JULIAN MILKIS

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Comparing the repertoire is absurd. And I just plain played the fool and didn't study for the first two years, but after that, I started to study, which was interesting. And something even prevailed here. Played... I recall that the first concert was held in the Chapel, where we will record a concert in Benny Goodman's honor, and in the Philharmonic's Small Hall. After that, we departed in 1974. I was, well, twenty years old, and had already gone for New York after finishing my studies in Toronto.

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To be honest, I started working eight or nine hours a day every day in New York because I had a teacher who was so exceptional; he was regarded as the world's best teacher at the time, and he was like Auer for the clarinet. Let's also assume that he was the teacher of the first clarinetists in American orchestras and nearly all clarinetist soloists. And when I came to him, I played for him. Getting an audition with him was almost impossible, but some acquaintances called him, and in general, he accepted me. I played for him, and he sat there with a sad look on his face. Then he asked, "How old are you?" He hears me say, "I'm 20." "Well, I should not take you, because you are technically behind," he said. He continues, "But I can see you're really good, so I just can't refuse you. As a condition of taking you, I ask that you follow my instructions precisely. "I swear, I'll do anything you ask me to do," I said. It turned out that I need to work nine hours a day, according to the timetable he wrote me. I thus had these nine hours every day.

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And then I shared an apartment with my close friend and current impresario, with whom I had, as it were like brothers. And at the end of the year he said to me, "You know, I love you very much, but please move out of here, because 9 hours on the clarinet it is absolutely unbearable." And I left. And I did this for 2 years. The first year was really 365 days; it was 9 hours a day when there was nothing but clarinet. And for the second year, I studied for about 6-7 hours.

Well, after that, I didn't have to do as much, but still, I honestly say that I always exercised a lot and still exercise a lot now because I need to. And as I grew older, I developed an impossible perfectionist streak. Perhaps this originated with Benny Goodman, whom I met at that time. Because when we met, he was 74 years old, he practiced every day, he played scales every day, he played some exercises every day, he played Mozart every day. It was absolutely unimaginable to think that he would go on stage and it wouldn't be 100%. And he expected the same from the orchestra members, from his colleagues.

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There is a disc; it was released a few years ago, a live recording of a concert from Basel. It's 1953. And this is the first album by Dick Hyman, an outstanding composer and jazz pianist. In all of Woody Allen's early films, his music is there. And when I listened, I went to him and said, "Dick, it's impossible to play like that!" It's just unreal that this is a live recording. And he said to me, "Do you know how much we rehearsed?! That is, we fell every day. We fell from exhaustion simply from morning to night. We just fell asleep. We played each little piece 40-50 times, and it was done so perfectly that even if we were already dead, we would have played it anyway”.

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​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​Tell me about your acquaintance with Benny Goodman.​​

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It was in 1983. I won a big, important competition in the spring; it gave me a debut at Carnegie Hall. This was my second attempt; the first time I didn't win anything there, but the second time I won. And of course, I practiced like crazy, prepared, and went to a lesson with my teacher. It was in September, and my debut was in mid-November. And suddenly my teacher said, "You know, I was at a concert yesterday where a famous clarinetist was playing in a trio, and Benny Goodman was there, and he disliked it so much that right in the middle of the concert, of course, the entire hall saw this, and he left the hall with such a face during the performance." 

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And I didn't even somehow know that Benny Goodman lived in New York. And he told me, "Yes, he lives in New York; he has a house in Connecticut." And I said, "Could I play for him?" And he says that it's a completely foolish idea because, firstly, he doesn't teach, he doesn't really like colleagues, and he's generally a very reserved person. But since I was an extremely persistent young man, I basically cornered Leon, my teacher, and he realized it would be easier to give me the phone number to get rid of me because I wouldn't give up anyway, and he gave me his phone number. So I waited about 2-3 days and then made that call. And I called. 

