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Latest extracts from the book "Mud from a Scraper" by Jeremy White and Herbert Whone - circa 1950

Dear Reader

As a brief exlanatory note for those who don't know, these extracts are from a book written in 1950 by violist Jeremy White with cartoons by violinist Herbert Whone when both players were members of the Royal Opera House orchestra. It gives a wonderfully colourful view of orchestral life at the time - perhaps somewhat tongue-in-cheek - but reveals much that may still resonate with players 50 years on. The book was intended for publication by Heinrichsen Publishers in 1951 but due to the untimely death of the head of the firm, the book also met its end. The extracts are reproduced with the kind permission of both atrists. Other extracts may be found in previous newsletters on this web-site. 

AW 

CHAPTER 7 

INTRA-DEPARTMENTAL CONDUCT

"Those behind cried 'Forward!'

And those before cried 'Back'".

                                                 Macauley.

The average front-desk player has no need to be any better than a back-desk one. The foremost qualification for his position is experience, and with it that instinctive knowledge of what a conductor is likely to do next. Nobody can lead a section without a highly developed orchestral sense, and it is the degree in which he possesses this that determines a principal's superiority over the players behind him.

It does a young rank-and-file player no good to demonstrate that his technique is superior to that of his leader. Even if his sight reading is beyond criticism, and his musicianship unparalleled, they will get him nowhere if he makes them too obvious - except into another orchestra. For the reason of professional jealousy, if for no other, he must follow his leader religiously: the leader, being blamed for the sins of his section, does not want to have to apologise for his juniors as well as for himself. If after a year or two, a leader realises that he has never heard a sound from, say, his number seven, he will assume that number seven has always followed him; and thus he becomes number six when the next man resigns or dies.

For the intelligent player, this policy of remaining inconspicuous cannot be carried too far. There are orchestras in which certain section leaders never want to hear more than a piano from behind them, preferring to make all the crescendos and fortes themselves. Should a back-desk player injudiciously play forte, he will politely be asked how much he wants for his insturment. Similarly he must never ask stupid questions. If in doubt about how to play a passage, he must imitate his neighbours, and play it so quietly that no-one notices his errors. Nothing embarrases a front-desk player who has risen from the ranks as much as being asked how to play something.

The only exception to this rule occurs when a work by Haydn or Mozart is being rehearsed. A large tone from the back desks may cause the conductor to decide to use only a small orchestra, which gives the liberated players time to drink an extra cup of tea: this gambit is not for beginners, as it is likely to cut both ways.

The main duty of a back-desk player is to dash out quickly to procure the interval tea for his section. He is rarely recompensed for this, except by knowing that if he gets to the front of the queue he is likely to be given other engagements. If he does this duty well, many peccadilloes are forgiven him: should he fail, Heifetz himself would have to look for another job. After several years on the back desk, a player may think himself deserving of promotion, and have a word with his sub-leader or the orchestral manager on the matter. This never has any effect. "I know how you feel", they will say, "but we need someone safe at the back".

The front-desk player has many responsibilites of his own. Apart from the purely technical ones that go with his position (which most menbers of the section could perform anyway) he is expected to show an intelligent interest in music. He must be able to sustain a brief conversation with the conductor, agreeing with him in every particular. He must be better at hiding his mistakes than are his inferiors, owing to his uncomfortable proximity to the conductor and the leader of the orchestra. He must not show the relief that he feels, in commom with all his colleagues, when a rehearsal finishes, but must linger for a few minutes, as if unwilling to stop.

Should the leader of an orchestra, perchance object so strongly to the sloppy way in which a member of another section is playing a passage, that he feels he must convey his sentiments via that section's leader, he will find that though few musicians make sound theologians, all are in sympathy with the apothegm "Cast not the mote from thy brother's section...".

Perhaps the least comfortable position in any department of an orchestra is that of sub-leader. Anyone sitting with the leader shares his responsibilites, but not his privileges. When a conductor complains to the principal second violin, say, he in turn complains to his partner, who, poor man, cannot turn round and complain to the desk behind, because the rest of the section will always blindly reply that they were following the front!

