CHAPTER FOUR
SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE
Friday, May 27
Hearing Schubert Anew
by Ross L. Fine
Just when I thought I knew Franz Schubert, along comes Liza Durbin. Playing with technical prowess and sensual lyricism, Durbin gave new life to a well-worn program last night. The predictably assembled works were enlivened by inventive interpretation and, of course, by the much-debated Snow Sonata—a work of power, texture and mystery.
LOS ANGELES TIMES
Saturday, June 4
Stunned, at Last, by Schubert
by Rebecca Klein
After 41 years of reviewing classical performances, I thought I was beyond being stunned. Least of all by Schubert, not my favorite composer. And certainly not by a nobody pianist in a sexy dress.
HOUSTON CHRONICLE
Wednesday, June 8
Who Is Liza Durbin and How Does She Do It? by Andrea Bevier
With shocking ease, Liza Durbin has taken the classic Schubert repertoire into the stratosphere.
NEW YORK MAGAZINE
June 10
Who the Hell Is Liza Durbin?
by Chase Barnes, Ph.D.
It’s hard to believe that reasonable people can embrace this obvious fraud.
When I was in second grade, my parents let me have a sleepover party with friends from school. We played games, ate ice cream, and drew pictures with my new color-marker set. After everyone left, my mother picked up a picture left behind by Alisa Hyatt, the class artist. It was a portrait of our teacher, Mrs. Josephson. My mother exclaimed over its loveliness and asked who drew it.
“I did!” I blurted.
I regretted my lie as soon as I heard it. Before I had a chance to take it back, Mom was running upstairs to show the picture to Aunt Frieda.
From that day, my mother attributed great artistic talent to me. She found something ingenious in all my mediocre pictures, until my guilt made me stop drawing. Mom had Alisa’s picture framed and hung it in our living room. I never invited Alisa to our house again, afraid she would expose me. When Alisa moved away in the third grade, it felt like divine reprieve. I vowed never to lie like that again, but I never forgot how easily the lie had worked.
I didn’t mean to break that vow by accepting Franz’s credit, but that’s how it was. Strange that the guilt I felt as an adult was no different from what I felt as a child. Maybe pure emotions don’t mature, we just handle them differently. And because I hadn’t initiated the lie myself, I managed to enjoy the attention a little more this time. There was actually quite a lot to enjoy, when I wasn’t feeling guilty.
Danny missed the first few weeks of my concert tour because of school. Greta was with me, and either Fred or Cassie accompanied us until Danny met us in Chicago. By that time I was an old hand at concert life.
“God, Liza, you’re a star!” Danny’s enthusiasm lit up my twelfth-floor suite in the Chicago Hilton. “I saw you on Gordy and Jill Talk! You were a hoot.”
“You watch Gordy and Jill?”
“Please, what do I look like?” he protested. “I only watched it to see you. Some friends came and we watched it together. You were awesome.”
“You didn’t tell your friends about Franz, right?”
“Hey, I’m no rat,” he said. “Tell me about the tour so far.”
I had arrived in San Francisco with nauseating jitters. Luckily, I was flanked by Cassie, Greta, and Franz Schubert. This time I was sure the concert would go well, but my life was another story. My familiar surroundings were far away, and Franz kept rapping at my mind’s door with creative surges and dream-tales of childhood. I needed my cohorts to keep me in my own head.
The first couple of concerts were critical successes, but there were plenty of empty seats. Apparently it takes more than a Carnegie Hall triumph and a new CD to get people to classical piano concerts outside of New York. Cassie took action by arranging more dramatic promotions to precede us in each city. To Greta’s horror, Cassie resurrected the “Durbin Does Schubert” ads. She kept the “nouvelle classique” line and added quotes:
Impressive emotional range, technical bravura!—Jonathan Porter-Cringe, The New York Times
Liza Durbin, a dazzling pianist!—Andrea Bevier, Houston Chronicle
Durbin kicks classical ass!—Gordy Flims, Gordy & Jill Talk!
