I

T has recently been hinted that Paderewski-who may, after all, be mortal like the rest of us, and therefore susceptible to fatigue and exhaustion is playing badly. It is to be suspected that certain persons would relegate him, if they could, to the great cosmic scrap-heap. A gentleman goes so far as to write to the New York "Times" asking why an American audience should rise to its feet when Paderewski appears upon the concert platform. A critic, not without justice, asserts that Paderewski's playing is inferior to-day to that of half a dozen other pianists at present before the public.

In remarkable contrast to these detractions, Paderewski gives within the space of three weeks two concerts at Carnegie Hall. It is needless to say that both concerts were completely sold out. But the thing went farther than this small-town stock phrase of facile reporting would indicate. That indefinable something which invests a Paderewski recital with an atmosphere unique and incomparable was as pervasive as ever. Here, where the greatest have come and gone (Safonoff and his never-to-be-forgotten first rendering of the "Pathetic" symphony, the fascinating if somewhat charlatanistic Nikisch, the debonair Muratore and the night he sang at the head of the French Blue Devils), one man held a redundant audience throughout an afternoon; weaving, from a somewhat worn and threadbare technique, a web of enchantment that flashed and gleamed. and glittered with all the evanescent allurement of a rainbow or a summer sea.

Putting aside for the moment all amiable sentimentalities and the good-timewas-had-by-all spirit, let us, ask the following question bluntly: Does Paderewksi deserve the prestige accorded him, or ought he be divested of his enormous drawing capacity through a consistent campaign of disparagement? Is it fair to the hosts of other excellent pianists that Paderewski should elbow them out of the limelight year after year if, as is alleged, the man is playing badly? In a word, is Paderewski a "has-been," and, if so, ought this fact not be advertised so that the standards of this generation be not distracted? It is certainly the duty of those in the "know" to attack and defame the Paderewski legend if it consists merely of adroit hocus-pocus and the cumulative appeal of an extraordinary publicity. It is an open secret that Caruso drew capacity houses for years

before his death on the strength of his reputation and after the original beauty of his voice had become impaired. Is Paderewski matching this record?

Let us suppose that a group of music lovers had wandered into Carnegie Hall the other day without a knowledge that Paderewski was playing. They sit, let us say, in the second tier, shut off from any sight of the hall, and therefore shut off from any ulterior stimuli. Assuming that they possessed a close knowledge of Chopin and of piano playing, what, one wonders, would their reactions have been?

For the first three-quarters of an hour or thereabouts they would probably have thought that some one was playing the piano impatiently and exasperatedly, as though an unpleasant obligation of some sort or other had to be got through with as speedily as possible. They would have heard some of the worst piano playing this writer has ever heard in a concert hall. They would have heard a frazzled, frayed Chopin, distorted, hurried through perfunctorily, blurred, and so on. Hardly a trace of the old, indubitable magic. And then something happened. As As

though an actual dividing line had been reached-it happened to be the F Minor Ballade the Paderewski of incredible Old World sighings, of lamentable far off horizons, and Once-Upon-a-Timenesses, was with us once more; the one magician of our day who can, like some adroit Pied Piper, lure us out of 1925 into the fabulous, faded loveliness of the Never-Never Land. This writer has heard pianist after pianist equal and sur pass Paderewski in certain things; no one, not even the uncanny de Pachmann has ever held the power, psychic and occult, beyond question, to sound the note of regret, of retrospection, as Pa derewski sounds it in a Chopin mazurka or in certain pieces of Schumann. Those incredibly intriguing hands of his still linger over certain bits with a tenderness that deceives one almost into thinking that he is taking leave of music for the last time. His playing of such things as the codas of the B Flat Minor and A Minor Mazurkas the other day affected one hypnotically; one could almost hear the piano saying "good-by."

And now for the great secret. Pade rewski played twenty years ago-upon

ccasions—as loosely and carelessly as he loes now. Twenty years ago-ten years go-persons were saying: "He is not he same Paderewski." And he was not -upon occasions; and he is not nowpon occasions. And withal, he is beond the shadow of a doubt the most amous artist of our time, and it is posible one of the two or three most famous rtists of all time. Cheap as it may ound to say it, Paderewski could probbly draw a sold-out house once a week n this city if he were able or chose to ppear as often as that.

What is the answer? An answer that will no doubt be sniffed at by your inicky little Art for Art's Saker, your Smart Alec, your Exquisite, who shrugs is (or her) shoulders at the base idea of a human element in art. These superFine persons know that we must "impersonalize" art; that it must be purged of everything save a sheerly abstract decorativeness. Well, there are some of us who will continue to believe that Paderewski maintains his hold upon his public-an unprecedented hold, mind youbecause he is, precisely, one of the greatest human personalities of which art has any record. He is a visible incarnation

A

of an idea; and his enormous success points a moral. It is possible that the tenacity of his appeal may be explained only by an appreciation of the apocalyptic spiritual stature of his nature. It is encouraging to believe that the world responds to Paderewski in unconscious recognition of his extraordinary morale. What a rebuke to the picayune selfishness of the little fellow of art, who is out for himself, first and last. And what a sublime ratification of the theory held by some of us to the effect that a valid art is a sublimated record of the human spirit, and not a mere negligible puttering around of the emotional unemployed!