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It was on a Sunday afternoon. And my friend was sitting with me. He never answered the phone, Ben Goodman. He had a secretary who answered all the calls. So I called, said who I am, and said what I needed. I said that I was playing my debut at Carnegie Hall, and one of the pieces was this iconic chamber work for clarinet, violin, and piano, which Goodman commissioned from the outstanding Hungarian composer Béla Bartók in the 1930s, and he recorded it with the brilliant Hungarian violinist Joseph Szigeti and Bartók himself.

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She said she would give it all to him, and if he found it right, he would call me back. And so my friend and I sat there, drank tea, and he still joked all the time: "You see, he doesn't call back! You don't help him anymore. What an unreliable person, doesn't answer calls...." We almost left the apartment, and I locked the door, and then the phone rang. I came back, picked up the phone, and he had such a hoarse voice, so he said, "Yes, is that Julian?" "Yes." "Benny Goodman is talking to you."

And I realized that my mouth was dry with horror and excitement, and I sat down on the floor. So he began to ask me some questions: "What are you playing in the concert?" I told him the program, and Goodman told me: "You are completely crazy because you play the most famous and most difficult thing that is for the instrument, and if you think to hit someone in New York, you are very mistaken, because in this city it is impossible to hit anyone". That’s it.

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And then he said, "Why do you want me to play only Bartok? Do you think with Mozart and Brahms I can't be useful to you?" And suddenly he says to me, "What are you doing tomorrow?" It was Monday, and Monday I had the hardest day at Juliart Graduate School: lectures and chamber music, literally from morning to evening. I said that I'm absolutely free. "Well," he says, "come to me at 10 o'clock in the morning; I will leave your name with the receptionist."

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I immediately called my teacher and said: “You know, I just spoke with Benny Goodman, and I'm going to his lesson tomorrow”. So, because I had a reputation as such a joker and I always play everyone, he thought that I was playing it, and it took me probably 10 minutes to convince him that this was not a prank but the truth. And then he gave me some very important advice. I was like all the other students at that time, shaved when I wanted, always wore jeans and sneakers. He told me like this: "You have to be perfectly shaven. You should be in a suit. No jeans, no sneakers. You should be wearing a tie. And you should be standing at his door at exactly 10 o'clock in the morning. Because if you're 2 minutes late, you won't have a lesson." And so I shaved... Oh, and he said Benny Goodman is very into hats; if you have any cute hat, dress it. I shaved, put on the only suit, tie, and hat, and stood at 10 in the morning, here, rang his door.

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He opened the door; he was wearing a suit, a vest, black shoes... And I immediately saw in the distance there was a piano; his instrument was lying on it, and it was clear that he was practicing, although it was just 10 in the morning, and he was 74 years old. He was such an imposing man of pretty good height, and I saw that he looked at his watch and appreciated my accuracy. Then he looked at me and said, "Very nice hat." So, everything that my teacher told me worked. I entered his apartment, where he had such a hallway. He took me into a room, into an office, sat down very imposingly, and said, "Well, come on, play!" I assembled the instrument with trembling hands and started playing; and I could not play a single note.

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I assembled the instrument and could not play anything with excitement. He looked at me and said, "Tell me, are you worried?" And I said to him, "Mr. Goodman, if you were me, if you were in my place, and I was in yours. Would you be worried?" He smiled; he really liked it. And he said, “I think I would be worried”. And then he said, "You know, do not worry, I will go to drink coffee, and you will play out." That's it; he's gone. He came in 15-20 minutes, and we spent 4 hours together. At first he listened, then he took out the instrument and played, and the time somehow, really, flew by very quickly. And when it was clear that I had to leave... I brought the money with me. At that time I had, now I don't remember exactly, but I think that there are 500 dollars. Like all students, I was poor enough. And I didn't know how to ask him how much I owe for the lesson.

