This site, like many others, uses small files called cookies to ensure that we give you the best experience on our website. If you continue without changing your settings, we'll assume that you are happy to receive all cookies on this website Cookie Policy. However, if you would like to, you can change your cookie settings at any time. They play more notes than anyone else on the stage. They appear in almost every work performed by an orchestra. They can be the heart and soul of the ensemble, differentiating orchestras from their counterparts in the band world.
The strings can be identified by their clarity, intonation, sonic brilliance, or blend. Just watching them can be an object lesson in uniformity or an exercise in frustration. The conductor relies on the principals of each section to build a cohesive unit. How does the music director, at least in America, formulateโmuch less establishโthat singular sonority? For me, that is truly the question of the day.
To understand the answer, we must go back to a time long past. I grew up in a family of string players, surrounded in Hollywood by some of the greatest in the world.
Their sound is emblazoned in my ear, and I always try to bring it with me when I conduct. The orchestras of those days saw their music directors conducting more than half of the concerts in a season. These maestros put their individual stamp on virtually every piece of repertoire they led, and in turn, the guests who visited their podiums accepted what they were handed.
When I made my debut with the Philadelphians, Ormandy was on hand to introduce me to his orchestra. The programme was all-orchestral, and the first half contained unfamiliar works by American composers. What could I possibly say to them in terms of how to play and sound in this piece? The answer was: nothing. I simply let them do their thing, and they adjusted to some slightly different phrasings, dynamics, and tempi.
