I knew Joy Roger Hammerschlag for at least 40 years and I was indebted to her for allowing me to share with others this uplifting talk she gave in May 1985.
Her life of music was an extraordinary and fascinating one, encompassing memories of Sir Hamilton Harty; playing for Barbirolli, Beecham and many others; a lengthy period in Washington's National Symphony Orchestra; her marriage to the composer Kurt Roger and, after his death, to Heinz Hammerschlag. Joy died on 21 March 2014. She was 96 (born 4 August 1917). For more on Kurt Roger, see here.
I have retained all the original material, including Joy's cues for musical items. The actual music is included here, but only as half minute MP3 sound clips, along with the product details, so that you can buy or download the discs.
Her life of music was an extraordinary and fascinating one, encompassing memories of Sir Hamilton Harty; playing for Barbirolli, Beecham and many others; a lengthy period in Washington's National Symphony Orchestra; her marriage to the composer Kurt Roger and, after his death, to Heinz Hammerschlag. Joy died on 21 March 2014. She was 96 (born 4 August 1917). For more on Kurt Roger, see here.
I have retained all the original material, including Joy's cues for musical items. The actual music is included here, but only as half minute MP3 sound clips, along with the product details, so that you can buy or download the discs.
Apart from notes for the various photos and sound clips, other editorial additions or clarifications are shown
within square brackets. As of October 2021, just before the Appendix, I have added a lovely anecdote by Kenneth Jamison in response to Joy's article.
A real bonus can be found in the Appendix. It's a recording made in 1970 of Fauré's Piano Quartet No.1 in C minor, Op.15, with Peter Gibbs, violin, Joy Roger, viola, John Bunting, cello, and Havelock Nelson, piano.
To break up the lengthy text, I have added the photos and my own section titles which are linked to the following headlines:
To break up the lengthy text, I have added the photos and my own section titles which are linked to the following headlines:
My Life of Music
A talk given by Joy Roger Hammerschlag
for the Extra-Mural Department of Queen’s University Belfast, on 13 May 1985
for the Extra-Mural Department of Queen’s University Belfast, on 13 May 1985
When Michael Nuttall [Lecturer, QUB Extra-Mural Dept.] asked me if I would give this talk, my immediate reaction was to decline as gracefully as possible. I was, of course, honoured by the suggestion that my musical life could be interesting to anyone outside my family. When Michael persisted, and gave me time to think it over, I realised that I had enjoyed a very colourful life in the profession.
However, my inhibitions arose in a rather paradoxical way. Far from having little to say, I felt that there was too much and that, were I alone to mention all the famous musicians I have had the privilege of meeting, it may seem like a shameless chronicle of egotism.
Nobody likes ‘name-dropping’, least of all myself. In my experience as a player, I quickly learnt that you are on trial every time you play, and people aren’t so much interested in what you’ve done in the past or whom you have met. I really feel less than worthy of the many wonderful experiences I have had in music.
I told Michael of these inhibitions, but he has a power of persuasion and he assured me most kindly of his personal interest, making it appear that if he alone were sitting in the hall this evening I would be letting him down by not speaking! So I may say I was ‘gently forced’ to take up, what I call, my ‘mental telescope’ to look back on my life.
I have tried to condense it as much as possible.
However, my inhibitions arose in a rather paradoxical way. Far from having little to say, I felt that there was too much and that, were I alone to mention all the famous musicians I have had the privilege of meeting, it may seem like a shameless chronicle of egotism.
Nobody likes ‘name-dropping’, least of all myself. In my experience as a player, I quickly learnt that you are on trial every time you play, and people aren’t so much interested in what you’ve done in the past or whom you have met. I really feel less than worthy of the many wonderful experiences I have had in music.
I told Michael of these inhibitions, but he has a power of persuasion and he assured me most kindly of his personal interest, making it appear that if he alone were sitting in the hall this evening I would be letting him down by not speaking! So I may say I was ‘gently forced’ to take up, what I call, my ‘mental telescope’ to look back on my life.
I have tried to condense it as much as possible.
My father, Thomas Septimus Forster (we as children used
to call him ‘Seppie’ – he was the seventh child), was born in County
Durham and studied the organ with the cathedral organist. He came to
Ulster with his bride and was the organist of Hillsborough Parish
Church, under the patronage of Lord Downshire, a position held by Sir
Hamilton Harty’s father before him, for 40 years.
We three daughters (of whom I am the second) grew up in
Fairford House, Hillsborough, which was the Harty home, and Sir Hamilton
used to visit us whenever he returned to conduct in Belfast. My sister
Dorothy Betsy, actually practised his Violin Concerto in the room in
which it was written and later played it with the composer at the piano,
on one of his visits.
LH pic: The Organist's House - Fairford House, Hillsborough, Co. Down.
My younger sister Norah, who couldn’t yet pronounce his name, referred to him as Sir Halibut Arty! We had been taught in childhood to sing his lovely Irish songs, with words by Moira O’Neill.
My earliest musical recollections are of my father
practising the organ in Hillsborough Church, with Betsy and me perched
on the bench on either side of him, our legs dangling over the pedals.
The organ had to be blown by hand, which was quite a test of endurance! I
recall that after one Sunday morning service, the then Governor of
Northern Ireland, the Duke of Abercorn, appeared up the narrow staircase
to the organ loft and asked my father if he could have a ‘go’ at
blowing!
RH pic: Hamilton Harty, conductor, composer and pianist.
My father was not well-off, but he wanted to nurture
whatever musical talent his children had. He knew a lot about
instruments and acquired some very good ones in Ross’s salerooms. He
enjoyed repairing and adjusting them. I remember clearly the excitement I
felt when he returned from Belfast one day with a viola. He had been
teaching us the violin and had wisely decided that I should learn to
play the viola.
On one of Sir Hamilton Harty’s visits I had to play a little piece by Handel for him, and he advised me to stay with the viola. ‘It’s a beautiful instrument,’ he said, ‘and players are in demand.’
On one of Sir Hamilton Harty’s visits I had to play a little piece by Handel for him, and he advised me to stay with the viola. ‘It’s a beautiful instrument,’ he said, ‘and players are in demand.’
As the ‘middle’ daughter, it was right that I was given the ‘middle’ voice.
When my younger sister Norah was old enough, it was a cello which was placed in her hands, and eventually we were all sent to private teachers for lessons in Belfast – Betsy and me to Margaret Huxley, who played in the BBC Orchestra, and Norah to Carrodus Taylor and later to Claire Mathews.
This formed the nucleus of chamber music in our home and, as our father had an instinctive love of good music, we acquired a reverence for the great composers naturally, without distractions from pop music or television. In a sense, our parents had an easy time – we had nothing to rebel against!
We accepted the values and standards set by them, undisturbed in the non-commercial and gentle society in which we lived.
When my younger sister Norah was old enough, it was a cello which was placed in her hands, and eventually we were all sent to private teachers for lessons in Belfast – Betsy and me to Margaret Huxley, who played in the BBC Orchestra, and Norah to Carrodus Taylor and later to Claire Mathews.
This formed the nucleus of chamber music in our home and, as our father had an instinctive love of good music, we acquired a reverence for the great composers naturally, without distractions from pop music or television. In a sense, our parents had an easy time – we had nothing to rebel against!
We accepted the values and standards set by them, undisturbed in the non-commercial and gentle society in which we lived.
We were in awe of our father, and very proud of him at
the same time. A lady stopped us in the village one day and asked ‘Whose
children are you?’ I looked up at her and said, with an air of conceit,
‘We are the organist’s daughters’, as if he was the King of England!
Certainly we were no little angels. I always tried to get away with as little practice as possible, and it was to my mother’s credit that any was done in my father’s absence.
We were strictly forbidden to ride his bicycle, which was too high for us to mount. However, one day, when he returned from Belfast, he found me practising the violin arduously, with my back carefully turned towards him. The truth was revealed when I was obliged to sit down at the tea-table, with a grazed nose and chin and my front teeth broken!
Likewise, my sister Betsy never practised harder than the morning after my father had found her being kissed goodnight by a student of divinity.
We were strictly forbidden to ride his bicycle, which was too high for us to mount. However, one day, when he returned from Belfast, he found me practising the violin arduously, with my back carefully turned towards him. The truth was revealed when I was obliged to sit down at the tea-table, with a grazed nose and chin and my front teeth broken!
Likewise, my sister Betsy never practised harder than the morning after my father had found her being kissed goodnight by a student of divinity.
I must here mention the important role of the Belfast
and other competitive festivals, in the development of young musicians.
Whilst not being keen on the concept of competition for the sake of
winning prizes, the opportunity such an event gives for students to go
on the platform and perform for an audience is invaluable.
The first thing one must somehow learn to control, is one’s nerves, and being exposed at an early age to such agonies at least makes one familiar with a disease which is going to plague one in varying degrees for the rest of one’s life – and there are no antibiotics against it.
The first thing one must somehow learn to control, is one’s nerves, and being exposed at an early age to such agonies at least makes one familiar with a disease which is going to plague one in varying degrees for the rest of one’s life – and there are no antibiotics against it.
One painful recollection from those early days of the
festival is of a young vocal competitor going on to the platform to sing
Cyril Scott’s Cherry Ripe. After her second initial attempt to get out the words, ‘Cherry Ripe’, she collapsed in a dead faint and had to be carried off!
That distinguished figure in British music, Antony Hopkins, related how he and a colleague, adjudicating in Belfast, had been deeply moved by the singing of a very young girl in the aria With verdure clad [from Haydn's The Creation].
He described her looks and the unspoilt purity of her voice and bearing, but when she returned to her seat within earshot of the adjudicator’s stand, she said to her relatives, ‘Jesus, I was sweatin’ like a pig!’
He described her looks and the unspoilt purity of her voice and bearing, but when she returned to her seat within earshot of the adjudicator’s stand, she said to her relatives, ‘Jesus, I was sweatin’ like a pig!’
RH pic: Antony Hopkins.
I later observed at first-hand such a great artist as
Clifford Curzon, before playing a concerto with the Hallé Orchestra,
pacing back and forth behind the platform, like a caged animal,
muttering to himself, ‘Why does one do it?’ I realised that nervous
tension is something from which there is no total escape, and indeed a
degree of tension is even necessary.
The most telling observation on
this subject was made by the great French pianist, Vlado Perlemuter, who
said that a student of his boasted: ‘I am never nervous’.
‘Don’t worry’, answered Perlemuter, ‘it may still come!’
‘Don’t worry’, answered Perlemuter, ‘it may still come!’
LH pic: Vlado Perlemuter, perhaps c.1925-30.
BBC work, Belfast and Kurt Roger
Wanting to earn my living before the War, I accepted
practically every engagement I was offered. This was all valuable
experience, ranging from Gilbert and Sullivan operas, and Irish Rhythms at the BBC, to annual performances of Messiah.
