New England Conservatory of Music - Neume Yearbook (Boston, MA)

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I imagine you re hungry by now. Chorlie s wott- ing downstairs just to fix you a triple decker Dog- wood with three picUes. But first you hove to look ot that foscinoting buHetin board — a cotch-all to tell you where to go and mind the baby tor SOc am hour, or when the nert Orchestra will be. Oh, that hectic first week. Sonnehow you managed to get through . . . t4ie finf- JW— M y. wfcere yoa got a Faculty Advisor and were initiated Into the mysteries of N.LC. with that fcandy SHfe blue book of rules and regulations. Guess I ' ll skip over a few pages in Time ' s ledger . . . Everyone is settled to the inevitable grind of classes and practicing. The hats echo and re-echo with scrapy sounds from a fiddle, or the ambitious screechings of a new prima de ' Hey, Patty, no one ' s sick today (dam it!] Oh, don ' t look so surprised, Freshmen. That just means they HAVE to go to all their classes today You ' ll be saying the same thing someday. ' ' Why, there ' s Lois Sdioefei Jiw i |g ii Mt| over contus firmus. and Mr. McKiidlev potkiiiriy mg that poroHel fifths (list DONT 50. Oh, heavens, I almost forgot my old friend, Warren Storey Smith. What a line im ased fs iawe gcH-ing the ' power in 310 ' — and still does! And to add to his woes he had to poke some Mane Hotary into the heads of you poor Freshmen while your stomachs were bulling oa 12 L yBn Jcii — Aose 12 o ' ' cloc classes always were uncomfortable. A tear slid down Mr. Beethoven ' s face. The inevitable had ha p p ene d. Uncle Sam was being pariicn- larly insistent and slowly but surely all his boys were waving goodbye to Um and nelnag «Mt fhe door 4o face a new kind of music — the bugle call. This Conservatory was rapidly be cowing a ladies ' seiaiwry! A gust of wind blew over a few more pages in the ledger, and wddenly if was eaam Hne. IjooI at those poor Freshmen buried in books and scores. Well, kids, you can slop w or ryin g . 1 1 pdi yon lliWM somehow — always do. Confusion and excitement of Class Day, Graduation, Consenratary night- at Pops — Ok, please go away, everybody, and let me sleep for three months. I ' m so tired of tfcb pedestal! Peace — silence — then suddenly Autumn blew hard upon the door of 290 Hmitington. Goodness, it ' s September already, i couldn ' t even finish my dream. Wei, wel, titey ' re back again, tlw Frednnen — oh, excuse me, I mean the Sophomores. And how different tt ey are now. Hiss PSgtaik is now Mas Glamour of 1943. Miss New Hampshire has taken the hayseed out of her hair and begins to tdi willi authority about Shostakovitch ' s latest symphony. I see sooae new faces, tac», bot ytm oanGdenl tiipiiii mores can ' out them wise ' as you call it. Well, let ' s see how N.LC. fared in the year of oar Lord 1943. Who oodd forget Mme KMm and her ' Heure Intime ' , where syntax was delightfdly coated with Trench joie de wiwe ' . I guess the first unique occurrence of that year was that epicarean ni nil ipii u , the Facdhy Party, beautifully planned and served by Mrs. Whitney. We all began to know the facdhy wiA their hair down — and what a revelation it was! Shortly afterward the Underclass gathered fls iluiohiiM y fcanJe forces — 16 —

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Mr. Beethoven nostalgically reached into the pocket of his flowing robe, dragged out a huge book, and wearily turned over the pages. Being the Guardian Angel of the Class of ' 46 had been no easy matter, he assured himself, and yet now that his term of office was practically over, he felt a tinge of melancholy sweeping over him. Soon it would be time to turn in the ledger, but first he would glance into the past and live again those days so crowded with memories — laughter and tears. As he bent back the stiff cover of his mighty ledger, n scene flashed across the first page — a foyer filled with woe-begone freshmen, with saddle shoes, bobby-sox, fiddles, and all manner of parapher- nalia. Well, here they are again - -the Freshmen , mused Mr. Beethoven. If only they didn ' t look so new! I can see that being the Guardian Angel of the Class of 1946 will be no easy job. Look at that funny girl in pigtails from ' down Maine . And there ' s a little kerchiefed kid from the Old Country. That ' s right — file into Mr. Porter ' s office. Aha! mused Sir Beethoven, They ' ll have ne the year is out. Now don ' t forget to see the Dean, ch Mr. Beethoven chuckled, and whispered in the startled No one can possibly miss that big sign over the Registrar ' s door. Thot s right. Here ' s where you learn to stand in line for anything and everything. But don ' t gripe, youngsters, you know how late Miss Finley and Miss Hill burn the midnight oil. ;d of the Director ' s friendship and understanding ere ildren. Hello, there. Redhead. So you ' re from Both. You know, the nicest thing about that place is the train leaving for Boston. Heh, heh! ' ' Oh, goodness — we never knew that a Dean could be so nice n informal. This certainly is an odd place. redhead ' s ear, You ' ll find out. — 15 —

