Imagine the Boston Red Sox holding a marathon like the one the Boston Symphony/Boston Pops is holding this weekend. What a dream-come-true that would be for George Plimpton '48, a Harvard Poonie and pro-athlete aspirant, if he were in town. Four days of around-the-clock broadcasts of the most stupendous Bosox games of all time at Plimpton's request. Watching the game from the bullpen. Meetings with his idols in the clubhouse. My own pulse accelerates at the thought of what such an opportunity would do to the pulse rate of the little freckled kid next door with the mustard-stained red-and-white striped polo shirt. But Plimpton was never one to gloat intensely over another's victories. Plimpton was not disposed to the vicarious pleasures most Americans derive from sitting glued to the tube, or listening to radio broadcasts of sporting events. If a sport intrigued him (as nearly every one did, at some point) Plimpton got out there and started pitching. He turned on to football, and made a go at that. After an abortive period in the exhibition camp of the Detroit Lions, he turned on to golf, and made a tour. Then it was boxing. And then, baseball.
Plimpton trained, sweated, and refined his talents until he became deft enough to do each sport with the pros. If he were around today, for his fictional Bosox marathon, it would have been so much less painful. For a minimal charitable pledge to help the team, he could have been out in Fenway Park, batting grounders to Carl Yasztremski. If not like the pros, he could have won a rare opportunity to play with them.
Yes, for a $250 pledge, you can fulfill some nebulous dream with a chance to conduct the Boston Pops through your infantile interpretation of "Stars and Stripes Forever." Garner $100 between you and the three other members of you tin-alley string quartet, and Richard Mackey, BSO horn player will run through the Mozart horn quintet (K. 407) with your group. Pops principal cellist, Martin Hoherman, vows to "add lustre to your cello playing" with a series of five lessons, at a modest $175.
It may sould like a lot of hype, but the benign neglect of the arts in this day and age warrents such commercialization. Reliance on ticket sales and unspecified patron donations all too often has forced the country's symphony orchestras to cut-down on concert schedules, to cut-down the players' salaries, and to program concerts to appeal to a wide audience, thereby foregoing the lesser-known though equally deserving works. The Boston Symphony is fortunate in having the satellite Boston Pops (which is composed primarily of Symphony players) to gross a huge annual sum. Through record sales (Arthur Fiedler has sold more records than any conductor in the world), television appearances, cocktail longesque "Evening At Pops", Esplanade concerts, Arthur Fiedler wrist watches and all manner of red-white-and-blue paraphernalia honoring Boston's "Most Outstanding Citizen", as Fiedler was names several years ago, Pops has been able to financially sustain both itself and its host.
Some hold that music is the food of love. Others, that love is the food of music. To each his own little Hallmark maxim. But there is a curious undeniable non-relation between these elements, too. You can love til eternity and pipe in Wagner's Niebelungenlied in octophonic sound 24-hours a day, and still die of starvation in the process. That is part of what this fund-raising for the BSO is about, too. Ten per cent of the aimed-for $115,000 goal will go toward the pension fund for the players, most of whom are grossly overworked and similarly underpaid. With some success, the orchestra players may be able to afford to give their children music lessons some day.
The way the pledging works, if you now feel guilty enough to carry through is this: Select one or more gift premiums from the catalogue available by calling 262-8700 (after determining how much you wish to pledge). If you pledge $20 or more, you may choose a musical request from over 1000 exclusive performances taped by the BSO at Tanglewood, Symphony Hall, and in Europe, under the batons of Koussevitsky, Leinsdorf, Much, Ozawa. Your choice selection will be broadcast over WCRB in the 4-day period. These recording are not available at the Coop, Strawberries, or any other record dealer in or outside of Cambridge. They are the exclusive property of the orchestra (non-commercially released) and range from works by des Prez through Mahler, up to and beyond Kirchner. Stereo buffs would be wise to ready their tape recorders and stock up on tape for the 96-hour shindig, a unique opportunity to close out any near-completed sets. A list of these "historical performances" available for broadcast on-request is contained in the same catalogue as the premium list.
George Plimpton. There is a guy with limitless ambition, a fantasy-world of nearly comparable dimensions, but an endurance span no doubt just a fraction of that. What more would he have lavished during those off-the-field stretches than to share a cigar with Luis Tiant in the dugout, or to chop down wood with Carlton Fisk in the backyard of his New Hampshire home? The BSO marathon, by coincidence, offers an analogous plethora of outlandish non-musical premiums for the generous and non-musical, musical and daring, non-daring and generous pledgers. Two one-hour flying lessons with Joseph Hearne, BSO bass player, for $200; chocolate rum cake baked by BSO violinist Ronan Lefkowitz '75 for $25; a doubles tennis match against violinist Sheldon Rotenburg and horn player Ralph Pottle for $50.
Scrunched in the bottom left hand corner of page 8 of the catalogue is this curious little premium: Would you like to be cox of the HARVARD CREW for an hour at a time to be arranged with Coach Parker? $150 Who, disguised as a mild-mannered crew coach, disrobes backstage at Symphony each Saturday evening to reveal a stiff white collar caked with stale rosin from last weekend's manic rendition of Bruckner's eighth? Seems just about everyone is in on the adventure. And who could resist? With the opportunity to test your skills in the stern of a Harvard boat, you might even find yourself waiting in line behind George Plimpton.
