SEARCHING FOR THE MEMORABLE

• Tales of a Peripatetic Record Producer

  The pictures on faded stamps in my mother's collection conjured my earliest notions of far away places. This, allied to a romantic, distant, and escapist disposition at a far too early age, led to my yearning for distant vistas. I would never have known that my early love for music would lead me to most of the places I wanted to visit. I ignore all the years that lead to my becoming a recording producer and to meeting the woman of my dreams and fellow traveller except by reference and begin the story with the place where I am convinced God must live or at least vacation: New Zealand.

  It was music that led me there. On a hot, dusty day in Jerusalem, my friend Moshe Saperstein, a wounded Israeli war vet, crazy like me for unusual repertoire and particularly fond of the English romantic composers played a record of New Zealand composer Douglas Lilburn's music. It evoked the magic of a place that I thought I would never see. Skip a few years and I am the General Manager of a very small and obscure record label in New Jersey called Stradivari Classics. It was the boom time of the classical record business. The compact disc was still fairly new: it had saved the business of classical music on records from near extinction creating a stampede to record everything and anything for the new medium. What's more, the cost of production was declining and there were orchestras from eastern Europe to the South Pacific offering reasonable quality at very reasonable prices . Little Stradivari had carved out a small niche with the first very low priced all digital recordings of standard and not so standard repertoire mainly recorded in the then Yugoslavia with a very good orchestra we renamed the Ljubljana Symphony Orchestra and a talented conductor with the unusual name of Nanut. The LSO - with apologies to that better known institution in London - got good reviews, created expectations, and enough of a name that I received a call from a reputable agent with an very interesting project. Would I be interested in the first modern recording of Samuel Barber's 2nd Symphony? My knowledge of the work consisted of two facts: it had been deemed a failure and that although a score existed, all the parts had been destroyed at the composer's request. I was a Barber fan finding his particularly aching romanticism irresistible and took the bait. Who was the conductor and where did he find parts. Also, how were the legal impediments from the Barber estate being handled. It turned out that Andrew Schenck, a conductor of great talent and little luck, had not only found a set of parts that had escaped the publisher's destructive order but had an agreement for one year's exclusivity to record the piece. After meeting Andrew for breakfast in my wrong side of the tracks New Rochelle town house and talking music for hours, my answer was an easy yes. Stradivari operated on a limited budget and my concern was where could we find a credible orchestra at a reasonable cost and schedule sessions within the time limit of Schenck's exclusivity. When Andrew told me his next engagement would take him to New Zealand, the main theme of the Lilburn Aotearoa Overture came immediately to mind.

• Tales of a Peripatetic Record Producer

  The pictures on faded stamps in my mother's collection conjured my earliest notions of far away places. This, allied to a romantic, distant, and escapist disposition at a far too early age, led to my yearning for distant vistas. I would never have known that my early love for music would lead me to most of the places I wanted to visit. I ignore all the years that lead to my becoming a recording producer and to meeting the woman of my dreams and fellow traveller except by reference and begin the story with the place where I am convinced God must live or at least vacation: New Zealand.

  It was music that led me there. On a hot, dusty day in Jerusalem, my friend Moshe Saperstein, a wounded Israeli war vet, crazy like me for unusual repertoire and particularly fond of the English romantic composers played a record of New Zealand composer Douglas Lilburn's music. It evoked the magic of a place that I thought I would never see. Skip a few years and I am the General Manager of a very small and obscure record label in New Jersey called Stradivari Classics. It was the boom time of the classical record business. The compact disc was still fairly new: it had saved the business of classical music on records from near extinction creating a stampede to record everything and anything for the new medium. What's more, the cost of production was declining and there were orchestras from eastern Europe to the South Pacific offering reasonable quality at very reasonable prices . Little Stradivari had carved out a small niche with the first very low priced all digital recordings of standard and not so standard repertoire mainly recorded in the then Yugoslavia with a very good orchestra we renamed the Ljubljana Symphony Orchestra and a talented conductor with the unusual name of Nanut. The LSO - with apologies to that better known institution in London - got good reviews, created expectations, and enough of a name that I received a call from a reputable agent with an very interesting project. Would I be interested in the first modern recording of Samuel Barber's 2nd Symphony? My knowledge of the work consisted of two facts: it had been deemed a failure and that although a score existed, all the parts had been destroyed at the composer's request. I was a Barber fan finding his particularly aching romanticism irresistible and took the bait. Who was the conductor and where did he find parts. Also, how were the legal impediments from the Barber estate being handled. It turned out that Andrew Schenck, a conductor of great talent and little luck, had not only found a set of parts that had escaped the publisher's destructive order but had an agreement for one year's exclusivity to record the piece. After meeting Andrew for breakfast in my wrong side of the tracks New Rochelle town house and talking music for hours, my answer was an easy yes. Stradivari operated on a limited budget and my concern was where could we find a credible orchestra at a reasonable cost and schedule sessions within the time limit of Schenck's exclusivity. When Andrew told me his next engagement would take him to New Zealand, the main theme of the Lilburn Aotearoa Overture came immediately to mind.

