If ever there was a name that conjured up magic, it is Steinway, “The instrument of the immortals.” The firm Steinway & Sons has dominated the American piano industry since the 1860s. The instrument is used the world over in more concerts needing a piano than any other make. Indeed, most pianists prefer it to all others. To be a Steinway Artist is to have prestige, and few biographies do not use its allure—“Arthur Rubinstein is a Steinway Artist,” or whoever. People of every musical stripe feel, “Oh, a Steinway, yes, that is quality.” The advertising budget for the firm may well be small, as each Steinway Artist in himself is a magnificent endorsement, and the company pays no artist for his words. In my case, in imitation of Walter Pater, I wrote, “The Steinway is the piano that all others aspire to.”
Recently I was given a slim volume published in 1929 of Steinway tributes. That was a catastrophic year; the Great Depression was upending world piano-building. Only twenty years before, there were 370 American piano builders producing 370,000 instruments. Fewer than thirty-five survived the depression. By World War II, the Steinway firm was relegated to making airplane propellers. In the book, the endorsements are repetitious and flowery, but there is one from Ignacy Jan Paderewski that gives a special note of authenticity:
Whenever perfection is attained progress is stopped, for there is no room for climbing when the summit has been reached. And yet, in your case, this law of nature seems to have been defied.
Such a thing can only be accomplished by a sincere love of profession, and it is to this love of profession that I wish to pay my tribute of high esteem and admiration.
The lineage of the Steinway company has proved this love for profession, and books have been written of this splendid family. Heinrich (Henry) Steinway was born in 1797 (the year of Schubert), and the last eloquent spokesman of the firm was another Henry Steinway (1915–2008). It was to John Steinway (1917–1989) that I owe my afternoon in the hallowed basement of Steinway Hall, then at 109 West Fifty-seventh Street in New York.
As the music director of wncn, then New York’s classical-music radio station, I had the pleasure of interviewing the legendary and elusive Vladimir Horowitz, who had not been interviewed on New York radio for something like forty years. That story is told in my book Evenings with Horowitz (1991). From those interviews I created a series, Conversations with Horowitz, which Steinway & Sons decided to sponsor. John Steinway, a senior vice president of the firm, had a smooth, mellow, and cultivated speaking voice. He had come to wncn to tape the commercials for the programs, each dealing with a different composer in the Horowitz repertoire. It did not take long for me to realize that John Steinway was a well-mannered gentleman. One may even say he had an old-fashioned charm. The encounter was one of those splendid confluences that results in artistic meaning.
At that time, wncn had recently secured plush new studios at Forty-sixth Street, on Sixth Avenue. The station was technically top-notch, and we had planned for a large performing space for live concerts and recording. It was to have everything from perfect acoustics to special air-conditioning, with not a speck of dust to be tolerated. Looking at the naked studio with several of my colleagues, I did not say a word about the indispensable piano that would make it all possible; indeed, none of us did. The studio was months from completion, and perhaps we did not want to speak of the large expense of a piano.
wncn was a commercial station with a very modest profit margin. Today it is unthinkable to have a classical-music format not funded by public and private donations. The unspoken problem of a piano was immediately solved when John Steinway bellowed: “Yes, indeed, these studios will be splendid, but you have said nothing about a Steinway piano, the great tool of the trade for any broadcast studio.” And with a sweeping gesture he said, “I am giving a Steinway Grand to wncn on permanent loan.” We all hemmed and hawed our thank-yous for such largesse. Steinway said,
Yes, David is a Steinway Artist, so the Steinway must be the piano in residence. So when you are ready, David, come over to the Steinway basement and choose. I do think, however, a nine-footer would be less effective in this kind of acoustics than a seven-footer.
Naturally, we all agreed in unison.
Within a month I made an appointment, and I remember undertaking my eleven-block trek to Steinway Hall on a perfect spring day. The place looked like a temple to Steinway’s preeminence, its majestic rooms filled with paintings, letters, and photographs of past giants of the instrument. For me it was an enchanted atmosphere, as is the famous factory in Astoria, where daily tours were once held.
At that time, I knew most of the Steinway salesmen, who took their jobs with seriousness and pride. After conversing at some length with them, I was then ushered down to the most celebrated basement, perhaps, in the world. Here was a veritable stable of thoroughbred pianofortes, to use the instrument’s official name. These and other pianos coming in are chosen by various artists, and the instruments are then sent to where they will perform. It’s a daunting task of coordination. All Steinway Artists may sign up for practice sessions. I was told Rudolph Serkin had been there the night before, choosing a piano for an upcoming Carnegie Hall recital. I reverently touched the keyboard.
As I toured the premises, I continued to give unseen pats of veneration to each instrument. Surely, I was in a celestial place, and I heard luminous vibrations; the air seemed to float with sounds “writ in ivory.” In fact, my head buzzed with the music of Hofmann, Levitzki, Lhévinne, and Busoni; indeed the whole romantic firmament was mingling. I shook my head and remembered my recent discussion with Horowitz, who told me of the time he met Rachmaninoff only days after the former’s first arrival in New York in 1928. The two artists went straight to the basement, where Rachmaninoff played the orchestral part of his Third Concerto while the young master tackled the solo part. Rachmaninoff gleefully told Horowitz, “You swallowed it whole,” and a lifelong friendship took root.
