Conductors: Stoky's Striplings

When Conductor Leopold Stokowski turned 84 in April, the members of his American Symphony Orchestra presented him with a sapling to be planted on his small farm in New York State, where he spends each weekend tending his groves of trees. It was only appropriate, for Stokowski is something like the John ny Appleseed of symphonic music. In his nearly 60 years on the podium, he has cultivated more major orchestras and nurtured more young musicians than any other conductor.

In recognition of this, the American Council for Nationalities Service last week presented the London-born conductor with its Golden Door Award, given annually to a foreign-born citizen who has made significant contributions to U.S. cultural life. In accepting the honor, Stoky's thoughts characteristically turned to youth. "There is rising a young generation," he said, "with which I am in touch, and they're seeing things in a new way." Then by way of proof, he led his youthful American Symphony Orchestra in a Mozart serenade.

Boss of the Works. When Stokowski formed the A.S.O. in 1962 (contributing $60,000 of his own money), few people thought that he could make a go of it in concert-sated Manhattan. They underestimated the old master builder.

The A.S.O. not only succeeded, it took off. What is more, Stoky's striplings are stealing some of the thunder from their big brothers at the New York Philharmonic. The A.S.O.'s world premiere of Charles Ives's fiercely modern Fourth Symphony, for example, was the highlight of the U.S. symphony season last year. In fact, when it comes to championing modern music, Stokowski makes many of the younger conductors look like old fogies. Dissonance for dissonance, the A.S.O. has played a higher proportion of contemporary music than any other major U.S. orchestra.

Stokowski can get away with adventuresome programming simply because he is the undisputed boss of the whole works. Since all of the players are hired on a one-performance basis, Stokowski can hire and fire without interference from his old nemeses, the unions and the trustees. Whenever a musician makes a mistake, he is painfully aware that there are replacements waiting ten-deep in the wings. Each week Stokowski auditions 20 aspirants in his penthouse on Manhattan's Fifth Avenue, carefully grades them, and enters their names in a black looseleaf notebook that bulges with his ratings of 1,700 musicians and singers.

On Their Toes. In the name of quality, Stokowski can winnow the ranks ruthlessly, has already gone through two concertmasters and eleven of the original twelve woodwind players. When one violinist came late to rehearsal, Stokowski ceremoniously pulled out his book and made a big circle around his name. Next day, a replacement was sitting in his chair. He can also be the very soul of charm. Says one musician: "He is like the morning fog. When it lifts, everything is wonderfully lucid and beautiful. When it falls again, he is absolutely inscrutable."