• Arias and Barcarolles

  I mentioned my dilemma to my first-class secretary, Kathleen Karcher. Kathy's suggestion, typical of her good sense, was to ignore it for the time being. That time was very short as Marvin Schofer, an agent and friend, asked if I would be interested in producing the world premiere recording of Leonard Bernstein's new work, Arias and Barcarolles. The title, according to the official story, came from a comment made by President Dwight Eisenhower to Bernstein, about how he preferred tuneful music to "all them Arias and Barcarolles." Compactly (and inexpensively) scored for two singers and two pianists, the music was a delicious Bernstein romp about relationships, pained, strained, and and poignant. Schofer told me, everything was set up, including studio dates, cast, and most importantly, the imprimatur of Leonard Bernstein. One of the singers was Judy Kaye, a Tony Award winner for Phantom of the Opera and the other was William Sharp who remains one of the most stylish baritones around. The pianists were two of the best young talents as well: Steve Blier and Michael Barrett. The price was right and I triumphantly rang Michael Koch to ask if he was interested in the package to start the new venture. For me, it provided a raison d'etre to start a new label. I resigned as General Manager of Stradivari Classics saying good-bye to the two nicest bosses I ever had. I also made sure that Koch would fund the next trip to New Zealand for more Barber! Though these pages are strictly speaking about travels and the Bernstein was recorded in New York, it was the prelude to eight wonderful years of recordings round the world and as such deserves more than a mention here.

  The recording sessions - four calls of four hours duration each - were held at Master Sound Astoria which remains my favourite place to record music. Unlike the cold stereotypical studio without a pleasing natural acoustic, Master Sound has it all - a lively acoustic, superb equipment and the priceless knowledge, experience and let me add patience of Ben Rizzi, the best recording engineer in the business. What little I know about recording engineering I owe to Ben. A larger than life man with little regard for the modern taste for healthy living, Ben was not stereotypical. A died-in-the-wool political conservative in a business where left wing sentiments were the equivalent of a uniform, there were those who didn't feel comfortable with Ben. I was in recording heaven and I knew that I would be satisfied, from a technical and sound standpoint, with any recording I made in Master Sound. There were also those countless occasions when I would bring in a master tape made in surroundings less perfect that Ben, through the deftest and patient reworking of the original material, would not only rescue the disasters I manufactured but create a gem. The rest of the studio complement included Ben's wife, Maxine, who managed the studio and the very congenial David Merrill, son of the distinguished baritone Robert Merrill. For me, Master Sound was bullet proof - an environment that let me concentrate completely on the artists and the music. Unlike many recording venues, the listening environment was ideal. I always knew that the way I heard the music was the way the recording would actually sound. There were rarely any surprises. When I get to tales of recordings in lonely churches, Lithuania, and Korea, you'll know why this is so important. Master Sound also provided important creature comforts including the best Italian mozzarella, prosciutto and sun dried tomato sandwiches imaginable supplied by a local deli. (I write this from Tuscany and even here in the land of good eating, the memory is still sweet.)

  The sessions went extremely well. Complete takes, followed by a critical listening sessions, followed by retakes and minor corrections when necessary all happened with a minimum of troubles. The clock, always the nemesis of a recording session, seemed not to move. Avoiding costly overtime and ever aware of the studio's hourly rate was never far from my mind. We had a bit of a pause as we "auditioned" various individuals for a crucial bit of whistling that opens the last of Bernstein's Arias and Barcarolles. The excellent piano tuner - Scott Jones - made a valiant effort but in the end, pianist Michael Barrett supplied a suitably musical whistle for the recording. (Jones met, by chance, his future wife - Koch's Vice President Elizabeth Groves - at the sessions. A happy occasion.)

• New Zealand Redux

  While not generally known for having a balanced sense of priorities, I did insist that continued trips to New Zealand would have to be part of the package at KOCH. With the success of the Barber disc on Stradivari still fresh in my boss's memory, I planned the next recordings in Wellington: two ambitious discs including another world premiere (Fadograf of a Yestern Scene), the rarely heard complete Medea ballet, Third Essay, and the Violin Concerto (with Zina Schiff) as well as Menotti's Sebastian and Dances from Amahl. The sessions were planned in the terrifying but tameable Willis Street studios with Geoff Eyles from Radio New Zealand repeating his role as engineer. I had other plans as well: a serious driving tour of New Zealand's South Island over the weekend.

