Desperate Measures

San Francisco, 1865. Louis Moreau Gottschalk had an unusual problem. He had promised a concert featuring fourteen pianists playing Wagner’s march from Tannhauser. One of them had gotten sick and Gottschalk was hard-pressed to find a replacement. For his unusual problem he resorted to desperate measures.

The proprietor of the concert hall was sympathetic. He offered the services of his son. Gottschalk suggested a rehearsal, but the young man said it would he unnecessary since the march was so easy, He sat down at the piano, executed a noisy flourish, and launched into a horrific rendition of the piece. Gottschalk was desperate.

His piano tuner came up with a plan. The newcomer’s piano was a vertical and the tuner removed its entire interior mechanism. “The keyboard remains,” he told Gottschalk, “but I assure you there will be no more false notes.”

Just before the concert, the young pianist requested a prominent position onstage. Gottschalk obligingly had the magic piano moved to center stage. He instructed his fourteen pianists not to play the pianos before the first note of the concert, so as not to spoil the effect for the audience.

The Tannhauaer march began. Fourteen sets of hands went to the keys, producing a great crescendo of Wagner. The novice pianist was pouring everything he had into it, sweating heartily as he impressed his friends in the audience, some of whom applauded and called out his name.

The audience demanded an encore, and this time the novice couldn’t resist a few preliminary flourishes. No sound came out. He tried to get Gottschalk’s attention. Hastily Gottschalk gave the other pianists the downbeat.

In order to save appearances, the novice faked his way through the entire piece, although now there seemed to be some anger in his piano pounding.

At the end of the encore Gottschalk remarked wryly, “Very well done, gentlemen, but the effect was less than the first time.”