Paderewski stands out in our age a solitary figure. The man has superbly lived a doctrine of Art for Life's Sake. Granted that his work is technically faulty at times; who else can evoke from a piano the rich, eloquent sunsets, the tentative rain droppings of his wistful, fabulous antique lands? He is the one surviving aristocrat of the old régime of romance. And one likes to believe that it is because of his integrity as a human being that he endures pre-eminently in an unimaginative and material age as an artist.

sound-box under the stress of loud volume than any other machine we have heard.

Of course, any differences between the different types of improved talkingmachines are very slight compared with the difference between the new-style and old-style phonographs. It is like comparing a Dodge with a Chrysler or a Cadillac, after comparing the motor car with the horse and buggy.

We still feel constant amazement at results obtained with the new records and machines. For instance, in a piano record it is possible to tell when the pianist uses the pedal and when he does not. Orchestral instruments stand out clearly, and can be recognized as strands in a pattern. The result is as pleasing to the ear as glasses are to a pair of eyes used to blurred vision. Or perhaps it Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the music gains perspective, just as objects

Recently, at a concert by the New York Philharmonic Orchestra under the baton of Arturo Toscanini, a symphonic poem was played which included the actual song of a nightingale. It was Respighi's "The Pines of Rome." Mr. Law

rence Gilman describes it in the "Herald Tribune" as follows:

The nightingale was duly on hand. last night, imprisoned in a gramophone, from which he sang right lustily and sweetly at the instance of Mr. Van Praag, manager of the Philharmonic's orchestral personnel, who, stationed at the rear of the stage, adjusted a needle at the proper moment and released the warblings of the immortal bird.

Of course it was enchanting to hear a real nightingale in Carnegie Hall.

The particular "gramophone" was a Brunswick Panatrope. But it is a feather in the cap of the improved phonograph in general that what Mr. Gilman heard was not a phonograph, but a nightingale!

A small thing, but somewhat annoying, is that on many Columbia records the music begins almost immediately after the needle strikes the groove. At

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least time enough should be allowed so that one can close the cover of the machine.

Phonograph Records

SONATA IN B MINOR FOR PIANOFORTE, Opus 58 (Chopin). Played by Percy Grainger. Electrically recorded; in six parts, on three records. Columbia.

Thanks to the latest developments in recording and in the design of phonographs, we now can hear a performance of Grainger's that is truly remarkable in its fidelity. The character and personality of the pianoforte-the brilliance and resonance of the concert grand-are evident in reproduction. Grainger's playing is all that could be desired. The scherzo, of lightning rapidity, is delightful; the high point of the sonata is reached in the magnificent stride of the last movement. It may sound hackneyed to speak of Grainger's playing as masterful, but it is just that.

SONATA IN D MINOR FOR VIOLIN AND PIANOFORTE, Opus 108 (Brahms). Played by Arthur Catterall and William Murdoch. Mechanically recorded; in six parts, on three records. Columbia.

Though the sheer beauty of the slow movement and the whimsical lightness of the scherzo cannot fail to win instant approval, the sonata as a whole grows in breadth upon each hearing. Its performance, by two Englishmen, is a musicianly piece of work without being in the least. bit arid. It is a mechanical recording; but the resonance of the piano tone as well as the richness of the violin brings it almost into the class of electrically reproduced records. As for the music itself there may be things as fine in violin and piano music, but there is nothing finer.

THE PLANETS-SUITE FOR ORCHESTRA (Gustav Holst). Played by the London Symphony Orchestra, conducted by the composer. Mechanically recorded; in thirteen parts, on seven records. Columbia.

The suite describes the seven planets, one by one. It is lengthy, sometimes tedious, sometimes ingeniously interesting, sometimes charming. We are willing to wager it will not bear the ravages of time. But it is an interesting example of what modern Englishmen are doing.

LIEBESTRAUM (Liszt); FANTAISIE IMPROMP-
TU (Chopin). Played by Leopold Godowsky.
Electrically recorded. Brunswick.
REFLETS DANS L'EAU (Debussy); CLAIR DE
LUNE (Debussy). Played by Leopold Godow-
sky. Electrically recorded. Brunswick.

These two records are both featured by Godowsky's distinguished playing. Liszt's sentimental "Liebestraum" is treated with a sincerity that removes sentimentality from it. The Debussy pieces are interpreted with satisfying masculinity. We were unable to compare these records with those of the Grainger sonata, but they seem on a par with them in respect to faithful repro

duction. The slight whine noticeable on a former Godowsky electrical record seems to have disappeared.