Cassie also booked me on local radio and TV shows, and made plans to bring back the Times Square billboard for bigger cities. Greta met us in Milwaukee and went livid when she spotted an ad with me in the sexy blue dress in the paper’s calendar section. She cooled down when she learned we nearly sold out that night. Business was picking up.
“It’s scary to be the star,” I told Danny. “There’s only so much that advertising takes care of. After that, it all depends on me. I’m not that nervous about the music anymore. There are other things, though. Like finding a crowd of strangers waiting outside the theater to see me. Or going to a restaurant and people sending over flowers or champagne.”
“Yeah, tough life,” Danny said. “How does your pal Franz like it?”
“I’m sorry to say he enjoys it. I guess he likes the limelight after being away so long.”
Franz seemed not to care about our mixed-up identities, but I did. Our fans didn’t know they were in love with a sideshow freak. I was a living ventriloquist’s dummy—and some really smart person might detect the truth at any time.
Then there was my paranoia. Who were all these fans? How could you tell the good guys from the twisted? And why did I see jack-o’-lantern eyes again in the audience in Milwaukee?
“C’mon, Liza, I know you have fun. Big star, lots of attention. You can admit it.”
“It has its moments, Danny. Good and bad, it has its moments.”
We were a fine team, Danny and I. He was a city kid, instantly at home in Chicago, Philadelphia, Buffalo, or Cleveland. We’d take a walk around each new town before I settled in for a couple of hours of practice. He liked my rehearsals better than the concerts because I played different pieces and he could yell out comments or applaud whenever he felt like it.
My concert repertoire was pretty set. The Snow Sonata was always the last piece, a natural finale. I alternated encores for variety. Greta came to some performances in June. We played our duet and audiences loved it.
But Franz was aching for new music. Luckily, Danny came with a good supply of CDs—he said it was his duty to educate Schubert. We listened to the likes of Louis Armstrong, Ravi Shankar, Tito Puente, and Emmylou Harris. Franz listened to everything with intensity. He particularly loved tango music, and we indulged in truly awful dancing. Sometimes Danny sang along in his excellent voice.
Franz became increasingly experimental during our practices. He wanted to elaborate on the music he composed on that notorious night in Brooklyn. I yielded—but only so far—and gave him the freedom he needed. Danny was always nearby. He loved Franz’s new pieces. They had a different sound, classically rooted with a contemporary tint.
“What was that last one?” Danny asked, after hearing Franz’s newest favorite. “Something new?”
“Yep. You like it?”
“Totally. Much better than that one yesterday.” He sang a reminder. “Much better.”
He was right. Franz had hit a distinctive stride in this composition, adding sharp steps to his choreography.
“Why don’t you play that in concert?” Danny asked.
“I’d love to, Danny, but unfortunately it’s in the same boat as the Snow Sonata. People are just accepting that piece. I can’t just spring another unknown Schubert on them.”
“Sure you can. You’re a star. People respect you. Major music critics, academic types, almost everyone. Hey, you’ve got Franz Schubert behind you. Why not play what you want?”
His enthusiasm yanked a laugh from me. We’d been taking everything so seriously. The music world took me ultra-seriously. They accepted me as consistent and professional, even if I was a mystery. My reputation was riding a smooth crest. This was all to the good, but somewhat limiting. Also, Franz figured out what we were talking about and warmed to Danny’s suggestion.
On the other hand, John D., Greta, and a few others might have a communal heart attack if I sprung another surprise like the Snow Sonata. Besides, I didn’t have a name for the new one yet.
Toward the end of June, I was adjusting better to the fan reaction and loss of privacy. We did several performances a week, which meant a hectic travel schedule. I would not have insisted on deluxe hotels and limos, but I didn’t protest when Cassie did.
The concert routine felt familiar by that time: backstage smells, squeaky wooden floors, testing the piano for tune, fussing with hair and makeup, and last-minute to-dos over sound, promos, or panty-hose. Danny helped with countless tasks. He was impressively organized and a good companion for late-night pizza.
