He was my hero.
I was an odd kid. Your average suburban kid idolizes football players or pitchers or rock stars or maybe even movie actors. But not me. My hero was an elderly (by the time I elevated him) Polish man who had been born when Brahms was still alive, a man who had been friends with Debussy and Ravel and De Falla and Stravinsky, a man who had travelled the world innumerable times and had left a powerful legacy of RCA Red Seal recordings behind—records that were almost my only contact with him.
I refer to Arthur Rubinstein, pianist, raconteur, bon vivant, father and grandfather and great-grandfather, recitalist and soloist. Because we were living in Denver during my junior high and high school years, I got to hear Rubinstein live on a yearly basis. Either he would solo with the Denver Symphony Orchestra, in those days under the supervision of a creaking but still vital Vladimir Golschmann, or he would play a solo recital, always in the cavernous setting of Denver's old Auditorium Theater. We were a hick-town whistle stop on his tour itinerary, no doubt. But he never gave us anything less than his all.
Rubinstein live was inspiring, but Rubinstein on records was my refuge, my sanctuary, my haven. Much like those star-struck dancers in A Chorus Line, for me a Rubinstein record was a place where everybody was beautiful. So I collected those records as best I could on my limited allowance and the even more limited selection at the local Target, just about the only store within reasonable distance of a kid on a bicycle. For my last year in Denver I was able to drive and so I was able to explore some of Denver's real record stores—but my finances remained sharply curtailed.
It didn't matter, not really. I got astonishing mileage out of my little stash of Rubinstein Red Seals. This being the mid to late 1960s, Rubinstein was in the midst of a recording collaboration with Erich Leinsdorf and the Boston Symphony. Tchaikovsky Concerto No. 1, the Beethoven concertos, all with Leinsdorf. Some of the "Living Stereo" jobs from the late 1950s, with their near-surrealistic placement of twin stereo speakers and a jiggly "Living Stereo" logo in between, remained on the shelves, such as the collaboration with Alfred Wallenstein on the Franck Symphonic Variations. Enrique Jordá and the SF Symphony's stellar rendition of the De Falla Nights in the Gardens of Spain, originally recorded in 1957 but re-released in 1959 as the B side of the stunning Rachmaninoff Paganini Variations with Reiner and Chicago.
I had solo albums: the Chopin Nocturnes, Waltzes, Ballades, Scherzos, Beethoven sonatas. And my treasure of treasures: Rubinstein's luminous 1969 album of the Schubert B-flat Sonata, Op. Posth. That one gave me a direction, a goal, a reason to keep soldiering on even in the midst of teenage angst, insecurity, and the depressing nastiness of two alcoholic parents. I vowed that I would play the Schubert B-flat some day. Several years later, as an undergraduate at Peabody, I did just that. The Schubert B-flat unlocked some doors for me, including changing my status at Peabody from your basic wimpy freshman to an up-and-coming guy to watch. I played the Schubert B-flat for my audition at the SF Conservatory. In 2006 I returned to the piece and gave it another go, this time as a senior faculty member at the SF Conservatory.
But I still hear that Rubinstein recording in my mind's ear.
I've kept my Rubinstein records throughout thick and thin. No matter where I've moved or gone, that stack of LPs has moved around with me, diminished slightly by a few losses hither and yon. They remain in excellent condition and play beautifully to this day. Back in Denver they worked their witchcraft on me via an el-cheapo RCA record player with plastic box speakers covered in red fabric. Nowadays they sing out anew on a magnificent VPI Scout II turntable with a Grado Sonata cartridge, into a Nova Phonomena phonostage, thence into an NAD Masters Series amplifier and finally to the lordly Bowers & Wilkins 803D speakers that I have christened "Fasolt" and "Faffner".
Now, thanks to Sony Classical, I am blessed with the whole of that recorded legacy by way of a hefty box of 142 CDs. I consider this a gift to my teen self, that introverted kid who created a personal musical sanctuary guarded by Arthur Rubinstein's benign yet powerful presence. To have the entirety of Rubinstein's recordings, all in pristine remastered audio and with their original covers miniaturized down to CD-jacket size: this would have been beyond my wildest dreams, a kingly gift of downright incomprehensible munificence. And to hear those recordings elegantly processed by Bryston's peerless digital-to-analog converter and then sent snugly into the amplifier and Fasolt & Faffner…heavens.
Arthur Rubinstein's entire recorded legacy has been made available on CD before, but in a terribly expensive set of 90 some-odd CDs. Now the thing has been re-done, with original jackets, each CD having the same playing time as the original album (which I consider an advantage, not a downcheck), and for a much more reasonable price. What a joy to have it, to hear it, just to revisit those RCA Red Seal albums, some of which I still have, some of which I remember having, and some which I have never heard.
Last night I listened to the 1959 Schumann Piano Concerto with Josef Krips conducting the RCA Victor Symphony, a vintage "Living Stereo" job with a knockout cover. The performance is lyrical and unfussy, clearly delineated and slightly understated. Rubinstein definitely tailored his style to his conductor. Today I plan on hearing the same piece but recorded about ten years later with Carlo Maria Giulini and the Chicago Symphony. I'll bet that one's a bit more cushioned overall. And then maybe I'll go back to the 1951 version with William Steinberg and the RCA Victor Symphony and find out how the remastered version compares to my copy of the original album.
And maybe I'll just drift around, listening to a bit of this one and that one, and then that one over there. No rush, after all. Rubinstein achieved immortality via his recordings. More to the point, he was very likely the inspiration for this wispy Denver teenager making a firm and irrevocable commmitment to a life in music—a decision I have never regretted for so much as a microsecond.