My first taste of symphonic music came when I was engaged as an ‘extra’ player in the BBC augmented orchestra, for public concerts and broadcasts, under its conductor Walton O’Donnell, with such distinguished guest conductors as Sir Henry Wood and Sir Adrian Boult. For a very young player this really meant being ‘thrown in at the deep end’, grappling with the technical difficulties of such demanding works as Stravinsky’s Firebird suite.
RH pic: A 1934 cigarette card featuring Bertram Walton O'Donnell, from an Irish family, but born in Madras in 1887. One of three distinguished musician brothers, he was a composer and the founding conductor in 1927 of the Wireless Military Band, later the BBC Military Band. That same year (1927), he conducted his Op.31, Amráin na n'gaedeal, at the Proms in the Queen's Hall, London. He was appointed Music Director for the BBC in Northern Ireland in 1937, but died of pneumonia in 1939. Picture used courtesy of the singer Alison O'Donnell. Check out her website.
On a visit to London I was taken to my first opera, Mozart’s Magic Flute,
which of course made a tremendous impression. And now I would like to
play the overture, conducted by Bruno Walter (for whom I was to play
many years later in the USA).
– Cue for Mozart Overture: The Magic Flute –
The start of the Overture's Allegro section is played here by the Columbia Symphony Orchestra, conductor Bruno Walter in a recording first issued in 1962. It's available on Sony Classical (Mozart Eine kleine Nachtmusik) or more recently on OMP Classics (Bruno Walter Gold).
Mozart Magic Flute.mp3
In my capacity as an ‘extra’ string player at the BBC, I was also lucky enough to play such interesting music as Ernest Bloch’s Sacred Service
in St Anne’s Cathedral, and to accompany the world famous tenor Gigli
in the Ulster Hall.
I also sang in the Ulster Singers, which was formed by that fine musician John Vine, and I learnt some of the great choral music, including the heavenly chorales from Bach’s St John and St Matthew Passions.
I also sang in the Ulster Singers, which was formed by that fine musician John Vine, and I learnt some of the great choral music, including the heavenly chorales from Bach’s St John and St Matthew Passions.
LH pic: John Vine, probably c.1949.
We were taken to hear all the famous artists who came to visit Belfast, including Kreisler, Heifetz, Backhaus, Solomon and Richard Tauber.
One of the most thrilling song recitals of all, in the Ulster Hall, was that of Paul Robeson, the incomparable bass. The depth of feeling in his singing of Negro Spirituals, stirred my young idealistic soul to its core, and when he finished his many encores by reciting William Blake’s The Little Black Boy, it made such a deep impression on me, of nobility, that I carried this ideal with me throughout life and my many years in the United States, where I so often came face to face with racial prejudice.
One of the most thrilling song recitals of all, in the Ulster Hall, was that of Paul Robeson, the incomparable bass. The depth of feeling in his singing of Negro Spirituals, stirred my young idealistic soul to its core, and when he finished his many encores by reciting William Blake’s The Little Black Boy, it made such a deep impression on me, of nobility, that I carried this ideal with me throughout life and my many years in the United States, where I so often came face to face with racial prejudice.
RH pic: Paul Robeson in London, 1925.
We were also taken to the Philharmonic oratorio
performances which were enhanced by such fine soloists as the soprano
Isobel Baillie, the bass Hooton Mitchell, and of course our own tenor,
James Johnston, who later went to Sadler’s Wells and Covent Garden.
LH pic: James Johnston.
We heard Sir Hamilton Harty conduct in the Ulster Hall, and John Barbirolli (he was not yet knighted), and whilst I knew I could never play under Sir Hamilton’s baton (his Hallé Orchestra didn’t employ women, and he ceased to conduct it in 1933), little did I think that one day I would be a member of the Hallé Orchestra, under this passionate little Cockney-Italian, with his flashing eyes, bouncing black hair, and magnetic musical personality!
My sister Betsy had married the young artist and poet Patric Stevenson, who was also a great music lover. It was he who introduced me to the music of Anton Bruckner and Gustav Mahler, long before these two Austrian composers were fully appreciated in Britain. Patric had a wonderful collection of records, including much of Elgar and Delius. Through him, I came to know Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde (The Song of the Earth) which, years later, I was to play in the Hallé, with Kathleen Ferrier singing the contralto solo and Barbirolli conducting.
My sister Betsy had married the young artist and poet Patric Stevenson, who was also a great music lover. It was he who introduced me to the music of Anton Bruckner and Gustav Mahler, long before these two Austrian composers were fully appreciated in Britain. Patric had a wonderful collection of records, including much of Elgar and Delius. Through him, I came to know Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde (The Song of the Earth) which, years later, I was to play in the Hallé, with Kathleen Ferrier singing the contralto solo and Barbirolli conducting.
In August 1939, with the war clouds gathering, I went down to Waterford to visit my sister and brother-in-law, and we heard that a composer from Vienna, a refugee from Hitler, was staying at Mount Congreve as the guest of Major and Lady Irene Congreve. When I was introduced to him a few days later by my sister’s father-in-law, the Dean of Waterford, it was almost a prophetic coincidence that, inspired by the Irish landscape, he had begun to compose his first work for the viola, a Sonata for viola and piano, Op.37. In his own words, when the opening theme occurred to him, the tone colour was that of the viola.
The composer, Kurt Roger, was virtually on his way to America, with a visa in his possession, when we met. A week later the war broke out, and I was not to see him again for eight years, after which we were married. The Viola Sonata was finished in New York, and dedicated to me, as well as some beautiful songs.
The composer, Kurt Roger, was virtually on his way to America, with a visa in his possession, when we met. A week later the war broke out, and I was not to see him again for eight years, after which we were married. The Viola Sonata was finished in New York, and dedicated to me, as well as some beautiful songs.
– Cue for Kurt Roger Slow movement (Viola Sonata, Op.37) –
Kurt Roger's Viola Sonata, Op.37, was recently issued on Naxos 8.573011, in a performance by Philip Dukes, viola, and Piers Lane, piano. This brief clip is from that CD, Track 7 - Andante molto espressivo, the slow movement.
Viola Sonata.mp3
NI war-time concerts and auditions for the Hallé
In 1940 I heard that a Czech violinist had come to
Belfast, another refugee from Hitler – Heinz Hammerschlag. We were soon
playing chamber-music together and his knowledge of the literature, and
boundless enthusiasm for the classics as well as for new music,
including that of Kurt Roger, had a very compelling and lasting
influence on me, just as I believe, proudly, that it has on young local
musicians still today. Even if we didn’t achieve the most polished
performances by today’s standards, his knowledge of style, formed by his
studies in Paris, Berlin and Vienna, was authentic and this helped me
enormously in the years to come.
At that time, the Performers’ Club was born, initiated by
Frank Capper, with Heinz a founder member, and it proved, as it still
does in 1985, to be an invaluable platform for aspiring players and
vocalists. In those early days we performed string quartets with Oskar
Rudnitsky and Claire Mathews.
RH pic: Heinz Hammerschlag with young musicians at the City of Belfast School of Music where he was the part-time string quartet coach.
Pic from The Music Makers by Norman McNeilly, published 1976 by the Friends of the CBYO.
Pic from The Music Makers by Norman McNeilly, published 1976 by the Friends of the CBYO.
We also went to all the British Music Society concerts
where we heard many of the leading soloists of the day. One amusing
incident still comes to my mind: the occasion, when Heinz and I were
listening to the virtuoso viola player, Lionel Tertis, playing the Bach
Chaconne, from memory. In the middle of it, a woman sitting next to us,
remarked to her friend, ‘He’s makin’ it up as he goes along’! How she
came to be at the recital, we couldn’t imagine!
In the next years, I, with my fellow-musicians, including Heinz, played at many concerts in Army camps throughout the province for ENSA (Entertainment, National Service Association) and I did some voluntary nursing.
I felt that I wasn’t temperamentally suited to join the Women’s Forces, but rather to use whatever musical ability I had to help preserve the importance of art during our nation’s darkest years, and so I decided to apply for a position in the Hallé Orchestra, Manchester. It is sad that some social benefits come about only because of the advent of war: conscription solving unemployment, and certainly the emancipation of women players, who had been barred from our symphony orchestras, were born through the pangs of war.
In 1940, John Barbirolli had been persuaded to return from New York (where he had succeeded Toscanini as conductor of the New York Philharmonic) to re-form the Hallé Orchestra. He accepted the challenge and in so doing appointed a young woman, Livia Gollancz, (daughter of the publisher), as Principal Horn; his first oboe and timpanist were also women.
I felt that I wasn’t temperamentally suited to join the Women’s Forces, but rather to use whatever musical ability I had to help preserve the importance of art during our nation’s darkest years, and so I decided to apply for a position in the Hallé Orchestra, Manchester. It is sad that some social benefits come about only because of the advent of war: conscription solving unemployment, and certainly the emancipation of women players, who had been barred from our symphony orchestras, were born through the pangs of war.
In 1940, John Barbirolli had been persuaded to return from New York (where he had succeeded Toscanini as conductor of the New York Philharmonic) to re-form the Hallé Orchestra. He accepted the challenge and in so doing appointed a young woman, Livia Gollancz, (daughter of the publisher), as Principal Horn; his first oboe and timpanist were also women.
In December 1943, having got permission from the authorities to go to England for the birth of my nephew, Leslie Stevenson, whilst there I wrote directly to Barbirolli. His reply was, ‘I am always interested to hear young players’, and he suggested my coming for an audition to Shrewsbury, where the Orchestra would be playing on tour. When the time came, I was very conscious of my audacity in asking a now famous conductor to listen to me play and, as it turned out, without piano accompaniment.
Perhaps he would tell me I was wasting his time. What would his attitude be? I needn’t have been afraid. I was in the presence of a warm-hearted, deeply human, musician, who immediately put me at ease. When I mentioned that I had had very little orchestral experience, he exclaimed, ‘That doesn’t matter, I’ll give you the experience.’
Shortly after my return to Belfast I received a wire asking me to join the Orchestra on tour, in Brighton, and so I left my native Ulster at the beginning of 1944, never to return to live here for the next 20 years.
Perhaps he would tell me I was wasting his time. What would his attitude be? I needn’t have been afraid. I was in the presence of a warm-hearted, deeply human, musician, who immediately put me at ease. When I mentioned that I had had very little orchestral experience, he exclaimed, ‘That doesn’t matter, I’ll give you the experience.’
Shortly after my return to Belfast I received a wire asking me to join the Orchestra on tour, in Brighton, and so I left my native Ulster at the beginning of 1944, never to return to live here for the next 20 years.
Working with Barbirolli
It isn’t possible to ‘pin-point’ many individual
performances this evening from the immense repertoire I learnt through
Barbirolli in the next three years, although I shall feel bound to
mention some of the most vivid memories.