The sub-leader is a whipping boy. He must take the blame for his leader's errors; he must always count the rests, and unobtrusively give his partner the cue to come in; he must mend his broken strings and sympathise with his multitudinous complaints; and like all accompanists, he must never be nervous or unwell lest he damage his superior's equilibrium. He is liason N.C.O. between the ranks and the officer. He must sugar any of the grievances of the rank-and-file before presenting them to the principal, and must endeavour to make the replies palatable before taking them back; above all, he must disguise the fact that he covets his neighbour's job.

The quality of leadership is not given to many, for most musicians are temperamentally in sympathy with anarchy, which unfits them from wielding any effective authority: they are, at the same time, too firmly opposed to discipline to make the task of a leader an easy one.

Seniority is the usual factor which decides an orchestra's choice of section leader, except when an outsider is offered the job, and a player's natural avarice overcomes any scruples he may feel in accepting the post. Some are born leaders and are too firmly set in their natural individualism ever to take well to a lesser position: some achieve leadership by remaining in one orchestra for many years and seizing every opportunity for self advancement: some have leadership thrust upon them when sickness or the processes of the law force the rapid resignation of their seniors. The majority of leaders have held their positions so long and so tenaciously that nobody can remember or imagine how they ever achieved them.

CHAPTER 9

AUDITIONS

"I had so much facility of execution that

I never had any difficulty in getting an

engagement."      Jessie Fothergill; The

                                                                      First Violin.

An audition is an ordeal that every musician has to undergo at least once during his career. The trepidation with which young players approach the event is unnecessary, and can be avoided by knowing the several factors that govern the correct behaviour for such occasions, and by realising what is really expected of them.

The most important part of any audition is the sight-reading, and a player who does well in this is forgiven much. Once a player knows who is taking the audition, he can usually discover, by discreet enquiry among professionals, what the sight-reading is likely to be: this is so because most conductors and leaders, once they have discovered a suitably difficult and unknown piece, tend to use it on every occasion. Thus he will be prepared and able to face his ordeal with greater composure.

Confidence is all. A player who looks nervous is at once under a disadvantage. Should he play something badly, he should stop, remark that he can play better than that, and try again. The ideal solo piece for use at an audition is one hardly anyone knows. It should be chosen with regard to the auditor's idiosyncrasies, showing the player's tone to advantage if they are known to be partial to good tone, and exhibiting a showy technique if they have a weakness for fireworks. The leader of the orchestra, who is inevitably on the panel, will know every standard concerto, and will not only notice every little mistake, but is certain to disagree with anyone else's interpretation. No musician is going to be popular with a leader if he begins by accidentally treading on his artistic corns. It is also possible to make a little-known work seem more difficult than it really is. This helps in two ways - by enhancing any good impression made during the performance, and by minimising the effect of errors.

Auditions are the only occasion on which certain technical tricks, such as flying staccato, are of any use. The posture should be handsome, and the appearance immaculate, and great understanding of the music should be shown. It must be realised that the conventional behaviour at an audition is utterly different from the accepted orchestral manner, and that auditions are formalities rather than examniations of the suitablility of applicants. Applicants are judged by criteria which are more appropriate for world soloists than for prospective back-desk instrumentalists.

Having played a solo and endeavoured to read an impossible passage of illegible manuscript, the player may then be invited to sit down, under a strong light, where he will be asked a few seemingly innocent questions. He will be requested to describe the experience he has acquired, and to give an impressive list of orchestras and conductors under whom he has served. Though his replies will not be checked, he must take care not to claim to have played on occasions when his interrogators were present. Equally, a young man purporting to have been a member of the L.P.O., R.P.O., Philharmonia and B.B.C. Symphony Orchestras will simultaneously give the impression that he was dismissed from these orchestras for questionable reasons.

He must appear to be a hard-working, conscientious musician, worthy of the supposed traditions of the job for which he is applying: yet he must not seem over-eager, nor to need the engagement. When at last he has answered all the questions put to him, some of which are sometimes unjustifiably personal, and he has perhaps decided he does not like the feel of the job anyway, the aspiring applicant will be told "We've got your address haven't we? We'll be writing to you. Good morning". This formula is of course a polite dismissal, and means he may as well go straight round to the Labour Exchange. In any case, the vacancy was probably filled before any auditions were held.

In spite of all this, many unobtrusively worthy players have been engaged on the strength of their performance at auditions, whilst many players with fiery techniques but little understanding have failed in their quest.