The Discw-Throtver
George Gershwin, genius of musical
decadence, has written a concerto in F
major, released by Columbia in a modern
music album (3 records) played by Paul
Whiteman and his orchestra, with Roy
Bargy featuring at the piano. Extreme
ly modern, using the whole-tone system
throughout, it has the humor, shock, and
super-syncopation necessary to le psy
chologiste malgre lui. Things to note:
the constant piano major, of course,
some good team work by a flute and a
piccolo, a touch of macabre with two
pianos, and who else but a malicious
bassoon! If you’ve heard the man pre
facing Gunnar Johannsen over KGW on
Sunday nights, telling you to think of
cows on a windy mountain during the
next number, it might amuse you to
figure out what he'd do about this.
Good, one might add, for several kinds
of dancing.
* * ♦
Paul Tremaine, assisted by his orches
tra, has an idea of digging up negro
spirituals and emphasizing that ardent
syncopation that makes the neighbors
compluin. Columbia release 2229 is the
first, and more to come. “Steam-Boat
Bill” is mostly baritone solo, with a
rousing chorus. Narrative interest with
calliope strains. "When the Day’s
Work's All Been Done’—baritone, piano,
saxophone — all crooning. The genuine
black despair, but how cheering it is.
* * *
“So Beats My Heart for You” or The
Relapse of the Broken-Hearted Saxo
phone. Will Osborne sings the chorus
full of vows. A good reminder of that
romance at the beach. And on the other
side: “When I Close My Eyes and
Dream.” Will sings these things well—
so well. Just the voice one would ex
pect from the tall dark stranger,
« * * *
Santa Claus has something, too, for
the wise boys and girls who oil their
portables and stay home on rainy nights.
From Act II of Mozart's “The Magic
Flute,’1 Michael Bohnen sings in German
“In Diesen Heil’ gen Hallen” (Within
this hallowed dwelling). A really mag
nificent baritone, and you can hear him
again in the dramatic splendor of
“Abend! ich Strahlt der Sonne Auge"
(Golden at eve the Sunlight Gleams),
from Scene IV of Wagner’s “Das Rhein
gold.”
* * *
In “Nola,” a brand-new Columbia
record, Paul Whiteman again features
the trombone solo, reminiscent of Henry
Busse’s fine work in the still-popular
“When Day is Done.” On the other side,
“New Tiger Rag," a chorus of saxo
phones sends that faithful old beast
into a new stripe-shivering frenzy. This
will probably be the outstanding dance
record of the term.
* * *
The native Californians, or the Web
foots who summered in or about Los
Angeles, will welcome the first record
broadcast of Sebastian's New Cotton
Club band. They’re all negroes, this
mipper-club gang, and they can play:
“If I Could be With You One Hour
Tonight” and “Confessin’ That I Love
You.”
* * *
If one feels that he must suspect the
moral integrity of modern music, he will
enjoy the classic beauty of Tocatta in
A-flat, played by Edouard Commette on
the St. Jean’s Cathedral organ in
Lyon's, France.
* * *
Brunswick offers a novelty organ
arrangement Lew White playing “The
Whistler and His Dog" with interesting
stop arrangements, and "Down South.”
* * *
Dvorak's Symphony No. 5 in E minor,
“The New World,” done by Sir Hamilton
Harty aud the Halle orchestra (Colum
bia release) is tremendous and really
wortfi having.
# * *
Another imported recording by Colum
bia is Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in G
minor, a great crashing thing, of which
it is said that Rachmaninoff once broke
a piano in its performance. Victor
Shioler, the recording artist, adds the
finish necessary to such strength.
Shioler plays again Chopin’s Etude in
G-flat. op. 25, no. 9, an interesting
octave study.—Martha Wading-Duck.
The Paderewski Arrives
On October 7 Paderewski arrived in
New "iork ready to embark on another
American concert tour, a tour of equal
proportions to his previous ones, a small
matter of some seventy-five concerts.
According to rumor3 the demand to hear
this titan of the piano-forte is as in
sistent as heretofore—that is to say as
insistent as any season during the past
several years, since the advent of the
radio and the decline of the concert
going public, which by the way, say the
New York impressarios, has shown an
increase in life or curiosity of about
twenty per cent for the ensuing season.
Mr. Paderewski’s last concert tour was
cancelled owing to a serious illness, it is
two years since he played in New York.
It is easy to prophesy that the programs
will be of the same meaty quality, and
proportions as in past seasons.
Of late years there has been a criti
cism of Paderewski’s technique and tone,
in fact he has always been known to
pick up quite a number of “blue notes”
during one of his recitals, his technical
performance has always been uneven.