From the first moment, I
was completely under the spell of this fascinating artist who set for
me a standard by which to measure all who mount the rostrum. Perhaps
Socrates had conductors in mind when he said: ‘Many are they who wave
the wand, but the inspired are few’!
LH pic: John Barbirolli (also pic below right).
Looking back over the following 20 years of my life, I was to play for innumerable conductors, including the world’s most famous, but I don’t consider that anyone has surpassed Barbirolli’s gifts: his sensibility to music; romantic expression; rapturous enthusiasm and magnetism, combined with what appeared to be totally instinctive baton technique. He was a born conductor: his all-embracing gestures as he turned to the violins or violas, or whoever had the melody, his face radiant with joy, or perhaps a twinkle in his eye, if the music suggested it; his whole personality expressive and inviting response. He had the ability to draw out the best from his players. One gave of the utmost, always.
Rehearsals were long and intensive, but never ever dull – and whilst his fiery Latin temperament often boiled over and he would throw the score away in a tantrum, and call us ‘imbeciles’, he was basically a patient man with a great talent for training an orchestra. I never knew him to be insulting to an individual player.
Rehearsals were long and intensive, but never ever dull – and whilst his fiery Latin temperament often boiled over and he would throw the score away in a tantrum, and call us ‘imbeciles’, he was basically a patient man with a great talent for training an orchestra. I never knew him to be insulting to an individual player.
His taste in music was very wide, and such was his
genius, that whatever he conducted, Mozart, Beethoven, Elgar, Vaughan
Williams, Delius, Verdi, Ravel, Debussy, Richard Strauss or Wagner, he
was totally involved emotionally, identifying himself so completely with
the composer, that every work seemed at that moment to be his
favourite.
I shall never forget his opening of the score of Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde and saying, ‘This is the greatest music ever written’. On another occasion, when rehearsing the waltzes of Johann Strauss, he remarked with delight, ‘This is aristocratic music’.
After Barbirolli’s death in 1970, Michael Kennedy, for his authorised biography of the conductor, invited personal reminiscences and was kind enough to publish mine, which also touched on the difficult war-time conditions under which the Hallé Orchestra worked.
After Barbirolli’s death in 1970, Michael Kennedy, for his authorised biography of the conductor, invited personal reminiscences and was kind enough to publish mine, which also touched on the difficult war-time conditions under which the Hallé Orchestra worked.
Rehearsals in Manchester, except for those immediately
preceding the concerts, took place in a derelict school building – St
Peter’s School in Deansgate, which was literally a slum. The only
source of heat was an open fire at one end of the room, which meant that the back desk of cellos was constantly being roasted while the rest of us were often frozen.
The grimness of those narrow mean streets of poverty-stricken houses, combined with the privation of war and the constant danger of air-raids, contrasted sharply with the magical sounds conjured up by Barbirolli’s baton, which transported one spiritually to another plane where physical comfort became unimportant. And if it wasn’t an air-attack, it could be a Manchester fog.
More than once I was obliged to ‘crawl’ home on foot, the two or more miles to Levenshulme, clutching my viola, without seeing more than an inch before my eyes, colliding against strangers all the way. And when the Orchestra returned from out-of-town concerts in the small hours of the morning, I was regularly dropped off at the nearest point to where I lived, which meant walking in the total black-out, with only a small dimly-lit torch, for half-a-mile, passing underneath a bridge. I always felt my heart thumping loudly when my footsteps echoed beneath the bridge. However, one seemed less aware then of civil crime, than now, in the so-called peace-time of 1985!
The grimness of those narrow mean streets of poverty-stricken houses, combined with the privation of war and the constant danger of air-raids, contrasted sharply with the magical sounds conjured up by Barbirolli’s baton, which transported one spiritually to another plane where physical comfort became unimportant. And if it wasn’t an air-attack, it could be a Manchester fog.
More than once I was obliged to ‘crawl’ home on foot, the two or more miles to Levenshulme, clutching my viola, without seeing more than an inch before my eyes, colliding against strangers all the way. And when the Orchestra returned from out-of-town concerts in the small hours of the morning, I was regularly dropped off at the nearest point to where I lived, which meant walking in the total black-out, with only a small dimly-lit torch, for half-a-mile, passing underneath a bridge. I always felt my heart thumping loudly when my footsteps echoed beneath the bridge. However, one seemed less aware then of civil crime, than now, in the so-called peace-time of 1985!
I shared a flat with the harpist of the BBC Northern Orchestra, Tina Bonifacio, who had spent many years in the BBC in Belfast. Later she was the chosen harpist of Sir Thomas Beecham when he formed his Royal Philharmonic Orchestra in London.
When I am asked by parents of musical children if I think life of an orchestral player is worthwhile, I can only say ‘Yes’ a hundred times! I know of no other profession with so much freedom, the possibility of choosing an orchestra, one’s city, or even changing one’s country, and not only is one involved with music of the great composers but one can find oneself constantly on the same public platform as the most eminent soloists of the day, an exalting experience in itself.
I never ceased to be thrilled, to be part of a performance with artists such as Kathleen Ferrier, Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, Myra Hess, Max Rostal, Clifford Curzon, Ginette Neveu, William Primrose, Denis Mathews, Solomon, Szigeti and many others who appeared regularly with the Hallé, and there were always the little personal touches. I remember writing home to my parents, ‘Yesterday I met our soloist, the great French violinist Thibaud, on the street on the way to the concert hall, and he carried my viola as well as his violin’. Just imagine!
When I am asked by parents of musical children if I think life of an orchestral player is worthwhile, I can only say ‘Yes’ a hundred times! I know of no other profession with so much freedom, the possibility of choosing an orchestra, one’s city, or even changing one’s country, and not only is one involved with music of the great composers but one can find oneself constantly on the same public platform as the most eminent soloists of the day, an exalting experience in itself.
I never ceased to be thrilled, to be part of a performance with artists such as Kathleen Ferrier, Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, Myra Hess, Max Rostal, Clifford Curzon, Ginette Neveu, William Primrose, Denis Mathews, Solomon, Szigeti and many others who appeared regularly with the Hallé, and there were always the little personal touches. I remember writing home to my parents, ‘Yesterday I met our soloist, the great French violinist Thibaud, on the street on the way to the concert hall, and he carried my viola as well as his violin’. Just imagine!
I never ceased to be thrilled, to be part of a
performance with artists such as Kathleen Ferrier, Elisabeth
Schwarzkopf, Myra Hess, Max Rostal, Clifford Curzon, Ginette Neveu,
William Primrose, Denis Mathews, Solomon, Szigeti and many others who
appeared regularly with the Hallé, and there were always the little
personal touches.
I remember writing home to my parents, ‘Yesterday I met our soloist, the great French violinist Thibaud, on the street on the way to the concert hall, and he carried my viola as well as his violin’. Just imagine!
I remember writing home to my parents, ‘Yesterday I met our soloist, the great French violinist Thibaud, on the street on the way to the concert hall, and he carried my viola as well as his violin’. Just imagine!
The leader of the orchestra, Laurance Turner, asked me to
join his string quartet while his violist, Sidney Errington, was
serving in the Forces. This was a wonderful opportunity for
chamber-music concerts, in and around Manchester, and for the BBC, and I
was specially privileged to broadcast Arnold Bax’s oboe quintet with
Barbirolli’s wife, Evelyn Rothwell, playing the oboe. For one of
our rehearsals, the cellist Haydn Rogerson was late, so Barbirolli took out his cello and played instead. He was a very fine cellist and was justly proud of having played The Swan for Pavlova as a young man.
Barbirolli’s special affinity to the music of Elgar and Vaughan Williams is well known, and I would like to play the fourth movement of Vaughan Williams’ Eighth Symphony in D minor which was dedicated to Barbirolli, the composer having written on the score,‘To glorious John’, something of which Barbirolli was naturally enormously proud.
Barbirolli’s special affinity to the music of Elgar and Vaughan Williams is well known, and I would like to play the fourth movement of Vaughan Williams’ Eighth Symphony in D minor which was dedicated to Barbirolli, the composer having written on the score,‘To glorious John’, something of which Barbirolli was naturally enormously proud.
– Cue for Vaughan Williams 4th movement, Symphony No.8 –
Barbirolli's recording of Vaughan Williams' Symphony No.8 with the Hallé Orchestra was first issued in 1958. Most recently it has been re-released on Naxos Classical Archives, 9.80006. This is the start of the fourth movement, Toccata colle campanelle.
RVW8.mp3
Barbirolli had a lovely sense of humour. Every orchestra seems to have a comedian. Ours was the sub-principal violinist (or co-leader) Arthur Percival. He had a special gift for impersonation – no conductor ‘escaped’ him – and in the twinkling of an eye, he could conjure up Beecham, Boult, Sargent or Barbirolli in an almost uncanny way. Many a wretched hour or two did he brighten as we waited in the night, weary and cold, for a train at Crewe railway junction. When Barbirolli discovered by accident that he was being ‘taken off’, he enjoyed it as much as we did. He was an excellent mimic himself.
Pic: The Hallé Orchestra by Clifford Stelfox from Conductors' Gallery, by Donald Brook (Rockliff, London 1945). Pity about the book's string binding - "War Economy Standard".
In the winter of 1944, two days after the Nazis had launched their last great offensive in the West, the Orchestra went abroad to Belgium, France and Holland, to play for the troops, organised by ENSA – the first British orchestra to do so. We left Folkestone on the S.S. Canterbury, the ship being packed with troops, having of course meagre accommodation for an orchestra, many of whom slept on deck in the bitter cold, including Barbirolli, who never accepted special treatment on journeys. The Channel was very rough and I became violently sick and ill so I was given a bunk to lie in. I remember my astonishment when a medical officer entered the cabin, with Barbirolli beside him, to show concern and take my temperature! I think that Barbirolli enjoyed the role of caring for his players, like an Army General inspecting his troops.
At Ostend we were herded into trucks, open, except for loose canvas coverings, and huddled together we journeyed over bumpy roads to Brussels where we were to give concerts in the Palais des Beaux Arts. In Eindhoven in Holland, we were 25 miles from the front line and every night for a week the Philips Hall was packed with troops in their battle dress, a vulnerable gathering. It did indeed feel as if we were on active service and we had many anxious moments, not least when, after a concert, we were returning on foot to our ‘digs’, in the moonlight, a sudden machine-gun attack took place overhead and we had to throw ourselves to the ground, against a wall for cover.
A violinist colleague and I shared a double bed in the small terrace house of a young Dutch couple with whom we were billeted. The windows had been blown out and were inadequately patched-up, so we decided to keep all our outdoor clothes on. Even so, in the middle of a sleepless night, we resorted to adding the floor rug to our bed. We were all so distressed by the privations of these people that we left behind whatever clothing we possibly could, as well as soap and tea.
