Music: Symphonic Saxophonist

Not by his expression (surprised) but by the sounds (symphonic) he emitted from his instrument, his listeners in Washington, D.C. this week could tell that Sigurd Rascher was no saxophonist of the baser sort. With the National Symphony and Conductor Rudolph Ganz behind him, Saxophonist Rascher’s proops and pralalas were strictly serious. And so was Sigurd Rascher, for he is the man who rescued the saxophone from the barrelhouse.

Although many composers gave it a try, the saxophone’s voice always seemed too brash for the other reeds, too reedy for the brasses. Sigurd Rascher, a clarinetist in his youth, switched to the saxophone when someone told him it was easier and paid better. “It is not true that it is easier,” he says now, “but by the time I discovered this it was too late.”

Rascher played with European dance bands, gave up the lukewarm licks after his first date, nine years ago, with a concert orchestra. He perfected a finger and blowing technique of his own, ironed out the wobbles, slithers and wails of the commercial saxophonist. To get something respectable to play, he transcribed from the classics, begged saxophone pieces from contemporaries—well-known ones like Coates, Glazounov, Ibert, and unknowns named Tarp, Jacobi, Bentzon, Borck.

Concerts are all very well, but where Sigurd Rascher really likes to play the saxophone is in a Swedish forest, in midwinter. “You should hear!” says he. When the New York Philharmonic-Symphony, after having given 3,542 sax-less concerts, broke down and hired him for an appearance in November 1939 he yearned to practice in Central Park, was dissuaded. He settled for an unheated apartment. Says he: “When my hands turn blue, I like it best.”