Don't Rain on My Tchaikovsky

All the while, the sergeant, the lone noncommissioned officer present, tried to get in a word. He was repeatedly cut off or ignored by his superior officers. His frustration mounted until he finally blurted out, "Sir, how many rounds do I need to requisition?" He was in charge of the detail assigned to man the cannons.

He was crestfallen when I told him. Here indeed was a problem. Ammunition must be ordered in even numbers, according to regulations.

"Don't worry, sergeant," I quickly reassured him. "Once the cannons start blazing away, it won't really matter what we're playing. Go ahead and fire the extra round! Let's have a ball!"

The cannons were to be stationed in the hills a safe quarter-mile away. Because of the guns' distance, we needed a communications link between the orchestra and the cannons. I chose Marty for the job.

On that fateful night, when the orchestra and I were well into the battle scenes, I felt a fleck of dampness on my cheek, then heard a rumble of thunder. The battle of Borodino now became a battle against the elements. I mentally ran through a few maneuvers to get orchestra and audience out of the performance quickly - and dry.

My first instinct was to segue immediately to the spot in the score where the cannons enter. But how? I couldn't just flash a signal and expect 75 players to jump to that spot. Resolutely, I took command of my troops, who were fiddling and blowing in a state of high anxiety. I tried to speed up the tempo gradually, but it was getting darker. More thunder rumbled from above.

Tossing caution to the wind, I boldly pointed to Marty with my pencil flashlight. This was the cue for him to telegraph the cannoneers via the field telephone at his side. I assumed that he had sensed the weather emergency and would act with dispatch. But Marty didn't look up. His nose was buried in the score.

Here I must inform you that Marty was a musicologist. His concern was primarily with research and study of all things musical, but not with performance per se. You might say that he was a "guest artist."

I had enlisted him to man the telephone because I felt confident he would convey the order to fire at the precise moment. Marty followed the score precisely, all right. Why should he look at me? He knew we had not arrived at the composer's chosen point for the cannons' entrance. And apparently he was determined to preserve the sanctity of the composer's creation.

MEANWHILE, I was frantically trying to get his attention. So I yelled at him, I don't remember how many times, "Marty, the cannon!" Not once did he respond. What's more, because of all the commotion, I didn't realize I was yelling into an open microphone I had forgotten to turn off.

My letter-writer heard my pleas; so did thousands of others in the audience. But not Marty. He was obeying the higher authority of Tchaikovsky's muse.

I became resigned. I pressed on with the orchestra, trying to beat the raindrops by racing to reach the legitimate cue for the cannons. When we did, Marty looked up, acknowledged my signal, and the bombardment began.

I know there are many who will commend Marty for his musical integrity. Despite his erudition and precision, however, I doubt he spotted that extra round.

* The writer is a former conductor, violinist, and professor at Boston University.

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