In Ghent, where the Belgian violinist Arthur Grumiaux played the Mendelssohn Concerto to the sound of ‘buzz’ bombs overhead, there was an amusing incident: our superb Irish clarinettist, Pat Ryan, was arrested on the street, on his way to a rehearsal, suspected of being an enemy parachutist. He had a hard time convincing the police that he was an innocent musician who was already late for the rehearsal, and he was detained for several hours.
These concerts were of course very emotional experiences, and our encores always included The Londonderry Air and other folk tunes from the British Isles for the ‘boys’. At the final concert in Brussels, on Christmas Day, the great pianist Solomon played the Tchaikovsky B flat Concerto to a tumultuous crowd, ending with the singing of Auld Lang Syne.
The 17 concerts had been attended by 20,000 service men
and Barbirolli, borrowing from Churchill, called it the Hallé’s ‘finest
hour’. It was after this that he was knighted.
More Barbirolli memories
A violinist friend of mine, called Posy [Posy Schreider, violinist of the Dublin Piano Trio, 1942], who was from Dublin, was accepted by Barbirolli as a member of the Orchestra, much to my delight. She possessed all the enthusiasm which he looked for, and in fact demanded. Whilst he was always approachable, and quite informal off the rostrum, he was nonetheless a strict disciplinarian and insisted on professional decorum at rehearsals, and on the concert platform in public, at all times. He never appeared on the rostrum unless there was absolute silence. If, at a rehearsal, he noticed any player’s concentration waning, he would exclaim, as he did once in the great C Major Symphony of Schubert, ‘If you don’t enjoy playing this music, you should go out and chop wood’.
On one occasion, during a rehearsal of Bach’s St Matthew Passion, he was annoyed by a male member of the choir who kept his hands in his pockets. At last he said: ‘The gentleman with his hands in his pockets, I think he should remove them out of respect for God, and for Bach, and come to that, for the Conductor’.
‘Crikey’, said a player in the orchestra, ‘he’s got them in the right order.’
Imagine then a situation in Bradford, where my friend Posy and I, engrossed in conversation in the ladies’ room several floors above the concert platform, failed to hear our manager’s signal to return to our seats after the interval. When he ran upstairs to shout us down, we were appalled to find Barbirolli actually standing at the stage door, awaiting our pleasure, before he could return to the podium! I wanted the floor to swallow me up, but as we passed him I sneaked a guilty glance at his face, and saw that his eyes had a merry twinkle, and he muttered ‘Trust the Irish’! Our punishment was complete when the audience, who had observed two vacant seats in the middle of the Orchestra, and who had also suffered the delay, broke into applause as we bashfully went to our chairs. This was a performance I was careful never to repeat!
‘Crikey’, said a player in the orchestra, ‘he’s got them in the right order.’
Imagine then a situation in Bradford, where my friend Posy and I, engrossed in conversation in the ladies’ room several floors above the concert platform, failed to hear our manager’s signal to return to our seats after the interval. When he ran upstairs to shout us down, we were appalled to find Barbirolli actually standing at the stage door, awaiting our pleasure, before he could return to the podium! I wanted the floor to swallow me up, but as we passed him I sneaked a guilty glance at his face, and saw that his eyes had a merry twinkle, and he muttered ‘Trust the Irish’! Our punishment was complete when the audience, who had observed two vacant seats in the middle of the Orchestra, and who had also suffered the delay, broke into applause as we bashfully went to our chairs. This was a performance I was careful never to repeat!
RH PDF: The Belfast Telegraph's Seen and Heard column about the visit of the Hallé Orchestra to Belfast 27-29 August 1946 - singling out Joy as the 'Ulster Woman' in the orchestra, and mentioning the only other Irish musician in the Hallé, as 'a Dublin lady' (Posy Schreider).
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Joy Forster in Halle.pdf Size : 160.475 Kb Type : pdf |
Posy was a very popular colleague, also with Barbirolli, but she managed to ‘blot her copy book’ again, involving me. We were going on tour, eventually to Southampton, and the management had booked our hotel, for which we’d to pay from our allowance. Posy said she knew of a quiet little guest-house in Southampton, where we could save money and get away from the crowd for a while. It seemed a good idea, so she undertook to write. Some days later, when we arrived in Southampton and were taken straight to the concert hall to rehearse, tired and hungry, she came towards me along the corridor, looking aghast, and said: ‘Joy, a terrible thing has happened and Wally would like to murder us’ (Wally was our Orchestral Manager, a burly tuba player, who dealt out rough justice to transgressors). The hotel had cancelled the booking for the whole orchestra, including Barbirolli.
Picture our travel-weary colleagues, uncertain of where to eat between rehearsal and concert, now, having nowhere to sleep. Fortunately, Barbirolli and some principal players were re-instated, but others had to walk the streets in search of alternative accommodation. I felt that we Irish had suffered a definite set-back in popularity.
Picture our travel-weary colleagues, uncertain of where to eat between rehearsal and concert, now, having nowhere to sleep. Fortunately, Barbirolli and some principal players were re-instated, but others had to walk the streets in search of alternative accommodation. I felt that we Irish had suffered a definite set-back in popularity.
And speaking of war-time meals, for which we usually had
to join a queue and make a choice between baked beans on toast, or
scrambled (dried) eggs on toast – in one such café where I was eating
with Posy, she had just taken a sip of the beverage she was served, when
she called the waiter and said: ‘Waiter, what is this I’m drinking? If
it’s tea, bring me coffee, and if it’s coffee, bring me tea’.
Whilst, as I said before, it isn’t possible in one evening to describe individual performances, I would like to mention the specially outstanding event when Pablo Casals came to play the Elgar, Dvořák and Haydn Cello Concertos with us at Bellevue, where our Sunday afternoon concerts were held, and which was the scene of many other memorable artistic events, including Verdi’s Requiem, with Kathleen Ferrier singing. Bellevue had been erected as a circus place and it was not unusual to hear a distant roar from a caged lion! Sir Henry Wood had been conducting there when suddenly, at a rehearsal, in a silent pause, there was a roar from a sea-lion. Sir Henry put on his glasses and, examining the score, said: ‘But Elgar didn’t write anything for sea-lions’! I believe that when Barbirolli explained the situation to Casals, Casals said: ‘But I love circuses’.
Being a gifted cellist himself, Barbirolli naturally placed this venerated master on a pedestal and one sensed his deep emotion, combining reverence with awe, and even nervous tension in anticipation, as he rehearsed us in preparation for Casals’ arrival.
When Casals appeared on the podium one was struck by the simple, modest demeanour of the little man. He and Barbirolli embraced. Casals played like a God, and of course Barbirolli was an accompanist of the most refined sensitivity who delighted the Latin-blooded Casals in every way. After the rapturous reception of that first concert, the great cellist played as an encore the Sarabande from the Suite No.5 of Bach. It was a model of beauty, eloquence and nobility.
When Casals appeared on the podium one was struck by the simple, modest demeanour of the little man. He and Barbirolli embraced. Casals played like a God, and of course Barbirolli was an accompanist of the most refined sensitivity who delighted the Latin-blooded Casals in every way. After the rapturous reception of that first concert, the great cellist played as an encore the Sarabande from the Suite No.5 of Bach. It was a model of beauty, eloquence and nobility.
RH pic: Pablo Casals (1876-1973).
I must also include in my most cherished memories, the playing of the Brahms Violin Concerto by the young French violinist Ginette Neveu, who was so tragically killed in an air crash. She played the Concerto as one ‘possessed’, and I felt that it was revealed to me for the first time.
Worth recording too, I think, is my recollection of a performance of Richard Strauss’s Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme suite, in Sheffield. Sensing a lack of enthusiasm in the applause which followed, Barbirolli made a speech. He told the audience they obviously had no idea of the preparation that went into a performance of this rarely-heard masterpiece, and he proposed to play the whole work again from beginning to end. This uncalled-for encore was greeted with tumultuous applause! I remember how he muttered, as he walked off, ‘That’ll teach ’em’.
Worth recording too, I think, is my recollection of a performance of Richard Strauss’s Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme suite, in Sheffield. Sensing a lack of enthusiasm in the applause which followed, Barbirolli made a speech. He told the audience they obviously had no idea of the preparation that went into a performance of this rarely-heard masterpiece, and he proposed to play the whole work again from beginning to end. This uncalled-for encore was greeted with tumultuous applause! I remember how he muttered, as he walked off, ‘That’ll teach ’em’.
In the home of Viennese friends I met the famous first cellist of the Vienna Philharmonic, Professor Friedrich Buxbaum [LH pic], who had played under Gustav Mahler and in the celebrated Rosé string quartet. He and his wife were refugees from Hitler, and were then in the grip of old age. I knew that the Rosé Quartet had performed the two celli quintet of Kurt Roger (with an extra cello) in Vienna, in 1936 with much success. Buxbaum was famous not only for his playing, but for his caustic wit, and many of his professional jokes have become ‘classics’, such as the one about a member of the public, asking of a certain guest conductor, ‘What is he conducting to-night?’
‘I don’t know’, replied Buxbaum, ‘but we’re playing Beethoven’s Fifth’!
The enthusiasm of this old man for chamber music was most impressive. He himself suggested playing string quartets with me and two young Hallé Orchestra colleagues. I shall never forget how he arrived in a snow-storm, in a taxi, with his cello on one of these occasions. We played together until he left for London, where he later died. I cherish the letters he wrote to me from there which are a testament to his life-long dedication to music.
‘I don’t know’, replied Buxbaum, ‘but we’re playing Beethoven’s Fifth’!
The enthusiasm of this old man for chamber music was most impressive. He himself suggested playing string quartets with me and two young Hallé Orchestra colleagues. I shall never forget how he arrived in a snow-storm, in a taxi, with his cello on one of these occasions. We played together until he left for London, where he later died. I cherish the letters he wrote to me from there which are a testament to his life-long dedication to music.
To survive the sheer physical strain of an over-worked orchestra in war-time conditions, became a problem for many. To rehearse six hours a day and then play a concert or rehearse again, and to travel almost constantly, with little sleep – all this took its toll amongst the players. When a viola vacancy occurred in the BBC Northern Orchestra, with reasonable hours, no travel and a comfortable studio, the temptation was enormous. But how could I possibly leave Barbirolli, who had given me so much experience and inspiration?
I decided to confide in him, because, after all, he had always enjoyed the role of father-figure to his players, showing how he cared what happened to them, and he was very well aware of the strain the Orchestra was subjected to. So instead of merely handing in my notice, which would have been unbearable to me, I was able to receive his blessing and understanding.
I decided to confide in him, because, after all, he had always enjoyed the role of father-figure to his players, showing how he cared what happened to them, and he was very well aware of the strain the Orchestra was subjected to. So instead of merely handing in my notice, which would have been unbearable to me, I was able to receive his blessing and understanding.
Some years later, when I read what he himself had written to Philip Godlee, the man who had brought him to Manchester from New York, I didn’t feel so badly about my decision. He wrote: ‘The colossal and continuous physical strain of rehearsals and performances, week after week, and month after month, is about as much as I can stand’. So I auditioned for Charles Groves (he was not yet knighted), became a member of the BBC and although I greatly missed the artistry of Barbirolli, I had a deep respect for the sterling qualities of Groves.
