furthest thing from Bud's mind on this
splendid afternoon at Ravinia. Amid a flotilla of picnic tables, he is the
center of attention at a noisy gathering of relatives and friends. The
tables are heaped with comestibles, the wine and beer are flowing but not
for Bud. This evening the guest of honor will stand before his beloved
orchestra and negotiate the difficult terrain of Haydn's Trumpet Concerto,
the "tune" he has been practicing in his basement lo these many weeks.
Avis, an energetic and vivacious woman, seems to be everywhere at once.
Bud, resplendent in vivid green trousers and a yellow shirt, is more
stationary. He responds to the affectionate teasing of his grandchildren
with gruff good humor but nevertheless seems preoccupied. "He never acts
like he's got anything down pat, no matter how often he's played it," his
daughter Chris tells me. "He doesn't get nervous, exactly, but for as long
as I can remember he's sort of tuned out the rest of us when he's had a
hard concert coming up. He's thinking."
Bud's greatest worry nowadays, Avis says, is that he will stay on too long.
"We've known some musicians who didn't realize when it was time to quit,
and it was sad." We are watching a solitary figure in green and yellow
trudge across the sun-drenched meadow toward the pavilion. Bud left
abruptly, without making farewells. "He needs time by himself to get
ready," Avis explains.
A couple of hours later, wearing a tuxedo and a smile, Bud walks on stage
before a nearly full house in the pavilion and proceeds to play the Haydn
concerto. He does not just play it well. He plays it beautifully and, in
the melodious slow movement, the lilting andante, he plays it with deep
emotion. When he has finished, his fellow musicians applaud, and the
audience, cheering, rises. He pushes his spectacles up on the bridge of his
nose and grins. Yeah Bud. Sensational, Fabulous!
[Image]
Adolph Herseth
Excerpted from Arnold Jacobs: Song and Wind**
Jacobs has the highest praise for Adolph "Bud" Herseth. "I said it years
ago and I'll say it again that Bud Herseth is the finest brass player I
have ever worked with. He is a marvelous man. I am proud to have known him
and proud to have worked with him. I consider him a friend."
Jacobs considers himself a student of Herseth's since he bases his
conception of how a trumpet should sound by Herseth's playing. He is
constantly telling trumpet players to, "Play it like Bud would."
When Jacobs joined the CSO, the trumpets were a normal section. According
to Jacobs, "In the brass, it really started to improve dramatically with
the hiring of Herseth, and of course, our trumpets really moved into a top
flight relationship."
"Herseth joined us at Ravinia, and the first work he played [under Reiner]
was Ein Heldenleben. Reiner had been my conductor at the Curtis Institute
of Music for seven years and five years in the Pittsburgh Symphony, so when
he came here, I knew him quite well. He came up after the rehearsal and
said to me, "Where did you find that jewel?"
At one time, Jacobs kept track of errors that Herseth made. "He made a
mistake about once every three years perfection all the time."
Adolph Sylvester Herseth was born in Lake Park, Minnesota on July 25, 1921.
His father, who was a school superintendent in Bertha, Minnesota
[population 510], introduced him to the trumpet. Jacobs, who lived in
Willow Brook, California [population 400] has commented, "I'm the only
person who came from a smaller town than Herseth."
Herseth got a trumpet when he was in second grade but essentially ignored
it. Then his school got a new band director, his father got him a new
instruction book, and he developed a new interest. "I found that the more I
practiced, the better I played, and the better I played, the more I enjoyed
it."
It was in fourth grade that Herseth met his future wife, Avis who also
played the trumpet. During the summer of 1937, Herseth went to the first
state high school band camp that was held at the University of Minnesota.
Here he studied with James Greco of the Minneapolis [now Minnesota]
Symphony Orchestra.
After high school he enrolled at his father's alma mater, Luther College in
Decorah, Iowa. He was not a music major but instead, studied mathematics.
During World War II he served as a Navy bandsman at the Iowa pre-flight
school and then attended the U.S. Navy School of Music. He ended his naval
service with the Band of the Philippine Sea Frontier in the South Pacific.
After the war, he wanted to attend music school using the GI Bill. He wrote
letters of application to four schools, the New England Conservatory,
Curtis Institute, Eastman School of Music, and the Juilliard School of
Music.
"I really did not have any intention of being a professional trumpet
player. I wanted to get a master's degree for teaching purposes. I wanted
to study with a high-class symphonic trumpet player because I found I
enjoyed that kind of music and I enjoyed hearing those guys play."