And he had such a reputation, his look was called "ray." During the rehearsal, if someone played some wrong note, then he could turn and look at the person... They said that there were heart attacks. Mravinsky had a similar one at rehearsals. And then I experienced it only once in our relationship on the very first day. I asked him, "You know, I don't know how to ask, but how much do I owe you for the lesson?" So he looked at me probably for a minute, with an absolutely destructive look that I was ready to fall through the floor. And then he told me, "I don't take money from my colleagues!" And I asked him, "Tell me, can I come to you again?" He thought and said, "Well, come tomorrow at 10 in the morning."

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And so those weeks leading up to the Carnegie Hall performance, I spent more time at his apartment than at my own. I would visit him 3-4 times a week; the lessons lasted for hours, and he talked a lot... The first day he really did not like that I played on heavy reeds, and the sound from this is very sharp. And he was a lover, on the contrary, of very light reeds; he has a sound, if you listen to recordings, so volatile, very light, with a completely unique vibration. And he continued, "When you come to me, you don't play on these reeds anymore, because it is already a very heavy instrument, so why should you complicate your life?" Additionally, I progressively moved to much lighter reeds and completely altered my playing style. I was thrilled when we started playing with Hyman; he said, "You started playing; I heard a vibration like Benny's." It's incredible!" I guess I attempted to mimic Benny, of course. Or it most likely wasn't. I made no attempt. I could hear the sound. Because copying it was utterly pointless. He's so.... This personality is so powerful and intelligent that it is undoubtedly impossible to imitate him. It's like Yasha Heifitz imitating Horowitz.

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And this continued until mid-November, and he said to me, "You know, I unfortunately will not be able to be in Carnegie Hall," because he was going somewhere. "And when do you have a rehearsal at Carnegie Hall?" And I had a rehearsal; I remember it was on Sunday, a week before the concert, at 9 o'clock in the morning. And I said to my fellow musicians and people whom I asked to just listen, to say their opinion, "You know, do not be surprised! Probably Benny Goodman will come." Well, the whole cast laughed. Yes, there was still a lot of rain and it was nine in the morning. We played the Mozart quintet, and I didn't notice the hall's entrance until I noticed that the girls who were in the quartet had sat down in an odd way. Their faces had changed, and then I noticed that my very close friend who was sitting in the hall had abruptly fallen off his chair. And I noticed that Benny Goodman entered. He was so powerful that he was referred to as the "King of Swing," but he was actually the King. Therefore, he most likely listened for thirty minutes, showed me "very well," and... He then departed.

 

And then, when the concert had already taken place. So, in those years, the New York Times was published four times a day: early morning, afternoon, evening, and the night edition. And I would run to the kiosk four times a day to buy the newspaper and look for the article; I knew there should be a review. And one time I came home, and he called me, "Listen, you're never home." Where are you? - I say, "Well, I'm running to watch the 'New York Times'!" "Why are you running?" "Well, you know, a critique has to come out!" And he says, "Come on, I'll give you some advice; maybe it will be useful to you." If you receive dizzying criticism, never take it seriously. And if they are tearing you apart, just remember that almost all of them don't understand anything at all. And this has helped me a lot in life. Fortunately, God was merciful; I never received bad criticism; it was average, but overall, mostly positive. And I always approached it with a sense of humor.

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He never mentioned my ancestry. I was from Leningrad, and he knew it. Later on, we continued to communicate, and occasionally he would call and say, "You know what, come over." "Just come and talk, don't even bring an instrument." He so spoke extensively about his visit to the USSR. There were many things here that he disliked. Here's an example of a story like that. In Kyiv, Roman Kaufman will tell you the story's conclusion.

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He brought a lot of wind instruments as gifts for the musicians in the USSR. And I must say, at that time, buying a good clarinet or flute in the USSR was practically impossible; they simply didn't exist. It was easier to buy a Stradivarius violin than a Selmer or Buffet clarinet. They simply didn't exist. He brought them. He was completely naive in such things. Naturally, he was supervised by some department of the KGB. And when he said that he brought these instruments, they told him, "You give them to us, and we will distribute them!" and they took all the instruments from him, leaving him with only one flute... I'll stop. The end of the story should be told by Kaufman, because he was simply a living participant. 

