I was there when the Legend Began

| Apr 27, 2015 |

Many in the world of brass know the playing of Glenn Fischthal. For twenty-four years he was principal trumpet, eight years associate principal trumpet of the San Francisco Symphony before his retirement in 2012. He can be heard on numerous Grammy-winning recordings with the orchestra under Michael Tilson Thomas and has had a glorious and iconic career. But he is iconic in another way as well, and I take pride in being able to say I was there when the legend began.

Here is what happened: Glenn’s first permanent orchestral position was with the San Antonio Symphony, of which I was a member, during the 1971/72 season. In Glenn’s first rehearsal, the first of the season, which was for a pops concert, the first piece played was “Pavane,” by Morton Gould. The piece opens with a four-bar intro followed by a cute trumpet solo, which I played. As soon as my solo ended, about thirty seconds into Glenn’s first rehearsal with his first permanent orchestra, the following dialogue took place (and I still remember the exact words):

Music  Director Victor Allesandro: “Mr. Plog, could you bend that last note like Joe Venuti [the famous jazz violinist]? Does anybody here know who Joe Venuti is?”

Glenn: “Yeah, he’s a pimp from Chicago.”

Thus was the legend of Glenn Fischthal born.

He solidified his standing with the orchestra that year with many acts of… well, I don’t know exactly the term for Glenn’s approach to orchestral behavior—perhaps fearless might be the best description. Here are several highlights:

Toward the end of the season the orchestra had refused to ratify a very poor contract, and Allesandro was furious. He began a rehearsal of the Verdi Requiem by yelling at the orchestra for about five minutes, peppering his rant with inappropriate profanities. (No conductor could do that these days, as union rules are much stricter.) Finally, banging his fist on the podium, he said, “I’ll have to step off the podium to calm myself down, but if you don’t ratify this contract you’re just a bunch of goddamn fools.” The orchestra sat, stunned, the blood drained from their faces. Glenn calmly picked up his trumpet and started playing “What Kind of Fool Am I?”

Lest you think that Glenn’s humor had no sublety, I remember that one time during a lunch break some of the brass players visited a German restaurant (still in Texas) that had a guest book, which of course we all signed. The players following Glenn all saw that he had signed his name… Hans Upp.

Perhaps the most legendary story about Glenn occurred years later at a San Francisco Symphony performance of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony at Carnegie Hall. Before recounting it I would like to mention another story, this one involving Chicago Symphony trumpet player Adolph Herseth, because both stories involve dealing with intense pressure situations. It turns out that one player was there on both occasions—Dave Krehbiel, who early in his career was associate principal horn with the Chicago Symphony and later was principal with the San Francisco Symphony. The conductor of the Chicago Symphony at the time was Fritz Reiner, a great conductor and an even greater dictator. It has been said that with musicians, Reiner was like a shark—if he sensed even a tiny drop of blood in the water, he would attack. Dave said the pressure among orchestra members was so intense that he would drive to concerts hoping he would get into a traffic accident. One thing was sure: sooner or later Reiner would test you. It would be your turn, and either you would survive or you would be broken and out of the orchestra. One day in rehearsal it was Herseth’s turn. He was playing the famous and treacherous trumpet call from Richard Strauss’s “Also Sprach Zarathustra.” The number of times Herseth had to play the call during rehearsal that day is up for debate: I have heard as few as seven times and as many as nineteen. Each time Reiner would stop him and ask for a correction, and Herseth would play the call perfectly once again. Reiner finally asked, “Mr. Herseth, is this a problem for you?” Herseth glanced at his watch and said, “I’m here until 12:30.”

Fast-forward 40 years or so. The San Francisco Symphony was playing Mahler’s Fifth Symphony in Carnegie Hall. In terms of pressure it probably doesn’t get much more intense than that. Not only does the symphony begin with a dramatic trumpet fanfare; quite often the conductor doesn’t even conduct the opening. The conductor on this occasion, Edo de Waart, came on stage and waited for silence. Then, head down, with great drama, he moved his baton forward, signaling that Glenn should begin. Silence. He brought the baton back, waited, and moved it forward again. More silence. He finally looked up and saw that Glenn had his legs crossed and was speaking with the second trumpet. Krehbiel, who as principal horn was sitting next to Glenn, whispered, “Hey, Glenn, de Waart’s on the podium.” Glenn looked up, motioned as if to say, “Just a minute,” finished his sentence, and then began the fanfare. What a great story, and as with all great stories probably too good to be true. Or is it?

Several years ago I had dinner with Glenn before a San Francisco Symphony concert, and I couldn’t resist asking him if the story was true. Well, he said, not exactly. It turned out that when Glenn had motioned “Just a minute,” it was because he had been telling a joke and needed to deliver the punch line. Evidently de Waart didn’t think it was so funny. A number of years later the orchestra did Mahler’s Fifth on Halloween, and when de Waart gave Glenn a solo bow, Glenn stood up and smiled broadly, displaying a set of Dracula teeth. This time de Waart laughed so hard he had to leave the stage.

So, that’s just a sample of the legend that is Glenn Fischthal. There are many, many more stories (for example, the time he fell asleep behind the screen during an audition… and still won!). If readers have more stories, I would love to hear them. But there is one other thing that’s easy to forget.

Glenn Fischthal is a great player, a great musician, and a great guy.