Honoring and remembering notables in the music world
- December 24, 2007
by Peter Jacobi
I write in remembrance and of recognition.
Two great men of music were the focus of our attention this past week. One in remembrance: George Gaber, who was commemorated by an overflow gathering at Beth Shalom last Sunday, in an uplifting ceremony following his death Nov. 21 at age 91. The other recognized: Harvey Phillips, who was selected for induction into the Classical Music Hall of Fame, a rare honor.
Those of us who knew George Gaber and know Harvey Phillips have been privileged, not only for the formidable musicianship that, lifelong, they lavished on the art they loved so dearly, but also for the goodness and giving nature of their character. From their lofty positions as practitioners of music — George as percussionist extraordinaire, Harvey as perhaps the most devoted missionary the tuba has ever had — they could have looked down imperiously upon disciples (those who followed in their footsteps) and followers (those of us who just listened). Not they: Both were the most amiable of colleagues, the most devoted of teachers, the most affectionate and doting of family patriarchs, the most caring of friends and neighbors. Anyone who has known them will tell you so.
I met Harvey first, in early 1984, when the IU School of Journalism invited me to campus as candidate for a position on its faculty. Anya Royce, the dean of faculties, had me in her Bryan Hall office for conversation. Sitting in, and ready to pepper me with questions, were two musical eminences, Janos Starker and Harvey Phillips. I knew Starker from not only reputation but from having heard him often during my Chicago years; he was first cellist of the Chicago Symphony, whose concerts at Orchestra Hall I regularly attended. The Phillips name was but that.
I would not hear him play until later, but his generous spirit struck me from the moment we met. Though he did not spare the penetrating questions, he was a jovial and welcoming presence in that room. And since I was hired soon after, I’ve moved forward in the belief that I got at least a pass from Messrs. Phillips and Starker as well as Anya Royce.
When I started to attend to faculty business and to frequent Bloomington concerts, I came to understand what Harvey meant to the areas of teaching and performance. Additionally, I was awestruck by his creative mind, one that conceived such happiness-spreaders as TubaSantas and Octubafest. He deserves that Classical Music Hall of Fame honor, and I was glad to hear that it is singular, in that he’s the first tuba player to be invited in.
George and I met later. He would occasionally write me a note about something or other he noticed in my column or in a review, something he agreed with or didn’t. That led to a chat now and then or to a convivial sit-down lunch. Before we connected, I had watched and heard him play, and I had come to know about his stint under Fritz Reiner at the Pittsburgh Symphony, about his rich experiences playing for the fabled, from Stokowski to Stravinsky, about his invitation from Music School dean Wilfred Bain to exchange a life in New York City for one in Bloomington and to bring with him a plan for developing a department of percussion, a plan he realized with benign vengeance. There was, back then, nothing like it. It was George who profoundly influenced and enhanced the status of percussions in music education, here and beyond. All of this biographical history was imposing, to put it mildly.
But to know George in person left perhaps an even more indelible mark. He was both ebullient and introspective. He was keenly aware of his prowess but humble. He could be totally immersed in what engaged him at a given moment, a fact evident when one watched him at work at the rear of an orchestra, but he recognized and practiced the art of perspective.
At the funeral service, former student and now Jacobs School faculty member John Tafoya told of a Gaber/student encounter of years earlier during which the very young student had a case of nerves. Gaber commanded the fellow to play what he had planned to play, but in as error-filled and atrocious a manner as he could. The command was obeyed.
“Now,” Gaber said, “come to the window.” The student again obeyed. “Is the sky still blue?” Gaber asked. “Is the sun still shining?”
They were. “Now, let’s get to work,” Gaber said to a student now with nerves calmed.
Perspective: Music meant the world to George Gaber, the gift for music he had as virtuoso instrumentalist and the gift of music he gave to several generations of students. But music was not his total life. The whole of the world and the all of his existence mattered. He valued his family, his children, his beloved wife Esther. He delighted in art, debated politics and world affairs, understood the chemistry of human relationships.
All these, in parts and together, made him so special, someone profoundly to be missed. Fortunately, we had him and, amidst shedding of tears, we should celebrate and think of him free now to roam a universe, adding to its music.
The Indiana University Jacobs School of Music would like
to thank the Herald Times for permission to republish this review.