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The first concert was in Moscow. I should mention that this was actually the first jazz concert in the USSR. Real American jazz was in the USSR. And people didn't know how to react or how to clap; they had no idea. But he was used to the fact that at all concerts just take a look at the famous 1938 concert from Carnegie Hall, when the entire hall gave off absolutely incredible energy. And he got used to it—to the overwhelming success, the stunning reaction of the audience, and the energy that the hall gave him and the musicians. 

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And here is the first concert in Moscow; the audience is sitting in black suits and ties, and they are clapping like this. He was absolutely devastated by this. Khrushchev was there, and he told me that during the intermission, Khrushchev came up to him to congratulate him and said, "You know, this... I don't like this music; it's not my thing; I don't understand it at all. I prefer Mozart”. 

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And since Benny Goodman had a fantastic sense of humor and was very sharp-tongued, he immediately replied to him, saying that he had always known that there was something that connected them. So then, when they arrived in Leningrad, the audience's reaction here was completely different. That is, here, like in the West and in America, they shouted and clapped. It was absolutely a nightmare; it was impossible to get into a concert, and that's why he has wonderful memories of Leningrad. They were here in a good time. It was very beautiful here. 

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Why was there such a negative attitude towards the country and the system?

 

In fact, it's very simple. He was typical capitalist. Moreover, he was a boy from a very large, very poor Jewish family, born in Chicago. He truly found himself at the peak of fame. And in terms of popularity and finances, he was a very wealthy man. Therefore, he couldn't have liked the system of equalization. The question, for example, about nationality had never come up between us, and he had never asked me about life in Leningrad. But somewhere around the second year, when we were already communicating, we were sitting, drinking either scotch or tea; I don't remember anymore, and suddenly he looked at me and said, "Listen, are you Jewish?" – I said, "Yes!" "Oh, he says, that's very nice!" This is the only... the only time. 

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And now, when I was at his daughter's place, I spent the whole day with her. She told me some incredibly interesting things. For example, he had a very beautiful command of English. It turns out he had a real language and diction teacher from Harvard for several years; he hired one. He was very attentive to this. He has really distanced himself from his Jewish roots. He married a woman from the Vanderbilt family, the highest aristocracy of America. He married a very beautiful "society lady," had two children, and was welcomed into this family with open arms. And, in general, by his demeanor, it was clear that he had been taught everything. And he walked in... Apparently he always wanted to be like that. Naturally, he had some problems because he grew up in a poor Jewish neighborhood in Chicago. And indeed, he achieved everything and became an aristocrat. They called him "the King" not only for his gameplay but also for his behavior. 

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I also want to say that when we went outside together, it wasn't very often, but a few times. And he was 74 years old, I say again. We were leaving. Just one minute later, there was a crowd around him. So I think this is what the Beatles must have experienced. He was an absolutely recognizable person, and he absolutely loved it. He reacted very well; he smiled when people approached, pointed, and asked for autographs. 

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At some point, he asked me, "By the way, how are you making a living?" You don't have many concerts; you're just starting out... I say, "Yes, I work in the theater." "Which one?"  And I worked in a Jewish theater for 3 years in New York, named "Folksbiene," the main Jewish theater in America. "Oh, he said, that's wonderful!" And I kind of jokingly said, "Would you like to come?" "Yes," he said, "I would love to come!" And he says, "So, when is it on Sunday?" I say, "At two o'clock." "Okay, I'll come at 2 o'clock." I say, "How many tickets should I leave you?" "One." And so he came to the theater, and the show started half an hour later because it was impossible to seat the people. He was immediately recognized, and there was just a crowd around him. And it's a good thing there weren't any iPhones back then, because there wouldn't have been a show. Everyone just wanted to shake hands and ask for an autograph. He never refused anyone and was very generous in that regard. 

