Murray Grodner

“Let’s not rehearse, let’s just hearse. If it doesn’t go well, then we can rehearse.” – Victor Steinhardt.

While I was a bassoon student at Indiana University in 1969-72, I also played in the Louisville (Kentucky) Orchestra. On occasion I was lucky, and honored, to be offered a ride by Murray Grodner, who taught double bass at IU, and who also played sometimes in Louisville.

In addition to being a world-class performer and pedagogue, Murray was also very welcoming to me, and was a great story-teller, so I enjoyed our drives together very much. Often there was a concert on Friday evening, repeated on Saturday evening and sometimes again on Sunday afternoon. Sometimes our routine was to drive down to Louisville for only the final Friday afternoon rehearsal before the first concert that evening. One particular Friday morning, however, while I was still in my dormitory room, Murray called. He had a scheduling conflict, and couldn’t leave early enough to get to the rehearsal. No problem, he said, he’d spoken with Jorge Mester, the conductor, and assured Mester that we’d be at the concert, and that we both knew the music well enough to play it without rehearsal. Easy for Murray to say; he’d had a career playing in the Houston, Pittsburgh, and NBC Symphonies before coming to teach at Indiana. Me, I was an inexperienced lowly undergraduate bassoon student. On the phone to me, Murray continued, “Better wear concert clothes for the drive, in case there’s traffic or something and we don’t have time to change when we arrive.” Little did he know.

Murray arrived to pick me up that afternoon and off we drove in his massive Cadillac, the neck of his double bass protruding over the front seat between us. He announced that because of the importance of arriving in plenty of time for the concert, he’d done “a little map-reading” and discovered a “better” route for the drive down to Louisville. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten to bring the map along, but he remembered the beginning of the new route and was sure we’d be fine. We were only about half an hour into the two-hour trip when Murray began to doubt his memory. He pulled over at a wide spot in the road called Gnaw Bone, Indiana, and Murray jumped out to ask directions of the two gentlemen sitting outside Gnaw Bone Food & Fuel, the only establishment in town.

The sight of Murray exiting the big shiny Cadillac, in white tie with his long black coattails flapping behind, running towards them, must’ve been immensely entertaining to them. From the car, I saw Murray talking, waving his arms and pointing, and them staring at each other and shaking their heads. Within a couple of minutes, Murray was back in the car, saying that they had professed complete ignorance about Louisville in general, including its possible whereabouts. They also didn’t have a map. I decided to try again. When I asked about Louisville, the gentlemen immediately nodded, saying, “Oh, why didn’t your friend say so?” and told me easy directions. Back in the Cadillac, Murray asked what I’d said to get their response. Apparently, in my excitement I’d momentarily regained my deep South accent, recently lost intentionally due to relentless teasing from my IU classmates (many of the students at the School of Music came from the East Coast or even Europe). While Murray, with his New York accent, had asked about “Loo-ee-ville,” I’d asked about “LOO-uh-vul.” Close enough to country Indiana speech, I guess. Or maybe the gentlemen were just funnin’ us. In any event, we arrived in time for the concert. I recently learned that Murray died last year, aged 100. I don’t remember at all what we played that night, or how many mistakes I must’ve made, but I do remember my trips with Murray, with great pleasure. I’m pretty sure the two gentleman in Gnaw Bone remembered us, too, with equal pleasure.

Murray Grodner

Time and Herr Wagner

James Pappoutsakis