  I had been a fan of Zina Schiff for some time though she was another prime example of my rubric that talent is often a hindrance to a career. She had been the youngest student in the famed Heifetz' master classes and possessed a beautiful sound and romantic temperament (at least on the violin.) When she met a young anesthesiologist and told Heifetz she intended to marry him, the great man told her that she certainly could marry but that if she did, he would never see her again. She married and Heifetz kept his word. The young couple moved to Louisiana where her husband set up a practice and she tried to create a career. The doctor was more successful than the violinist but somehow Zina came to my attention again and after making two recordings with her on Stradivari Classics, I decided to engage her for the Barber Concerto.

  We met in Los Angeles Airport and in the course of small talk, she mentioned that her violin was in the shop: she had played a festival high in the mountains and the altitude damaged her very fine instrument. No worries though; she had borrowed 'something' from a student. A nagging fear gnawed at my barely conscious thoughts during the long flight in the confines of economy class to New Zealand. Her suitcases were lost by Air New Zealand, an omen I should have taken to heart.

  Always the optimist, I greeted orchestra members like old friends. I imagine many of them had less gracious thoughts: Another two weeks trying to both learn and record repertoire none of them had seen. A few were openly encouraging perhaps having heard the results of the previous year's efforts or with a quixotic streak similar to mine. I then stopped by the orchestra's offices intending to plan the all important weekend trip with the orchestra's travel manager Rex. We discussed various routes and possibilities over a large detailed map of the famed South Island, glimmering that day like a siren across the waters of Cook Straight. A flight was arranged to Timaru, a little town on the eastern coast which would put us in striking distance of Mt Cook, our first important destination. Rex cautioned me over a road that he said I should avoid at all costs even though it appeared a straight shot over the mountains on the route home. I took his warning lightly and began to prepare for the first recording session.

  A quick review of the scores reminded me that the first two pieces planned, the Fadograf and Third Essay, exposed the band's weakest elements. Though the timpanist of the previous sessions - see Chapter 1 - had departed to pursue other objectives in life, his replacement was a very young man with virtually no experience. The Third Essay begins with a long and dramatic timpani solo. Fadograf begins with an oboe solo. The then principal oboist, unlike the timpani player, had long experience, perhaps too long, and was past his best days. By chance, I ran into him outside a books hop on Willis Street shortly after I arrived and he mentioned he had just returned from holiday feeling rather rested and musically fit. I kept my fingers crossed. I was relieved to learn that the very fine principal horn, Ed Allen, excellent leader of the bass section, Dale Gold, and flutist Alexa Still were all in health and planning to attend the recording sessions. One of the problems I encountered in over forty trips to New Zealand was that while the orchestra with all the principal players on the official roster present and in health was very fine, an illness or holiday by a key player could hold potential disaster. I've done many sessions in London where Terry, the amiable personnel manager of the London Symphony Orchestra, has mentioned the absence of a key player minutes before the call, only to tell me that some famed soloist happened to be available to fill the vacant seat. No similar pool of players exists in New Zealand. Years later, a much improved New Zealand Symphony, strengthened by several very sound appointments, was leaving for lunch when Murray Alford, the artistic manager who always reminded me of an imaginary functionary from a long defunct colonial office, glided in to announce "The second clarinet player has gone home ill. I'll leave it to you then" and glided out the door to his meal. We were fortunate that a member of the orchestra enjoying a solitary sandwich in the studio had the telephone number of the retired principal clarinet player, a nice fellow who lived just up the hill and might be willing to help out in a pinch.

  The sessions began well though my joy was short lived. Our rested principal oboe played the three or four best phrases I ever heard from him and then fell back into his more usual routine. The english horn player, an Italian New Zealander just short of retirement, played with a will that was significantly prettier than his sound. (He had been 'remaindered' into the NZSO when the old opera orchestra went belly-up years before.) We finished the Fadograf later than planned, my score full of scribbled notes and decorated with about a thousand post-it notes of things that could be improved providing there was a bit of extra time at the end. We were running seriously late however and time management is an essential part of the record production trade. The Third Essay began and we got further behind schedule trying to coax the timpani player into a bit of confidence and a few of the right notes and rhythms. Very late now and time to start the Violin Concerto. From her very first note, I knew something was wrong. Zina's sound was recognizable but only just. She was struggling with the borrowed instrument. The orchestra picked up on her distress and took part in it, some too eagerly. The session ended with very little result and Andrew and I raced for the airport discussing strategies to make up lost time in the remaining sessions. We considered dropping the Concerto. I felt terribly guilty: I had roped poor Andrew into my travel scheme. While he feigned enthusiasm, I imagine he would have preferred long hours studying his scores.

