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March 25, 2011
Why not Trumpeter on the Roof?
A violin produces the most heartfelt, plaintive tones, akin to those of a cantor davening.
EUGENE KAELLIS
Why wasn’t the musical called Trumpeter on the Roof? Well, one is reason is because trumpeting wasn’t what shtetl Jews did.
The fiddle produces sounds not as loud as those of the trumpet, certainly not as triumphalist, but rather more subtle, more sentimental, more nuanced, with a greater propensity for the “vocalization” of sorrow. Being on the roof meant that the fiddler was closer to the presumed precinct of God, that he could see beyond the poverty and misfortunes of the shtetl and that his frail body, fiddle, bow and all, could, in the tenuousness of Jewish life in eastern Europe, at any moment, lose its footing and come crashing down to the reality of an unyielding ground. No wonder that, for Marc Chagall, for all of us, the “fiddler on the roof” was the perfect metaphor for shtetl Jews.
Maybe that’s why, for many years, Jews dominated violin virtuosity. It was for them the perfect instrument. One could elicit from it the most heartfelt, plaintive tones, resembling those of the davening of a cantor. Just listen to the Kol Nidre variations for violoncello (the somewhat more sombre bigger brother of the violin) by Max Bruch (1838-1920), the grandson of an evangelical cleric.
The violin had other advantages. During times of forced displacement or emigration to a hopefully more tolerant environment, a fiddle could easily accompany its owner, whereas a piano, or even a cello, would pose difficulties.
There is more mystique attached to the violin than to any other instrument, perhaps because there are so many variables involved in its construction: the types of wood used for its different components, its aging, the details of its shape and size and the precise placement of its sound holes, even the glue used to keep the parts together. An unplayed violin loses “something,” which is why the U.S. Library of Congress, which owns a Stradivarius, lends it out to be played. Indeed, when the effects of aging and playing are included among the variables, the list of sound-influencing factors becomes endless. Some believe that the tone of a violin becomes more distinct as it ages and the adhesive used to keep the parts together dries. The bow also has its own particularities: Mongolian pony tail hairs are considered the best.
The Stradivarius reputation suffered a blow when, in a 2003 assessment by professional violinists of the sound of a 300-year-old Strad, valued at $5 million, it was ranked slightly lower compared to a well-crafted modern instrument. The contest was arranged by a biochemist who had gone so far as to study Strads at the molecular level!
I once knew an electronics engineer who also was a talented musician. He cut a violin in half in its long dimension and put the strings across the covered surface of the cut, in effect turning a half-violin 90 degrees. He claimed that the new instrument had greater acoustic power, but, whatever its virtues, evidently it did not displace the traditional violin, perhaps because, by that time, if musicians wanted loudness from an instrument, they could simply use electronic amplification.
One of the most curious and thought-provoking facts about classical music performers is that, until recently – with the rise of Asian, primarily Chinese, violinists, who are becoming today’s stars of the classical music repertoire – Jews unquestionably dominated violin virtuosity.
If there is a prodigious pool of talent, one lucky break is sometimes enough to act as a catalyst, opening up opportunities to development and acclaim. Leopold Auer, a Jew born in Hungary in 1845, supplied that opportunity when he became the violin maestro at the St. Petersburg Conservatory, a position he held for 49 years at the very centre of pervasive “traditional” antisemitism. He had no hesitation in developing eager Jewish performers, who became the nuclei of the “Russian School” of violinship. Auer guided Efrem Zimbalist, Mischa Elman and Jascha Heifetz, the lattermost considered by some to be the greatest violin virtuoso of all time.
Auer himself had studied under Joseph Joachim, also a Jew, considered by many composers as the most outstanding violinist of the 19th century, who, in 1843, when he was only 12, entered the Leipzig Conservatory only to be told by Felix Mendelssohn that he had no need of training, he was already “complete.” Clara Schumann was ecstatic over Joachim’s playing of her husband’s Second Quartet. Joachim met Johannes Brahms in 1853 and they became close lifelong friends and collaborators for more than 40 years – indeed, almost all of Brahms’ violin pieces were planned to be performed by Joachim. Antonin Dvorak also was one of Joachim’s friends.
Unfortunately, Joachim’s musical career in Hanover, which lasted 12 years, came to an abrupt end when he resigned in 1865 in protest over antisemitic discrimination against his colleague, Jakob Grun.
Another Jewish prodigy, Bronislaw Huberman, brought tears to Brahms’ eyes when he played the composer’s violin concerto. When the Nazis came to power, Huberman cancelled all his German engagements and protested publicly. In 1936, he founded the Palestine Symphony Orchestra, which grew into the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra, today one of the world’s finest, and invited European artists to join him. Arturo Toscanini conducted its inaugural concert in Tel Aviv.
The story of Jewish-American virtuosi has to begin with Yehudi Menuhin, who often performed with his sister, Hepzibah, at the piano. He was a prodigy. There is a picture of him, when he was eight, holding a violin and staring ingenuously at his teacher, Louis Persinger. On April 12, 1929, before a capacity audience at the Berlin Philharmonic Hall, Menuhin, then a chubby eight-year-old, hadn’t yet developed the strength to turn the pegs in tuning his violin; an adult had to help him. The ripple of surprise that ran through the audience changed to wonder when he launched himself into Bach’s E Major Concerto. Boris Schwarz described the sounds as “pure as gold, inspired by an angelic naturalness of phrasing and musicality, and without a trace of childishness.” Albert Einstein, himself an accomplished amateur violinist, with the same expression of wonder with which he approached nature, said simply, “Now I know that there is a God in heaven.”
To comment on all the Jewish violinists who have ascended to the stratosphere of musicality would require more space than this article provides. Let me, however, just list the many others and, as the reader registers each name, perhaps fragments of remembered sound will come to the mind’s ear: Adolph Brodsky, Raphael Bronstein, Raymond Cohen, Robert and Bella Davidovici, Rotislav Dubinsky, Rudolf Serkin, Joseph Fuchs, Lillian Fuchs, Ossip Gabrilowitch, Bronislaw Gimpel, Gary Graffman, Reuven Rubin, Noah Greenberg, Rubin Heifetz, David Rabin, Isaac Stern, Vladimir Ashkenazi, Nathan Millstein, Yitzhak Perlman, Michael Rabin, Pinchas Zukerman and Shlomo Mintz.
There is much experimentation in classical composing today, unquestionably influenced by popular music and the perennial need for “novelty” and “originality” in contemporary Western culture. But, often, plus ça change, plus ça reste la même. Classical music will endure, even though the number of fans will, at least relatively, decline. (One reason being expense – a symphony orchestra is extremely costly.) There will “always” be a place for the music of Mendelssohn, Dvorak and Brahms, even though the “centre of gravity” for classical music, however one defines it, will switch from Europe and North America to Asia, with a smaller but significant pole in Israel. A recent concerted effort in Britain to counter the declining interest in classical music had only limited success, but, in Israel, season tickets to performances by the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra are invariably and quickly sold out.
Eugene Kaellis has written a novel, Making Jews, on the theme of the current basic problem of Diaspora Jewry, which is available from lulu.com.
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