As Sir Thomas Beecham had had a rift with the Hallé Society, and there was no love lost between him and Barbirolli, it was in the BBC Northern Orchestra that I had the opportunity of playing for that unique personality.
Amongst my collection of musical ‘treasures’ is the handle of Beecham’s baton which snapped during the excitement of the Brahms Symphony No.2, in the Leeds Town Hall. It fell at my feet! And I also have an equally valued broken baton of Barbirolli, from a performance of Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet. Neither batons were, I hasten to add, smashed over my head!
My Manchester days were, however, coming to an end.
Amongst my collection of musical ‘treasures’ is the handle of Beecham’s baton which snapped during the excitement of the Brahms Symphony No.2, in the Leeds Town Hall. It fell at my feet! And I also have an equally valued broken baton of Barbirolli, from a performance of Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet. Neither batons were, I hasten to add, smashed over my head!
My Manchester days were, however, coming to an end.
Kurt Roger and life in the USA
The Austrian composer Kurt Roger returned to Europe to give some lectures in Vienna and my bags were packed to emigrate to America to be married. We sailed together on the Queen Mary in January 1948. The last public concert I played was in London, in the Albert Hall, with Vaughan Williams’ beautiful Serenade to Music, and although it was not planned as such, a broadcast performance of Kurt Roger’s Trumpet Concerto, by the BBC Northern Orchestra, with Charles Groves conducting, turned out to be a kind of parting gift.
Kurt Roger had studied in Vienna under Karl Weigl, Guido
Adler and Arnold Schoenberg, and had obtained his doctorate of music
from the Vienna University in 1918. He was head of theory and
composition at the Vienna Conservatoire from 1923 to 1938 when he had to
flee his native country. He had been the editor of a music magazine in
Vienna and had taken a public stand against the Nazi’s destruction of
the Mendelssohn monument in Leipzig.
LH pic: Kurt Roger (1895-1966). See also a biography and much more here.
I'd like to tell you, in passing, an amusing anecdote which I treasure from his earliest days in the United States when English was, for him, a newly acquired language. Examining in class the homework of one of his harmony pupils, he said to the young lady, ‘You were in a quandary there, weren’t you?
‘What’s a quandary?’ asked the girl.
‘A predicament’, he answered.
‘What’s a predicament?’ she asked.
‘Well, a dilemma’, said he.
‘What’s a dilemma?’ she asked.
‘Don’t tell me you don’t know what a dilemma is. Have you never heard of' The Doctor’s Dilemma by Bernard Shaw?’
‘Who’s Bernard Shaw?’ she asked.
‘Well! You were in a tight spot!’
‘Gee, why didn’t you say that in the first place?’
‘What’s a quandary?’ asked the girl.
‘A predicament’, he answered.
‘What’s a predicament?’ she asked.
‘Well, a dilemma’, said he.
‘What’s a dilemma?’ she asked.
‘Don’t tell me you don’t know what a dilemma is. Have you never heard of' The Doctor’s Dilemma by Bernard Shaw?’
‘Who’s Bernard Shaw?’ she asked.
‘Well! You were in a tight spot!’
‘Gee, why didn’t you say that in the first place?’
Becoming what the Americans call ‘acclimated’ to my new country, included hearing opera at the Metropolitan and New York Philharmonic Orchestra, Toscanini and the NBC Orchestra, and recitals by Artur Schnabel, Rudolf Serkin, the famous Busch quartet from Europe, besides the great American soloists like Isaac Stern.
It was in New York City that I heard all 77 Haydn string quartets, played in chronological order, although not on one night! Memories of Carnegie Hall bring to mind the old doorman, when the film of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables was being shown in the small Carnegie Hall on a Sunday afternoon, at the same time as the Philharmonic Concert in the large hall. As the public entered, he was calling out: ‘Philharmonic Concert on your right, the less Miserables to your left, upstairs’!
It was in New York City that I heard all 77 Haydn string quartets, played in chronological order, although not on one night! Memories of Carnegie Hall bring to mind the old doorman, when the film of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables was being shown in the small Carnegie Hall on a Sunday afternoon, at the same time as the Philharmonic Concert in the large hall. As the public entered, he was calling out: ‘Philharmonic Concert on your right, the less Miserables to your left, upstairs’!
I was happy to be asked to join a women’s string quartet
in New York. The leader, Marianne Kneisel was the daughter of the famous
violinist Franz Kneisel, who had gone to the States from Germany as a
young man, becoming a great teacher and producing some of America’s
leading soloists. With his string quartet he had given the first
performance of Dvořák’s Quartet in F, Op. 96 (The American) in Boston,
on January 1st, 1894. They also gave the first performance of Dvořák’s
Quintet in E flat for two violas in Carnegie Hall on January 12th,
1894. Franz Kneisel had, of course, known Dvořák personally and I felt
that, when playing his music with Marianne, we couldn’t be very far away
from an authentic style.
RH pic: The original Kneisel Quartet, founded by Franz Kneisel, the first professional string quartet in America.
Trading on her famous father’s name, Marianne had no difficulty in arranging tours for her quartet, so I was introduced to the Southern States, including Virginia and Carolina, and enjoyed our travels very much. Once, in Wilmington, Delaware, we found ourselves sharing the same hostess as the renowned French string quartet, Loewenguth, who had just played in the vicinity the night before. This resulted in an informal house performance of Schubert’s two celli quintet, combining some players of both quartets, and affording a very special privilege to me. Such experiences confirm my belief that being able to play an instrument, can bring a young musician into undreamt-of circumstances. This is the miracle of music.
There still flourishes a Kneisel summer festival in Blue
Hill, Maine, on the Atlantic Ocean, where I spent some glorious months
of music-making.
Amongst Franz Kneisel’s most distinguished students were the brother and sister, Joseph and Lillian Fuchs, violin and viola, and I had the good fortune of attending the chamber music classes of Lillian Fuchs which were held weekly in the home of Mrs Leventritt, well-known patroness of the arts in New York City.
Lillian Fuchs has not played in Europe so her name is not as well known here as it should be. She is one of the finest instrumentalists in the world.
I would like to play here a movement from her marvellous recordings of the six solo suites of Bach, the Bourées I and II from the Suite No.3 in C Major.
I would like to play here a movement from her marvellous recordings of the six solo suites of Bach, the Bourées I and II from the Suite No.3 in C Major.
– Cue for Bach Bourée I and II (Suite No.3 in C Major) –
Doremi is a Canadian company, specialising in restoring the recorded legacies of great classical musicians. The 2 CD set (pictured above) from Doremi, DHR-7801/02, is a very welcome reissue of Decca recordings from the 1950s. This clip is of the opening of the Bourées from the Third Suite.
Fuchs Bach.mp3
That viola is a Gaspar de Salo, dating from 1560 (so it’s 425 years old).
Our love of Europe and family, plus the excessive heat of American cities in the summer, resulted in many trips across the ocean, which also had musical significance. I have been lucky enough to hear Richard Wagner’s Ring Cycle in Bayreuth four times (under Clemens Krauss, Josef Keilbert, Karl Böhm and Knappertsbusch), as well as Parsifal, Meistersinger and Lohengrin. On these pilgrimages to that wonderful Wagner shrine in Bavaria, we had the privilege of meeting his two grandsons, who ran the festival, Wieland and Wolfgang. We had met their sister Friedlind who lived in New York. They all looked remarkably like their grandfather!
Amongst my husband’s earliest recollections, which I always enjoyed listening to, was his seeing Richard Wagner’s widow Cosima, a very old lady, sitting at a window in Villa Wahnfried, Bayreuth. He also had childhood memories of holidays spent in Carinthia in Austria, with his parents, who watched Gustav Mahler diving into the lake for a daily swim.
We came to Salzburg many times to enjoy the festival and my husband was also invited to lecture at the Mozarteum on American music; on one occasion specifically on Vanessa, the new opera of Samuel Barber. I wish that every musician could experience the romance of Mozart’s birth-town, even once in a lifetime!
We came to Salzburg many times to enjoy the festival and my husband was also invited to lecture at the Mozarteum on American music; on one occasion specifically on Vanessa, the new opera of Samuel Barber. I wish that every musician could experience the romance of Mozart’s birth-town, even once in a lifetime!
Above pic: Joy Roger
Kurt Roger's music and conductors
from Buffalo to Washington
I wanted a full-time orchestral job, for which I felt
equipped, and when Lillian Fuchs told me she had recommended me to the
German conductor William Steinberg, who had a viola vacancy in the
Buffalo Philharmonic, I decided to audition. I was to play for the first
violist of the New York Philharmonic in the ‘green room’ of Carnegie
Hall. I always remember that he asked me where I had studied. When I
replied, ‘In Ireland’, he said: ‘I’ve never heard of anyone studying in
Ireland’. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘now you have!’
The Orchestra played in the beautiful, very modern, Kleinhans Music Hall in Buffalo. One of the first works I played with William Steinberg was Mahler’s Fourth Symphony, and I soon realised what a fine conductor he was – a totally compelling and dynamic personality.
However, this was to be a short-lived pleasure. We performed a concert version of The Flying Dutchman and as William Steinberg said, in the words of the Dutchman, ‘The seven long years have ended’, applied also to himself. He had been in Buffalo for seven years and this was his last season.
As Buffalo was a whole day’s journey from New York City, and I couldn’t envisage living there, his leaving made mine easier.
However, this was to be a short-lived pleasure. We performed a concert version of The Flying Dutchman and as William Steinberg said, in the words of the Dutchman, ‘The seven long years have ended’, applied also to himself. He had been in Buffalo for seven years and this was his last season.
As Buffalo was a whole day’s journey from New York City, and I couldn’t envisage living there, his leaving made mine easier.
Some outstanding performances of Kurt Roger’s music naturally hold a special place in my memory, especially a visit to Chicago to hear his Trumpet Concerto played by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra under Rafael Kubelik. How Kubelik embraced him, exclaiming ‘So you are the composer of this beautiful slow movement!’
We also travelled to Rochester, New York, to hear Erich Leinsdorf perform the Concerto with the Rochester Philharmonic. After a performance in Montreal, my husband was still under the spell of having heard his music, when our Canadian host, at a private reception, asked him: ‘Scotch?’ (meaning ‘What can I get you to drink?’). My husband answered, ‘No, I am Austrian, I am from Vienna.’
We also travelled to Rochester, New York, to hear Erich Leinsdorf perform the Concerto with the Rochester Philharmonic. After a performance in Montreal, my husband was still under the spell of having heard his music, when our Canadian host, at a private reception, asked him: ‘Scotch?’ (meaning ‘What can I get you to drink?’). My husband answered, ‘No, I am Austrian, I am from Vienna.’