  We were the only passengers on the short flight to Timaru. (I always loved the juxtaposition of English and Maori place names on New Zealand's map with Greymouth just up the coast from Hokitika.) Andrew, always proper, checked his large suitcase. A very frequent traveller and usually in a hurry, I carried only a small weekend bag on board. They lost Andrew's bag - the only piece of checked luggage on our flight. Anxious to get on the road with an eye towards making significant progress before dark, I suggested that Andrew file a quick lost luggage report and deal with it when we returned to Wellington. I glanced around and saw an attractive woman holding an Avis sign and beckoned to Andrew. A few misguided efforts to drive on the correct side of the road notwithstanding, we swiftly left the environs of Timaru. Our conversation focused on the ill-fated recording but I began to reveal the extent of my plans for the weekend: Andrew was always the complete gentleman. He showed no surprise when I outlined a tour taking us from Timaru to Mt Cook, south to Queenstown and then - ignoring the advice we were earnestly given - across the Crown Range to the west coast passing the glaciers Fox and Franz Joseph somehow ending up Sunday evening on the northern tip of the South Island in time to catch some conveyance, commuter plane or ferry back to Wellington. Of course I had scientifically planned everything with absolutely no cushion for car failure, road or mountain pass closure or weather delays. I also, I confess, told a deliberate untruth: that the South Island had no speed limit.

  Talk of our pressing problem with the recording faded as the landscape immediately outside of Timaru became idyllic, pastoral and delightfully uncrowded. The secret of New Zealand, according to Peter Nisbet, was that it is mainly uninhabited. Much of the population is clustered in a few cities with a full million of New Zealand's three in the far northern city of Auckland. It is entirely scenic, nature crowding in on the towns rather than being contained in conveniently accessible parks. Paradise. Darkness began to fall and the lights of dwellings became fewer, dwindling to none. We were making for Twizell, a small town and the gateway to Mt Cook. It's existence had to do with providing a home for workers building the power lines. We both found the town's name enormously silly for no good reason and began to sing songs about Twizell, dear Twizell that I cannot remember. Twizell fortunately had a hotel, full of Japanese tourists, but with two rooms to spare for weary travellers. There was literally nothing to do outside visit the hotel pub and join the lads in a few rounds of Lion Brown - "Measure of a Man's Thirst." We did. The weather was gloriously clear next morning as we set out for Mt Cook or Aorangi, the Cloud Piercer of the Maori. Many New Zealanders I know claim never to have seen the mountain as it is perpetually hidden in cloud. We were rewarded with a glorious view from afar which became more and impressive as we neared the mountain. I'm happy that it was miraculously clear when I revisited Mt Cook on my honeymoon and once again when Tammy and I did another madcap drive years later through the South Island lured by the promise of clear skies.

  This time, Andrew and I were on a tight schedule, and our visit was brief though the mountain was impressive and moving in its solitary dignity. A sole parrot perched on the rental car reminded us we were in the South Pacific. As we left Mount Cook, the skies darkened and sadly the rest of the trip consisted of high speed driving in the pouring rain. Not entirely. We drove across the wonderfully bleak Mackenzie Country, a sort of badlands that could easily be confused with the set for an American western. I turned on the radio looking for a bit of musical companionship to find the FM band devoid of content. No one lived here and I suppose there was no need for entertainment on the radio. We reached Queenstown, Victorian and charming, with a range of snow bound mountains - the Remarkables - defining the distant horizon. A city tolerated by nature with indistinct boundaries and not nature, confined and fenced, shamed into bounded park. Feeling somehow ennobled by the distant peaks and the fjord reaching out to them, I decided to turn up the path leading to the road crossing the Crown Range. There was no more direct way to the west coast and time was still a concern. The rain had stopped, the gate was open indicating that the mountain was passable and as I pointed out to Andrew, it was a direct line - the only one to the west coast and we had to be back early this evening. No speed limit, remember. As we climbed over what was not better than a dirt track at times, despite signs cautioning us to reduce speed to 80 km/hr, we plodded along passing ghost towns from New Zealand's gold rush. Coming into a town called Cardrona, I remember checking my guide book which advised us to stop in for a lovely lunch. The inn in question appeared to have been closed for at least a century and we carried on, Andrew starting to become somewhat concerned. We passed a couple with a young baby nursing a dilapidated and disabled vehicle into some semblance of life. I stopped and asked if we could provide assistance. Not necessary, they cheerfully called back despite my warning that we hadn't seen a single other vehicle since turning our car on to this blighted highway. They waved us on cheerily and we left, reluctantly, both admiring their fortitude and wondering if they were totally sane. (Years later, I was driving through the Canadian Rockies only days after the road had re-opened following winter hoping to hike on the Athabascan Glacier. Shortly after passing the recently opened gates, I saw a hiker walking down the road with a small day pack on his back. As he heard the sound of my engine, he put out his thumb for a lift, with none of the urgency one often encounters. I stopped, remembering the Crown Range couple, and asked where he was going. "North." Obviously. I told him I was only going as far as the glacier area and he seemed content to travel in relative comfort that far. We drove in silence for over an hour passing a single other car in either direction. When I reached the glacier, I stopped the car apologising that I wasn't driving further and expressing my concern that I didn't think he was likely to find another ride. It was already cold and would soon be dark. He thanked me and walked off down the highway.) Back in New Zealand, sections of sealed highway began to appear, reverting to dirt too soon to fulfil their promise of speed and an end to this scenic destroyer of my plans. We eventually reached the west coast, renowned for its spectacular scenery and intense, perpetual rains.