 

In all the years we've known each other, he has never taken a single penny from me. There was one occasion. During the lesson, there was a knock at the door. He opened the door himself. There was a girl, probably about 15 years old, and she said, "Mr. Goodman!" "Yes."  "I heard the sounds of a clarinet, and I was told that you live here. I study clarinet. Could I take lessons from you?” And he was very displeased and said that he doesn't teach. And she pointed at me and said, "Isn't this your student?" He said, "This is my colleague," and slammed the door. 

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There's a rumor that he was stingy?

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It's true; there is a book "In Russia Without Love" by Bill Crow, whom you interviewed. There is even such a theory... I asked his daughter. First, I asked if she had read the book. She replied, "Why should I read this book?" but then thought for a moment and said, "Maybe there's a lot of truth in it." Some people say that he read it, had a heart attack, and died. We don't know this now, and we will never know. But it's true, he came from rehearsal, he was preparing for a big tour, and I was with him in May, and he sounded absolutely incredible... And he just died... In the second year of our acquaintance, we hardly saw each other because he was ill, he had surgery, and he was in poor condition. Probably, this happened a month before his death. I was at his concert, and he played absolutely amazingly. I remember my jaw just dropping at how someone could sound like that at 77 years old. It's unimaginable. Well, and then I went on tour to Germany. I was rehearsing when the impresario came in and said that Benny Goodman had died; they're talking about it on TV right now.

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He never took a single penny from me. A few times we went to a restaurant, and, of course, he always paid. I remember the first time we went; he loved those American hamburgers, but only the good ones. He said, "There's nothing better in the world than a good American hamburger and 100 grams of good Scotch." He loved single malt. And every day he would drink just a little bit. And the first time we went to a restaurant, I kind of reached into my pocket for my wallet. Yes, he gave me a stern look for the second time then. I immediately withdrew my hand and put it away, but it was all, of course, quite funny. Well...

At that time, a very famous, wonderful clarinetist, Eddie Daniels, lived in the same building as me. He played classical music too, but mostly jazz, and when I started studying with Benny, literally within a few days all of New York knew about it. The rumor spread; it was so strange, and everyone was asking me about it. I remember Solomon Volkov calling, asking if it was true. And then I meet Eddie Daniels. And he points his finger at me from a distance: "Tell me this isn't true!" I say, "Eddie, it's true!" Then he said to me, "Okay! How much does he charge you for each lesson?” I said, "He doesn't charge me anything." He says, "You're just a good guy and don't want to talk. I don't believe he didn't take the money”. But Benny didn't take the money. 

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And Hyman too... The most positive and best memories of Benny Goodman are also with him, because they really gave him a push and gave him a chance. He was 23 years old, and nobody knew him. And then he suddenly found himself on an incredible trip across Europe. He played solo by himself. Benny introduced him as the most talented young jazz pianist, and that's where his career took off.

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The further we go, the more years pass. It's been 34 years since we met, and the more, well, how should I put it, dividends, you could say... And of course, to be honest, I owe my career, which is now quite significant, to the fact that I practiced with him, which was very unusual. And he really gave me a lot. Not just his name, but I changed my playing style; I started playing in a completely different style, a different sound, a different interpretation... And he never played the same piece twice the same way, always said that when you play, there should be a moment of interpretation. Always, whether you play Mozart, Debussy, or Brahms, anything at all. 

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Oh, and the main thing I want to say! We didn't do jazz with him. We only focused on classical music. We worked a lot on very iconic classical pieces written for him. For example, the Copland concerto, about which Benny claimed that he himself wrote half of it. And that's possible because there are jazz sections in it. And in general, that was not Copland's strong point. And of course, Bartók, Milhaud, and Poulenc, Benny was the first performer of that sonata with Bernstein. And in general, the lion's share of the 20th-century classical repertoire is dedicated to him or he commissioned it.