The basement was very quiet and completely reserved for my meeting with wncn’s future Steinway. I was pleased to see Franz Mohr, one of the finest piano caregivers: a tuner and technician. This most gracious of men walked to me, smiling: “David, I am at your service.” I was honored, as Franz was an institution himself. Perhaps nobody had more intimacy with the Steinway mechanism. Here Franz stood, a picture of love for his calling; he seldom failed to please any finicky pianist.
Franz, in his soft Austrian accent, said, “Are you ready to go?” Weakly I replied, “Well, I guess so.” At that second, however, within the ghostly chambers of pianistic greatness, I was feeling quite dizzy and puny. I was given no time limit for my choice. I breathed deeply and began. The operation took three focused hours. That day the basement housed nearly thirty Grands. In my case, I had only three seven-footers to choose from. Here was the moment. Franz felt I was nervous and with perfect calmness said, “It’s not easy, but you’ll do it.”
I had been practicing a great deal at the time and was soon to make a recording that included a wide range of music, from the Gluck-Sgambati Melodie to Liszt’s difficult Rigoletto paraphrase. I felt numb and wondered if I could release my playing to any effect. Slowly I walked to the piano labeled Concert Department 361 (or CD 361) and took the plunge, playing forty-five minutes non-stop. I could see Franz, bat-eared in a darkish patch of the place, puttering.
As I played, I felt inspired by the piano’s personality. At home I have a Steinway, but this piano was levels above my beat-up instrument. As I finished off the octaves of the Rigoletto, it dawned on me that there were two other pianos to try.
CD 361 clearly had a hard action, not at all easy to play, yet it offered a satisfying resistance. In general, pianists prefer an easier, more comfortable piano action, but a softer action can run away from you. It can be difficult to keep in harness; one may feel a certain lightness of head and hand, the instrument laughing at you: “See how nice I feel? Did you know you could play those runs and passagework so fast?” So it’s a tricky and frustrating endeavor to choose a piano, not to mention finding its singular ability to create the sounds and colors one is trying for.
And so I kept going. Now I was auditioning CD 361’s sisters (the numbers for some reason I have now forgotten). Each had its own soundscape. Yet each was identifiably a Steinway.
The next piano was certainly easier to play, but it sounded to me lackluster, with little personality. Yet suddenly in the F-minor nouvelle étude of Chopin it projected a burnished sound that I had always wanted to play but never had. My body thrilled; could I choose this piano for one piece only?
Now I was pounding away on the third piano; it was a different type indeed, and it had an innate lyricism of its own. I dug deeper into my repertoire to find fragments and passages. “Yes,” I shouted, “this piano was born for Scarlatti, for Haydn, for certain Romantic salon pieces.” The top absolutely glittered, and the bass boomed. Playing it was a luxury itself, and yet I didn’t feel comfortable about it.
I screamed, “Franz, I’m completely confused! What to do?” This was serious stuff. Other hands besides mine will be on it. I remember being immensely hot, actually dripping with sweat, as I manically scurried from one piano to another. Franz came over to me, gently laughed, and said “Yes, David, this is very tough stuff.” I replied, “This last one is a dream to play on, and perhaps will appeal to a greater variety of players.” I collapsed on a bench. I told myself, this is not a personal piano. This was for a broadcasting situation as well. Looking at Franz, I uttered, “I’m really attracted to CD 361’s range and color. This piano is truly appassionato.”
As I went back to the others, it seemed that the tactful Franz had disappeared. I was actually suffering. Each was special; one was more orchestral, another had a certain sweetness; one had a cello sound, while on the lighted piano there was a nasal oboe pouting. All of them had Steinway’s celebrated ringing, bell-like bass. I was in a muddle, a fog: easier action, harder, lighter touch, less treble—all this and much more. “Franz,” I blurted out, “I don’t know what to do.” Franz walked to CD 361 and said, “I remember three hours ago it was this one that readily spoke to you, David.” He continued, “Yes, there is passion in this piano.” Yes, the lighter instrument will be easier, perhaps more fun to play, perhaps better for Debussy. But now Franz softly struck a bass A flat several times on CD 361, comparing it to the others. “This,” Franz said, “will hold up better to the rigors of a studio, and will record better.” And Franz looked me in the eye, saying, “You are right. CD 361 has the Steinway sound as I like it.” I said, “Franz, that’s it, there can be no other endorsement,” and in minutes I feverishly signed the papers for delivery to its new home.
As I left, I hugged Franz, and I stepped out to a bright sun, feeling like I was on air. For some reason I was singing, “Strange, dear, but true, dear . . . So in love with you am I.” I knew I had made the best choice. Thank heaven there were not four or five seven-footers to try. It would have done me in.
