Paul Myers column

Memories of Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli

In the middle 1970’s, when I was working for CBS in London, I learned through ‘the grapevine’ that the great pianist Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli was interested in moving to another record company.

My first reaction was one of caution.  I should explain.  In those days, when classical record companies had a dominant position in the music world, a love-hate relationship often existed between artists and their ‘labels’.   Many musicians, reading about multi-million sales of popular records, were convinced that international record companies were nothing more than faceless, money-grubbing institutions bent on exploiting innocent performers, and they applauded any efforts by their colleagues to exact revenge on “the enemy”. 

Let me give an example.  Over a period of several months, I negotiated a contract with a well-known Italian conductor (through his English manager), offering a handsome package of guaranteed recordings, including several ‘star-studded’ operas, with high fees and an almost carte-blanche choice of repertoire.  The conductor said he wanted to change his affliations, and it was at a time when my company was prepared to invest in new talent, so the terms were mutually favourable.  We finally agreed on all the conditions, and the Legal Department prepared a lengthy contract. 

Then, silence.  I called the manager several times, but he managed to be ‘away from his desk’ on each occasion.  The conductor was not accepting any communications, so I should probably have guessed what was going on.  Finally, after about six weeks, the manager returned my call, to admit somewhat blandly that his artist had taken my contract to his current record company and thrown it on the table with the demand: “Match that!”  The company capitulated, and he signed an extension to his existing agreement, incorporating some of the more advantageous terms we had discussed!  (To add insult to injury, the conductor also phoned a number of the singers I had named, to ask whether they would be appearing in ‘his’ recording of an opera we had discussed.  Happily, they all responded that they had already agreed to sing the roles for ‘my’ company.)

But the opportunity to bring the legendary Michelangeli to CBS was too seductive and, throwing caution to the wind, I made the first of several trips, initially to meet the maestro’s lawyer in Lugano.  To accommodate any language barriers, an old friend from Milan was there to act as interpreter, if necessary, and conversations proceeded in English, French and Italian. Having satisfied initial inquiries, I was placed on a sort of ‘stand-by’, awaiting an official summons to meet the maestro in person.  As far as I was concerned, it was worth the effort.  I had admired ABM since my early teenage years, and knew and loved every scratched and hiss-ridden 78 rpm record he had ever made.

The call came a few weeks later, with a meeting in an elegant old hotel in the centre of Verona.  The setting was reminiscent of a Federico Fellini film, with heavily polished mahogany tables in a series of connecting narrow meeting-rooms that stretched into echoing corridors, decorated with marble black and white flagstones.  I half expected to see a mysterious female figure, veiled in white, gliding across the silent inner courtyard.

The maestro was accompanied by an attractive young woman who, as his ‘personal manager’, planned to do most of the talking.  There were times when it was hard to stop her, especially as she had a very long ‘shopping-list’ of extravagant demands.  Would I sue various record companies, especially one based in Japan, for issuing pirate copies of his records?  Would I provide two first-class airline tickets to any destination in the world, so that he could try out a Steinway piano if one came to his attention?  If he were happy with any piano, would I purchase it on his behalf?   Advance fees, royalties and the normal fare of a record contract were hardly mentioned at that point.

‘Benedetti’ was elegant as ever, with swarthy, matinée-idol good looks and an exquisitely tailored summer suit.  I don’t remember a silver-headed ebony cane, but he could well have been carrying one.  Throughout most of the conversation, he gazed around the room, vaguely disinterested, but would then suddenly focus his attention on one speaker or another, watching for any facial reactions. 

After a while, he seemed to tire of the conversation, leaving his chair to walk the length of the galleries that made up the meeting-rooms.  I must confess that a certain comic aspect from the old radio ‘Goon Show’ came into play.  For, as we continued our discussions, his footsteps could be heard, echoing on the marbled floors, at first disappearing into the shadowy recesses of a distant space, then steadily growing louder with his return.  Concentrating on following a trilingual discussion that jumped from subject to subject, my attention was held by one speaker or another, only to look up and find the maestro’s expressionless face a few inches from my own, staring at me intently.

Although some of the requests were, on the face of it, unusual, a quick mental calculation told me that they were not insurmountable.  Michelangeli’s anguish over finding a suitable piano was well known, and air travel – even first-class – was not that extortionate in those far-off days.  Having watched the phenomenal success of the highly publicized ‘return’ of Vladimir Horowitz a few years earlier, together with the enormous global sales that CBS had generated from it, Michelangeli’s demands did not represent any serious expenditure.  This was a company accustomed to promoting pop stars, with budgets running into millions.  Furthermore, CBS had recently purchased the Steinway Piano Company in New York as one of its many corporate acquisitions, and would therefore be buying an instrument (if he ever found one) from itself. 

I also remembered a story told by John Culshaw from his early Decca days, when he had hidden in the Control Room overlooking a studio in which the company had lined up six or seven Steinway concert grand models in a row.  Michelangeli had arrived, seated himself at the first piano, played a few notes, kicked the leg of the instrument viciously, then moved to the next in line.  The same reaction followed one after the other, and he had left a few minutes later, no happier than when he had arrived.  Perhaps that ideal piano existed only in his imagination.  Suing a Japanese record company in Japan might be more difficult, but I promised to do my best.  The Sony Corporation there was already a partner, and would probably offer help.  If Michelangeli’s switch to CBS enjoyed only half the success of the Horowitz ‘return’, the profits would far outweigh any investment.   

I must have given the right answers, because Michelangeli seemed happy with everything he heard and, although his ‘manager’ was about to run through yet another lengthy list from her briefcase, he announced that the meeting was over, and we were to be his guests for lunch.  We repaired to a traditional Veronese restaurant – rough-cut tables and simple food - where the maestro talked nostalgically about his early visits to Britain, and even spoke with charm about his service in the Italian Air Force during World War II.  He made it sound a little like World War I, leaving a mental image of himself seated in a biplane, the scarf around his neck flowing in the slipstream, with leather helmet and goggles to match.

We said our farewells in Verona, and I drove with my Italian colleague back to Milan.  He said very little but, by the way his eyes glistened, it was clear that the meeting had been a special experience for him.  Michelangeli was not just a great pianist – he was an Italian legend.

I wish the story had a happy ending, but it did not.  The New York classical department at that time was torn apart by ugly and unnecessary office politics, the basis of which was a power struggle between Europe and America.  Rumours, exaggerations and, at times, plain untruths found their way along the corridors of power.  By the time I reached the famous “Black Rock” that housed CBS on West 53rd Street, the Michelangeli project had already been set aside.  The company was going through yet another introspective assessment, and I was instructed to advise the maestro’s lawyer that we would not be negotiating further.  The subject was closed.

Some months later, a ‘colleague’, who had just been fired, confessed that he had deliberately “exaggerated” his behind-the-scenes lobbying against the project.  He had knowingly lied and misled senior executives over the importance of Michelangeli, and had warned them that to sign him would have been a reckless gamble.  He himself actually knew the value and quality of the great pianist, but he couldn’t allow the project to go ahead. 

“Why, for God’s sake?” 

He sighed.  “Because such a signing would have brought you too much ‘kudos’ - and I wanted your job!” 

And, by then, it was too late. 

I resigned from CBS a few months later, to move to Decca in London.  Before I departed, I received a note from Michelangeli.  In it, he explained that he had decided to renew his contract with his old company.  He also thanked me for my time and patience, adding that he was aware that the breakdown in our negotiations had not been my fault.  “I know,” he added, “that you are a man of honour.”

It was small compensation, but those few words meant all the world to me!

Paul Myers