The New England Conservatory admitted him January 1946. He studied with
members of the Boston Symphony, first with Marcel Lafosse, Boston's second
trumpet. His final year was with Boston's principal trumpet, Georges Mager.
In 1948 he graduated from the New England Conservatory. He then received a
telegram from CSO conductor Arthur Rodzinski.
Herseth knew that Rodzinski was Music Director of the Chicago Symphony, but
he never gave much thought to playing in a symphony. He just figured that
Rodzinski was between appearances in Chicago and was looking around for
some reserves, perhaps someone to play down at the end of the section. "I
did not know how he got my name or anything else."
He went to New York and auditioned in Rodzinski's apartment for an hour and
a half. When it was over, Rodzinski congratulated Herseth, "You are the new
first trumpet player for the Chicago Symphony." Herseth was astounded. "I
about went through the floor," he says. But he was not inclined to turn the
job down.
Subsequently he discovered that the job had been offered to the first
trumpet player of the Boston Symphony. He had turned it down but, having
heard Herseth play, he recommended him for the job. The irony was that
Rodzinski left the Chicago Symphony soon after that and Herseth never
played under him. "I often joke that they fired him as soon as they learned
that he hired me" a twenty-four-year-old who hadn't finished his musical
studies, as the first trumpet in the Chicago Symphony.
Herseth's years in the CSO have included many solo appearances with the
Orchestra and with Chicago Symphony brass ensembles. He is an original
member of the Chicago Symphony Brass Quintet and he has been active as a
soloist with community and regional musical ensembles and orchestras
throughout the country. He holds Doctor of Music [Honoris Causa] degrees
from Luther College and the New England Conservatory of Music and has given
master classes throughout the world.
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Trumpet Section of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra 1948-1998**
Third /
Season Principal Second Trumpet Assistant Fourth Trumpet
Trumpet Principal
Trumpet
48-49 Adolph Herseth Gerald Huffman Renold Schilke Frank Holz
49-50
50-51 Rudolph Nashan Gerald Huffman Renold Schilke
51-52 William Babcock Robert Grocock
52-53 Vincent
Cichowicz
53-54
54-55
55-56
56-57
57-58
58-59 Frank Kaderabek
59-60
60-61 Vincent Rudolph Nashan
Cichowicz
61-62
62-63
63-64 Vacant - Phyllis
Blech (sub)
64-65 William Scarlett
65-66
66-67 William Scarlett Charles Geyer
67-68
68-69
69-70
70-71
71-72
72-73
73-74
74-75 Charles Geyer Philip Smith
75-76
76-77
77-78
78-79 George Vosburgh Timothy Kent
79-80
80-81
81-82
82-83
83-84
84-85
85-86
86-87
87-88
88-89
89-90
90-91
91-92 Matthew Comerford
(vacant position)
92-93
93-94
94-95 William Scarlett Mark Ridenour
95-96
96-97 John Hagstrom
William Scarlett
97-98 retired, John
Hagstrom won the
position
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*Doherty, Jim, For All Who Crave a Horn That Thrills, This Buds for You,
Smithsonian, 5 no. 6, (September 1994): 94-103 Copyright ꤱ994 by
Smithsonian. All rights reserved. May not be reproduced in any form or by
any electronic or mechanical means without permission in writing. Reprinted
by permission of Smithsonian.
**Arnold Jacobs: Song and Wind. Copyright ꤱ996 by Brian Frederiksen.
Printed in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of
this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical
means without permission in writing from the author.
*** Years 1948-1988 from Arnold Jacobs: Song and Wind. 1986 - 1998
furnished by Tom Crown. Reprinted from Ole Utnes' Bud Herseth
[Image]
Last Updated on 06/01/98
[Image]
WindSong Press Limited
P.O. Box 146
Gurnee, Illinois 60031 U.S.A.
Phone 847 223-4586 Fax 847 223-4586
[Image]
Adolph Herseth, Arnold Jacobs Biography and Tributes , Arnold Jacobs: Song
and Wind , Reviews of Arnold Jacobs: Song and Wind , Conversations with
Arnold Jacobs , Edward Kleinhammer Biography. Mastering the Trombone,
Arnold Jacobs - A Bibliography, Use of Selected Breathing Devices ,
Canadian Brass / Arnold Jacobs Mouthpiece, Mouthpiece Rims, Variable
Resistance Compound Gauge, Ordering Information, Worldwide Dealers /
Conferences and Masterclasses, Current Topics , Link to information about
Arnold Jacobs' Masterclass at Northwestern University , Links, Home
[Image]
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