on harpsichords and their transport ❧ 87
I was obliged to be my own repairman. The fi rst, and one of the most impres-
sive in a long line of traumatic experiences, had already occurred at a con-
cert in Cambridge in February 1934. As I was about to perform the Goldberg
Variations, the coupler mechanism of the Harvard Chickering ceased to func-
tion. Lying fl at on my back in full evening clothes with screwdriver in hand and
looking like an over-dressed garage mechanic, I peered up into the entrails
of the harpsichord until I had performed an operation that would permit the
program to continue. In various forms, both imaginary and real, the night-
mare of the “expense of spirit in a waste of shame” has pursued me ever since.
My fi rst harpsichord shipping case was built in 1935 for my newly acquired
instrument. More than forty years later, it is still in use. It is probably heavier than
any harpsichord it has ever contained, but it has stubbornly resisted complete
demolition despite the reiterated knocking off of most of its outer braces in
transport. Many times I have had harpsichords arrive in packing cases which had
hastily to be repaired by obliging stagehands in order to render further shipment
possible. Occasionally, even the harpsichords themselves have been so much
shaken up, turned upside down, stood on end like giraffes, dropped, and other-
wise mishandled that I have had to stay up all night taking them apart, repairing
the dislocations and putting them back together again. It is indeed an inspiring
sight to open up a newly arrived harpsichord and to see nothing at all which
resembles either of the keyboards, but instead a tangled mass of what appears
to be kindling wood. On such occasions, I summon up all the resources of simu-
lated composure in order to offset the consternation of bystanders before quietly
going to work on the unfortunate instrument. Yet it is almost unbelievable that
in the course of forty years of these horrors, a harpsichord of mine has never suf-
fered permanent damage suffi cient to merit putting in a claim for insurance. I
have become accustomed to seeing harpsichords spinning in air from the ropes
of cranes over harbor depths, but when for the fi rst time my harpsichord was
unloaded in Venice, I surveyed the operation with special attention. If at long
last it had to be dunked, I wished not to miss the opportunity of seeing it fl oat
serenely on the waters of the Grand Canal.
Harpsichord makers seemed oblivious to the perils of transport. They some-
times forget that a harpsichord is ever turned upside down and that unless they
are attached to something, the inner workings of the instrument can spill out
in the same sinister fashion as the tripe from a Spanish horse that has been
gored in a particularly bloody bullfi ght. They also feel themselves authorized
in the name of authenticity to provide them with various unattached pieces of
wood, like prop sticks and front covers of keyboards that either come loose in
transport or that have to be packed separately and which, if left backstage, are
either never seen again or, if ever to be seen again, have been locked up for
safety by janitors who are neither on hand for the performance nor the subse-
quent packing up.
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rick simeone
(Rick Simeone)
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