What Lenny Actually Said about Glenn Gould

It’s one of those infamous musical events that everybody has heard about but nobody much has ever heard. A 1962 performance of the Brahms D Minor Piano Concerto by Glenn Gould and the New York Philharmonic led to conductor Leonard Bernstein’s addressing the audience in regards to the unorthodoxy of the interpretation they were about to hear.

In popular parlance, Bernstein’s brief remarks have been presented as a disavowal, or even repuditation, of Gould’s performance—or even as a face-saving gesture on the part of an embarrassed conductor.

Over the years the tale has grown. Lenny tells the audience that he had nothing to do with the performance they’re about to hear. Lenny cuts Gould a new one right on the stage before a concert. Lenny tells everybody that he hates Glenn Gould’s playing. Lenny disses Glenn. Boy, what a creep, that Lenny.

Except that it’s not true. Bernstein’s remarks are actually supportive, compassionate, and deftly humorous. The audience chuckles right along, even bursts into loud laughter at one particularly felicitious moment. There’s nothing defensive or negative about Bernstein’s remarks. Proof? Here they are, transcribed from the broadcast recording of the concert:

Don’t be frightened. Mr. Gould is here and will appear in a moment. I’m not, as you know, in the habit of speaking before any concert except for Thursday night previews, but a curious situation has arisen which merits, I think, a word or two.

You’re about to hear a rather, shall we say, unorthodox performance of the Brahms D Minor concerto, a performance distinctly different from any I’ve ever heard, or even dreamt of for that matter, in its remarkably broad tempi and its frequent departures from Brahms’ dynamic indications. I cannot say I am in total agreement with Mr. Gould’s conception. And this raises the interesting question: what am I doing conducting it? (Laugh) I’m conducting it because Mr. Gould is so valid and serious an artist that I must take seriously anything he conceives in good faith. And his conception is interesting enough so that I feel you should hear it, too.

But the age-old question still remains: in a concerto, who is the boss? The soloist, or the conductor? (Laughter) The answer is, of course, sometimes one and sometimes the other, depending on the people involved. But almost always the two manage to get together by persuasion, or charm, or even threats (laughter) to achieve a unified performance. I have only once before in my life had to submit to a soloist’s totally new and incompatible concept, and that was the last time I accompanied Mr. Gould. (Audience laughs loudly.) But this time the discrepancies between our views are so great that I feel I must make this small disclaimer.

So why, to repeat the question, am I conducting it? Why do I not make a minor scandal and get a substitute soloist or let an assistant conduct it? Because I am fascinated, glad to have the chance for a new look at this much-played work. Because, what’s more, there are moments in Mr. Gould’s performance that emerge with astonishing freshness and conviction. Thirdly, because we can all learn something from this extraordinary artist who is a thinking performer, and finally because there is in music what Dmitri Mitropoulos used to call the “sportive element”—that factor of curiosity, adventure, experiment. And I can assure you that it has been an adventure this week, collaborating with Mr. Gould on this Brahms concerto. And it’s in this spirit of adventure that we now present it to you.

My little post probably won’t do anything about the inaccuracy of the long-standing story. Let’s face it: the gossipy, dishy version is more fun. But truth is truth, and the actual facts speak for themselves—as they always do.

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