Dirty Music

Before we started work on Prokofiev’s first violin concerto, I told Mr. Galimir that I didn’t know the piece at all, and had in fact never heard it. He wanted to keep it that way, to make sure that I had no damaging influences. “Good!” he exclaimed. “No recordings, and don’t buy the music and put in any bad fingerings. You will use my music!”

“So, next week you’ll bring it in?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Would you like me to call you and remind you?” This was not meant disrespectfully. By this time I had a good feel for what he wanted help with and what he did not. He often appreciated reminders of this kind. But he declined, and I realized later that instead of asking, I should have simply called!

That week, I took his warning not to begin my work on the Prokofiev quite seriously: I didn’t work on it, or any other solo pieces! Instead, I figured that I was busy enough with orchestra and chamber music rehearsals. I have no doubt a glance at my calendar for that week in 1997 would confirm that I was indeed busy, but I should have factored in some time to learn a new piece...

When I got to my next lesson, I walked in ready to begin Prokofiev. I instead heard the dreaded words, “So, what do you play?”

Hoping he was joking, I said, “Prokofiev 1?”

“Very good. Go.”

I began to sweat. “But I don’t have the music. Did you bring your music, with your bowings and fingerings?”

This time he paused, but without any sweat. “You know--I completely forgot! It is in New York.”

I kicked myself for not calling him.

He recovered instantly. “So, what do you play?”

Not wishing to admit that I hadn’t worked on anything new, I fumbled for a few seconds. Then I latched onto a life preserver! I suddenly remembered that I had practiced for a casual recital the next week. Part of the repertoire was Bartok Rumanian Dances, six short folk dances with piano accompaniment. I didn’t have a pianist with me, and the whole piece was less than ten minutes long, but it was something! Plus, Bartok was near and dear to his heart. It was perfect. I offered the Rumanian Dances.

“OK, go.”

I played the first, for once hoping that he would stop me and pick it apart. He simply motioned to go to the next one. I played the second, all of thirty seconds long, and he did the same. My life preserver started springing leaks. I played the third, composed entirely of tricky artificial harmonics. No reaction. I poured my heart into the fourth, a sensual gypsy lament. I danced wildly through the fifth and sixth, the sixth building through tempo after tempo until the end is a frenzy of barely articulated notes. My bow flew off the string, and to my astonishment Mr. Galimir leaped out of his chair, a triumphant look on his face.

“Terrific!” he cried, raising two clenched fists above his head!

He had never reacted like this to my playing. I was dumbfounded.

Mr. Galimir also froze like a statue, then gradually melted back into his chair, the look of triumph slowly fading into an ironic smile.

“It was not very good.”

My stomach was turning over and over at this point.

He continued, this time yelling, “It’s dirty music and dirty playing!” Then, after a pause, “What else do you have?”

I admitted that I didn’t have anything else. What could I do? I asked if he would help me with my chamber music parts, which he did. He didn’t warn me about neglecting my solo practice, but I didn’t exactly need explicit instructions. We began the Prokofiev the next week.