Village Squire, 1975-02, Page 23Bitter,
Black
and
Blue
BY RON W. SHAW
For weeks the newspapers had been full of
it. Talk show hosts scrambled to outbid
each other to have him as a guest. Tabloids
sent their photographers to poke long lenses
into his private life. It was a cover story for
Time Magazine and Newsweek devoted its
entire theater section to the event. Nikoli
Nabokov, forced into retirement five years
earlier when cadaract operations failed to
restore his sight, would once again conduct.
Under the baton of this 78 year old maistro
the New York Philharmonic would stage the
musical event of the decade.
But something was emerging from all the
journalistic probes. A new angle on the story
which few publications even hinted at. Nikoli
Nabokov's dark world was turning the already
eccentric master into a full-blown psychotic.
A fact which was seriously threatening to
sabotage the successful outcome of the much
hearted event. Relations between conductor
and orchestra steadily deteriorated during the
weeks of rehersal and now, only slightly more
than 24 hours before the concert, things had
reached the breaking point.
In a fit of fury over a real, or possibly
imagined, error the conductor raved at his
musicians, his knuckles white as they
clenched opposite ends of the ivory baton
unsuccessfully attempting to break it.
all of you, everyone, you are hopeless
incompetents! Three weeks, no more, nearly
a month of rehearsal and still you show no
more ability than a high-school marching
band! You play like some kindergarten
rhythm band! Who is blind here, conductor or
orchestra? Read the music, look at the scores
before you
Nabokov raged. He waved his clenched
fists above his head, his long white hair
w.o. inf.; like a horse's mane. The orchestra sat
staring in disbelief at the maniac before
them. In the string section there were
whispers of discontent as some members
tried to raise support for a mass walk out.
the conservatory orchestra shows
more talent in its first concert. You call
yourselves musicians? You are hacks, each
and everyone. You know nothing of real
music, beautiful music as it was written by
the masters. Musicians? Ha! You shame the
profession, you are not fit to be called
musicians, you are not fit to
The torrent of abusive verbage continued to
pour over the philharmonic. Far in the back
percussion members took a quick opinion poll
with all agreeing this represented the longest
and most seering attack to date.
you are not fit to enter this studio.
Have you no pride in your work? You would
ask an audience to endure this....this....this
trash you pretend to call music? Where is the
New York philharmonic? I am sure, could I
but see, that 1 would find before be a
collection of seventh avenue derelicts, not the
members of the New York
As Nabokov paused, gulping for air, the
door burst open.
"Hey Jeff, where are you? Cut it out eh," a
girl's voice giggled. "You're not playing
fair." Nikoli Nabokov was interrupted in
mid -stride.
The orchestra turned horrified eyes toward
the door way. There, apparently seeking
some missing companion, stood a girl of
about nineteen. Long, shining, blond hair
hung to her shoulders with just a hint of curl.
White teeth sparkled as she smiled
expectantly. A nose, lightly sprinkled with
youthful freckles. Her green sweater added a
splash of color above the grey pleated skirt.
Nikoli Nabokov whirled toward the voice.
"What," he thundered, "do you think you
are doing." His words widely spaced, his face
red with rage, his unseeing eyes spitting fire.
There was no reply.
"Young lady I asked what you thought you
were doing? Bursting in here like this. Can't
you see we have an orchestra trying to
rehearse?" The conductor was screaming
with renewed vigor, drawing strength from
both the momentary rest and a new target for
his rage.
"No 1 I didn't Mr. Nabokov,
I didn't realize there was a rehearsal
todayI was taking a lesson here, You see I'm
a student at the conservatory and Mr.
Bern " Nabokov cut her explanation
short with a new outburst.
"A conservatory student. If you are a
student you should know better than to come
screaming and yelling like some fool into a
studio. Can't you read, didn't you see the
rehearse! light was on? Miss it is high time
you learned a little
Ron Shaw is a former Goderich resident
now serving in Niger as a volunteer to help in
the drought-striken area of Africa.
VILLAGE SQUIRE/FEBRUARY 1975, 21