  My guide book was not particularly helpful as we began to look for a place to retire on Saturday night. It did mention the little town of Haast, a village of white bait fishermen and possessor of a bankrupt hotel which remained open more out of necessity than the government's generosity. We stopped, booked two nondescript rooms enjoying the lilting Irish accent of the receptionist. The hotel had two slot machines which I experimented with, winning about twenty NZ dollars, an an omen of how my luck was to continue that evening. There was an ancient ping pong table and Andrew and I immediately began to play, telling the curious few we were a touring table tennis team from the United States. As evening fell, the hotel - focal point for community social life - began to fill with locals. That evening, the mens' club was holding a charitable "horse race" with toy horses proceeding on a course determined by a roll of the dice. Andrew and I eagerly joined in betting somewhat extravagantly. To to my great surprise, I was the major winner of the evening proceeds and embarrassedly handed over my winnings to the local charity. I began to chat up a pleasant woman named Hillary, an Englishwoman married to the town's sole policeman. It probably wouldn't have been a wise policy but he was abroad for a considerable time on a course dealing with rescuing unfortunates lost in the mountains. We began a very pleasant conversation with nothing more in mind till Andrew, mindful of my virtue, reminded me we had an early start next morning. Hillary and I corresponded a few times over the next year. My first letter was addressed to Hillary (Policeman's wife), Haast, New Zealand.

  We continued North next morning along the impressively wild Tasman coast. Rain poured down without pause giving us little opportunity to enjoy the sight of glaciers, mountains, or anything else. We did stop to refuel the car where the taciturn man behind the counter observed that perhaps I was the stranger who was chatting with the policeman's wife the previous evening. We quickly turned north again, me catching a short look of disapproval from Andrew which quickly turned into a grin.

  Despite the ceaseless rain, I fancied that I wanted to return to this coast with few towns. Even the occasional hints of mountain scenery were intoxicating. We reached Hokitika in the late afternoon and the weather being what it was headed directly to the airfield to see if there was anything heading across the Straits. No scheduled flights to Wellington and the fog had shut down Christ Church. New Zealand, like Alaska, is fortunately a land of pilots. There was a light on at the flying club's office and a very down to earth fellow said he would be happy to fly us to Wellington in his single engine Cessna. Heaven. I love small planes and would later take a few lessons with one of the NZSO's cellists who had a passion for flight. Andrew, an avid sailor with a passing interest in aviation, was simply happy that we would reach Wellington in an hour.

  The skies were clearer in Wellington and the recording sessions finished with no particular noteworthy events. We recorded the Concerto and later made the decision, sadly, not to release it. I was never happy with these recordings: the mastering work I did only made the now happily gone Willis Street acoustics even muddier. Andrew and I made many more recordings but he only enters this story again once. If I had to select the best of our recordings, I would choose the the Appalachian Spring ballet recorded complete in its original chamber orchestra version. Two sessions with a wonderful group of New York freelancers and for me, very satisfying results. My only other recording experience with Zina, this time in Israel, had similar results though not her fault.

• A PROLONGED NEGOTIATION

  When not travelling to exotic locales, the busy record executive whether his company be large or small receives hundreds of submissions each week. They pile up on desks, tables, and the floor until one's normally tolerant assistant gently suggests that either we go through them or throw them out. I've always been fascinated by the unsolicited tape and agree to listen. Learning how to prepare and submit a tape is crucially important for a young artist without significant financial backing or powerful friends. Letters that begin "As you are undoubtedly aware, I am the world's greatest artist" tend not to be helpful. Tapes made by grandmother in the back of the hall on her portable cassette machine are usually jettisoned after a few seconds. Someone once sent me a tape at Deutsche Grammophon accompanied by a letter apologizing that he didn't have any means of performing his symphony, so I would hopefully enjoy hearing him hum the work. Thirty minutes. This was likely a joke but you never know.

