San Francisco Classical Voice

My first conducting lesson with Toth was a horror. He had instructed me to learn the Haydn “Oxford” Symphony. To my surprise, there was only one pianist. Every other conducting studio had two; otherwise, there could be no problem with ensemble and entrance. Professor Toth, however, explained that he would play the string parts on his violin. The pianist would play everything else.

He stopped me eight or so measures into the piece. How would you like me to bow this phrase, he asked. I told him I liked the way he was doing it just fine. He sniffed. “How about this way?” he said drawing another, even more compelling line. I told him it was better. Then he tried another approach, and he gave it another voice altogether. Andor Toth could make his bow do anything; he could make it sing in any tongue. And so it went, for a mortifying 10 minutes. Thus began my life with Toth, sweating in the salty air of my own ignorance. It was much the same for all his students.

The second lesson was even worse. He assigned the first movement of the Brahms Violin Concerto. In its long introduction Andor played the string parts in double-stops, reading from the full score. When it came time to play the solo, he continued to give the string ensemble — in left hand pizzicato. I was astonished. In these ways he was explaining the rules, asserting expectation, offering a model, and making it clear that there was much to learn.

Andor Toth was a deeply generous mentor. He conducted both Stanford orchestras, and shared the podium at every concert. Twice, he gave up an entire concert. He also shared opportunities to produce CDs, attend rehearsal, study score, and house-sit at his beautiful home in Menlo Park. He took his academic obligations seriously, and every quarter he held meetings to plan and discuss academic and musical obligations.

He was a deeply emotional man. In our five years I often saw him flare with frustration, weep with compassion, and shake with laughter. His wife, the soprano Louise Rose, was an anchor and a kite to him, and his career would have been incoherent without her.

As with all great musicians, he would not be stopped by false boundaries. He could play stride piano, sing with a Texan twang, and accompany Stan Getz. Although the demands of his career forced a certain specialization, the gifts of his musicianship allowed him to explore anywhere he wished.

One exploration took him to Singapore. The Stanford Symphony was on tour in Asia. On one especially hot day Toth and I, fulfilling a lifelong fantasy, went to the Long Bar at Raffles Hotel and had a Singapore Sling in the place they were invented. (Or two … or more.) Thereafter, our driver let us out at the wrong place in the Botanical Gardens, and we had a long walk in 90 degree heat and humidity to the site of the afternoon concert we were to give. By the time we got there we were quite drunk, and laughing like owls. The students saved the concert as we took turns on the podium, physically present but otherwise out of it. This too was Andor Toth.

Another exploration took him to Bach. Late one Thursday afternoon at Stanford, students and faculty heard him give a lecture-recital on the Bach Chaconne. It was a small miracle of phrase, eloquence, and insight.

The end came like this: After losing his cellist son Andor Jr. in 2002, and his wife Louise in 2005, problems began to arise with his short-term memory. He moved to Los Angeles to be near his son Chris. A small stroke was followed by a devastating stroke, and it all ended gently on November 28, at age 81.

For their first visit, Andor and Louise invited my parents to lunch at their home. Andor was charming, flattering, funny, respectful, interested, and altogether dazzling. It was an effortless tour de force. My father took me aside and whispered, in amazement, “How do you find people like that?”

Everyone who knew Andor Toth asked the same question, and everyone found the answer in good fortune.