PINCHAS ZUKERMAN

Of all the outstanding violinists of the second half of the 20th Century (and the list seems to grow longer every day), the one I admire most is Pinchas Zukerman.  It seems to me that he has all the ideal attributes: an impeccable technique, a wonderfully rich tone, deep musical understanding and, above all, an emotional commitment that communicates itself immediately to the listener.  You feel that there is a direct line from his heart to his brain to his fingers, and everything emerges naturally and without special effects, contrived passion or any of the other tricks-of-the-trade of 'fiddlestickery'.  He is who he is, and his music reflects the man. 

In person, he has an ebullient, outgoing manner, always full of good cheer, but this could sometimes be a facade for a deeply sensitive human, whose life has been subjected to the everyday ups and downs of living that we all face.  In his music, however, there is no need for subterfuge.  When he plays, he goes to the heart of the matter, and reveals his own heart with touching honesty.

I first met 'Pinky' when he was still a teenager, and under slightly unusual circumstances.  We were supposed to be recording the pianist Raymond Lewenthal (he of the mysterious cloaks and sinister portraits, who undertook a one-man revival of great piano concertos from the Romantic era).  Raymond had been struck down by 'flu and, in his place, the young violinist was flown in overnight from New York to work with the London Symphony Orchestra under Antal Dorati.

Where had Pinky come from?  He had been an outstanding student in Israel, catching the attention of Pablo Casals and Isaac Stern, who personally arranged for him to study at the Juilliard School of Music in New York. Winner of the prestigious Leventritt Award, he was already beginning to attract attention in America.  More important, Stern, his legal guardian and mentor and one of the great men of music in his time, was due to renew his own long-standing and very successful recording contract.  In meetings with CBS executives in New York, Stern announced firmly that he would not re-sign for himself unless they agreed also to offer a contract to Zukerman, for whom he had the highest regard.  It was a very generous gesture, typical of the man, but also a clear indication of the faith that he had in his protégé.

Several months had passed since that agreement had finally been made and, rather than forfeit orchestral fees and studio bookings caused by the cancellation of Lewenthal, the company decided to throw the nineteen-year old in at the deep end.

A first recording is always a nervous occasion.  Musical veterans regard it as an adjunct to their careers - often a good advertisement of their skills - even though many good musicians find it at times to be a somewhat unmusical experience, with constant repeats and concentration on musical imperfections that would pass unnoticed at a live concert.  For the newcomer, however, it is the sudden realisation that everything learned and prepared is in the focus of a cruel spotlight: a smudged phrase to be corrected, an uncertain pitch to be frowned at, a personal interpretation to be judged.  There is no audience to give encouragement, no bustle of reaction; simply a red light to indicate that the unforgiving tape machines are running and, if you are a raw newcomer, an orchestra of old hands who may be thinking: "O.K. Prove yourself and show us!"

Pinky arrived at the studio with his young wife, cheerful and seemingly at ease.  However, as the gravity of the occasion sank in, he became increasingly nervous.  The work was Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto and, rather than leaving Pinky isolated among strangers, it was suggested that Maestro Dorati (an excellent conductor but a man inclined to talk at rather than to you), should run the orchestra through the first movement. The soloist would wait in the Control Room until they were ready to record.  It also gave the Abbey Road engineers time to make any slight adjustments to their microphone positions and sound levels.

The rehearsal ran smoothly.  Dorati certainly knew his stuff and the LSO had performed the concerto at least a thousand times.  However, as the first movement progressed, Pinky became increasingly distressed (an overnight flight probably had not helped).  Suddenly, he announced with something close to horror, that his hand had 'frozen' and that his fingers would not move.  He was near tears.  Some tea, laced heavily with sugar, was produced, and he was moved to a separate dressing-room, where his wife and a friend were there to calm him and quietly talk him out of the painful stress he was patently suffering.

Meanwhile, Dorati had finished his final touches on the first movement, and called for the soloist.  On the telephone, without indicating any problem, the maestro was asked if he might consider preparing the second and third movements, so that the recording would eventually run more smoothly.  Slightly testily, he agreed (after all, you don't normally argue with a conductor, especially if he is Antal Dorati!) and the orchestra rehearsed away, unaware that anything was untoward.  At the same time, there were hastily delivered reports every five minutes on the progress being made by the soloist.  They were positive.  His fingers were regaining their touch, but he still wasn't sure that they were ready to record.

As Dorati completed the third movement of the rehearsal, Pinky appeared in the doorway of the Control Room, a little pale but managing a smile.  He thought he would like to have a try, and I assured him that, if there were any problems, he should stop immediately and take a little extra time to rest.

Adrenalin is an amazing thing.  When Pinchas Zukerman found himself facing the orchestra, Dorati at his side to offer gentle encouragement, the adrenalin suddenly hit his system and, closing his eyes, he leaned slightly forward, and began to play like an angel!  It was an almost faultless performance and, as the first movement ended (thankfully with an appropriate pause for the red light to go off) the orchestra broke into spontaneous applause - something which does not often happen with hardened players recording 'yet another' Tchaikovsky!

From there on, there were no problems.  In fact, I remember it as one of the happiest sets of recording sessions in which I participated.  At the end of the evening, when the orchestra had gone home, Pinky, laughing and joking, was still riding high on the excitement of the occasion and, just for good measure, stayed behind to record a further ten minutes of unaccompanied Bach.  He was bubbling with enthusiasm and conversation at a dinner late into the night, and the whole evening marked the beginning of a very distinguished recording career.  Dorati had proved, as always, an excellent and sympathetic collaborator.  We never told him about the backstage drama that had taken place during his rehearsals.

The following morning, I called New York and asked: "Has anyone actually heard Pinky play?"  There was an awkward pause, and the answer was "Well ... not exactly, but ..."   In my enthusiasm, all I could add was: "Wait till you do. I think you're in for one hell of a surprise!"

A little later, Pinky recorded the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto with Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic, and he never looked back.  A particularly strong European marketing campaign helped to make this debut album into a best seller, and established him as a major recording artist on both sides of the Atlantic. 

We made a further sixteen or seventeen records together in London, including works for viola (on which he is equally superb) and his first conducting assignments.  In every recording, his musicianship and his artistry shine like a beacon, and he has grown from strength to strength as one of the major musicians of our time.

How fortunate that he has agreed to make some recordings for Altara Records.  For a label that is on the threshold of world distribution, it augurs well for the future.

Paul Myers    

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