Remembering Julius Baker
Julius
Baker was principal flute with the New York Philharmonic for 18 years. He
died the night before the Las Vegas 2003 National Flute Association convention.
He was 87 years old.
I
first heard about Julius Baker through my flute teacher, Karen Leech, as an
eighth grade student in Bozeman, Montana. Karen's education stemmed from the
Baker lineage as well as the Moyse lineage, so the Baker influence was prominent
in my lessons with Karen. I first remember hearing Baker on the Boulez recording
of Daphnis and Chloe with the New York Philharmonic. It was the most beautiful
flute playing I had ever heard---something about the loose, free sound that
he produced, combined with the most alluring musicality for that solo that
I had ever experienced. It made me understand that solo for the first time.
I
immediately developed an appetite for 'the Baker sound', and began spending
a portion of my Sunday afternoons huddled up on the floor in my parent's bedroom
listening to the live broadcasts of the New York Philharmonic---just to hear
every note Julius Baker produced. (I was huddled in this particular location,
as this was the only place in our house in Montana where the FM reception
came in clear for Public Radio, over which these live concerts were broadcast.)
When
I was fourteen years old, I finally got to meet Julius Baker in person. He
came to Missoula, Montana to give a masterclass, and I was lucky enough to
be accepted to perform, thanks to the wonderful Mary Jean Simpson who was
the instigator and organizer of these. I was so awed in meeting Baker, and
I remember introducing my parents to him, thinking to myself, "do you
KNOW whose hand you are touching!". My parents were politely impressed,
but they couldn't know what I knew about this man and his Holy Tone. Thus,
he became a sort of guru for me, a muse from which I gained inspiration every
day while learning how to truly play the flute, for years and years. And still
to this day.
When
I performed for Baker in front of the class, he raised his eyebrows at me
and said, "what's a flute player like you doin' in a place like this?",
with his usual charm. I didn't know what he meant, being fourteen, and I replied,
"oh, I live in Bozeman, not here." I don't remember a thing that
he specifically taught me in that class, but what was priceless learning was
getting to hear his sound from two feet away, and see how his embouchure was
shaped. I never forgot that, and from that time on, I was able to "get
the Baker sound" as Karen Leech would request, because I learned how
to imitate it.
People
from all over the Northwest attended that Masterclass. It was an event of
the highest quality that makes an indelible mark on a 14 year old, and it
not only increased my own respect for Baker, but also gave me some mysterious,
magical taste of what true excellence was. Such excellence, that adults themselves
were willing to become students of this master to take part in it. I'd never
seen anything like it. It set up something magic about the world of flute,
something like, "this is the Way, play ye in it", and I took it
fully into my own soul. It was like a baptism into Real flute playing, and
I was hooked.
Years
later, my dream was to attend the Curtis Institute, where Baker taught. They
only accept one student a year, and so everyone had a one-in-200 chance of
getting in. I was about to graduate from high school, and contacted Julie
that I was coming back east for the audition. He was again so kind to me at
the audition, and said, "you know, I can only take one person. If it
isn't you, you would be the next person in line". I believed him, though
I don't really know if this was true, or him just being nice. Nevertheless,
I lived on those words. He then invited me to come to New York and visit him
at Juilliard, and stay at his house in Brewster. I was ecstatic---I, Rhonda
Larson, would get to go to Julius Baker's house?
A
few days later I met up with him at Juilliard, and listened to him teach a
flute player (though he never said much in the way of teaching---he only demonstrated,
instead). Then we drove up to Brewster together. I remember thinking that
his driving was nothing in the realm of his flute playing, and I was a bit
nervous. He was having to make quick decisions about lanes and turns, and
his personality just didn't really fit this task. Instead, he was someone
that was always ultra-relaxed, played flute that way, walked that way, wore
his jeans that way, and I assume would have preferred to drive that way. But
you can't drive that way in New York.
We
arrived at his house, and I met Ruth, his wife, and two of his children. I
learned a lot about "the man" that evening, and was so in-awe of
him that it took some getting used to seeing he was simply a human being with
household responsibilities and concerns. We had spaghetti that night, and
as we were eating, I'll never forget Ruth saying to him, "dear, you have
tomato sauce on your chin." Julie, in his slow, methodical way, said,
"Oh?", and wiped his chin. Then Ruth said, "no, dear, not that
chin, your other chin". We all burst out laughing, even Julie giggled
over it, and it helped to completely put me at ease with them all.
I
stayed overnight at their house, and the next day Julie showed me his barn
studio. I was soaking in everything like a sponge-words and visuals---the
life of this great man, so I would remember it all when I was back into my
own life. In his basement, there were stacks and stacks of cassette tapes
laying around, all from recitals he had played. I thought how great it would
be to hear any one of them. By now, I'd fallen in love with, and worn out,
his commercial recording of the Debussy trio, and the Roussel. I was stunned
at the way he could play, particularly the SOUND more than anything else.