By many he has never been regarded
pre-eminently a technician, even in the
zenith of his powers. He belongs to that
school of workers—toilers if you will,
who developed a technical prowess more
than adequate for their particular needs
and expression, to that school who wor
shipped at the shrine of sheer magnifi
cence of tone and color and orchestral
splendor, to the school of artists who
sincerely strove to carry the banner of
the highest ideals of tonal art to the
four corners of the earth. There is no
doubt that this season he will play an
assortment of numbers which will de
mand velocity, power and tonal effects
that would lay low many a younger
player, but a colossal technician he never
was, any number of pianists his tech
nical superiors could be named. This all
leads us to the logical conclusion, that
it was not and is not the technique of
Paderewski that has brought him ever
lasting fame, but the intelligent attack
of his problem, the rich and fiery tem
perament, his artistic and poetic concep
tions, in short, the Paderewski individu
ality. Like any leader, perhaps his great
success and following can be traced to
his heroic capacity to sense, fascinate
and command a public gathering, his
dramatic vein not merely of self and
life, but of art.
r'aaerewsai nas always oeen a iuu
grown and unblushing romanticist who
first used the piano for the projection
of his ideas, then the premiership of
Poland to give vent to his talent as a
statesman, further carrying forth his
romanticism. Practically all experienced
artists take into consideration the limits
of their particular instrument, they play
with a degree of calculation and discre
tion, Paderewski lately has not been
content with a piano as a piano, he de
manded of the instrument the resources
of an orchestra, he paints his picture
with a broad brush and many many
colours. His name has become a by-word
in practically every home in every clime.
There have always been contrasting
opinions about his playing, but of one
thing they all agree, “he plays greatly,”
with an insight that is not given to
many, perhaps in this very thing lies
his greatness. He belongs to that race
of rapidly vanishing artists who worked
for the love of their calling, who were
not afraid of making a few baubles,
whose art—the message they had to de
liver was greater than any slip of the
fingers, in short, the age of pre-mechan
ical virtuosity.
—By Yvon.
Away From Russia
DAVID GOLDER. By Irene Nemirov
sky. New York: Horace Liveright.
T^ORGETTING those others, those ex
patriated Russians who live in France,
in England, in Italy, in the United
States, the only question asked of Rus
sian letters is: “Will the Soviet regime
cripple creative activity among the Rus
sians?" But those exiled ones who sip
their steaming glasses of tea together in
alien countries—what about their cre
ative activities?
An example of what they are doing
is the novel “David Golder," by Irene
Nemirovsky, and published by Horace
Liveright. Four years ago, after watch
ing the fantastic parade at Biarritz, she
conceived the idea for her novel. Using
Turgenev’s method, she first wrote his
biography. When she had finished it, she
felt that no longer had he any secrets
from her and proceeded with the novel.
Diminished Seventh
(Continued from Page One)
room down-town, the broken furniture
to a junk-man for a dollar twenty-five,
and the two old soaks to the morgue.
And Hughie, left alone in the dark early
morn to be called for later, had made
the one mistake of his life. He’d wan
dered away. He’d meant to find her, but
the tracks were all he knew and he got
lost or killed.
One day when Mazie had coughed all
the night before and her head was hot
and cold in turn and her eyes were
witches that cast blurry enchantments
on every object she would be seeing, the
elevator stopped and winter came out,
hanging on a rack. Winter was mostly
black this year, and heavily furred.
“I would suggest, Miss, that you go
into the stock-room and absorb a few
details of the season's styles,” said the
floor-manager. Then because a cus
tomer came around the corner he added:
“We might make a saleswoman of you
one of these days.”
So she went inside. And there, on a
ticket dangling out of a cuff, she read:
“Collar of Manchurian wolf.”
Now what would be Manchurian wolf?
She looked and there was Hughie. Oh,
no—it was just that she hadn’t slept.
"Hughie!” she cried, burying her face
in his thick fur. He put his paws on her
shoulders.
“Listen,” he said. “I’m here. I'll kill
everybody if you say so. And we’ll walk
away then to a dusty road and I’ll gallop
ahead and bark at birds and you’ll run
too, and then we’ll find cows and white
geese and an apple orchard. All you’ve
got to dQ is keep someone from buying
me.”
But if Hughie was fine as a dog, he
we s fine and elegant as a Manchurian
wolf. And Mazie, defending them both,
stopped at nothing. She chewed gum,
and jostled customers and sang off key
too loudly and tapped purses with a
pretense of clumsiness and jeered when
there was neither a jingle nor a rustle.
Hughie was always set back again, lying
in Manchurian serenity across the
shoulders or the DiacK coat.
One day, all the coats were sold for
half their original price. The customers
swarmed and fought and salesladies lost
their books and darted into fitting rooms
to scream hysterically for a moment.
