Evening star., 1921-12-04

unve,oome frequency couldn't seem
to get them out OF my mind. what
had he meant? 1 discovered that next
day. 49,, our,-
at 10 o'clock l gratefully turned OF my
bedside light and sought rest in sleep
Lucky girl that I did. too. as | was to
find out before another twenty-four
hours had elapsed. ! was to, to nna ,ne ,,s out
expected fatigue arose from sort OF
subconscious mental hazard that arises
in the mind Of every artist OF no mat
ter how extensive an experience, VINO
is about to face the ordeal OF tbe little
tin horn.">
AS our car drew up before the
"A Studio building" the following
morning, my young illusions began
to receive the first taste of the Sc
we're shock they were to experience
a little later. Set in the heart of a
vast, murky plant that stretched on
unendingly in all directions. throb-
bing with life and production. car
rival of smoke and uproar. the STU
dio building" had nothing about it to
suggest either art or beauty.
1t was a severe, plain loft building
of some five or six stories, through
which a diminutive passenger eleva-
tor haltingly bore my companion and
upwards, l&etting us out at last on the
very top floor. There long wooden
corridor led to a somewhat sparsely
furnished and rather gaunt-looking
room which served as waiting place
for the artists. I began to feel 1 was
on a venture that had nothing to do
with opera or art. I sensed for per-
haps the first time in my life the
presence of a mighty machine in
which 7, after all, was just one of the
infinitesimal cogs!
That mighty machine was the giant
organization that canned melodies for
the millions for whom music hath
charms to stir the human breast. And
I was there to be canned! That is
just about the way felt. Gone, far
behind, my lovely suite at the hotel.
its grand piano, the diplomat who
counseled rest. and the roses! I was
in a factory now; I was not an artist,
not a personality: I was just a voice
"a mere voiceSthat was to be put
expertly and wonderfully on hard
rubber and sent broadcast to palaces
and novels the world over. And
though my personality was to be, as
it were, eliminated, I thrilled at the
thought of the vast audience to whom
my voice would appeal, amuse, soothe,
comfort.
A bombardment OF noisy instru-
ments down the hall seemed to me to
indicate the probable direction of that
most holy of hollies, the recording
room, and my womanly curiosity got
the best of me and I resolved to find
out. AS stepped cautiously out of
the room came unexpectedly-most
unexpectedly-face to face with the
oldest smile and one of the most in
teresting personalities I have encoun-
tered in my entire career. Both be-
longed to man who was hurrying
along the hall to summon me to his
sanctum sanctorum. 1t was Mr.. Pas
ternack, leader of the company's own
orchestra, as well as guide, philos-
artist and patron saint Of every record
made.
Mr.. Pasternack introduced himself
and told me something of his duties
as he led me toward the secret cham
Der. He shouted SO that l could hear
him above the din of the instruments.
But even then 1 found it difficult to
get all he was saying. 1t sounded as
If the orchestra must number one
hundred men, all of whom were in
tent on playing a different tune as
they waited for our appearance.
II write the scores for all the
records" Mr.. Pasternack told me.
smilingIy "I conduct the orchestral
accompaniment to all the records. Ny
orchestra plays to about hundred
million people every year. Yet they
are never seen.. am never seen. Is
it not very sad
agreed with him that It was most
unjust And, In fact. as we proceeded
along the noisy but none the less
lonely corridor it did strike me as
| rather wrong that man of bis crea-
! tive power, and, as I was soon to find
out, remarkable musical capacities,
should be SO hidden from the public
eye But then it struck; me that,
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