Sublime horn now silenced

I only learned of his existence a few months ago. And now he’s dead. Maurice André, Frenchman, 78, the best trumpeter in the world. Don’t take my word for it; note the length of his obit in The Guardian.

“Solid technique, superb breath control and seemingly inexhaustible stamina” is the obit-writer’s judgment. Herbert von Karajan puts my claim slightly differently: “He’s undoubtedly the best trumpet-player but he is not from our world.”

That’s André the performer but there’s also his influence. He was in great demand for the fearfully difficult playing in baroque works such as Bach’s Mass in B Minor. To expand the limited trumpet repertoire he arranged violin, oboe and other instrumental pieces, then played them on the piccolo trumpet which made high notes more accessible. He even collaborated with the manufacturer, Selmer, in adding a fourth valve to the trumpet which again helped with high baroque notes.

While learning his trade he worked down the mines and this gave him the power to manage this very physical instrument.

Some 209,479 fans have clicked on this 2 min. 27 sec. video of 56-year-old Maurice blasting his four-valve piccolo through the finale of Telemann’s D-major sonata (which looks more like a concerto, but never mind). LEND HIM YOUR EARS

TRIBUTE TO BERNIE Way, way back when BBC radio programmes came in b&w I enjoyed late-night Bedtime With Braden, a comedy show by Vancouver-born Bernard Braden. Insults were a speciality: “And now a song from Bennie Lee whose only musical training consisted of learning to read record labels while they were rotating.”

OK, so nothing moves on a MP3 player. But you too will look foolish thirty years hence when music emerges from an orchestra of ants embedded in the brain of your grandchild.

Yes, I know, I should be ashamed

I’ve always been drawn to trumpets and I believe it’s Freudian. They’re compact (by orchestral standards), understandable and phallic, which suggests the attraction may be shared with my instinctive feeling for hand-guns – a shocking admission, I know, but one in which form follows function. Not that I’ve ever owned a hand-gun or would want to.

Given all that, I’m not expecting many comments (“Let’s stay clear of that weirdo with the elaborate Italian name.”) I should add I love the brilliant sound trumpets make in the upper register which is where they’re most often employed. I tried to recall orchestral music that best exemplifies this but all I could come up with is Bach and that’s cheating. Bach tends to be scored for natural (ie valveless) or baroque trumpets which I believe make higher notes easier to reach.

I resorted to my personal Google system – Julia, the Prague Polymath – and even she could only come up with Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue, Copland's Buckaroo Holiday from Rodeo, and Vivaldi's Concerto for Two Trumpets in C. Finally I stumbled on to the discography of Wynton Marsalis the trumpeter who does posh as well as jazz and some new names emerged: Mouret and Fasch (both 17th cent.), André Jolivet and Henri Tomasi (both French and both 20th cent.), Jules Levy (English, 19th cent), Herman Bellstedt (USA 20th cent).

Most are trumpet concerti and there are other more familiar names: Purcell, Telemann, Mozart’s dad Leopold and Hummel. Marsalis is, of course, flawless in whatever he plays and no doubt could play valveless. However when he needs to go stratospheric he uses the piccolo trumpet.

Click Wynton. I had intended a posh piece but couldn’t resist this, given I’ve been nasty about the tune.

Pic: Should be given a decent burial

Luckily I've found one real joke

Music of the classical (straight, formal, posh, Mozart) variety is not a terribly fruitful field for humour. Often, only musicians understand the jokes.

In historical re-enactments of Haydn’s Symphony 45 each musician in turn stops playing during the final adagio, snuffs out the candle on his music stand and departs the stage, leaving just two muted violins at the end. You can Wiki it if you want to find out why. I have never seen such a performance but a musical friend has and was mildly diverted. The audience usually laughs and those listening on the radio are baffled if they are not in on the joke.

In a much more cruel – but comic – musical event I played a central role. During a very boozy pre-Christmas dinner for the editorial staff of the newspaper I worked on I foolishly elected to play several carols on my trumpet. Afterwards I went into the next room for a pint and found a sub-editor I greatly admired propping up the bar. “Who was that awful bastard in there playing carols?” he asked, his atheism offended.

G. B. Shaw used to write musical criticism under the name Corno di Bassetto. He was halfway through a recital by a rather miniaturised Scandinavian women pianist “when the coughing started”. From then on he heard nothing. His recommendation: that the coughers be taken out into adjacent Trafalgar Square, laid in the roadway, “where a warm steam-roller should be passed over their chests”.

Finally the link below – which is genuinely funny – arrived from HHB and was sent to her by her Dad, Avus. What makes this so good (sustained throughout) is the way board movement reflects the music. CLICK