“SIT ON A TACK”

Waikato Times, Volume 127, Issue 21188, 10 August 1940, Page 13 (Supplement)

“SIT ON A TACK”

SIR THOMAS BEECHAM’S ADVICE CONDUCTOR’S RUDENESS “Go home and sit on a tack,” That, was the advice of Sir Thomas Beecham, famous visiting conductor, to the 89 members of the Sydney Symphony Orchestra. He was trying to impress on them the right moment for a crescendo, at which they were to act as though they had just sat on a tack—suddenly. It was Sydney’s first glimpse of the great man at work. Sir Thomas, who had stopped concerts in other States to admonish late-comers, arrived late for the rehearsal. He took the rostrum and called out: “Are there any photographers?” Two stepped forward. Put in Place By Pressmen They asked Sir Thomas to look at his score, or raise his baton. “I never do what the Press asks me,” was the reply. “You will do what I want. You can take me winding my watch.” Sir Thomas looked at the ceiling and wound his watch. The photographers shut up their cameras, said “Thank you,” and walked out, leaving Sir Thomas winding. “So you don’t want any photographs,” Sir Thomas called out, as they marched through the door. And the rehearsal started. Sir Thomas is a conductor who could hold interest with a mute orchestra. He sang. He hissed like a villain in a melodrama. He marked time like a sergeant-major keeping step. He rose in his seat and hurled himself forward at the second violins. Pianissimo. He pursed his lips and made sounds like a mother singing softly to her babe.

“Everybody Coughs” As the violins stole through the sweetest part of Berlioz’s “Symponie Fantastique,” he said, “This is where everybody coughs.” Sir Thomas showed the correct way to cough, not interrupting the orchestra like Melbourne and Brisbane audiences, but waiting to the end of a movement. Then he drew a handkerchief from a side pocket and coughed discreetly before raising the baton for the next movement. To give the orchestra the right atmosphere, he said in the midst of the “Fantastique,” “It’s just beginning. People are coming in late.” It made the Sydney orchestra feel right at home. Sir Thomas praised the orchestra, and the orchestra members among themselves praised the conductor. He knew what he wanted from the orchestra—and got most of it. Immediately the rehearsal was over he announced that he would never rehearse in that particular studio again. “It’s too hot. It is brutal to ask anyone to conduct in there ” he said. “Your halls are too hot. Your audiences are too cold,” he said in an interview. “I have never said your audiences are not appreciative, but the applause they have given me has incomparably been the smallest in my experience.” “How much applause do you think you should get?” Sir Thomas was asked. No Applause Rules “How can I lay down a set of regulations for applause?” Sir Thomas replied. “Can I say to Sydney, ‘I get five rounds of applause for this piece in London, seven vounds in Leipzig and 11 rounds in New York?’ “I don’t know why Australian audiences are cold. The sun shines all day in Sydney. It doesn’t shine at all in England. I don’t know why.” Sir Thomas was reminded that he had complained that no one asked him about Hitler, or Mr Churchill. “I can give a serious interview about Hitler, whom I know; about Goering, whom I also know; about i Churchill, who I have known for Churchill, whom I have known for 35 years,” said Sir Thomas, “but not now. You will have to wait until after my first concert.’ ’ Sir Thomas mopped his brow with his handkerchief and asked for a glass of water.