 by Dr. Jeffrey Lant. Author's program note. On April 14, 1958 two gigantic nations, antithetical in viewpoint, each intent on destroying and humbling the other, put aside their terrible rancor to listen to a pale young man, a riot of blond curls with God's own harmony in his astonishingly wide hands. The occasion was the first International Tchaikovsky Competition in Moscow, the heartland of Mother Russia, soon to be conquered by the unmatched technique and shy smile of a boy from Texas, who reminded us of the neighbor kid we liked so much, the one who would say "Howdie, sir" when we walked by. Now that boy had wrought a miracle... for he reminded us how good life can be... if we embrace the important things, like the music he showered on us from afar and for the benefit of all, a happy outcome that our endless mutual concentration on the alarums and destructions of war could never deliver.. So let us hear some of this music, written by a master, rendered by a master who not only won a great competition but caused people everywhere to cheer him to the echo and carpet his way with roses and the brilliant afterglow of Tchaikovsky. Go now to any search engine for the magic is there, in Cliburn's unmatched version of the Concerto Number 1... and you will soon be mesmerized... and know joy. Piano Concerto No 1, some facts. Every music lover on Earth knows Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, his balletic swans and the leaping sugarplum fairies that mean, for millions, the thrill of Christmas. But such universal recognition is not always necessarily a good thing, for familiarity is not always knowledge... or understanding... or growth. And thus are creative musicians, in need of new vistas and triumphs, left with audiences who support (but also limit) them. a thing which infuriated the master... as it was to infuriate Cliburn in his turn. Thus his very renown baffled him and dismayed; he wanted to develop new sounds, whilst his audience clung tenaciously (and vociferously) to the old sounds, the ones they loved and expected. And so Tchaikovsky learned you cannot have your cake and eat it too. No one but a composer and those who played his brilliant notes brilliantly would have regarded this as a problem, but they were the ones from which the splendid notes emerged... and their torment and frustration were exquisite. The beginning of the Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-flat minor. Opus 23. Begun in November 1874, it bursts upon us with four emphatic B-flat minor chords. It demands your attention... and gets it, leading you to a lyrical and passionate theme. And here, were you listening to Cliburn, you would know, as the creme de la creme of Russian society and music knew, you were in the hands of a master. To achieve this supreme sound, Tchaikovsky revised this work in 1875, in 1879, and again in December, 1888. He was not in pursuit of mere excellence; that wasn't good enough. He wanted magic that could not even exist until the world was at the edge of destruction and needed the greatest composer of the Tsars and the greatest pianist of the Great Republic to stop the madness; the unlikely combination that dazzled the world and made us believe again in beauty! In love! And in our collective capacity for good! Born Harvey Lavan Cliburn Jr., July 12, 1934. Genius can come from anywhere and that is why we must be perpetually ready for it and supportive when we find it. Genius and its ways, after all, constitute one of the crucial means through which we as a species improve. Van Cliburn's entry into the annals of genius and the improvement of civilization began in Shreveport, Louisiana. At age 3 he began taking piano lessons from his mother, the former Rildia Bee O'Bryan. She had studied under Arthur Friedheim, a pupil of Franz Liszt. She knew her one and only child had The Gift. And you will say, of course the lady, his mother would say that. But she was a trained pianist herself, with the Abbe' Liszt amongst her artistic provenance. Such people know truth and tell it. If Van had been a "Sunday after luncheon" pianist she would have said so... for she was an honorable woman. What did his father say, for there was a father near at hand? He worked in the oil industry and wanted his only son to become a medical missionary. When it became obvious that wasn't going to happen, he built Cliburn a studio in his garage. Later, he moved his small family to Kilgore, in east Texas. This seems to have been the last influence of father on child; after the move it was exclusively mother and son... the way it would be until she died. It begins. What were you doing when you were twelve? Cliburn won a statewide piano competition which enabled him to debut with the Houston Symphony Orchestra. He then (age 17) entered the Juilliard School in New York where he studied under Rosina Llevinne. She trained him in the tradition of the great Russian romantics. At 20, he won the prestigious Leventritt Award, the more meritorious because its judges had not been able to find anyone of sufficient stature to award for years. Then there was Cliburn.... and he took the prize and then Carnigie Hall by storm. And so he went to Moscow... to destiny. Moscow, to the Eastern Orthodox Church, was "the third Rome," following the Eternal City and golden Byzantium. But to the Red Menace in 1958, the capital of international revolution, Moscow stood supreme and its leaders (not least because they had somehow managed to avoid being liquidated by Stalin) were as optimistic as it is possible for a godless Red to be. The hated Communist regime in Hungary (1956) had murdered freedom fighters without the Great Republic lifting a finger. Thus did the Soviets