THE GRAMOPHONE

Southland Times, Issue 19346, 11 September 1924, Page 11

THE GRAMOPHONE

RECORDS OF THE RECORDINGS. (By “Vox Populi.”) Last week, for some reason I cannot explain, in dealing with HALV. records obtained from Begg and Co., I overlooked two excellent violin solos by that artist, Jacques Thibaud. This violinist is a fine artist, with technical excellence to aid him in the presentation of works of an exacting character. This record (D B 518) gives us two Spanish dancers by Granados, one arranged by Kreisler and the other by Thibaud himself, both entirely different in character. Mr T. C. Askew, well-known London teacher of dancing, says that the Blues never really caught on either in Paris or London, though it was a pleasant change of rhythm for the blase fox-trotter. The five-step is attractive and very new in rhythm. Unfortunately there seems to be only one tune published—“Cara”—which is quite good, but not exciting. If you are a vandal put on the five-time movement from Tschaikovsky’s “Pathetique Symphony.” Says Mr Askew: “How a teacher of ballroom dancing managed to get on before the gramophone era I tremble to think, but I only begin to appreciate the full value of the gramophone and really good records when I have to do without them.” In a recent article in his interesting monthly The Gramophone, the editor (Mr Compton Mackenzie), discussing the art of Caruso, refers to the latter’s record of Handel’s Largo in G as one of the finest, if not the very finest of the great tenor’s efforts. Compton Mackenzie says: “This is one of Caruso’s records that stand up well to fibre, which in itself is, to my mind, a proof that towards the end of his life the great singer had a more perfect control over his voice than at any time during his career. I have found, after many patient experiments, that the records which break fibre needles, break them because the singer allows his voice to vibrate too much.”

“Roughly,” says Compton Mackenzie, “Caruso’s voice career may be divided into four periods. The first was when he was singing most easily and most naturally, in which early period all my favourite records are to be found. One of the best of those is the duet, ‘Dal Tempio al Limitar,’ from ‘Pescatori di Perle’ sung by him and Ancona. Somewhere about the same time ther is another superb duet with Scotti from Torza del Destino,’ ‘Solenne in quest’ ora,’ on the other side of which is an equally good duet with the same baritone,‘O Mimi, tu piu non torni.’ Of solos about this time I can strongly recommend Tosti’s Tdeale’ and the sweet sad Neapolitan song, Tenesta che lucive.’ ”

A recent record by Jacques Thibaud suggests a reference to this eminent violin virtuoso’s distinguished career. Thibaud is accepted as the most celebrated of French violinists. Jacques Thibaud first studied music with his father, commencing the piano at the early age of'four. At six years of age he was able to accompany, in public, a sonata of Mozart. It was, however, the violin for which he was destined to show such a great gift. In 1892, at the Concerts d’Angers, he already showed wonderful promise, and a marvellous comprehension of his subject. At 13 years of age he entered the Paris Conservatoire, forming the Colonne Orchestra, he became in a very short time first violin. Following on his visit to Brussels (under the auspices of Ysaye), he visited Germany, Russia, United States, Italy, and England, meeting everywhere with the greatest enthusiasm. Added to his brilliancy as a concert artist, Thibaud excels also in chamber music. J GRAMOMANIA. If you possess a gramaphone, beware of gramomania, writes Eric N. Simons, in “The “Gramophone.” I am in a position to speak with authority of its insidious approach, its baneful effects, its ability to destroy human delights, because I am suffering from it myself. It is infectious, though the micro-organ-ism responsible is of the filter-passing variety and has not yet been isolated. One marked characteristic that it possesses has, however, been noted: it is only transmitted by friends. There is no known case of its being passed on by an enemy, for the simple reason that one does not invite enemies to hear one’s gramophone—unless it is a cheap German machine with a tin horn, and one is feeling exceptionally vindictive.

