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The following text is about Yakov Kasman's last minute
replacement in a performance of the Rachmaninoff Third Piano Concert,
October, 2004. (Excerpt taken from The Oregonian) A round-the-clock race to rescue the Rach The Oregonian Wednesday, October 06, 2004 David Stabler At 6 p.m. Sunday the phone rang with the news every symphony manager dreads.... At noon Monday, Yakov Kasman's phone rang in Birmingham, Ala. Calmer was on the line, asking if the 37-year-old Russian could play the Rachmaninoff concerto in Portland that night. Kasman, who won the silver medal in the 1997 Van Cliburn International Piano Competition, was just about to begin a day of teaching at the University of Alabama. He'd never been to Portland, had never met Kalmar and had never played a concerto without a rehearsal. And this was Rach 3. He hadn't played a note of it since March. One seat remained on a plane to Portland. It left in 90 minutes... Kasman didn't hesitate. He would take the risk. Within minutes of hearing that Kasman had agreed, the Oregon Symphony's communications department began sending e-mail messages to 10,000 symphony friends, started calling 1,000 Monday ticket holders and began preparing press releases for five radio stations, four TV stations and local newspapers. Eight hours before the concert, Kasman's wife drove him to the airport. He wolfed down chicken and pasta in the car -- the last food he'd have for 10 hours. During the long hours in the air, Kasman went over the Rachmaninoff score in his mind. He had trouble remembering even which octave the main theme started in. He gave up in frustration. Kasman's plane touched down in Portland at 7 p.m. Curtain was an hour away. Calmer drove him straight to Schnitzer Hall. Immediately, Kasman went to the piano, sitting in the dark backstage. He seemed utterly focused. He talked to no one. He avoided eye contact. He played for seven minutes, then huddled with Kalmar to go over tempos and transitions. At 8 p.m., [Mr.] Welch, one of 2,354 expectant listeners, sat in row L of the balcony, mopping his brow. His friend had called him at work that afternoon, saying the symphony had found a soloist. Welch was skeptical. He'd never heard of Kasman, and he knew the Rach. Nonetheless, he dashed home, showered and changed. It was crunch time. The stage manager gave the cue. Kalmar patted Kasman on the back and gave him a hug. Kasman, a small, compact man with a neatly trimmed beard, walked toward the Steinway concert grand piano. The audience, aware that the pianist had just landed in Portland, greeted him with a surge of applause. Kalmar raised his baton and the orchestra entered. Kasman, keeping his eyes fixed on the conductor, lowered his hands to the keys. What followed defies explanation. From the first notes, Kasman sailed through the music, playing the massive chords with voluptuous tone and even inserting a playful quip now and then. He missed a few notes at the top of some breakneck leaps, but nothing that disturbed the music's texture. Most extraordinary, his playing transcended the notes, difficult as they were, and took on the natural, assured quality of a storyteller enjoying his tale. The final, thundering chords had him standing straight up off the bench. Welch rocketed out of his seat, shouting with joy. Around him, the audience erupted with cheers. |
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