DEATH AND TRANSFIGURATION (Strauss). Played by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Bruno Walter. Mechanically recorded; in five parts, on three records Columbia.

An epic for the orchestra. The music struggles through perplexity and ends in calmness and nobility. If Strauss were as faultless in taste as he is in orchestration, it would be a greater work. The recording is uneven. The string tone is very poor; the kettle-drums are so good as to be uncanny.

LOUISE Depuis le Jour, Act 3 (Charpentier); BOHEME-Addio! Act 3 (Puccini). Sung by Lucrezia Bori. Electrically recorded. Victor. The number from "Louise" is most ingratiating music. "Bohême" is more in the standard Italian-opera style. Lucrezia Bori's voice is charming when she sings softly, but when she aims for volume it loses its pleasing quality and becomes ear-splitting. This may be the fault of phonograph reproduction. If so, she should take that into considerationor does one make more royalties from record sales by giving the Great Public bigger and steadier volume?

MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR OVERTURE

(Nicolai). Played by the Victor Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Josef Pasternack. Electrically recorded; in two parts, on one record. Victor.

A surprisingly good orchestra for one with so perfunctory a name. The music is "pop" concert material, mostly froth, but pleasantly tuneful and rhythmic.

Piano Rolls

CONCERTO IN G MINOR, Opus 25-First and Second Movements (Mendelssohn). Arranged and played by Wilhelm Bachaus. Duo-Art.

There is more feeling and power behind this concerto than can usually be found in Mendelssohn. Mr. Bachaus gives us a broad sweep of canvas. Music such as this is much better material for recording than many of the small, poetic fragments of music that require no unusual skill or lofty interpretation.

INTERMEZZO, Opus 118, No. 2 (Brahms). Played by Arthur Rubinstein. Duo-Art.

The melody used might have been taken from a folk-song. Its treatment is more sonorous, less muddy than that of many of Brahms's piano works. The playing is marred by too constant a use of the pedal.

PAVANE POUR UNE INFANTE DEFUNTE (Ravel). Played by E. Robert Schmitz. pico.

Am

One of Ravel's early compositions, the "Pavane," has classic simplicity and beauty. Its dissonance is mild. From start to finish it is quite charming. Mr. A Schmitz at times is a little forced in his efforts at freedom of tempo, but plays it with full sympathy.

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R. ADOLPH OCHS, owner of the New York "Times," says that every issue of his paper costs $50,000, or approximately fourteen cents a copy. It is sold for two cents a copy. The difference is more than made up by the advertising sold.

Here are some more of Frank Wilstach's choice similes:

A reputation as loose as a flapper's galosh.

So still you could hear the microbes gnashing their teeth.

She looked like ten cents waiting for the change.

Tiresome as a bedtime uncle on the radio.

Recent news items, some of which have not as yet reached the general press, are: There is to be produced in Berlin, Germany, a play entitled "Henry Ford," which is based upon the activities of Mr. Ford during the World War. . . . Anthony Asquith, son of the former Prime Minister of Great Britain, is in Hollywood hoping to become a motionpicture director. .. Grand Rapids, Michigan, got a shock when a cabaret inserted the following display advertisement in the local press: "We are going to make Grand Rapids a two-o'clock town, so bring your harp and garters and come out for a hot time." The cabaret has been closed. . . . The number of Ford cars produced last year totals 2,103,588.

"I ain't got no money now," replied Sam, "but I'm goin' to pay it soon as I kin."

"Yo' been sayin' thet fer months," retorted Tom, "but it don't git me no money. Yer gwine t' pay thet money here and now, thet's whut yer gwine t' do. Ef y' don't, y' know whut I'm goin' t' do? I'm goin' to burn yer old note; then whar'll yo' be at?"

"Yas yo' will. Yas yo' will," Sam shouted. "Jes' yo' burn dat note o' mine and I'll pop a lawsuit onto yo'."

Some of the more fashionable theaters playing legitimate drama are now printing a synopsis of the first act of their show in the programme, thus enabling the majority of the audience, who come late, to know what is going on.

Lady: "Are your eggs fresh?” Clerk: "Ma'am, the hen doesn't realize. I've got them yet."

Publisher: "In your story I notice you make the owl hoot "to whom" instead of "to whoo."

Author: "Yes, this is a Boston owl."

Otto Harbach, who wrote the words of several of the song hits in "No, No, Nanette," "Rose Marie," "Song of the Flame," "Wildflower," and other current musical comedies, receives weekly royalties amounting to $14,700 from the many companies. Victor Schertzinger, author of both the words and music of the popular "Marcheta," received $50 for his composition, which netted the publishers a profit of $250,000.

Father "What have you done with the money I gave you?"

Boy-"I gave it to a poor old wo