see in their huge European empire they could work their heinous deeds with impunity. In space, too, were their deeds a marvel to behold... with their hegemony certain; Sputnik (1957) the cause of mass U.S. despair and numberless fears. Krushchev and company were young leaders (Krushchev "just" 64 ). Opposing him was an old man, honored to be sure, but ill, a man of the past, confused by the turn of events which made him, Dwight David Eisenhower, our beloved "Ike", obsolete. They established the International Tchaikovsky Competition to show that here, too, the astonishing Soviets ruled supreme. Only one thing stood between that plausible argument and its confirmation... and his name was Van Cliburn, who, and with the high seriousness the matter required, was ready to be David to the new Goliath. Thus six feet four inches tall, resplendent in the perfection of white tie and tails, his weapons were the ethereal, the lyric and the aerial. It was enough, far more than enough, for it was sufficient to uplift a world at sixes and sevens. Krushchev's dilemma. Almost from the first minute, as Cliburn's firm, certain technique was displayed to the astonishment and awe of every aficianado present, the regime knew it had A Problem; for how could you prove the superiority without a paladin delivering such superiority? Especially as the whole event was live and universally covered. Had the result been close, a judicious fiddle could have been nicely arranged, but given Cliburn's command of every note and every heart, improvisation was necessary. "Is he the best?," Krushchev asked. "Then give him the prize" and so in the way of Russian fairy tales, Van Cliburn's fate was settled, but not at all as appeared that tumultuous day in Moscow. Peaked at 23, that glorious day. And when the victory was announced, it was a combination of Mafeking, Armistice Day, and VJ Day; only with this crucial difference. Those were victories over peoples and governments. This was an event for people, uplifting them, and reminding us that in the event we soared together with Cliburn, for peace, amity, and human kind, our kind. Thus did young Cliburn, looking far younger than he was, become a world figure in an instant, and every student of the human spirit and its ways, exulted because he represented the essence of civility, good taste, and our much buffeted and dearly bought civilization. The people of this civilization now rushed to admire a true hero... a man who had served but one mistress and served her fully for the benefit of all. Everything now rained upon Cliburn, including the unique honor of a Wall Street parade; 100,000 attended, the first time a musician had been honored. And, of course, there was money. Lots of it, although typically the Soviet authorities were churlish about letting him take his $2,500 prize home to Fort Worth, they retained half. Cliburn didn't mind. He loved Russia and its people, went often. They adulated him. The golden trap. However, in short order it became increasingly apparent, things were not entirely well. Some opined he was exhausted, and if he was who can wonder, given the fact he was the top concert draw on Earth, always willing to add "just one more" venue. But the fatigue was not merely physical; it was creative. You see, his audiences, huge, loyal, holding him close, wanted Cliburn as he appeared that April day in Moscow, the day the world took him to its heart. And so bit by bit, they smothered their golden boy and made him loathe the three works which were his very signature, Tcaikovsky's Piano Concerto Number One; and Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerti Number 2 and 3. During the 1960s he played less and less. By 1978 he had retired from the stage and while he returned in 1989, he rarely performed. It all culminated the evening of May 21,1998 when in the midst of Rachmaninoff's Second, he suffered total memory loss, collapsed on stage, and was hospitalized. The boy who had conquered ancient Muskovy and her dowdy commissars and all the great world beyond, whose masterful technique and down-home manners charmed all, lay on the floor gasping for breath. The picture flashed everywhere... and everywhere there was deep concern and anxiety... But I cannot leave him here... not the man who gave so much to so many, such beauty, such awe, such grandeur. He deserves better. Let us remember him thus, the guest of every president since Eisenhower, still slender and youthful looking even at the end; the greatest music on Earth in his nimble fingers. He leans back, closes his eyes and takes us to where we, in our woes and miseries, need to go. The man is gone... but his melodic mastery remains, and we give heartfelt thanks for every note, for every one was for us. About the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc. at www.worldprofit.com, providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. To see Dr. Lant's blog go to www.jeffreylantarticles.com Dr. Lant is happy to give all readers 50,000 free guaranteed visitors for attending his live webcast today. Visit Worldprofit for details. Your response to this article is requested. What do you think? Let Dr. Lant know by posting your comments below. About the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc. at www.worldprofit.com, providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. To see Dr. Lant's blog go to www.jeffreylantarticles.com Dr. Lant is happy to give all readers 50,000 free guaranteed visitors for attending his live webcast today. Visit Worldprofit for details. Your response to this article is requested. What do you think? Let Dr. Lant know by posting your comments below. |
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