No, gramomania is invariably passed by one friend to another. Here are the symtoms. You have played your best record; a quartet in D by Mozart, perhaps; your friend meanwhile has sat silent, without even a cough. It may have occurred to you that a silence so perfect in the presence of a mere mechanical contrivance for the reproduction of sound is a little unusual, a little morbid, even; but you let that thought pass in your extreme gratification. It spells appreciaton, you think—but it doesn’t! It spells gramomania. i Wlwn the music has ended, and you have risen to give the machine another wind, your friend leans back in his chair, and remarks with a critical air: “Very nice, old man! But don’t you think the string sounded a little too much like the woodwind? What sort of sound-box are you using? . . . Ah, that explains it! ~ . Too big a diaphragm. You’re bound to get tubbiness with a box of that size. Now you take my rdvice and get a 2-inch diameter XYZ sound-box. It will improve the definition until you won’t know it’s a gramophone you’re listening to.” It is at this moment that you should shut down the lid of your machine with a bang and order your friend out of the house. If you don’t you will almost certainly catch the disease. I can tell you at once that he won’t want to go. One of the worst symptoms of the mania is

that the sufferer has an intense desire to communicate it to others. Sentiment, affection, love itself, must be swept aside if it is to be avoided. Unfortunately, I did not recognise the symptoms myself, and the malicious germ speedily overcame those few phagocytes that put up a fight against it. Henceforward I was a gramomaniac. Until that evening of infection I had regarded my gramophone as a cheery and sociable thing. It whiled away awkward half-hours with guests before dinner; it made me a person to be flattered and cajoled by young men who wanted an informal dance with my pretty daughters; it entertained bores and soothed my wife. I cannot say I had ever worried much about its “innards.” It cost me a lot of money, and in return I expected it to do what it was made for, to give me music of any sort whenever I happened to want it. Its defects I accepted as part of its character, inherent and ineradicable. It blasted occasionally; sometimes it shrieked; ever and again it rattled. I ignored these things because to my mind they were outweighed by its virtues. Then Smith came along with his fiendish remark about wood-wind and the 2inch diaphragm. I have given only the first of his remarks; but he did not leave until he had convinced me that there was no harsh sound produced by my machine that could not be eliminated by careful experiment with needles, sound-boxes, tonearms, and a hundred other things. Until then I do not know that I had greatly cared whether the violin sounded like a violin or like a flute. All I wanted was the tune, and I got it. But after Smith’s monologue, I thirsted for verisimilitude. Every time I played over that quartet in D I could hear wood-wind; and I ached for strings. So I invested thirty shillings in a new sound-box.

That was the beginning. Before a month had passed I was well into tne secoauary stage of the disease. I was taking a wonderfully fascinating little journal that gave hints on needles and other gadgets; my stock of sound-boxes had increased to four; I had boxes and boxes of needles; and my expenditure on records had doubled. But more sinister than any of these things was the fact that I came into voluntary contact with other sufferers. The disease, it seems, induces a localised gregariousness, those infected with it being attracted one to the other in some, inexplicable way. This contact inevitably aggravates the complaint. Thus it was from one of these other unfortunates that I learnt about silk diaphragms; from a second that I learnt to anoint my records with vaseline; from a third that I acquired the habit of scouring them with a piece of plush. After six months, unless the sufferer is isolated, the malady becomes chronic. His condition then is truly pitiable. He lets the motor of his gramophone run down when he has finished playing, but partly winds it up again. He allows none to use the machine but himself. On a shelf he has pots of vaseline, bottles of oil, tins of motor-grease, spare main-springs, a formidable assembly of sound-boxes, and a collection of tone-arms of all shapes, sizes, and materials. He has needles of fibre, of aluminium, of tungsten-steel wire, of alloy steel, of carbon steel, of sapphire and wood. He has needles that play once only, and thingammy needles that go on for ever. He has a cardboard case for every record, and stands them always on end. On each case he writes the name of the sound-box and needle to be used for playing the record it contains, and he will change sound-boxes and needles with gusto and rapidity. An -unexpected blast from his machine makes him miserable for an hour, but gives him a week’s joy in experimenting until he has eliminated it. He accumulates catalogues, advertisements, stray odds and ends of gramophone literature. He comes back from Germany laden with more sound-boxes and needles. He haunts gramophone dealers, and brings home every new device in order to try it out. It is tragic!