Classical Music—Going to the Dogs?
By Thomas Wolf
Is classical music going to the dogs? In this piece celebrating summer, I offer a classical music, shaggy-dog story about one of the most musically talented dogs that ever lived.
Classical music is going to the dogs—at least if a recent article in the Philadelphia Inquirer is to be believed. But who let the dogs in? The audience for a recent free concert by the Philadelphia Orchestra included eight young dogs being trained to assist blind people. Since many blind individuals love music—and some play instruments—it is logical that dog training should include socialization to music and even attendance at a concert or two, though a ring-side seat at a world-class orchestra may seem a bit over the top for some. In this case, the event the dogs attended was a happy partnership between the Philadelphia Orchestra and The Seeing Eye, a philanthropic organization whose mission is to enhance the independence, dignity, and self-confidence of blind people through the use of Seeing Eye® dogs.
His Master’s Voice (1898) by Francis Barraud. Public Domain image.
The classic image of a dog listening to music was first seen widely more than a hundred years ago when The Gramophone Company out of London used a painting by Francis Barraud called “His Master’s Voice” to promote their products.
The actual dog in the painting, named “Nipper,” was featured with cocked head listening to a wind-up gramophone. Later, the image morphed into the world-famous logo of RCA Victor. In Barraud’s depiction, Nipper had been listening to recorded music. The dogs in Philadelphia, by way of contrast, were being exposed to live music—a very different experience where the dogs could watch the music being made. Hopefully, the dogs’ enjoyment matched the incomparable performance of one of the greatest orchestras in the world.
The article about the dogs at this concert jogged my memory of the most remarkable musical dog I ever encountered, one who not only listened to music for hours every day but could actually play the piano. Well, maybe the idea of “playing” the piano is a bit of a stretch. But this dog, with the unlikely name of “Vodka,” could, upon command, jump up on her hind legs and with her front paws hit a few of the piano keys. It was quite a parlor trick, one of which my great uncle Pierre Luboshutz was quite proud. Pierre was one half of the duo-piano team of Luboshutz & Nemenoff—his wife Genia being the other half, so the dog had plenty of opportunities to listen to great music superbly played when the two of them practiced.
“Black Key,” the dog that preceded Vodka, being hugged by my Great Aunt Genia, Unfortunately, Black Key was remarkably untalented, musically speaking.
Pierre and Genia had no children and were devoted to dogs instead. They had acquired Vodka from a dog pound one summer in Maine to replace their previous dog, “Black Key.” That dog was named in honor of Chopin’s Black Key Etude. Pronounced “Blackie,” I only came to realize Black Key’s real name after his death when I read one of the innumerable newspaper articles about my aunt and uncle. Unlike Vodka, Black Key had no aptitude for music.
Vodka joined Pierre and Genia’s household soon after they had returned from a tour of Greece. It was a perfect opportunity for Pierre to conjure up a story that Vodka had been a gift of the King and Queen of Greece in honor of the wonderful concerts that the duo-pianists had bestowed on the Greek people. Further, Pierre asserted, Vodka was a very rare breed of Greek retriever related to the Alopekis, which means “small fox” or “fox-like” in the Greek language. (In fact, Vodka resembled a fox but was actually a mongrel.)
Pierre and Genia in Maine with “Vodka” soon after acquiring her.
Soon after acquiring Vodka, Pierre trained her to do her piano act. And while it was Pierre who commanded Vodka to “play the piano” whenever entertainment was called for, it was Genia who provided for Vodka’s rewards after she had done so. And these treats were always extra special. “The most spoiled dog I ever knew,” commented my father who owned obedient and subservient hunting dogs. According to my father, Vodka was very particular—she only accepted imported jams on her buttered bread (domestic commercial brands were unacceptable to her highly developed palette). She was also choosy when it came to a piece of meat, refusing those she felt might be overcooked. But Pierre and Genia adored that dog. Often, she travelled with them on tour and regularly went with them to concert halls, waiting patiently in the Green Room while master and mistress were on stage.
Compared to the dogs with which we began this blog who were mere audience members looking up at the stage, Vodka had a far preferable life backstage, watching and being petted by famous musicians who breezed in and out of the Green Room. Vodka was also far more famous. Press clippings of Pierre and Genia often included photos with Vodka including one in the January 1, 1954 issue of Musical America that described all three of them as pianists.
“Three pianists” photo (Genia, Vodka, and Pierre) in Musical America, January 1, 1954.
But that was not all. Vodka actually performed on stage before a sold-out audience. Indeed, she made her one and only stage appearance at a major concert in Philadelphia almost three quarters of a century ago. Not only did it cause a sensation but she received a favorable review.
The situation was one of Pierre and Genia’s “three-piano” tours in which they appeared with another family pianist, their nephew and my uncle, Boris Goldovsky. This was the second such tour, the first being in 1956 when they played the three-piano Mozart concerto to celebrate the 200th anniversary of the birth of W. A. Mozart. On this tour which brought them to Philadelphia, they played a three-keyboard concerto by J. S. Bach. Returning to Philadelphia was special. Much of the family lived in and around the city, including my grandmother, Lea Luboshutz, Pierre’s sister, who taught violin at the Curtis Institute of Music. My mother invited everyone in the family to stay at our big house just outside the city. “Everyone” included Vodka, of course.
Pierre Luboshutz, Genia Nemenoff, and Vodka on the “three-piano” tour when Vodka made her debut on stage.
On the night of the performance, I was in the audience with my eyes closed, listening to the three-piano concerto when I heard a gasp from the audience. Opening my eyes, I was astonished to see Vodka on stage. As it turned out, the presenter, Emma Feldman, had returned to the Green Room to fetch her gloves after the performers had left for the stage and neglected to close the door. Vodka, hearing the familiar strains of piano music, pushed her way on to the stage, took a long look at the audience, and settled down quietly under Genia’s piano.
I have always wondered whether the shouts of “Bravo” that followed the performance of the concerto were for the performers or for Vodka. But regardless of what I thought, the Philadelphia Inquirer critic, Samuel L. Singer, had no doubts: “Mutt Butts In on Masters’ Bach,” read his headline.
“The scene stealer,” he wrote, “was Vodka…. Nobody, including Luboshutz’s nephew, Boris Goldovsky, who was conducting from the third piano, missed a beat.” For the first time in decades of touring, it was not Pierre and Genia or Boris who got a photo in the newspaper, but a canine—Vodka—lying happily below the keyboard.
Here’s an image of the “Mutt Butts” article, sent in by a reader.
