Much has justifiably been written regarding Seiji Ozawa’s extraordinary abilities and achievements as a conductor, and similarly about his generosity, graciousness, and sense of humor as a human. Here is a little personal remembrance that perfectly illustrates most of these qualities.
In November 1969 I was a student at New England Conservatory and a member of its chorus, which at that time was routinely engaged by the Boston Symphony Orchestra for performances and recordings of works that included or featured a choir. So, in the fall of 1969, when a young, dynamic conductor named Seiji Ozawa came to conduct Carl Orff’s Carmina burana, we were on call.
From our first rehearsal led by Ozawa himself, most of us I believe were very much impressed by his projection of a sort of youthful, playful attitude, strongly tempered by his undeniable seriousness about the music and its many details. Of course, how much did we know? We were only in our late teens or early 20s.
The previous year was Erich Leinsdorf’s last BSO season, so those of us who had been there for his performances and recordings of Brahms’ German Requiem (fall, 1968) and Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 (spring, 1969) only knew the demeanor and orchestral techniques of this long-respected “old world” maestro, whose manner with the chorus was very businesslike while giving us the feeling of true respect as fellow musicians. Those rehearsals and concerts were wonderful and we learned much from that experience. But with Ozawa, here was someone who seemed closer to us, to understand our world; one who was open to new ideas as well as new music.
So, this is likely what led us to do what we never could have done with Leinsdorf–or probably anyone else, and probably shouldn’t have even considered. Something irresponsible and risky that could have resulted in feelings of disrespect, both for Ozawa and for the music and rehearsal process. But what did we know? We thought it would be fun and that Ozawa would certainly “get” our little joke.
One of the choruses in Carmina burana, titled “Veni, veni, venias”, is scored for two choirs. Beginning halfway through the song, Choir I enters and has the actual melodic material, while Choir II (which included those of us who participated in the prank) was required to just sing a nonsense word, repeated many, many times, to accentuate (in emphatic, forte staccato) each of the phrases sung by Choir I. The word is “na-za-za”.
During rehearsal one afternoon, some brave and/or simply misguided singer (no one will remember who, but I’m sure it had to be someone in the bass section) passed around the idea that we should substitute “O-za-wa” for “na-za-za”. Of course this was meant totally as a tribute to Maestro Ozawa, but again, how did we know he would take it as we intended? What I remember is that it didn’t take much convincing to get most of Choir II on board.
The moment in “Veni, veni, venias” came around and we emphatically sang out “O-za-wa!” “O-za-wa!” “O-za-wa!” We could see a slight change in expression, but we continued to sing, the orchestra kept playing (the thing is, at this point there are only two pianos and percussion involved, so the chorus is very much in the foreground). But the next time we sang the wrong word, Ozawa stopped the rehearsal. Needless to say, a feeling of discomfort quickly spread across the chorus. With a confused look, Ozawa asked, “What is that sound I’m hearing?” And he explained that he believed we were pronouncing the word incorrectly. And again, some very brave soul spoke up and revealed what we were up to. I’m sure the entire chorus was holding its collective breath. After all, we hadn’t really considered the possible consequences of causing the entire rehearsal to stop because of some silly joke a bunch of college students thought would be clever and funny.
Ozawa thought for a few seconds, a smile crept over his face, then a broad grin followed by a knowing nod to the chorus. He did “get” it after all. He acknowledged our stupid prank, but then turned serious. “Let’s resume at No. 20; and please, let’s sing what’s in the score!”
We learned several things that day, about our immaturity certainly, and about professionalism and respect for the privileged position we were in as part of such a performance; but even more so about this guy named Seiji Ozawa, who at that time was only 34 years old himself, and who, while we made a lame effort to honor him, actually honored us with his smile, his understanding of who we were, and his gift of showing us both his humanity and absolute musical integrity. And how amazed we were at his immediate recognition of that “mispronunciation” of a nonsense word!
You can still hear the recording we made of that Carmina burana (including the correct pronunciation of “nazaza”), which is among the reviews just posted.
