Week after week the members of our orchestra gave up mote lucrative
engagements to play with us for straight union scale. Even the more
calloused and blases among them were touched with awe, crowding into
our control room to hear the playbacks and to observe the Maestro’s
every reaction. The problem of finding enough space for the eager auditors
was just as acute the last year as the first.
They realized that once this spring ceased its flow, a whole world of
tradition would vanish with it.
As with many great musicians, Bruno Walter’s nervous system was virtually
helpless against musical magnetic fields. It was impossible for him to
listen to a playback with quiet bands and feet.
Heavily charged music would bring great slashing breaths and gestures
from him at crucial downbeats. More than once I prudently relieved him of
his glass of orange juice when I heard a climax approaching.
“Isn’t that enorm? Isn’t that really some THING.” [...]
Walter’s speech was animated and “sung” with the vocal notes rising and
falling. Even his mispronunciations (disease he pronounced dissease, in
line with its archaic meaning) were based on an extensive knowledge of
English word roots. He liked to use American slang and seldom had to
resort to German for linguistic precision.
In our endless discussion of music and musicians he did not make
derogatory remarks about colleagues; only about a certain few he was
silent. Toscanini, in the world’s eye his greatest rival, was a household
deity, and I once created a brief frost by making a negative remark
about him.
In the music world of ego rampant, this is indeed “some THING.” [...]
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