In 1952, a friend in New York who had been a girl-hood sweetheart of Bruno Walter in Vienna, phoned to tell me of a viola vacancy in the National Symphony Orchestra of Washington, D.C., and that early in the season Bruno Walter would be a guest conductor.
We had fallen in love with Washington on our first visit, with its spacious avenues and cherry trees, so the temptation was great! A good omen at my audition prompted my acceptance: the American conductor pointed out that they had scheduled my husband’s Trumpet Concerto for performance that season!
I think it would be appropriate now to play at least the slow movement of this work, which I have referred to several times, especially as it is the National Symphony Orchestra’s performance in which I played, but I must beg your indulgence as it is an old tape and the quality is poor. It is Op.27, a very early work.
We had fallen in love with Washington on our first visit, with its spacious avenues and cherry trees, so the temptation was great! A good omen at my audition prompted my acceptance: the American conductor pointed out that they had scheduled my husband’s Trumpet Concerto for performance that season!
I think it would be appropriate now to play at least the slow movement of this work, which I have referred to several times, especially as it is the National Symphony Orchestra’s performance in which I played, but I must beg your indulgence as it is an old tape and the quality is poor. It is Op.27, a very early work.
– Cue for Kurt Roger Slow movt., Concerto Grosso No.1 for Trumpet, Timpani and Strings –
This is a brief clip of the "quiet, veiled mood" of the opening of the slow movement, Adagio, molto sostenuto ed espressivo, of Kurt Roger's Concerto Grosso No.1 in a recent recording, Trumpet Renaissance, on Chandos CHAN 10562. The soloist is Philippe Shartz, trumpet (muted at the start of this movement); Jac van Steen conducts the BBC National Orchestra of Wales.
Roger Trumpet.mp3
Washington became our home for the next 13 years and my husband had no difficulty in replacing his New York activities, with teaching and lecturing at the universities and colleges in the district of Columbia and Maryland.
The National Symphony Orchestra had 95 players, and the conductor, Howard Mitchell, had been the first cellist under its founder, the German, Hans Kindler.
The National Symphony Orchestra had 95 players, and the conductor, Howard Mitchell, had been the first cellist under its founder, the German, Hans Kindler.
The life of an orchestral player, as I have already said,
can hold limitless excitement. Here I was, poised to play all four
Brahms’ symphonies with one of the world’s most venerated masters on the
rostrum, Bruno Walter! Indeed in such moments I often felt that I
should pinch myself, to be certain that it wasn’t a dream.
Still handsome at 77, with intense eyes and soft speech, his presence was one of great dignity, and the nobility of his musical intentions found immediate response in the Orchestra. Only a year earlier I had heard him at the piano, accompanying Kathleen Ferrier in her last lieder recital at the Edinburgh Festival, a deeply moving experience as she died too young of cancer.
Still handsome at 77, with intense eyes and soft speech, his presence was one of great dignity, and the nobility of his musical intentions found immediate response in the Orchestra. Only a year earlier I had heard him at the piano, accompanying Kathleen Ferrier in her last lieder recital at the Edinburgh Festival, a deeply moving experience as she died too young of cancer.
LH pic: Bruno Walter.
Then came Leopold Stokowski, whom I had first seen on the screen in a Belfast cinema, in the film Fantasia, conducting his powerful arrangement of a Bach passacaglia, and had last heard in New York conducting Mahler’s Eighth Symphony with the New York Philharmonic, the ‘symphony of a thousand’. He too belied his age: this glamorous personality with his youthful vitality; long blonde hair; curiously foreign accent; beautifully elongated hands and graceful baton technique. And of course he was an acoustical genius.
Unlike Bruno Walter, he was known not only for his sharp ears, but for his sharp tongue and acrid temper. So we were on guard. His visit coincided with the bicentenary of Mozart’s birth and I had the privilege of playing in a chamber orchestra concert which he conducted in the Library of Congress. The programme included Mozart’s Concerto for flute, harp and orchestra.
Unlike Bruno Walter, he was known not only for his sharp ears, but for his sharp tongue and acrid temper. So we were on guard. His visit coincided with the bicentenary of Mozart’s birth and I had the privilege of playing in a chamber orchestra concert which he conducted in the Library of Congress. The programme included Mozart’s Concerto for flute, harp and orchestra.
He was at that time married to the beautiful Gloria
Vanderbilt, and he was justly very proud of their young children, as he
was an old man. In the middle of one of our rehearsals he stopped the
Orchestra and told us he had taken his little child by the hand to watch
the St Patrick’s Day parade in New York City, on Fifth Avenue.
As the band major marched by, throwing the mace above his head, the child had asked, ‘Daddy, why does he throw that thing up in the air?’
‘Well,’ said Stokowski, ‘that’s what conductors do.’
A few days later he found the child sitting in front of the television watching Bernstein conducting the New York Philharmonic. He asked, ‘Daddy, why doesn’t he throw that thing up in the air?’
As the band major marched by, throwing the mace above his head, the child had asked, ‘Daddy, why does he throw that thing up in the air?’
‘Well,’ said Stokowski, ‘that’s what conductors do.’
A few days later he found the child sitting in front of the television watching Bernstein conducting the New York Philharmonic. He asked, ‘Daddy, why doesn’t he throw that thing up in the air?’
RH pic: Leopold Stokowski.
Sir Malcolm Sargent and Sir Thomas Beecham were also amongst our most distinguished guest conductors, as well as Pierre Monteux, Leonard Bernstein (who played Mozart piano concertos superbly well and directed the Orchestra from the piano), Erich Leinsdorf, Paul Hindemith, Igor Stravinsky and, during a special ‘Soviet’ week, Shostakovich and Kabalevsky, although Shostakovich had hurt his arm and had to join the audience in Constitution Hall and listen to us perform his Fifth Symphony instead of conducting it. We also played the Symphony on tour in Carnegie Hall later on.
Beecham and Barbirolli in the USA
When the illustrious old British Beecham who had become
almost a legend appeared on the rostrum in Washington, I was quite
exalted to play for him again! Apart from his incomparable wit, which
kept the Orchestra in peals of laughter after every utterance he made,
it seemed that no conductor could get nearer to the heart of Mozart than
he. He later gave what he referred to as a ‘so-called’ lecture on
Mozart, at the Library of Congress, which was as hilarious as it was
interesting.
I acquired a private tape recording of this, which 20 years later I gave to the BBC for its archives.
It was deemed ‘the music broadcast of the year’ by the BBC.
I acquired a private tape recording of this, which 20 years later I gave to the BBC for its archives.
It was deemed ‘the music broadcast of the year’ by the BBC.
Beecham, of course, was a law onto himself and given to outrageous behaviour which the public loved. He was ever ready to give a ‘performance’ outside of music, and to shock an audience. He actually appeared on the rostrum in Washington having forgotten his box of batons. Our manager went in search of a baton, and returning with one, he offered it to Sir Thomas. He examined it suspiciously and handed it back, saying, ‘Take it away. That was used for fishing in the Potomac!’
At our Sunday afternoon concert series in the Lisner
Auditorium, the excessive heating system incurred Beecham’s wrath and he
sensed that the audience, which consisted largely of elderly women in
fur coats, was already asleep.
Suddenly he stopped the orchestra and roared back-stage: ‘Turn that heat off! What do you think this is? HELL?’ ‘I’ll take my trousers off.’ ‘We had hoped to waken them up with our music, but they’re stifled, stupefied.’
And before beginning the last piece on the programme that afternoon (Richard Strauss’s Salome’s Dance), he lifted his baton and said to us, ‘Give it hell, let’s get home to our tea and crumpets.’
This may not seem the most artistic approach to a masterpiece, but to play for Beecham was an electrifying experience. When he lifted the stick, something happened. He had spark and life and genius and, above all, he was UNIQUE!
Suddenly he stopped the orchestra and roared back-stage: ‘Turn that heat off! What do you think this is? HELL?’ ‘I’ll take my trousers off.’ ‘We had hoped to waken them up with our music, but they’re stifled, stupefied.’
And before beginning the last piece on the programme that afternoon (Richard Strauss’s Salome’s Dance), he lifted his baton and said to us, ‘Give it hell, let’s get home to our tea and crumpets.’
This may not seem the most artistic approach to a masterpiece, but to play for Beecham was an electrifying experience. When he lifted the stick, something happened. He had spark and life and genius and, above all, he was UNIQUE!
LH pic: Sir Thomas Beecham.
Speaking to Sir Thomas, I mentioned that I had played for him in Manchester and that I had been a member of the Hallé for three years with Barbirolli. ‘Well’, he said, looking me up and down with that customary glint in his eye, ‘You don’t seem any the worse for that!’
Psychology is so important for a conductor. Beecham said that a conductor had to act all the time in the belief that his was the first word and the last word on any piece of music. I remember the time he learnt his lesson. At the end of the concert there was the usual tremendous applause and he was taking his bow when someone in the audience shouted out, “Get the orchestra on its feet – it did all the work!”
He actually came twice to Washington, his second visit being in 1960 when he was 81, and when he signed my birthday book he said: ‘If you think that I enjoy being reminded of my birthday …!’ This was his last visit to the USA.
Psychology is so important for a conductor. Beecham said that a conductor had to act all the time in the belief that his was the first word and the last word on any piece of music. I remember the time he learnt his lesson. At the end of the concert there was the usual tremendous applause and he was taking his bow when someone in the audience shouted out, “Get the orchestra on its feet – it did all the work!”
He actually came twice to Washington, his second visit being in 1960 when he was 81, and when he signed my birthday book he said: ‘If you think that I enjoy being reminded of my birthday …!’ This was his last visit to the USA.
LH pic: (L to R) Lady Barbirolli (Evelyn Rothwell), Sir John Barbirolli and Joy Roger, photographed in Washington D.C.
The handwritten inscription along the top reads: "To dear Kurt and Joy. In affectionate remembrance of our reunion. John and Evelyn, Dec.1958."
The handwritten inscription along the top reads: "To dear Kurt and Joy. In affectionate remembrance of our reunion. John and Evelyn, Dec.1958."
In 1958 Barbirolli arrived as a guest conductor of the
Orchestra and I felt an almost personal pride in the reception he got
from my American colleagues. ‘How’, they asked me, ‘could you have left
Manchester when you had an artist like that on the rostrum?’
And it was lovely to see Evelyn Rothwell, whose oboe playing was so well known and admired from recordings, surrounded by our woodwind players seeking advice.
One of the most cherished memories will always be the Barbirolli’s visit to our home when, placing my Italian viola between his knees, he played, cello fashion, the wonderful viola theme on the A string from the first act of Tristan and Isolde.
And it was lovely to see Evelyn Rothwell, whose oboe playing was so well known and admired from recordings, surrounded by our woodwind players seeking advice.
One of the most cherished memories will always be the Barbirolli’s visit to our home when, placing my Italian viola between his knees, he played, cello fashion, the wonderful viola theme on the A string from the first act of Tristan and Isolde.
