Angus Whyte

While in Boston, pursuing my career in baroque music and harpsichord performance, I played regularly with the Camerata of the Boston Museum, the Cambridge Society of Early Music, Tanglewood Music Festival, and occasionally with the Boston Symphony Orchesta, the Vermont Symphony Orchestra, and I gave recitals and lectures throughout New England at colleges, schools and other local venues, including the Isabella Stuart Gardner Museum, my favorite.

One day I answered the phone to hear a gentleman from Sandwich, a town on Cape Cod, informing me his daughter was getting married and wanted someone to play the harpsichord at her wedding. He asked if I might be interested.

Needing further information, I asked him where the wedding would be held and when. He told me it would take place at his home in Sandwich, in July. He went on to explain, excitedly, that he would have a boardwalk erected so that the harpsichord could be placed on the beach, a concept which took my breath away. He explained that the ceremony would be conducted in the home, followed by a catered reception out of doors, weather permitting.

Composing myself with a few deep breaths, I muttered: “Do I understand that you want me to perform on the harpsichord outside on the beach?” He replied: “That’s what my daughter has requested, and I want her wedding to be as she wishes.”

I thought: “What a lucky girl!” And then: “Has this fellow ever HEARD a harpsichord?” I asked how he envisioned the event, and he replied that his daughter would walk down the aisle to the garden, to a harpsichord accompaniment, and the wedding party would follow. The ceremony would be brief, then the harpsichord would be moved to the boardwalk, with the ocean as backdrop, during the reception.

Not choosing to disillusion him, I asked: “Do you realize that no one will hear a single note in those conditions?” His reply was consistent: “That’s what she wishes.”

“All right,” I continued. “I’ll consider it, with the understanding that you’re asking me to play a program which no one can possibly hear, is that correct?” He said simply: “Yes.” I went on, because I couldn’t help myself, telling him that if that were truly the case, my fee would include “the Texas discount.” He asked what that was, and I told him: “It’s double the usual price, because to ask a musician to play when no one will be able to hear is insulting, even though your reason is generous and considerate.” “That’s not a problem,” he countered, so I decided this would be a totally surreal event and I might as well do it and take the money.

His call reminded me of the tale about Nathan Milstein, a great violinist of the mid-20th century, who was contacted by a Hollywood hostess to play for an important party she was planning. He informed her that his concert fee was $10,000, and she agreed to that, adding that he would be expected not to mingle with the guests. He retorted: “In that case, my fee will be $5,000.”

Luckily, I was not told I would be expected not to mingle with the guests, rather the contrary, and when the time came, I schlepped my harpsichord from Boston to Sandwich in my ancient Cadillac hearse, a perfect vehicle for transporting instruments, set up the harpsichord inside the house, and tuned it. The wedding was well planned, the weather was beautiful, the bride ecstatic, and, at her request, I played Purcell tunes and English voluntaries as she and the wedding party walked down the aisle. Two fellows helped me carry the harpsichord out to the boardwalk, where it was dramatically positioned with the Atlantic Ocean as backdrop. It was odd to feel the sea breezes and an occasional bit of spray as I played Bach, Louis Couperin, and Rameau for the seagulls and a few intrepid guests who walked outside to try and hear a few notes, which was virtually impossible, as I had predicted, and everyone was happy!