Guest Author Robert Debbaut

Lenny’s 70^th Birthday Tour

 

It was a festive night in dear Ann Arbor town.  The Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra (VPO) was in residence again with Leonard Bernstein on the podium.   The time was October of 1988, and as part of what was dubbed "Leonard Bernstein's 70th birthday" Tour, VPO's only performances outside of major US cities would be in Ann Arbor at the vaunted University of Michigan Hill Auditorium, one of the greatest  music halls in the world.

 

Bernstein had in particular wanted one concert on this tour to be in Ann Arbor because of the acoustically superior hall and the University of Michigan's storied conducting program. Led by his protégé’ from Tanglewood, Gustav Meier, Michigan's conducting program had grown to be one of the three preeminent institutions of conductor training in the world. Graduates had won major competitions and held music directorships and professorships of conducting literally all over the world.  

Unfortunately, Maestro Bernstein had no time to come and share with us at the conducting seminar, but it was announced by Professor Meier that all the conducting students were invited to a reception in his honor at the President's House on South University following the concert.

“Black tie, gentlemen,” Meier said with a smile.

Two years prior VPO and Bernstein had been in town for two concerts: a magnificent Mahler 5 and a second evening of Sibelius 5 and Bernstein's own Serenade After Plato's Symposium.  This year featured Beethoven's Leonore Overture No. 3, Bernstein's Preludes, Fugues and Riffs for Clarinet solo and wind band, and Brahms' Fourth Symphony, a work the VPO had indeed premiered while Brahms was still living and with the composer in the audience.

The concert was great!  It is a rare privilege to watch a composer conduct his own music and Bernstein, VPO and the soloist, their principal clarinet, did not disappoint.  Afterwards, dressed one and all in tuxedos for our "black tie event," we all rushed over to the President's House to, of course, wait. 

Upon entering all received name tags from the June Cleaveresque Mrs. Duderstadt, wife of the university president, and were encouraged to partake of punch and cookies.  Bernstein was, of course, not there yet and, as we found out, not even CLOSE to being there.  Mr. Bernstein had an endearing policy of greeting every single soul who would come back to congratulate him after concerts.  This particular evening, however, it was not endearing but annoying--we all wanted to see "Lenny."

After what seemed an eternity of small talk with people one saw every damned day, a bit of a stir was detected near the side entrance of the President's House. Soon, dressed in a blue sport coat, grey slacks, blue pin-striped shirt and sporting what we were later told was a copy of Serge Koussevitzky's cape (black with red satin lining, tied in a bow at the neck) appeared the guest of honor, his silver mane combed back a bit, his contagious smile lighting up the room, made that much brighter by the warm applause accorded him by all there gathered.  To his right there appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, an arm holding a bowl of amber liquid and ice. 

Nodding to acknowledge the applause, Bernstein reached without looking, took the bowl o' scotch, quaffed down a healthy draft and said:

"Okay, who's voting for George Bush?"

We all laughed and looked around as three or four brave souls of the hundred or so there raised their hands.

"Only three of you?" Bernstein exclaimed, "THANK GOD!!!"

Before even shedding the cape, he then went to each one of those who had expressed support for the then-vice president's aspiration for higher office and teased them about it. One faculty member-- apparently spineless (probably an associate dean; one doesn’t get those jobs based on one’s backbone)—nodded and agreed with every point Bernstein made against GHWB.  Exasperated by the lack of defensive arguments from one who, while he had made up his mind, lacked the clear conviction necessary to engage Leonard Bernstein in a public debate, Lenny raised his voice a bit and asked the spineless sycophantic associate dean for bedknobs and broomsticks:

"So why are you voting for George Fucking Bush?" 

Try to imagine how much that delighted all of us.

Next in the evening's comedy came Ken Fischer, the impressario of the University of Michigan's Performing Arts Series and ostensibly Bernstein's host.  Bernstein complimented Fischer on how neatly his pocket handkerchief was folded.  Fischer giggled a bit, said something to the effect that it was just fabric on cardboard and then pulled It from his pocket to show everyone.

Bernstein rolled his eyes with an audible "Aaaauugh."  

Fischer said to him "Surely you don't fold your own before all these concerts."

Bernstein said: "Yes, I do, every night, and I tie my own bow tie." (On the Monday following this event I could be found at a State Street haberdasher purchasing my own tie-yourself white bow tie).

Each of we five conducting students was sought out by him during the evening.  About each of us he knew a little tidbit--things he shouldn't have known at all.

For example, saying to a colleague who had changed his name for professional reasons "That isn't your real name, is it?"

Either he was psychic as well as multi-talented or he had a shill among us--I tend to believe the latter, but would not be shocked to be proven wrong.  My close encounter concerned my use of five horns to play the three horn parts of Beethoven’s “Eroica,” which I would conduct for the first time in two weeks.  Rather than follow the example of Associate Dean Quackenbush I held my own in the discussion.  I found out at the end that disagreeing might not have been the best to do with a genius, who smiled at me in closing and said “Bless you.”  After all, it is quite a burden to know everything.

The maestro, an artist surely as worthy as anyone of this title but who never allowed himself to be referred to as such in his own program biographies—always “Mr Bernstein”--was then ushered to a couch at the larger end of the room and brought some snacks to go with now the third one.  There we "kids" gathered around to ask questions and converse.  

After starting his next scotch, he looked up quizzically and asked "Why aren't you kids drinking."  

"It's a dry party," said a fellow student.

“Well, we can’t have that,” he said, and motioned to his body man, Craig, to refresh the glass. 

Bernstein’s scotch tumbler was then passed among us like a communion chalice.  While many refrained, there were a few giggling, nervous sippers.  I, however, took a generous sip from the "holy grail" of the genius in our midst and, as I passed on the glass to my right, whispered in a friend’s ear “The Blood of Christ.”

One more large tumbler of scotch was quaffed over a few more stories, questions and jokes—geniuses are, by nature, quite witty, verging on hilarious--and it was apparent by certain actions that it had been decided  by our stuck-in-the mud host, President Duderstadt, and his equally uninteresting wife, June Cleaver Duderstadt, that the evening should end. Lenny, revealing his inner adolescent boo-boo face, looked genuinely disappointed, and told the young composers who had now gathered 'round him:

"Gee, kids, isn't there some place we can go and have a drink together?"

The Full Moon on Main Street--a tavern notable for its wall (and I mean WALL) of beer varieties--was quickly and enthusiastically suggested and chit chat sprang forth about who was going to go and how to get LB there.  Meanwhile, Bernstein, obviously pleased that the festivities were being taken on the road, finished his scotch, lit another cigarette and started snapping the fingers of his right hand and doing a little marching in place to the rhythm he heard in his head.  Then, to the tune of his Preludes, Fugues and Riffs he began singing:

"I'm back again in MI-chi-GAN, I'm hangin' at the CAM-pus INN, I hear there is a LOT of SIN in MI-chi-GAN."  

Then he giggled a bit, coughing as he did, and was ushered to the back door where the limo waited.

This writer surely had not had enough of the intoxicating presence of genius and would have happily followed the caravan to "The Moon," but this cute coed in a party dress had just whispered in my ear the old proverbial offer one cannot refuse.  What can I say?  In any case, while the evening had been quite satisfying, it was ultimately so for both body and soul.