His physical health had failed noticeably and he was living almost entirely on his nervous energy.
Six years later, in 1964, when he was dividing his time between Manchester and the United States, conducting regularly in Houston, Texas, he returned to Washington and I was shocked by his appearance. On the rostrum he still had the old magic, but he looked ill and prematurely aged. It was an intensely emotional experience to play the great C Major Symphony of Schubert again for him, the work he loved so much and which I had first played in that grim rehearsal room in Manchester so many years before, with his inspiration. Even whilst playing, I could barely hold back my tears.
When I embraced him after the concert, I felt that I wouldn’t see him again. I think if I had had no other musical experience in my life, I would still feel enriched by having worked for him so closely in those years.
When I embraced him after the concert, I felt that I wouldn’t see him again. I think if I had had no other musical experience in my life, I would still feel enriched by having worked for him so closely in those years.
On tour, soloists, Presidents and Stravinsky
In 1959, the Washington Orchestra was sent by the US State Department on a ‘so-called’ goodwill tour of Central and South America for three months, covering 20,000 miles, and playing as far south as Montevideo. This was of course a fascinating experience, revealing to me very beautiful scenery in various climates, but also the disturbing social conditions in many of those small countries, with their unstable governments and extremes of poverty and wealth. Interesting that our concerts in Nicaragua had to be cancelled because of riots against the dictator regime – and that 26 years’ ago! Much could be said on this subject, but it would stray from the theme of music. Perhaps it is better to tell you about a particular incident one hot sultry night in Brazil.
We were in the middle of the last, deeply emotional movement of Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique Symphony, with our conductor pulling at our heart strings and extracting the last ‘drop of blood’ so to speak, when suddenly in an anguished pause, following
We were in the middle of the last, deeply emotional movement of Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique Symphony, with our conductor pulling at our heart strings and extracting the last ‘drop of blood’ so to speak, when suddenly in an anguished pause, following
the lusty voice of a stagehand behind the scenes struck up La Cocaracha, La Cocaracha (Cockroach, Cockroach!).
Even the audience burst into laughter, and it was almost impossible to regain the tragic atmosphere of Tchaikovsky’s music and finish the Symphony with dignity. I’m sure that Beecham would have quite enjoyed this moment. Our conductor was furious.
Our highest point above sea level was in La Paz, Bolivia, 12,000 feet, and we were provided with oxygen masks in case of emergency. Our first flute was a young man of well over 6 feet, which prompted enquiries of him, as to how it felt up there in an even more rarefied atmosphere. It happened, this time during our performance of the César Franck Symphony, that there was suddenly a horrific sound of splintering wood coming from the wind section (these things always seem to happen in quiet moments!). The flautist’s chair had completely shattered beneath his weight and the sight of him, heroically struggling to continue with his flute solos in the Symphony from a crouched position rather than make a further exhibition of himself by standing up, was another cause for ill-concealed mirth. Our conductor’s sense of humour never quite rose to such occasions!
At the end of another concert, when the applause called for an encore, he dashed back on the rostrum and called out to us: ‘Tchaikovsky Waltz’, forgetting that we had two Tchaikovsky waltzes on our music stands. The result was that half of the orchestra played The Sleeping Beauty and the other half Swan Lake. A pity Beecham had to miss that too!
At the end of another concert, when the applause called for an encore, he dashed back on the rostrum and called out to us: ‘Tchaikovsky Waltz’, forgetting that we had two Tchaikovsky waltzes on our music stands. The result was that half of the orchestra played The Sleeping Beauty and the other half Swan Lake. A pity Beecham had to miss that too!
We members of the Symphony Orchestra were also engaged by the Washington Opera Society, as well as for oratorio performances in the Cathedral, such as Honegger’s King David. The physically confined space of an opera pit at the same time widens an orchestral player’s musical vision, and my own experience was enriched by performing such masterpieces as Othello, Pelléas and Mélisande, Ariadne auf Naxos and other great operas. Most of the well-known European soloists appeared on our concert platform – Rubinstein, Moisewitch, Francescati, Elman, Ricci, Piatigorsky, Myra Hess, Curzon, Menuhin, Milstein, Maria Callas, as well as the Soviet artists David and Igor Oistrakh and the American Isaac Stern, Claudio Arrau and Leonard Rose. Ralph Kirshbaum, the cellist who now lives in London, began his concert career by winning a contest organised by the National Symphony Orchestra in Washington.
Glenn Gould [LH pic], the Canadian pianist and great Bach
specialist, was a highly eccentric genius. Whenever he appeared he
brought with him not only his piano, but his own chair and rug to place
his feet on, and a bottle of spa water to drink. He ‘limbered up’ his
arms in all the tutti places of a concerto, even at a concert, and
emitted extraordinary sounds whilst playing, which drove recording
technicians to distraction. Known for his characteristically fast tempi
in Bach, as a member of the audience I once witnessed a most unusual
scene in Carnegie Hall when he played with the New York Philharmonic,
with Leonard Bernstein conducting. Before Gould came out to perform the
First Brahms Concerto, Bernstein appeared on the platform and addressed
the audience. ‘I just wish to tell you that I completely dissociate
myself from the performance you are about to hear’.
In July 1961, I was invited to play at the Bach Festival in Carmel, California, the 24th annual festival, a non-profit-making prestigious event of high artistic merit which attracted players from all over the States because of the idealistic spirit behind it. I had the honour, as principal violist that summer, to play a string quartet version of Bach’s Art of Fugue as well as the B Minor Mass and other beautiful works. The orchestra was led by Paul Shure who was a member of the celebrated Hollywood String Quartet. The beauty of the Pacific coast around Carmel, combined with this tribute to Bach, stands out as one of my most radiant experiences in the States.
I had lived under four presidents in the USA: Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy and Johnston. In New York I had met Eisenhower personally when he was President of Columbia University. I had played in a string quartet at a dinner in his honour, at the university. As the guests milled around during our playing of appropriately light-hearted music, I discovered that Eisenhower was standing at my elbow, grinning characteristically and peering into my music on the stand, I fear non-comprehendingly. He was known to be a philistine in the arts and many jokes were told against him on that level.
Actually, I played at the Inauguration Concerts of three presidents in Washington, and I cherish a copy of the programme from that of John F. Kennedy at which Mischa Elman was the soloist.
Actually, I played at the Inauguration Concerts of three presidents in Washington, and I cherish a copy of the programme from that of John F. Kennedy at which Mischa Elman was the soloist.
For his 80th birthday, Igor Stravinsky came to record his operas, Le Rossignol (The Nightingale) and Oedipus Rex, with the Washington Opera Society. It is a recognised fact that the physical and psychological side of conducting seems to prolong life. Most of the famous conductors I have mentioned were in their ‘youthful’ seventies, and some continued into their nineties. Stravinsky’s disciple, Robert Craft, arrived in advance of the great master to rehearse and prepare us. Craft rehearsed meticulously, but it was interesting that, when Stravinsky did take over, not everything was conducted as Craft had predicted (e.g. what had been beaten in 8 might now be in 4).
Stravinsky was notoriously ill-tempered and this irascibility showed right away when he rudely chased a photographer, by yelling, ‘Go away, you need me, but I don’t need you’. In common with some other great composers (by no means all) he seemed perhaps to be too introvertly involved with his music to conduct with ease, peering into the score as if to ponder every printed statement. He nervously removed his sweater (over his head) only to put it on again, off and on all day, getting more and more impatient with the strain of two days intensive recording, and stopping often to take a sip from a flask he carried in his hip pocket. When at the first rehearsal an unfortunate player in the percussion missed his cue, Stravinsky shouted: ‘I demand you play’! However, when the sessions were over and the recordings completed to his satisfaction, his mood relaxed immediately. He thanked us warmly, with fervent gestures of his arms and, taking out his precious flask for the last time, offered what remained to our concert master. I even found the courage to ask him to autograph my musicians’ birthday book, under his birth date, June 17th 1882. He willingly took his pen and wrote: ‘That’s correct, Igor Stravinsky’.
Now I would like you to hear a little of his opera The Nightingale from that recording in which I played.
Now I would like you to hear a little of his opera The Nightingale from that recording in which I played.
– Cue for Stravinsky Le rossignol –
This clip comes from Stravinsky's recording with the Orchestra of the Opera Society of Washington D.C. made at the very end of December 1960. It's from Act 1 of The Nightingale and the complete opera buffa is included in the 22 CD set Works of Igor Stravinsky on Sony BMG 88697103112.
Stravinsky.mp3
Return to Belfast
Kurt Roger was twice honoured by the Austrian government. On one of our last visits to Vienna he received the highest award in the field of Art and Science, the Austrian Cross of Honour, First Class, for his contribution to Austrian music, together with the conductor Georg Szell and the violinist Nathan Milstein. It was a proud moment in my life. He had remained an Austrian at heart, and longed to return to his native country.
Our dream was to live in Salzburg, where I could be within reach of my family in Ireland. This plan was altered in I964 by an invitation from Professor Philip Cranmer, Professor of Music at Queen’s University, to my husband to take the place of composer Raymond Warren as a guest lecturer in the Music Department for a year. We decided to spend the winter in Belfast and the summer in Austria.
Our dream was to live in Salzburg, where I could be within reach of my family in Ireland. This plan was altered in I964 by an invitation from Professor Philip Cranmer, Professor of Music at Queen’s University, to my husband to take the place of composer Raymond Warren as a guest lecturer in the Music Department for a year. We decided to spend the winter in Belfast and the summer in Austria.
It seems that as a player my roots, which had been
transplanted for so many years, immediately thrived again in the soil
which had nurtured my up-bringing.
This was due in large measure to the kindness of Dr Havelock Nelson, who involved me in so much rewarding music-making and with him I took part in the first annual music festival of Queen’s University.
This was due in large measure to the kindness of Dr Havelock Nelson, who involved me in so much rewarding music-making and with him I took part in the first annual music festival of Queen’s University.
LH pic: A 1965 newspaper cutting (probably from the Belfast Telegraph) recording a performance at the Performers' Club which Joy gave with Philip Cranmer of Kurt Roger's Viola Sonata.
In May 1966 we left Belfast, hoping to spend a long
summer in Austria but my husband was in failing health. There was a
special intensity in response to the music we heard in Vienna that
spring, and at the conclusion of Wagner’s Ring Cycle in the Opera House
(which he always referred to as the ‘Temple of his Youth’) I could
scarcely coax him away.
He knew he was hearing this great music for the last time. He died in Vienna on August 4th, and was buried where his parents lay, thus closing a circle. Members of the Vienna Opera’s Male Chorus sang the Pilgrim’s Chorus from Wagner’s Tannhäuser at his funeral, and his grave has since been made a grave of honour by the City of Vienna. See here.