Three coats were stolen from back doors
that should have been locked and a
laden iron costumer fell on Mazie,
bruising her terribly and nearly smoth
ering her to boot, and Mr. Downing
strided quickly across the floor and said:
“Really, Miss, if you can’t work faster
The floor was strewn with buttons
and hangers. Hughie was crushed on a
rack with a hundred ill-smelling fur
collars and twisted sleeves. Again and
again voices screamed, “Mazie! Mazie!”
and called her away from him.
When it was all over, she was so tired
that sne slept through the night and the
next day and the next night; woke with
a staitled sinking feeling at 6 in the
morning of the second day. When she
got to work, Hughie was gone.
At 10 o'clock the assistant buyer sent
her down after a morning newspaper.
She found herself in the street. Rain
had fallen the night before and bands
of mist were getting up, meticulously
straight, from the gutters. She ran
down the street. Three blocks and the
river flowed along, all murky, as though
it thought night was still in the world.
The feeble sun stretched out clammy
invalid fingers to touch circles of
grease, moving on slow- ripples.
Sixty dollars of grease and monkeys,
and terror at the end, no matter how
you look at it.
So Mazie climbed down the muddy
slope until the mud slid her into the
water. And just as there was only a
greasy bubble, a car rumbled over the
bridge and in it was sitting a poor pa
tient lady who just couldn't make up her
mind. She was bringing back Hughie to
exchange him for the brown one with
the pnucess flare.—Marjorie Shane.
Verse of the Times
NEW FOUND LAND. By Archibald
MacLeish. Paris: Black Sun Press;
Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co.
/^ERTAIN of the fourteen poems which
comprise thi3 volume have appeared
in periodicals, some so long ago as to
have re-appeared in recent anthologies.
The pieces included are thus somewhat
miscellaneous in character.
The reader will immediately note a
distinctly modernistic tone, or an experi
mental technique, in the expression of
each of these poems. It is not the least
apparent in the older, “You, Andrew
Marvel.” MacLeish’s experimental lan
guage of poetry has been likened to
Hemingway’s expression in prose, and it
is true that the two manners are not
unlike. MacLeish has dropped punctua
tion altogether and, like Hemingway,
presents his observations and sensations
colloquially in simple primer-style sen
tences with an abundance of coordinat
ing conjunctions.
And over Sicily the air
Still flashing with the landward gull3
And loom and slowly disappear
The sails above the shadowy hulls
And Spain go under and the shore
Of Africa the gflUed sand
And evening vanish and no more
The low pale light across the land
Where the poet has the advantage of
the novelist is that the scope of a poem
will not ordinarily extend his style to
the point of flatness as the length of the
novel almost inevitably does.
In this book MacLeish celebrates
again, as in “The Hamlet,” the life of
primitive man and his toil, migration,
superstition and heroism. About half of
the poems in the volume are of this
type. Of these the best is the longest,
“Land's End.” Of the more directly
lyrical poems, “Memory Green” and
"Not Marble Not the Gilded Monu
ments” show an individual expression in
handling more conventional subjects.
But the miscellaneity of the contents of
this book weaken it, and, in the aggre
gate, it is a retrogression after “The
Hamlet.”
THE GLORY OF THE NIGHTIN
GALES. By Edwin Arlington Robin
son. The Macmillan Company.
A STRAIGHT chronological sequence
in relating a narrative does not ap
peal to Mr. Robinson. He aims, it would
seem, to arouse in his readers a double
curiosity, a curiosity as to what will
occur in the future, and, also, a curiosity
as to what has occurred in the past.
Thus in this poet’s latest work, “The
Glory of the Nightingales,” Malory, the
derelict, but, with the weapon in his
pocket “a richer man than Nightingale,”
has passed through Sharon, the city of
his boyhood, to Nightingale’s mansion
by the sea and has confronted Nightin
gale, whom he means to kill, before we
learn the motives for his hate, and be
fore we learn also the circumstances
that make it impossible for him to kill
Nightingale. From there on to the end
which discloses how
“What Malory had once considered his
only wealth
Had given him wealth to serve, and
without waiting,”
the story moves with more narrative
directness.
The plot element in this blank-verse
piece of eighty-odd pages is enough to
suffice a long novel. But Robinson
chooses to condense the drama of two
lives into the action and dialogue of
four days, subordinating the story to
that psychological probing of character
which gives him, perhaps, his chief dis
tinction as a poet.
The Robinson mannerisms, the cryptic
statement, the aphorisms, the long mon
ologues are here. What one chiefly
misses is that which one cannot legitim
ately demand from the subject matter
of this poem—the emotional beat and
lyrical speed that heightened passages
in “Tristram.”
But Malory, “patient and sustained in
his malevolence" and who “w-as right, or
nothing was right,” and especially
Nightingale who “had lost, like many in
winning, more than he had won,” are
worthy of places in Robinson’s gallery
of characters among Avon, Bartholow,
Flammonde and Cavender.—By John
Scheffer.