The recording room was crowded with gentlemen of the London Philharmonic. They tuned noisily, talked, and gesticulated. In Italy such agitation, an accustomed everyday occurrence, might be provoked by almost anything. Here the masters of self-restraint could be sent into a commotion only by matters of the greatest inconsequence. In fact, judging by their very excitement, there was no disaster in store. For in meeting that, an Englishman is composed. Emergency and danger do not make him move a muscle. It is when losing his gloves or umbrella that is apt to have tantrums. / The conductor, John Barbirolli, let me know that we had only forty minutes in which to rehearse and record the Schumann Concerto. The engineers from “His Master’s Voice” said that there would be no breaks and that the entire concerto would have to be recorded from beginning to end without a stop. Barbirolli, who was a cellist himself and knew the concerto well, doubted that it could be done. “Indeed, it would be a miracle,” said the engineer. “It will be the first experiment in recording a concerto as a whole, instead of making a break after each four-minute side.” / “How will you avoid them?” I asked. / “By the time one side is completed, the next will already have been started by another machine.” / There was barely any time to discuss tempi or anything else, and no time for a rehearsal at all. Barbirolli explained the unusual situation to the orchestra, and almost immediately the red stand-by signal appeared. There was a tense, apprehensive silence. The recording began. What was it? Mutual compassion, the loveliness of the music, or luck? I do not know. Perhaps no one knew as, with intense concentration, movement by movement, faultlessly the concerto reached the last chord. At this precise moment the voice of the first oboist, Leon Goosens, pierced the air: “Bravo!” Then the red signal went off. The “Bravo” was on the record. / “I am sorry,” said Goosens. / “Don’t be”, I said. “It’s the sincerest bravo I will ever hear.” / “We can’t erase that voice”, said the engineer. “Please try the last page again.” As we did, there was the crash of a fallen bassoon and each following repetition was interrupted by a sneeze, cough, or the starch of my cello, until there was no time left for another try. The Gramophone Company succeeded only partly in erasing Mr. Goosens’ voice on the record, leaving his “Bravo!” for me to enjoy to this every day. << less