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and announced a dance. Mr. Beethoven shook his head over the nnennory. Never was there such an affair at the Conservatory. A grand total of six couples and a few extra girls appeared and shouted to each other across the void of Brown Hall floor. Thank goodness, social life began picking up after its all-tinne slump, with the gay and colorful Street Fair. Ludwig chuckled with delight over the picture of the Street Fair and nearly fell off his pedestal. Oh, that ludicrous chorus line, composed of our six remain- ing men dressed as a Floradora Sextet — high kick and all. And little George Suprenant ' s inimitable ren- dition of ' Dear Little Buttercup ' , reducing Mr. Goding and Mr. Trueblood to a pool of tears. None the less outstanding were Scotty as M.C. and Herr Levy jovially doing the honors at the Pretiel and Beer (?) Table. A marvelous occasion! Mr. B. leafed over a few more pages and gasped with horror at the remembrance of October 6, 1943. Bag and baggage the entire dormitory was emptied to make room for the ARMY. Up and down streets and alleys the young hopefuls looked for room rent signs. Gainsborough Street was scoured from end to end until every available two-by-four was in use. Some students started commuting, some drifted down to Beacon Street, and some found temporary lodgings along Huntington Avenue. Those poor dears, thought Mr. Beethoven, trying to cram Counterpoint into heads filled with Conducting Class passed in review before him, with the ever present God of our fathers still ringing in his ears. Never let it be said that a student didn ' t bring in the trumpets at the right time. Mr. Beethoven wandered idly through the halls and passed door after door of private lesson rooms — Miller, Whitney, Pearson, Sundelius, Stevens, Goding, Keller. Those hallowed halls fairly bustled with excitement of preparing for Student Recitals, and Advanced Students. Many nice things happened that year: Mrs. Gurney and Scott Sykes both organized shows for the nearby hospitals. How well remembered were the endless rehearsals, the grease paint, and lastly, the winsome, appreciative faces of countless bed-ridden boys. Oh yes, the Conservatory Orchestra and Chorus put on a beautiful performance of STABAT MATER by Pergolesi, with a number of splendid student soloists. And then, of course, there was the famous concert with our prominent Mr. Levy superbly rendering the Beethoven Piano Concerto with the Orchestra. The first issue of the MELODIC LINE appeared, that school paper which was to have a brief an d tempestuous reign. And so the second year passed. The third September drifted into view and Mr. Beethoven remembered how sweet and fresh the air had been that Fall. Something was different. Of course, he remembered, now you had passed from the ranks of the Underclass into the distinguished rating of Junior. The dorms werei again opened and rapidly filled with a huge new Freshmen class. How many times I overheard you poor Juniors say you were beginning to feel wrinkled with age, at the advanced age of 19. The first page of the year of 1944 showed a not too pleasant sight. Our beloved friend, Dean Gib- son, became very sick and took a prolonged leave of absence. Mr. Holmes, of Wellesley and Radcliffe fame came across the river to help out. Herr Levy and Dr. VogI vacated the premises, leaving poor Mr. Beethoven the only Deutscher left. Again a gust of w ind blew over a few pages, and suddenly Mr. B. found himself just before Christmas at the Cabaret Dance, sponsored by the Junior-Senior Class. That was a great affair, with Brown Hall festively decorated with wreaths, little tables adorned with checkered tablecloths cozily placed around the room, soft lights, and a smooth orchestra. Veil, admitted Ludwig, das keeds could do it even durink var time. Der iss hope for das class of ' 46. During that Fall they decided to haze the Freshmen, a tradition which was assiduously followed to almost drastic results the following year. It was not uncommon for Mr. Beethoven to find broken eggs in the hall and non-plussed Freshies running madly around with picket signs around their necks. Ah, those poor Juniors, the guardian mused. How I pitied them trudging to observe practice teaching every cold Wednesday morning. Not a very pleasant prospect to contemplate. Mr. B. moved on. Ah, here was something memorable — the opera recitals given by Boris Goldovsky. How exciting they were, especially to the patient soloists who had worked months to perfect one scene, under Mr. Goldov- sky ' s diligent eye. One I remember with delight — John DiFrancesco and Nancy Trickey, Paul Frank and Eleanor Davis re-enacting the last act of RIgoletto . The entr ' acts by B. G. were spicy and very humorous. — 17 —