Returning to Ulster, alone, I was again most generously supported by Havelock Nelson, Dr Boucher, Frank Capper, Philip Cranmer and many others, and when a viola vacancy occurred in the BBC orchestra I was encouraged to join. I was able to visit the USA and Austria to attend memorial concerts to Kurt Roger. Amongst the many local tributes to him, there was a splendid performance of his Piano Sonata by William Young.
RH pic: Dr Havelock Nelson.
In 1968 I was invited to join the Vienna String Quartet on tour. We played Mozart’s G Minor and Anton Bruckner’s sublime quintets for two violas in Dublin, Paris and Dijon, France, and they performed Kurt Roger’s Fourth String Quartet. In 1970, I was made principal violist in the BBC Northern Ireland Orchestra and remained in that seat for the next ten years, until the Orchestra’s amalgamation.
During those years I enjoyed a great deal of chamber-music playing, in concerts, broadcasts and television, thanks to those people I have already mentioned, including David Byers, and to Alan Tongue who contributed to my opportunities within the BBC. It was a great honour to take part in a trio programme on television with James Galway and Havelock Nelson. I have had the pleasure of performing piano quartets with Michael Nuttall at the University and of joining many other colleagues in ensembles, including our illustrious Derek Bell, and as these musical relationships are enduring, I hope that my life of music has not entered its coda!
During those years I enjoyed a great deal of chamber-music playing, in concerts, broadcasts and television, thanks to those people I have already mentioned, including David Byers, and to Alan Tongue who contributed to my opportunities within the BBC. It was a great honour to take part in a trio programme on television with James Galway and Havelock Nelson. I have had the pleasure of performing piano quartets with Michael Nuttall at the University and of joining many other colleagues in ensembles, including our illustrious Derek Bell, and as these musical relationships are enduring, I hope that my life of music has not entered its coda!
In 1969, Heinz Hammerschlag’s Viennese-born artist wife, Alice Berger, tragically died. They had been dear friends of ours. This shared sense of loss, combined with our mutual love of music, brought us together again, and led to our marriage in 1974.
In many ways it seems to me that my life too has formed a circle: a circle enhanced throughout by music in all its facets. For this I am deeply grateful.
In many ways it seems to me that my life too has formed a circle: a circle enhanced throughout by music in all its facets. For this I am deeply grateful.
LH pic: Untitled painting (oil on canvas on board) by Alice Berger-Hammerschlag from the Ulster Museum's collection (National Museums Northern Ireland). See more paintings here.
Before closing this evening, I would like to play a final record which I think will be of special interest if I tell you its background. When Kurt Roger was a student in Vienna he went to many performances at the Opera House with a school friend who was the only son of Dr Robert Hirschfeld, the famous music critic, with whom such composers as Dvořák, Brahms and Mahler had corresponded personally. When the son, Dr Franz Hirschfeld, died in Vienna, he most generously left us his eminent father’s letter collection, all of it unpublished.
Antonín Dvořák had composed five symphonic poems, Opp.107-111, in 1896, in his 55th year. He used the fairy-tales of the writer K.J. Erben and his five letters to Robert Hirschfeld pertain in much detail to these works. I have chosen not only to play you a recording of Op.108, The Noonday Witch, but to show you the original letter, in Dvořák’s hand, which contains 21 musical examples. The very simple story concerns a mother whose child is misbehaving. The mother threatens that she will go and fetch the Noonday Witch. Suddenly the Noonday Witch appears at the door and claims the child. The mother then desperately clutches him to her bosom. When the father returns he finds his wife unconscious and his child dead. Not a very nice bed-time story, I’m afraid.
– Cue Dvořák The Noonday Witch, Op.108 –
This brief clip is from Rafael Kubelik's classic 1976 recording with the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra for Deutsche Grammophon, most recently (2002) included in a Trio boxed set, DG 469 366-2.
Noon Day Witch.mp3
The above talk was dated May 1985.
The following note is a transcript of an additional document, also written by Joy. It's dated 1998.
The following note is a transcript of an additional document, also written by Joy. It's dated 1998.
A World Orchestra with Rudolf Barshai
In April 1994 a former colleague of mine, a leading member of the National Symphony Orchestra in Washington, wrote to tell me I would receive an invitation from Berlin to join a World Orchestra, organised by the International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War, to perform Verdi’s Requiem in Berlin and Paris in aid of global charities. It was a four-yearly event which brought together players from as many as 46 major symphony orchestras from around the world, with choristers from Moscow, the USA and Japan. It would be conducted by the Russian-born Rudolf Barshai and led by Leon Spierer who had been the leader of the Berlin Philharmonic for 30 years.
The soloists were from Slovakia, Lithuania, Russia and Italy. I could never have envisaged such an exciting musical event so late in my career: to meet and perform with leading players from the Berlin Philharmonic, Royal Philharmonic of London, Vienna and San Francisco Symphony orchestras, radio orchestras of France and Moscow, Israel Philharmonic and the Concertgebouw of Amsterdam. Along with my violinist friend from America, I was to represent the National Symphony Orchestra of Washington where I had played for many years, but I was also to represent Ireland, having been the leader of the violas in the BBC Northern Ireland Orchestra.
We spent three days of intensive rehearsing, followed by receptions, before performing in the vast amphitheatre for 20,000 people in Berlin’s magnificent Waldbühne, to commemorate the Nazi capitulation in 1945.
The performance, which was recorded and televised
worldwide, was repeated in Paris two days later in the beautiful Pleyel
concert hall.
The Berlin event was a particularly moving experience for me, not only because of Verdi’s inspired music, which I had first played with Sir John Barbirolli when my country was at war with Germany, but there in Berlin I was one of so many musicians from around the globe who were united in spirit.
The Conductor, Rudolf Barshai addressed the orchestra in five languages, but Verdi’s music spoke to us in one!
The Conductor, Rudolf Barshai addressed the orchestra in five languages, but Verdi’s music spoke to us in one!
My young German stand partner, who was the principal violist of the Frankfurt Opera, pointed out to me the dominant stone tower visible behind the wooded slope of the amphitheatre, which had been erected by the Nazis, where they held their Olympics and parades. Its ominous presence as a symbol of evil history, contrasted sharply with the beauty of the natural forest and the twittering of birds which magically joined the opening of the Requiem as we began to play.
The whole ambience of this setting moved me to the depth of my soul, the young German on my right, the Jewish violist from the Israel Philharmonic on my left, I from a little country in the midst of political strife, and, as the blood red evening sun descended behind the trees, and darkness fell, our massive audience was illuminated by thousands of quivering lights grasped within their hands, leading at last to that final heart-rending entreaty Libera me which had never held more meaning, and has left an indelible impression on my life.
This script © Joy Roger Hammerschlag, 2013
Kenneth Jamison remembers Joy
In September 2013, Kenneth Jamison (pictured below right) sent me a lovely response to Joy's talk and I have added it below. Ken studied painting and silversmithing at the Belfast College of Art in the early 1950s and, after some years teaching art at Annadale Grammar School, he joined the Arts Council of Northern Ireland as exhibitions officer in 1962, becoming deputy director in 1966 and then director from 1968 to 1991. He died in September 2016, aged 85.
'[Joy's talk] is a wonderful record of the life of a professional musician and I read it from beginning to end, absolutely enthralled.
'When I was a lad of about thirteen, my father's occupation in the building industry was more or less put on hold by the war, when virtually no building took place. He obtained a post as a District Officer in the War Damage Commission, to which his skills were particularly relevant. Shortly after he took up the post, he was given a deputy who was none other than Joy's father.
'In those days of formality, I never heard him referred to as anything other than as Mr. Forster. Christian names were never used.
'Shortly after his appointment my mother and father
invited Mr and Mrs Forster home for dinner. They came with their
daughter, Joy, and I remember her as a young woman. She would have been
about 27 and I was 13 or 14. To me, she seemed very attractive and had a
lovely personality.
'Joy says of her father that he was very
knowledgeable about musical instruments and, when I was about to start
piano lessons, it was natural for my father to consult Mr Forster over
the purchase of a piano. He got us what was referred to as "a table
piano", because a lid came down over the keyboard and it was possible to
use it as a table, which we did when family came at Christmas. It had a
shorter keyboard than a normal piano and looked more like a
harpsichord. Mr. Forster came to our house to install and tune it. It
was a Victorian instrument by, I think, Tomlinson* of London. The piano
is still in my sister's home.
'Joy married Heinz Hammerschlag. His wife
had been Alice Berger. Petite and vivacious, she had a remarkable
influence on the local painters of the period and ran "The New Gallery"
for Mary O'Malley [(1918-2006), co-founder with her husband Pearse O'Malley of the Lyric Players' Theatre]. I got to know her [Alice Berger] particularly well and, of course,
Heinz too. But I didn't move in musical circles and I don't think I met
Joy again.
'Her talk has many names of local people I knew, like Oscar [Oskar] Rudnitzky who taught with me at Annadale Grammar School [as Classics master] and was also a
refugee from Vienna. And Patrick Stevenson, who ran the Shambles Art
Gallery at Hillsborough, was a leading member of the Royal Ulster
Academy of Arts and was married to Joy's sister. The great mystery to
me is how Mr Forster, with his musical background, could have
contributed to the assessment of war damage claims!'
* The piano was most likely by Thomas Tomkison (c.1764-1853) of London, an important rival to Broadwood and Clementi.
Read more about Tomkison here.
Appendix: Joy in performance,
with Peter Gibbs, 1970
I am grateful to Joost Muller and Philip Hammond for pointing me in the direction of a BBC recording of which Joy thought highly. It was recorded on 30 June 1970 and broadcast on the Radio 4 Northern Ireland Home Service on 12 July 1970, 11.15-11.45pm. Taking part in Sunday-Night Music were Peter Gibbs, violin, Joy Roger, viola, John Bunting, cello, and Havelock Nelson, piano.
The music is the 1879 Piano Quartet No.1 in C minor, Op.15, by Gabriel Fauré (1845-1924).
Please click on the thumbnail to see the Radio Times billing. The PDF below the thumbnail features some fascinating information about violinist and RAF fighter pilot Peter Gibbs, including his confrontation with Herbert von Karajan and the Great Mull Air Mystery.
The music is the 1879 Piano Quartet No.1 in C minor, Op.15, by Gabriel Fauré (1845-1924).
Please click on the thumbnail to see the Radio Times billing. The PDF below the thumbnail features some fascinating information about violinist and RAF fighter pilot Peter Gibbs, including his confrontation with Herbert von Karajan and the Great Mull Air Mystery.
Speech introduction to the performance:
Faure intro.mp3
Fauré first movement: Allegro molto
Faure first movement.mp3
Fauré second movement: Scherzo - Allegro vivo
Faure second movement.mp3
Fauré third movement: Adagio
Faure third movement.mp3
Fauré fourth movement: Allegro molto
Faure fourth movement.mp3
Closing programme announcement:
Faure closing announcement.mp3