When I went
to college, I began by majoring in music with piano as my principal instrument.
As we pianists were encouraged to gain as much experience as possible, I
auditioned to become studio accompanist for the legendary Harvey Phillips, the
patron saint of tuba performers worldwide.
I was in
for a wild ride. Harvey was powerful but unpretentious. When you entered his
presence, you came face to face with his colossal personality.
My Unfinished Sketch of Harvey Phillips |
He was all
business. He was all fun. Like others who have written about Harvey, I, too,
was a guest at his famed Tuba Ranch in the countryside. Who could not feel at
home there? I remember autumn evenings with bonfire sparks drifting toward the
stars and with tubas and baritones playing old favorites. I, too, was there
when the musicians donned Santa costumes for the Tuba Christmas honoring
William Bell, Harvey’s mentor who had been born on Christmas back in 1902.
One of my
first tasks as Harvey’s studio accompanist was to learn the piano scores to the
tuba repertoire. Alec Wilder and Halsey Stevens became my daily companions. I
was in and out of Recital Hall so often that it made my head swirl with visions
of Effie the Elephant dancing like a dervish. Harvey was always there, in the
back, applauding, encouraging, approving.
One day
while we were waiting for a tuba student who was late, I started to draw a
portrait of Harvey. I used a pencil and a plain sheet of typing paper. What a
challenge! Harvey stared directly at me the whole time, and he kept up a
conversation that required my participation. When I was looking at my drawing,
I still felt Harvey’s eyes piercing my cranium. He had such stage presence—or
just presence—yes, a monolithic presence—that I knew I was sketching an original, that rarest of rare
individuals having extraordinary gifts.
The tardy
tubist showed up, and I put away my drawing, which remains unfinished to this
day. I don’t think I could have finished it. To try to squeeze the
larger-than-life Harvey Phillips into a pencil sketch was like trying to balance
a Miraphone contrabass on the head of a pin or attempting to force a monster
King tuba into a piccolo case.
I will
never forget a studio session when Harvey announced that a musician from
Holland would be visiting. “You will accompany him on the Hindemith sonata.
He’s coming in next week.”
Oh, really?
So I had a whole week to familiarize myself with the entire piano accompaniment
to the Paul Hindemith sonata for bass tuba! Oh, sure! Nothing to it!
I had heard
other accompanists perform the piano score. No two sounded alike, especially
when the seemingly endless runs of soft notes began tinkling toward the end.
Many of them were faking those runs!
I spent
hours and hours, all my free time, much of my sleeping time, drilling and
drilling that sonata. It drove me nuts! I finally confessed to Harvey that I
felt certain I could not perform the accompaniment.
“Why not?”
Harvey asked with his trademark bluntness.
“Because
the ending is too difficult. I don’t have enough time to prepare it, and I
don’t want to fake it.”
“Let me
hear part of it.”
I obliged.
Harvey
stopped me. “What’s wrong with that?”
I just
stared at him.
“You’ll do
a fine job,” Harvey said, and he went back to work at his desk.
As I walked
away from the music building, I started to laugh. I felt I was unable to awaken
from a dream that could turn out well or that could take a nosedive into
nightmare.
The
performer arrived from the Netherlands. We rehearsed … once! That’s right. We
played through the sonata only once in our practice session. Harvey nodded his
approval, and the musician thanked me. That evening, the three of us met again
in the hallway outside Recital Hall. The tuba player and I strode onstage to
appreciative applause from a big audience.
Was I
nervous? You bet! The whole scenario struck me as entirely absurd. I had been
given only a week to prepare a difficult piece of music, and I had played
through it only once—only once!—and
now we were going to play this difficult piece in public. No one had said anything
to me about how I could improve my part!
While the
absurdity saturated my mind, I adjusted the piano bench, looked toward the
performer, and began on his cue. Suddenly, I relaxed! I realized I wasn’t here
to be perfect; I was here to accompany! I leaned into the opening and
listened carefully to the tuba so as to support and blend and make music!
When I
reached the daunting finale of the sonata, I faked nothing; instead, I was
relaxed enough to follow the ups and downs of the rapid lines without
confusion. The standing ovation was proof that the man with the tuba was a star
and that I had done nothing to dim his brilliance.
And you
know who was responsible for that? Harvey Phillips, who, from the beginning,
had known exactly how everything would turn out.
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