Conductor of the New York Philharmonic (1926–1936)
I was asked to meet with the son of one of my favorite violinists from the Philharmonic—a fine boy, preparing for his audition at Juilliard. I wasn’t with the New York Philharmonic anymore; I was now conducting the NBC Symphony Orchestra. But I wanted to honor his dad. The two of us still catch a bagel and coffee now and then at the Wellington Diner on 7th and 55th.
So I slipped into Carnegie Hall, quietly, just before rehearsal. The people there—they know me. They let me take a seat on the back row of the first balcony.
The air smelled faintly of wood polish and old programs. Far below, the orchestra tuned—soft, fragmented, like memory.
Bernstein was downstairs on the podium, beginning rehearsal. And there I was, sitting beside this young man—nervous and wide-eyed, with his violin case at his feet.
“Your dad said you’re worried about your upcoming audition at Juilliard.” He nodded and handed me a sheet listing his audition requirements. I took notice.
So I gave him a few pointers—about tone, presence, phrasing. But before we parted, I told him something else. Something more personal: “I’m the reason you’ll be playing orchestral excerpts at your audition.”
He looked at me, puzzled. So I told him the story.
They call me difficult. I’m sure your dad has called me difficult once or twice—or maybe even a few other names.
You see, when you lead a great orchestra, you’re not looking for pretty playing—you’re looking for truth. And truth lives in the details.
I’d been at the Philharmonic maybe two years when a young violinist came here to audition—he was probably just five or six years older than you are now. He played the Mendelssohn Concerto—beautifully. Then, for some strange reason—and the truth is, I’m not even sure why—I asked him to play the scherzo from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Disaster. The rhythm fell apart. I was stunned.
An Italian conductor renowned for his fiery passion, unmatched precision, and commitment to musical integrity. He rose to fame at La Scala Opera House in Milan, where he served as music director and reshaped opera performance. He later conducted the Metropolitan Opera in New York (1908–1915), and then the New York Philharmonic (1926–1936), elevating both ensembles to international acclaim. In 1937, NBC created the NBC Symphony Orchestra specifically for him, where he brought classical music to millions via radio and early television until 1954.
Celebrated for his unwavering artistic standards, Toscanini elevated orchestral performance and helped shape the audition process still used today.
It wasn’t nerves. This was something deeper. That young man had mastered the spotlight—but faltered in the shadows. And it hit me: virtuosity is not enough. In the orchestra, you’re not the star. You’re part of a powerful, unified voice.
That’s when I knew.
I started asking for orchestral excerpts—not because they were easier, but because they showed me more. When a flutist plays the solo from Daphnis et Chloé by Ravel—a soaring, delicate passage that demands both breath control and musical expression—I hear everything: phrasing, timing, character.
Excerpts aren’t tricks. They’re windows into the soul of a musician. They reveal who’s ready to serve the music—not just themselves.
Soon, conductors everywhere adopted the practice—from Chicago to Vienna. And I encouraged young Lenny down there to carry the tradition forward. He’s done more than that—he built a full directory of excerpts for the Philharmonic. Says it helps players prepare, and judges compare fairly.
And now here you are—with your audition list in your hand, and there it is: Brahms – Symphony No. 4, Movement IV, measures 33–80, and of course, Mendelssohn – A Midsummer Night’s Dream Scherzo, measures 17–99.
And you want to know why?
Because the music deserves it.
And someday, you might find yourself in the back row of Carnegie, passing this story along to someone else.
That, my young friend, is the legacy.
With that, I patted him on the knee and slipped out.
Three weeks later, I was having coffee with his father. He told me his son played the fire—well, maybe fire wasn’t the word he used, it might’ve been something more colorful—out of the Mendelssohn. And he’d be starting Juilliard in the fall.
And me? I’m confident that little talk we had is part of the reason why. Not because I told him how to play. But because I helped him understand why we play and sing at all.