  When a tape of excerpts from a ready to go master tape by the San Diego Chamber Orchestra with interesting and not too commonly recorded Russian literature appeared on my desk. I asked my assistant to give it a careful listen. Her immediate response was positive and suggested I call them. I listened and agreed. Their conductor passed my along to the orchestra's manager Tamra Saylor. I called and called again every day for about six months. There is a long and storied history of love at first sight. The telephone brings its own rewards. We had a mutual friend who both encouraged and discouraged us. After I had exhausted every possible reason to call further, I announced that it was important for me to come to San Diego to meet her, the conductor, board and anyone else she could think of to finalize the details. I remember walking around JFK in something approaching a trance and almost missing my Pan Am flight to the coast.

  I'm not sure anything particularly magical happened at our first meeting, cordial and businesslike, at San Diego's Lindburgh Field, but we found ourselves staring deeply into each other's eyes during a longish car ride while the conductor babbled away. My main concern was how to arrange another meeting and quickly. Fortunately, there were still contractual details to be mulled over and re-explained: I thought some sort of promotional event in California might provide the right opportunity to discuss them in detail and in person.

  Tammy had asked me how we ever got any records made if it took so long to complete a simple contract for an existing master tape. Her case was of course different but the question remains: When Michael Koch and I first began to sketch plans for the label on a paper table cloth at New York's Trattoria del Arte, I realized quickly that the only hope for a new classical record label with a limited budget and artists who were not household names was to build a large catalogue quickly. This would allow for income to be generated and most importantly allow in a few short years for compilations and repackaging of existing catalogue - The Best of Obscure American Classical Music performed by Unknown Artists - that provide cash flow for new recordings. I went home that evening prepared to create a business plan calling for sixty new releases per year. As the sole employee of the nascent label, I would have to make almost all the recordings: organize, produce, engineer, and edit. Of course, we could license the odd tape or purchase an existing master but I made the decision that at least ninety percent of our releases would be home-grown. I also decided that we would not be an audiophile label: this came from my personal doubts about my engineering credentials. And yes, Michael agreed with me that we would pursue a very specific niche - American music performed by young artists.

  The practical result of this heady conversation was a life-style consisting of three weeks of non-stop recordings followed by an overnight flight to Munich and a long, scenic drive to Elbigenalp, the Tyrolean headquarters of Koch, where I could spend about twenty hours a day for one week editing the crop of recently made recordings. Each finished tape was then walked by me to the nearly adjacent factory to be pressed into compact discs. (I used to fax Tammy daily; she told me they became less coherent as the week wore on. She was right: she had saved a number of the faxes.) There was no opportunity for such niceties as artist review and approval. I was barely functional after a week spent in the basement studio and am still amazed that no disasters ensued. Although I had edited Arias and Barcarolles in the luxurious and nearby Master Sound, the budget for all future releases could not allow for similar largesse. It was cheaper for me to fly to Austria, stay at the company's guest flat, and work around the clock.

• ELBIGENALP

  Despite being located in one of the world's beauty spots, my first few trips were spent entirely on the job. One reached this isolated part of the Tirol by driving through some of Bavaria's loveliest scenery including the Zugspitze, Germany's highest mountain. Cross the border into Austria and the scenery becomes enchanted. Even though I faced a gruelling schedule, I always cheered up when the road from Reutte turned down the Lech Valley, with towering mountains on either side of the road. Elbigenalp straddled both sides of the highway with the KOCH facility and church on one side, pubs, guest houses and residences on the other. Our long drives now from Hamburg to Italy and Salzburg in the summer become pleasant when we cross the first set of mountains and enter the Tirol. I begin to wax rhapsodic and nostalgic as we near Reutte and the Fernpass.

  One of my first trips to Elbigenalp involved editing the Barber-Menotti project and as I was already in Europe, I planned a few other stops mainly of a business nature. I had been in contact with the very fine Bratislava Orchestra and Chorus and was curious to visit Czechoslovakia now that it was beginning to break loose from the Soviet bloc. A stop in Vienna, not far from Bratislava, was not entirely necessary but I always enjoyed the city finding it a more persuasive version of the German speaking lands than that offered in Berlin. One of the KOCH staff kindly drove me to Munich where I arrived in time to take a second class "liegwagen" overnight to Vienna. The "liegwagon" consists of a number of bunks where one could stretch out under a blanket. In the company of strangers, no one undressed and this being pre-Schengen Accords, there was the pre-dawn wake up call for passports. Michael Koch was aghast that one of his executives travelled this way (although was very unhappy that I stayed at the famed and expensive Sacher Hotel!) Later trips to Vienna were more interesting and this one doesn't deserve mention save for a quick drive to Ljubljana to see Dubravka Tomsic, the marvellous Slovenian pianist, and two unmemorable evenings at the Staatsoper. My Bratislava contact, a young man from the Ministry of Culture, rang and we agreed to meet at the Czech Embassy to arrange my visa.

