Vladimir Horowitz, RIP - obituary

National Review, Dec 8, 1989 by S. Chapin

Vladimir Horowitz, R I P

ON NOVEMBER 5, the age of grand romantic pianism ended in New York City with the death of Vladimir Horowitz at age 86. Born in czarist Russia, he was called the "electric lightning pianist" in 1922, when he began his spectacular career in his native land. By 1925 he'd had enough of the Soviets and escaped to Berlin with $ 5,000 in various currencies hidden in his shoes, plus a passport forged by his brother, Georg, making him one year younger than his real age--therefore too young for military conscription. At the border, a guard, recognizing him, stared long and hard at the passport, finally returning it to Horowitz with the quiet comment: "Go . . . but don't forget your Mother Russia."

From his first concerts to his last public performances in the spring of 1987, he was a whirlwind virtuoso, thrilling audiences with what one critic described as "controlled thunder." But these artistic explosions took their toll: Horowitz quit playing in public four times, the longest period being the 12 years from 1953 to 1965. In late 1961 he partially eased out of retirement, negotiating a contract with the Late Goddard Lieberson and myself to record for Columbia Records. His first release for the company was a sensation, leading to renewed speculation that he might return to the stage.

One night, over dinner, we discussed this possiblity, and I told him if he decided to go ahead I was the best concert valet in the world and would be happy to help him through his first performance. He looked at me carefully and smiled.

Some three years later he reminded me of my offer, saying he'd decided to play at Carnegie Hall at 3:30 P.M. on Sunday, May 9, 1965. The public announcement of this concert was on the front page of the New York Times; the house sold out two hours after the tickets went on sale. Hundreds line up the evening before the concert, in a driving rainstorm, waiting to buy standing room.

By 3:30 P.M. on May 9 everyone who could squeeze into the hall was there, either seated or standing. But I began to get alarmed when, at 3:15, he had not arrived.

At 3:30 he was still not there. My knees began to buckle with the apprehension that I might have to go on stage and announce his cancellation. Just as I was contemplating the unthinkable, his limousine pulled up to the stage door. "The traffic! The traffic! he said, as I helped him out of the car.

Upstairs, in the artist's room, he adjusted his new cutaway and straightened his tie. I reminded him the audience had been in place for almost forty minuts. "Perhaps we should start, then," he replied.

When the houselights were dimmed and the stage lit, Horowitz looked at me without moving. I suddenly realized I had to do something and, putting my hands on his shoulders, turned him 180 degrees and gently pushed him onto the stage.

The roar of the audience was instantaneous, sending a physical wave backstage. Horowitz stood quite still, tears rolling down his cheeks. Suddenly, as if on cue, he straightened his shoulders and walked downstage to greet his public. Finally, gesturing toward the piano, he sat down to play. He raised his hands to begin his "good luck" piece, the Bach-Busoni transcription of the Organ toccata in C major, and brought them down on a cluster of wrong notes. The chords crashed; the dissonances, like fingernails on the blackboard, assaulted the ear. But in seconds, he was back in control.

Later, when listening to the tapes of the concert, the record producer suggested he replay the opening phrases.

"Nonsence," he said. "I was nervous. Let people hear me as I really was."

People always heard him as he really was, a performing genius who never lost his love of music or his excitement at sharing that love with others. And in 1986, he did return to Mother Russia, to the cheers and tears of his former countrymen.

Rest in peace, Volodya. You'll always bring joy to our lives and balm to our souls.