But he had surprisingly few commercial solo recordings available, so I saw
these tapes as scarce and rare treasure. I've always felt that hearing Baker
recordings was like hearing the "secret" of how to play. Like codes
to be deciphered were his recordings to my flute-playing investigative mind.
I
didn't make it into Curtis that year. Two more years in a row, I came back
to audition for it again. It was still my dream, even though I was now in
my second year of college at the University of Idaho with a great flute teacher,
Richard Hahn. The last time I went to audition, I had no money at all. I refinished
pianos to make the money to fly back to Philadelphia, but returned on a Greyhound
bus. This is so symbolic as to how it all felt, too. My meals there consisted
of yogurt, and peanut butter sandwiches. It took three entire days to get
back to Idaho on the bus, which allowed me the reflection time to think about
whether I would get in or not, and replay all the events in my head like some
great magical, mystical play. This time at the audition Baker said to me,
"you know, Rhonda, you are such a terrific gal with such a great personality
like no one I know. I think moving to the city would ruin you. I think you
should stay right where you are." I protested that this wouldn't be the
case. I remember thinking, "don't think you are doing me any favor by
not picking me!" But in all those three days home, I was quite sure he
was not going to choose me to attend Curtis. I was accepted to Juilliard,
but I didn't want Juilliard. It was the combination of Baker and Curtis that
I had my hopes on, and nothing else would do. Alas, I did not, in fact, get
selected that final time I auditioned for Curtis.
Certainly
by my junior year in college, when I won the National Flute Association Young
Artist Competition, I was able to truly see what Baker had done for me. I
never really knew how deeply he thought about what he had said to me, and
whether he really knew what favor he was implementing for me, but he was the
one whose decision had a profound effect on my life in allowing me to stay
with complete freedom in the small rural town of Moscow, Idaho. That is, I
was free to grow at my own pace there, without outside vehement competition
(as Curtis would have been), so I had to develop all of my drive from the
inside, instead of trying to be better than the guy practicing next to me.
I had to compare myself with the standards of recordings, such as Baker's
and Galway's, as this was all there was to compare myself to on a larger scale.
In short, it meant I had to truly develop from the inside out, not the outside
in. I lived in a town that was similar to the town I grew up in, where everyone
was friendly and unguarded, free to look a passerby on the sidewalk in the
eye, free to ditch as many classes as I wanted so I could spend the time practicing,
free to continue my love affair with Nature-the woods, bike-riding, hiking.
None of this would have been possible at Curtis. Additionally, I would have
been struggling to rent an apartment, let alone eat, which was less of a struggle
in Idaho than it would have been in the higher economy of Philadelphia. And
street smarts? I had none. Baker was right, I truly think that at that time
in my life, the city would have inexorably changed me, shut me down. I didn't
have the "distance" to see this at the time, but there is a wide-eyed
innocence to people from rural areas, particularly in the West, and internal
development would have been abruptly interrupted by moving to a city and a
way of life I had no idea about except from the media.
And
so it was that Julius Baker had a many-layered profound effect upon my life.
The last time I really got to see him was at the New York National Flute Association
convention in 1997, where I performed with my group on a Gala Concert. During
the soundcheck, someone was trying to get in the door, and the "guards"
came up to me and said, "someone is saying that they are allowed to come
in and see you before the show. Should I let them in?" I couldn't imagine
who it could be, but said, "sure, no problem". They went to the
door, and much to my surprise, in walks Julius Baker--shuffling in his characteristic
way down the isle, pants bagging low as usual, until he reached the stage
where I was. I felt so honored that it was him, the Man with the Holy Tone.
(Or is that Wholly Tone?) After a quick exchange, we had to finish our soundcheck,
so he sat in the front row and waited for the doors to formally open, and
the concert to begin. When our portion of the performance was over, there
was a slight audience break to change the set-up for the next group, and Baker
rushed up to me (imagine a non-rushing man rushing), and grabbed my hand and
said, "Rhonda, I had no idea. I didn't know you could do that. I've never
heard any of that before. I had no idea". It was the best compliment
a girl from Montana could ever possibly receive from a man who was instrumental
in shaping her life, unwittingly or not, for the better.
I
miss you, Julius Baker. If you don't mind, I'm going to continue to learn
from you until my abilities to learn have long expired. I thank you from the
bottom of my heart for defining and embodying what is a true, genuine American
Flutist. I thank you for magically pollinating so many individuals as you
have done, who will go on to perpetuate the blossoming of your contributions
to Flutekind. Thank you. And may I continue to thank you in my playing, too.
May you hear the music wafting through the ethers.
----Rhonda, February, 2004