Open Microphone

New Zealand Listener, Volume 28, Issue 725, 5 June 1953, Page 24

Open Microphone

NEWS OF BROADCASTERS, ON AND OFF THE RECORD,

By

Swarf

NCE I had ideas about C) learning the ’cello. An instrument in a second-hand dealer’s window looked interesting, and I asked a well-known ‘cello-playing friend to value it

for me. He inspected it fore and aft and to port and starboard, gave it a few taps on the belly and said "H-m." He took out his pen-knife, scraped the resin under the bridge, and lo, it had been treated with brown boot, polish

and dust to give the illusion of use and age. Maybe it’s been better for a lot of people that my ambition died on the spot. I suppose that old trick, or a variant of it, has been worked on violins, too. Just like a ‘cello, a violin is a violin, is a violin, whichever way you look at it; but some are different from others. The instrument pictured here, for instance, has something about it-a value of £3000-and it belongs to Alan Loveday. Dated 1709, it came from what violinists. call the "golden age of Stradivarius." What about its tone? The noted conductor, Basil Cameron, told Alan Loveday that it was the best Stradivarius he had ever heard. The bow is a Peccatte and the ensemble is carried about in a good, solid wooden case,

TUTOR OF BOTH

W HEN I went to see Loveday the other morning I was accompanied by Eric Woollett, a photographer for the National Publicity Studios, who took this picture. Photographer and

violinist recognised each other immediately, but for a moment Loveday couldn't remember

where they had met. Said Eric Woollett: "Your father taught me the violin in Palmerston North." Said Alan Loveday. "I remember now. He taught me, too." Loveday, Sen., now living in

London, was a versatile man; he also gave instruction on the banjo and guitar. "Being back after 14 years is wonderful,’ said Loveday (who was practising in shirt sleeves on one of Wellington’s near-winter days), "and I've been looking forward to it ever since I left.’ One place Alan Loveday was booked to play in on his present tour of New Zealand was the Mayfair Theatre, Palmerston North. In that theatre, formerly the Palace, his father played the violin with an orches during the old silent picture days.

TUCK SHOP

"\VHAT'S on the menu?" members of the audience asked each other at a recerit Women’s Hour session, conducted -in the 1ZB Radio Theatre by Marina. A new type of stove had been

installed on the stage and the onlookers saw two demonstrators pre-

paring and cooking a complete dinner which was served to the announcers, Guy Nixon and Chris Venning. Just before the session ended the audience was asked to sample freshly-cooked cakes and scones, and everybody, particularly the ‘two announcers, left the theatre satisfied, in a practical way, with the demonstration.

MAKESHIFT

MAGINE how extraordinarily. difficult it must be if you are a bookseller yourself and have to give a Christmas present to a friend of yours whos,

also a bookseller. No gow™™ sending each other a book — that’s obvious;

no good at all. You’d just have to fall back on uninspiring, humdrum presents like boxes of cigars and great magnums of Napoleon brandy.-From a NZBS Book Shop talk.

WONDERFUL!

"Ni ONDERFUL, wonderful Gilbert Harding!" sang two little girls in Britain as they played happily with their toys. Their elder sister, who had seen Danny Kaye’s latest film, Hans Christian Andersen, and. readily suc-

cumbed to the lilt of the main tune, said gently, "It’s ‘Won-

derful, wonderful. Copenhagen, i Gilbert Harding!" "It isn’t,’ said th two children vehemently, "we’ve heardy it on the wireless so we know it’s right!" Their conviction was unshake* able so Harding, who was for 1952-5% acclaimed as the Personality of Year in both television and sound broadcasting, is still the subject of their song.

CRUCIAL FJVE PER CENT

\ THEN he was only three, Vladimir Horowitz would sit quietly for long periods, listening to his mother playing the piano for her own pleasure.

she began to teach him when he was six but there was then no thought of his be-

coming a famous pianist. At 12 he was sent to the Kiev Conservatory. Horowitz, whose name appears frequently i our radio programmes, feels that he

there been no revolution in Russia he would not have become a virtuoso. The revolution caused an upheaval in the affairs of his family and, like many

others, his people were quickly reduced from comfort to want. The young man realised that he had power to help them, and when he was 18 started his career as a pianist. Twenty-five years ago he made his American debut and soon became the main support of his family. For about five years after this his objective was to make his success substantial and lasting. His engagement fee trebled, and it kept rising, Soon he knew he had reached the top and then he began to listen to himself more closely than ever before. He _ read, studied paintings, and listened to other musicians. Racltimaninoff, whose music he had studied as a boy in Kiev, became his friend. In 1933 Horowitz played Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra under the leadership of Toscanini, and in that December he married the conductor’s daughter, Wanda, It is reported that Horowitz has declined to appear on certain commercially sponsored radio programmes because he did not feel that their standards were high enough. "I want to be paid, but I will not be bought," he says. He knows as much about the business side of a concert pianist’s life as his manager does. But he imposes limits on-his earnings by accepting no. more than 35 engagements a year. By doing this he feels that he can keep himself fresh and his performances spontaneous. Each day’s work starts with half an hour of five-finger exercises — not the set types we suffered as children-but exercises of his own invention, for he ‘believes that every finger must be its own master, Then he is likely to work for an hour or two on a composition that will be on his programmes. If it

gives him trouble he does not-.go over it again and again. He lays it aside for another day. "I suppose," says Horowitz, "that all pianists good enough to play in public possess just about the same competence, and that is usually 95 per cent of the job. The crucial five per cent that sets you apart is personality. And if you have the wisdom to study and the luck to grow, perhaps you can achieve a personality quotient of 10 per cent. The higher the percentage of that element, the more you can project, and the greater is the magnetism of your art." In observance of his 25 years before the American public Horowitz played with the Philharmonic early this year. The work was the Tchaikovski B Flat Minor Concerto-the same as he had played in Carnegie Hall under Sir Thomas Beecham in 1928, On the later occasion he was contributing his services for the benefit of the Philharmonic Orchestra’s pension fund. "And more important," said Howard Taubman, music editor of the New York Times, writing about the event, "he sought, with devout eagerness, to serve the audience and the highest artistic standards." *

BABY VOICE

"QC)NE of the people in the What’s My Line? radio team sounds as if she cannot be much more than a girl," writes R.J.C. (Richmond, Christchurch). "Is this so, and would you please print

something about her, with, photograph _ if possible?" You’re

right, R.J.C. The owner of the baby voice is 20-years-old Margot Holden who, young as she is, puts some shrewd questions to the contestants and lisps her way into many a good scoring posi-

tion. The rest of the dossier is that she was born in Mexborough, Yorkshire, and educated at Pontefract, where her family lives. On. leaving school she joined a touring show and later became a part of a conjuror’s act. In 1948 she graduated to membership of the famous Windmill Girls and appeared with them in a number of television programmes. Margot Holden was elected "Windmill Girl of the Year" for 1951. Her colleagues in What’s My Line? (the four ZB stations and 2ZA on Thursdays at 9.0 p.m.) dare Elizabeth Allan, Jerry Desmonde and Richard Attenborough, with Bernard Braden as quiz-master.