I felt more and more comfortable performing. Franz took over to play but did not completely bury me. I asserted myself in small ways. For one thing, I broke with classical tradition by requesting a mike onstage so I could talk to the audience. Usually it was just a welcome and a few words about the music. Sometimes I told an amusing story about my day in the audience’s fair city. They loved it. A few reviewers mentioned it (“. . . refreshing when a classical artist shows the confidence to be human onstage . . .”). I heard that the famous pianist Natalie Frome, who was losing some fans to me, tried it herself afterward. My audiences kept growing.
The jack-o’-lantern eyes still got to me. They showed up again in Omaha. Outside the theater, I saw the security guard escorting away an unruly, bright-eyed fan who demanded to see me. When it happened again in Sacramento, I turned to my gofer for help.
“So, Danny, what’s up with Miss Bright Eyes in the fourth row?” This was during an intermission. A long-haired woman with the jack-o’-lantern eyes was close enough so Danny couldn’t possibly have missed her from his backstage view.
“Bright eyes?”
“You know, Danny, the light-up eyes I told you about. That stupid novelty thing—I can’t believe you haven’t noticed them.”
“Liza, I don’t know what you mean. Who were you looking at?”
“Fourth row, left side. You can’t miss her. Long, straight hair and super-bright eyes. Like a jack-o’-lantern. Must be some kind of glasses or contact lenses.”
Danny squinted into the audience.
“Anyway, they’re distracting. Maybe you could ask her to remove them for the second half.” Danny looked at a loss. “Well, try anyway, okay? Hurry.”
She was still in the audience, bright-eyed and annoying, in the second act. Danny said he couldn’t find her. Franz had noticed her, too, though. Later that night Franz gave me something I wanted all my life.
In this dream, he is singing. I feel my throat vibrate. His voice is far too lovely to be mine, but he is sharing it with me.
Franz is singing with the choir at Liechtental Church, in the town where he lives, just outside Vienna. This is a normal Sunday, though the music sounds extraordinary to me. Voices swell and mingle with immeasurable grace.
Marta sits in a pew near the front. When her mother looks away, she makes silly faces at Peter. He is also a chorister, and sings better than Franz. Peter never sees his twin sister’s funny faces because he dares not look away from the choirmaster. You wouldn’t, either—he is sternness itself. Besides, Peter has a solo this morning, and he’s too nervous to think of anything else.
After the service, there is a big meal at the Schuberts’. The adults make a fuss over Franz and Peter. Marta spills something on the tablecloth, to be sure she is noticed. Everyone will perform in one way or another that evening.
These people don’t know that I can see them, that Franz has invited me into this scene. A dream, a vision, a visit . . . I can’t tell. But it feels like a gift from Franz, my only chance to sing with beauty and feel the joy of very young genius.
We woke from this dream still drenched in the spirit of daring and camaraderie. A few hours later we flew to San Diego to play at Copley Symphony Hall. The audience included my family, friends, and other enthusiastic fans. They were ready to love whatever I played. Franz and I both felt it. That’s why the encore felt right.
“Thank you so much,” I said to the appreciative crowd after the Snow Sonata finale. “How would you folks feel about hearing something new?” (Cheers.) “Not really new, of course, but I know you haven’t heard it. It’s Das Nachtsonate— the Night Sonata—by Franz Schubert. It was written late in his career and it’s never been performed in public before.”
A charge ran through the audience as they realized what was about to happen. The Snow Sonata had been a glorious find—the first audience felt special and told all their friends about being there. This crowd was about to welcome the newest undiscovered Schubert. They would worry about authenticity later. For the next eighteen minutes, they would be the only earthlings with the privilege of hearing it. A few enthusiasts offered bravas even before the first note. Some college kids (obvious music nerds) made howler-monkey noises. I signaled everyone to sit down, then put a finger to my lips to shush them.