  The winds of change had not cooled the bureaucratic ardour of the Embassy officials. Hours later, I had the necessary stamps and we drove across the border. I booked a hotel as well, as I realized this was now an overnight trip. I planned to pick up a couple of necessaries in Bratislava. As we approached the frontier, the most extraordinary sight greeted us as thousands of Czechs, a day after the successful conclusion of the Velvet Revolution, were lined up in antique vehicles, bicycles, and on foot to cross the border into Austria. On the Austrian side, the streets were full of Czechs staring into shop windows full of merchandise and decorated for Christmas. Our crossing took some time, Communism and suspicion still to be had from the border guards.

  As we drove to my hotel, I offered to let my host, his wife and baby stay in the relative luxury of the hotel while I could camp at his flat. He was concerned that the police might object as the hotel was for foreigners. I stopped at a special "dollar" shop which dealt in a peculiar scrip then common in the east - local versions of the US dollar - and bought the only pair of mens' briefs to be had. I'd worked a lot in the east and knew what to expect from the hotel's restaurant - a large menu and very little food. No matter, my first meeting was early at the Bratislava Orchestra's offices.

  One was immediately struck by the number of nails in the wall designed to hold pictures that were now free of their burden: photographic portraits of the last Communist president of the Republic, Gustav Husak. I was surprised when I entered the office of the courtly man behind the desk who managed the orchestra as Husak was still in place. Oversight or an unwise gesture. Near me sat the musician's representative, the principal violist. He caught my eye leading it with a facial gesture that was unmistakable to the benign portrait of the now ex-leader: don't waste your time speaking with the man sitting in front of the portrait. He is a Communist. He will be quickly replaced. Our meeting finished with mutual statements of our earnest desire to work together in the future. We never did.

  At lunch, my host confirmed my understanding of the violist's gesture. As we chatted, he asked where my next trip would take me. I told him Israel, to visit family. He was shocked: me, the executive of an Austrian company, a Jew? He then covered the potential faux-pas of his reaction by assuring me, saying it was well known that a group of seven Jews ran Czechoslovakia from a coffee bar in prague holding their furtive (yet commonly known) meetings on Saturday mornings.

  The only other time I had a similar experience was waiting on a long, dismal queue for a flight re booking after my regular TWA flight from Munich was cancelled. We had several unrewarding hours on the hot aircraft waiting to see if the plan could be repaired or replaced and were then sent back to the gate where we were told a large staff of airline representatives would sort out our flights. Two such representatives, no happier than we, began the laborious process of listening to each passenger's tale of woe and why he simply had to be re booked on whatever else was heading across the Atlantic: a wedding, a funeral, the business deal of the century. The woman waiting behind me, a Czech film maker, commented that I would undoubtedly be put on a flight. Why me, I queried. You're a Jew aren't you, she responded. And? She went on to inform me that Jews always got ahead in life and that she wished she had been born Jewish. Judging by her age and knowing her country of origin, I doubt she would have been around to chat with me had her wish been realized.

  Tammy and I got married in California on November 7, 1992 after adventures from Chicago Phoenix to Oregon to Moscow. We celebrated our wedding on the beach in Del Mar and left immediately for New Zealand for a combination recording trip honeymoon. The conductor this time was James Sedares making the first of many acclaimed recordings with the New Zealand Symphony. Andrew Schenck died before his fiftieth birthday of a particularly rare cancer a year earlier. With an irony that was typical of Andrew's life, he learned of his illness a day before he was due to conduct and record with the Chicago Symphony - the biggest break of his career. The recording - Samuel Barber's The Lovers - was his most celebrated and won numerous awards. I will always be haunted by the fact that it could have been better. Andrew, understandably, was somewhat preoccupied and his music making reflected the knowledge of his immediate mortality. Four months later, he would be dead.

• She Accepts You

  Tammy and I had the good fortune to travel the world making recordings, some better than others, but always interesting. Most were for the Koch label and many are recordings I still listen to with a great deal of affection. Most are by artists not well known but no less talented than those on the world circuit: pianist Gustavo Romero recorded what is still my very favorite piano disc - a Mompou recital that never fails to satisfy me. We also were hired privately to produce recordings, often by young musicians looking for an audio calling card. Some of these were extraordinary. More lucrative, often frustrating and usually challenging were the "vanity" artists - usually conductors - who hired good orchestras and required a fair degree of production and editing to make an acceptable product. There was the classic case - not my recording - of the poor sod with plenty of money and no talent waving his arms with little effect in front of one of London's better orchestras. Normally, these musicians can play anything if this sort of conductor doesn't get in the way. Unfortunately, they stumbled on a particular passage requiring a bit of help from the podium which was beyond his gentleman's ability to provide provide. The orchestra's leader, a model of suave courtesy, suggested that the putative Maestro listen to the previous take in the booth. He thought it was acceptable. When Maestro arrived in the booth, the orchestra played it through without him under the expert direction of the leader from the first violin stand. The Maestro thought he was listening to the previous take and left the booth satisfied that he had pulled it off! I was always astonished when these recordings were acclaimed by the critics who couldn't be bothered with work by truly great conductors. Couldn't they hear that there was no real interpretation happening; that there was no one on duty at the podium? Of course, the producer's job is to create a performance at the last resort but a good listener should be able to hear what is really going on. I prefer a good review of a good recording and understand a bad review of a good recording that is just not to a particular critic's taste. I simply cannot abide a good review of a bad recording. We producers need well informed critics as well as the artists.