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He considered himself, without a doubt, as significant in classical music as in jazz. I know for sure that he played Mozart and Brahms every day. For Benny, that was like brushing his teeth. So we only practiced classical music. Somewhere towards the end of the second year, I remember that when my tours had already started, I asked him if he would mind if I played something from his jazz pieces as an encore... He got terribly angry, said he was categorically against it, and said, "Mind your own business; this is mine, and this is yours!" "Then play!" I was so scared, let's say, that I didn't start playing jazz probably until 10 years after his death. First of all, I was scared that people would start comparing, and that's just ridiculous. Now I play jazz more and more. I really love it, and if there's a chance to convey even a little bit of its sound, then of course it's a great joy, especially when older people from that era come up and say, "The way you played reminded me of Benny..." Of course, this is the highest compliment for me, and it is very pleasant. 

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In the thirties and later, the 1940s and 1950s, there was this barrier. And of course, this applied to music. Black musicians not only couldn't perform on the same stage as white musicians, they couldn't even travel with them on public transport. And so Benny Goodman was the first to break this barrier, and he took two great performers who would go on to have incredible careers: Teddy Wilson, a pianist, and Lionel Hampton, who played the vibraphone. And all the impresarios, the hall management, told Benny that they wouldn't let him in and that he couldn't travel with them. And he said: then I won't play. Moreover, he didn't care at all what kind of barrier it was, whether they were black or not. He was only interested in quality. It's just that when he heard them, he realized there was no one better, and he was absolutely right. And Benny achieved the fact that in Carnegie Hall in 1938, when a black pianist performed with white musicians, it was an absolute shock. It was something incredible. It was also the first jazz concert in the history of Carnegie Hall. That's why we all have to say thank you, because he kind of removed this barrier 50 years before it was officially done. So, a low bow to him for that too. 

 

I just asked Rachel, his daughter: Did he fight for rights? She says:  what rights? He wasn't interested in that at all; he didn't think about it; he only thought about music. She also said just now, when she saw how I was breathing, she said, "Dad probably had no idea about this." Well, back then, they didn't play like that; they didn't know how to do it. And she says that maybe it could have saved his life. Of course, a heart attack... Playing a wind instrument is a very difficult thing. 

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And she said, "He played himself to death." So Benny played himself to death with his playing. He always played and always practiced, and he couldn't imagine life without the clarinet; life was uninteresting to him. And then she told me something like this. I asked why he didn't play Brahms' Quintet, one of the best chamber music pieces in the world and definitely the best for the clarinet. She said, "You know, he thought he didn't play the clarinet well enough." I was shocked; it seemed to me that he was much more inclined towards Brahms' music than Mozart's. And she said that sometimes he would come home after some spectacular concert, lock himself in his study, and not come out for weeks. He was a depressed person; if he didn't like something, he could sit and practice for hours... He could throw those reeds; the whole apartment was littered with them. Fortunately, he received them for free. And he didn't play some pieces; he was afraid; he thought he didn't master the instrument well enough. For example, he had something that is kind of essential for every clarinetist. His staccato articulation wasn't very good. And he suffered from this his whole life and never played it perfectly overall. Well, talking to him, I thought he was the most confident person, such a slightly arrogant person. It turned out that it was completely the opposite. He was insecure, not arrogant, and very worried... Just one wrong note at a concert, and he could go for weeks without socializing, just sitting and practicing... That's just how he was. 

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Undoubtedly, this is a very heavy load on the heart. And on the body as well, especially with age: because long musical phrases are physically demanding. What I and a number of clarinetists of the new generation do is called permanent breathing. For the sake of an experiment, I played continuously for an hour and a half without breathing. That is, while playing, you breathe, and of course, there is no strain on the heart. Because there is never a shortage of air, and this was a constant problem for musicians, performers of wind instruments: "Lord, will I have enough breath? And where to catch my breath?”  This is very hard work. To be honest, I only started playing like this after 40, and I dedicated a lot of time to it. It's just the greatest relief—not having to think about where to breathe or when to breathe. When you want, then you breathe. Let's say it's simply impossible to play the music of my beloved composer Giya Kancheli without continuous breathing. Just like that.

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