In that sweltering summer of 1981, there I was: a 16-year-old, self-declared prodigy from Greensboro, tumbling into Tanglewood with a suitcase as overstuffed as my aspirations—you know, the typical teenage cocktail of overconfidence and naiveté. My plan was to learn to compose. The reality? I became Leonard Bernstein’s entirely unasked-for conducting student.
This crafty maneuver spun into a harebrained plot involving Bernstein’s newly composed ode to the Boston Symphony—inadvertently roping in my composition teacher, a gathering of supernaturally talented orchestra students, and the hallowed institution of classical music itself, setting the stage for a caper as audacious as it was whimsical.
The Boston Symphony Orchestra was in full splendor for its centennial celebration, a milestone that made my sixteen years seem as fleeting as a half-rest in a Bruckner symphony. The atmosphere buzzed with a nostalgic energy. At the center of it all was Leonard Bernstein—Lenny, as he was casually referred to, especially by those least acquainted with him. He wielded his conductor’s baton with the ease of a monarch bestowing knighthoods, yet with the intensity of a wizard ready to summon the next great symphonic storm.
That Fourth of July would be marked by a special performance: Bernstein conducting his beloved suite from ‘West Side Story’ and the ‘Divertimento for Orchestra,’ commissioned by the BSO for its 100th birthday. But tucked within this celebratory piece was the ‘Turkey Trot,’ a movement as ridiculous as its name suggests. It was a segment that many in the orchestra loved to hate, a musical banality that would later become a comical earworm for the student orchestra as well, as the summer wore on. It was the kind of tune that could make a violinist question their life choices or a cellist ponder a career in accounting—a musical quirk that would later play a starring role in the unfolding drama of our summer saga.
I was gearing up for a summer of “composition,” which was really just a fancy term for sitting marooned at a desk with manuscript paper, praying for the heavens to grant me a musical epiphany. I began to imagine how I would get into the conducting class, oozing the sort of cocky assurance only found in teenagers who fancy themselves the first to discover that the earth orbits the sun. The worst that could happen? A grand, theatrical expulsion, perfect fodder for a future memoir of a ‘misunderstood’ composer. And so, with more gall than sense, I dove headfirst into my ill-conceived plan.
Upon arrival, we, the composition students, were expected to bleed our harmonic souls dry for six unrelenting hours each day. “You will compose,” our teacher declared, as if sentencing us to hard labor, “and at summer’s end, the student orchestra will play your creations in a reading session.” What he conveniently forgot to mention was that this “honor” was akin to receiving a patronizing “good job” sticker for managing not to scribble outside the lines.
At least, that’s how I took it. Back home in North Carolina, my compositions were played in actual concerts—events people attended because they wanted to, not just because they were related to me. Here, however, in the rarefied world of Tanglewood, I was surprised to learn that kids getting their string quartets aired on public radio was as rare as spotting a unicorn in Times Square.
It was in this surreal bubble that felt like a backdrop for “Composers Gone Wild,” in which I found Leonard Bernstein—the part-time maestro and full-time charismatic enigma, known as much for his dramatic neckwear as his conducting prowess. Learning that he would be teaching conducting sparked a recklessly bold idea in me. What unfolded next was a plan brewed from equal parts inspiration and audacity, the kind of scheme that could have my parents hastily amending their will to include a section on “Acts of Foolhardy Bravado.”
While my fellow instrumentalists were chained to their rehearsals like medieval serfs to the plow, I basked in an ocean of free time—a perilous luxury. Rather than tussling with the muses of melody and harmony, as I was supposed to be doing, I opted for sitting in on Boston Symphony rehearsals and crashing the conducting fellows’ classes.
My entire escapade rested on a strategy as simple as it was audacious: just show up. So I sauntered into the conducting class, plonked myself down amidst the conducting elite, and waited for the show to begin. Gustav Meier, the teacher, eyed me suspiciously over his glasses and asked for my name. ‘Paul Smith,’ I said, laying on my Southern accent. He motioned to the piano with a flourish worthy of a Shakespearean actor and asked me to play the opening of ‘Tristan’ from the full score, a meaningless test more suited to a pianist than a conductor, I thought. Nevertheless, I took to the keys, my fingers fumbling like a clown on a tightrope. Before I could butcher much more, he mercifully intervened, his head tilting as he likened my conducting ambitions to a caterpillar’s dream of reaching the moon—charmingly optimistic, but laughably far-fetched.
He didn’t banish me from the class, which would have been the logical reaction. Instead, he regarded me with a puzzled air, as if sifting through his memories for a memo that justified my brazen attendance. Maybe he pegged me as some kind of insider, a relative of a renowned maestro, or perhaps he was simply too courteous (or baffled) to challenge the odd administrative snafu that put me there. Thus, I lingered, a living embodiment of the old adage: “Fake it till you make it.”