  Our usual circuit of recordings took us to New Zealand, with good luck two to three times a year including occasional stopovers in Tahiti or Fiji, Monte Carlo where work with James De Preist became a regular summer stop, London with a variety of conductors and usually the London Symphony Orchestra, to cities all over the USA. Seoul became part of our annual peregrinations through our strangest recording experience ever. As all of the participants still live, I'll have to save that story for a subsequent volume, but we were invited back by a subsidiary of Samsung to record three discs with the KBS (Korean Broadcasting System) Symphony for a local label.

  I had been prompted by the Koch export manager that the local distributor would invite me out to a very special meal, boys only, he emphasized! I warned Tammy who gallantly encouraged me to accept should the invitation be proffered but "try to be back at the hotel at a reasonable hour." The invitation was made and I told the gentleman that I had to be back by eleven in order to prepare for the next day's sessions.

  We fought Seoul's horrendous traffic to a tiny but elegant restaurant where we were greeted on the street by a group of at least twenty boys who rushed to attention, then took the car away while we were ushered into a waiting lounge by a woman in traditional Korean dress. She introduced us to a group of lovely young ladies, also traditionally attired, two of whom, I was told, would serve us. I let my host chose: Miss Kim and Miss Chu, the latter being appointed to look after my needs. Food and drink flowed liberally. Following the local custom, I poured for Miss Chu while she poured for me. We downed five small bottles of Scotch whiskey which managed to make up for the lack of conversation as my Korean was limited to about five phrases. She massaged my back and legs working her way provocatively up to my upper thighs as I drank, ate, and chatted with our Korean rep. Very pleasant evening. Miss Chu would take food in her chopsticks and feed me, being careful to hold her hand under the implements lest something drop. A couple of hours and about seventeen courses later, my host noted "She accepts you." I replied courteously, "That's very nice. Please tell her I accept her too." No, no, he demurred, this time more emphatic: "She accepts you." Yes, Yes, please tell her I accept her as well and it's been lovely spending an evening in her charming company. This time the meaning was unavoidably clear: "She accepts you. Take her back to your hotel. It's on me." The light dawned even in my semi-inebriated state: "Please thank her. My wife is in the hotel room." I was being illogical: he was married too, so take her to a different hotel. "Thanks awfully," I replied, "but I've got to get going. The sessions tomorrow, remember?" The chief geisha, for that is of course what these lovely ladies were, came out to insure that poor Miss Chu had somehow not offended. I protested that she was perfectly delightful and hoped my refusal would not reflect badly on her. The bill was over two thousand dollars. We left hurriedly. I arrived in my room at the stroke of eleven, spinning on my heels in a less than debonair way and fell on the bed giggling to tell Tammy all about it. My only fear was that our Korean distributor would visit New York and that I would be expected to reciprocate. I somehow couldn't imagine Michael Koch reimbursing a two thousand dollar geisha dinner.

  All wasn't Scotch and roses. My dental bridge, the result of a rough and tumble game of hide and seek in the second grade, became dislodged and infected. An emergency call to our dentist in New York provided a helpful solution: "get penicillin. It might be available over the counter." Tammy created a prescription on a Seoul Garden Hotel telephone message pad and we looked for the green cross indicating a pharmacy. Doctor? the woman behind the counter inquired. We shook our heads no and before we could do the same for her next question: US military, she looked at our passports, filled the prescription and filed our paper along with the days' legitimate prescriptions. I once again felt guilty that I may have inadvertently caused problems for an innocent Korean employee.

  On the musical side, we had learned from our first experience in Korea that their culture only permitted a negative answer in the most dire of circumstances. We had faxed the KBS with a long list of the equipment we required to make a recording, indicating we would bring whatever they could not provide. The answer they returned was a soothing "Pleased to provide everything according to your list." When we arrived in Korea, we were met by our smiling host who had not managed to provide a single item on our long list. We began a sad litany - Eight microphone stands - "Sorry, can not provide"; two professional DAT recorders - "Sorry, could not provide." The answer never became reassuring despite its frequent repetition.