on harpsichords and their transport ❧ 89
dirty laundry; books I’d already read or intended to read later on; scores and
orchestra parts for concertos; clothing for changes of season; and while I was
writing the Scarlatti book, a typewriter and masses of pertinent notes. Once,
when shortly after the war I had an occasion to send an empty harpsichord
case to London, I stuffed it not only with working materials for my Scarlatti
book, but with the forty-six folio volumes of the complete works of Bach.
The crossing of customs borders with harpsichords is a special undertaking.
Occasionally, it goes smoothly, but often hours can be spent awaiting inspec-
tion or hoisting the harpsichord out of its case in order to gratify the morbid
curiosity of offi cious customs agents. Their principal activities consist of stir-
ring up as much trouble as possible and subsequently presenting the client
with an exorbitant bill for their alleged ministrations in extricating him from
what they have got him into.
Unjustifi ed pride and unfounded pretensions can be said to characterize
many major as well as minor harpsichord makers in the world. Most of these
instruments should be taken out and burned, except that many of them are
so full of noncombustible gadgets that a bonfi re composed of the ordinary
German Bach model would perhaps be preferable. I have played on what
seems like an infi nity of non- or malfunctioning instruments, some so hopeless
that they had to be rejected, even for rehearsals. One little man told me that
he knelt in prayer before beginning each new harpsichord. I hadn’t the heart
to suggest that he might have better spent his time in checking the proportions
of his bridges and soundboards.
The variety of visual decoration of these unplayable harpsichords is phenom-
enal, ranging from the austere fruitwood of the Germans and Scandinavians
via bulging marquetry surfaces to orgies of paint—red, green, purple, blue,
with or without curlicues, often completely smothered in gold leaf—and, in
the more “authentic” examples, decorated on the soundboards with Easter-
bonnet fl owers and occasional birds and insects in a style best known to the
more elegant tattoo parlors of harbor cities. If one believes, as I do, that the
history of human tastelessness can be quite adequately illustrated by harpsi-
chord decoration, there can be little doubt that the traditions of that history
are still maintained.
In the years in which I fi rst began playing publicly, the stage was given
over after almost every concert to the curiosity of persons who had never
seen a harpsichord before. Now, one is tempted to speak not of persons who
have never seen the harpsichord, but rather of those who have not yet “built”
one. “Building” a harpsichord is generally considered tantamount to assem-
bling one from a prefabricated kit. I am told that the manufacture of kits
for making harpsichords is a very lucrative business. Perhaps for the ama-
teur the assemblage of harpsichord kits has become a substitute for playing
with electric trains. Nevertheless, I have sometimes performed publicly on
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rick simeone
(Rick Simeone)
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