Each week, a new visiting conductor would swoop in, scattering insights like breadcrumbs, and we, the eager fledglings, scrambled to snatch them up. Utah Symphony conductor Maurice Abravanel brought his blend of charm and biting wit, Seiji Ozawa a simmering intensity, and then, as if the plot of our little drama demanded it, Leonard Bernstein himself made his entrance, like the climax of a grand orchestral overture.
Bernstein, the maestro of maestros, spent a few weeks with us, and I like to believe he saw something in me. Perhaps it was the spark of potential that caught his attention. Each time I stood on the podium, he peered discerningly, nudging my arms to refine my technique and better articulate each motion clearly. His guidance made me swell with pride, eager to show off my burgeoning proficiency in the art of the 4/4 beat.
After a few sessions, Bernstein began dissecting my baton technique with a gusto that made me feel like a fascinating scientific specimen. Maybe he saw my clumsy eagerness, my “I’ll-try-anything-once” attitude, and thought, “Ah, this kid might be a wild card, a diamond in the rough with a beat all his own.” Or, just as likely, he saw me as a walking, talking conducting fiasco, the sort of melodious mess that desperately needed sorting out.
The two Japanese pianists who accompanied us fledgling conductors seemed to be more in that latter camp. To them, my gangly, clumsy attempts were inherently funny. They exchanged knowing smiles, barely holding back giggles, as their fingers gracefully navigated the keys, almost playfully mirroring my awkward, enthusiastic gestures.
As the summer waltzed by in a whirlwind of musical escapades, Tanglewood transformed into my own whimsical playground. Amidst this enchanting chaos, bumping into legends like Yo-Yo Ma showing off his new car, or Lukas Foss trying to get composers to have more fun, became as commonplace as misplacing a sheet of music. It was an eclectic mix of intense training and spontaneous revelry, often culminating in impromptu jam sessions or late-night snack raids. In this kaleidoscope of high culture and playful antics, I carved out my niche: the congenial maverick, more drawn to the thrill of the next caper than the meticulous crafting of what should have been my serious compositions.
Back in the realm of the student orchestra, a different kind of tension was brewing. These exceptionally talented young musicians were preparing for their climactic moment: a session under Leonard Bernstein’s discerning guidance. The faculty fretted over every possible misstep, fearing any flaw would reflect poorly on their tutelage. The atmosphere was charged, a mix of excitement and apprehension, akin to the climax of a thriller where the tension is palpable but the outcome remains shrouded in mystery.
One of the compositions Bernstein was to rehearse with the students was his own “Turkey Trot,” which had become less a composition to be performed and more a Sisyphean boulder to be shouldered. Among the many movements of the Divertimento, the notorious “Turkey Trot” held a special place in purgatory—a quirky and hokey musical jest that seemed to mock the players with each repetition.
Named for some arcane Berkshire folklore, perhaps, it was the kind of tune that might inspire cartoon crows to don straw hats and dance in a hoedown. Yet there it was, the “Turkey Trot,” being hammered into the student orchestra with all the solemnity of a Latin mass, only without the incense or salvation. The faculty was taking no chance that Bernstein might encounter an errant oboe or mis-timed timpani.
The grumbles in the dining hall grew so commonplace that they blended with the clatter of cutlery and the hum of the refrigerators. “If I hear ‘Turkey Trot’ one more time,” one violinist muttered with a grimace, “I’ll turn my bow into kindling.” The threat of mutiny was half-joking, half-plea, as if Bernstein himself might be conjured by their collective ire and strike the movement from the piece.
As the summer’s end approached, the specter of my own unfinished composition—a piece that was supposed to be my crowning achievement of the summer—loomed over me like a storm cloud pregnant with catastrophe. My escapades on the podium, the dizzying dance of baton and beat, had been as heady as a stolen kiss beneath the bleachers. But reality was calling, and my unfinished score was glaring like a jilted lover. I was there to compose, but I had spent weeks in conducting class instead. And now the countdown to the composers’ reading session had begun.
My barely-begun composition was supposed to be unveiled in just seven days. Suddenly, an idea struck me. It was the kind of idea that, should it hatch, would either make me the stuff of Tanglewood legend or the butt of jokes whispered in practice rooms for generations to come.
The plot I concocted was as simple as it was ludicrous. Like the secret ingredient in a scandalous recipe, it promised to linger on the palates of all present. If successful, my scheme would turn the entire reading into a farcical symphony of raised eyebrows and suppressed chortles.
The reading session day came. My composition was listed on the program with the other student composers, its title, “Incantations and Scherzo,” disguised it as the solemn strains of a high-minded opus, its facade as impenetrable as a poker player’s bluff.
My composition teacher, or at least I think it was him, for I had barely seen him all summer, gave the downbeat. Before I knew it, the orchestra reached “the moment.” A pause dangling in the concert hall like a trapeze artist frozen mid-flight. My teacher took the pause as a seasoned performer might take a breath—for dramatic effect.
But then, he stopped the orchestra and, like a captain blissfully ignorant of the comedic iceberg dead ahead, cautioned, “watch out. We're not in 6/8 anymore!” Was he aware that the infamous “Turkey Trot” was about to leap from the pages, like a musical jack-in-the-box? He hadn’t seen the score beforehand, but surely, he could read ahead and detect something amiss. Yet, there was no flicker of recognition on his face, which was odd, considering the “Turkey Trot” had become the summer’s running musical joke. He didn’t pull the plug! Instead, he soldiered on with the determination of a postman in a rainstorm.
On his next downbeat, the familiar strains of the “Turkey Trot” strutted out, and the recognition instantly spread through the orchestra like an inside joke gone viral. The musicians, usually as solemn as judges at a sentencing, couldn’t contain their mirth. Guffaws erupted, feet stamped; the rehearsal hall morphed into a vaudeville stage, and the trombones capped it all off with their boisterous glissando, like the last comedians standing in a slapstick routine gone awry.
The reading session was transformed from a somber affair into an impromptu roast of all things excessively rehearsed. My prank on the “Turkey Trot” became both a commentary on overzealous preparation rituals and a nod of commiseration to my fellow students. In the echoes of laughter, we all heard the chords of camaraderie, and the symphony of shared humor.
But Tanglewood wasn’t done with me yet.
The morning after the prank, my composition teacher, his face stormy as a Wagner overture, summoned me with a thunderous finger. “You will now go apologize to Maestro Bernstein,” he declared, each word dropping like a guillotine blade, “in person.”
He pictured it, I’m sure, as a scene of comeuppance: me, the impudent pupil, cowering before the great Bernstein, who would no doubt unleash a tempest of rebuke. He didn’t realize that Bernstein and I already shared more than just a passing nod. Lenny knew me, my fledgling talents, and, as luck would have it, my sense of humor. My composition teacher had unwittingly given me a backstage pass when he thought he was sending me to the gallows.
I asked around until I learned Bernstein’s manager was throwing him a birthday party that night—and of course the maestro would be there. So I went. Bernstein saw me when I entered the apartment and ushered me in, over to the piano. My apology started to unfold like a real buzz-kill. “You probably heard about what happened at the student orchestra reading …” I began. But before I said another word, Bernstein’s bourbon-tinged chuckle that spoke of a man who’d long since traded the rigidity of rules for the rhythm of life, cut me off. “I did!” he said, “and it was marvelous. Don’t worry about it!”
Was that it? Not even a stern talking-to? Nope! The party continued—in true Bernstein fashion—a whirl of libations and laughter, with the maestro himself orchestrating the festivities, accompanying all takers who wanted to belt out show tunes with him at the piano. After a while, I checked the time. The hour was late, or early, depending on one’s perspective on the witching hours.
“I need to get back,” I said to the maestro, knowing the dormitory doors would now be locked and the search parties gearing up. “But I don’t have a ride.” Bernstein, in a move that was both incredibly cool and completely irresponsible, offered to drive me back. “Let’s go,” he said. So, there we were, in his convertible, top down, cutting through the warm night like a forte in a sea of pianissimos.
As we neared the dormitory, that fortress of rules, I was struck by the absurdity of my predicament. Breaking curfew would be a sin as bad as my original prank. Yet, here was Bernstein, my accomplice in crime and driver of the getaway car. I hatched a plan, swift as a grace note: “Maestro, we need to make a grand entrance, so they would see I was out late with a responsible adult.”
Bernstein, ever the showman, revved the engine, and Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto soared from the speakers, announcing our arrival with the fanfare of a hero’s welcome. We circled the driveway a few times until the dormitory lit up like a stage for our final act. Heads poked from windows, and the night air was filled with the music of our triumphal entry!
In the thick of the Berkshire night, I realized perhaps the “Turkey Trot” was more than just a quirky interlude. Maybe it was Bernstein’s own raspberry blown at the solemn faces of the symphonic elite. My riff on his musical jest wasn’t lost on him. Maybe indulging in this dramatic arrival was his way of saying, “Kid, I see what you did there with the ‘Turkey Trot.’ Nice touch.” It was a nod to the prankster in all of us, who likes to see the pompous take a pie to the face.
Lying in my dorm bed, staring at the ceiling, I couldn't help but imagine a parallel universe where a stuffy, bow-tied version of myself was getting an earful. But here in this universe, I was the rogue hero of the hour, the prodigal son who returned not with a fatted calf, but with the memory of a renegade maestro, a convertible ride under the stars, and the lingering echo of a turkey dance that would probably haunt my musical dreams for years to come. And honestly, who needs a fatted calf when you've got stories like that?
The Infamous 'Turkey Trot' Incident of 1981
Here it is! The recording of the musical caper.
August 20, 1981Tanglewood Music Center, Rehearsal HallStudents of the BU Tanglewood Institute OrchestraPaul Smith (and Leonard Bernstein) composer/arranger
Copyright © 2023 by Paul Henry Smith
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