【古殿唱片音樂故事】他拒絕電視二十年，CBS卻為他花光十一棟房子的錢：霍洛維茲(Vladimir Horowitz,1903–1989)1968年電視音樂會
古殿殿主
一個有趣的巧合
1968年，兩家互不相干的唱片公司，不約而同做了同一件事——回頭講霍洛維茲（Vladimir Horowitz，1903–1989）的故事。
RCA挖出塵封40年的母帶庫，把1928年那個23歲、剛下船、剛抵達美國，連一句英文都不會說的俄羅斯青年，最早的錄音整理成一張精選輯，取名《年輕的霍洛維茲》。CBS/Sony則記錄了另一端：那個以極度厭惡鏡頭聞名、連天價酬勞都堅決回絕電視邀約的大師，生涯首次、也差一點永遠不會發生的電視錄影。
同一年，同一個人，生涯的兩端被同時攤開。有意思的是，這兩端讀起來，幾乎是同一個性格的兩種表現方式。
連一句英文都不會的青年，如何征服全世界
先說起點。1928年3月26日，霍洛維茲被人帶到紐澤西州肯頓（Camden）的Victor錄音室，錄下他生平第一批唱片。多年後製作人約翰·菲佛（John Pfeiffer，1920–1996）跟他一起回憶那段往事，霍洛維茲卻說：「我從沒去過肯頓啊。」
理由很誠實：「我連一句英文都不會說，他們帶我去哪我就去哪，哪裡有鋼琴我就在哪裡彈。」他甚至記得，經紀人當年勸他把賺來的錢拿去買股票債券——結果隔年，也就是1929年，全部賠光。「自那以後，我都拿去買名畫了。」他後來確實成為一位名畫收藏家，收藏的原則是精不在多。
這批錄音一發行，立刻引爆效應。Victor唱片公司在1928年6月的唱片販售目錄上，用一段格外醒目、與其他新片截然分隔的文字宣告這位23歲青年的登場。而更有說服力的，是一則旁證：一位費城鋼琴家在完全不知情的狀況下，私下試聽了這些錄音，毫不猶豫斷定「這必定是霍洛維茲的傑作」——沒有人告訴他這是誰彈的。
同一批錄音裡，還藏著一則讓霍洛維茲本人至今提起仍會臉紅的軼事。那首活潑的《古怪跳步舞曲(Danse excentrique)》，是他18歲那年為了幫哥哥的派對寫的即興小品，一個下午就寫完了。拉赫瑪尼諾夫（Sergei Rachmaninoff，1873–1943）特別鍾愛這首曲子，有次派對上，喬治·蓋希文（George Gershwin，1898–1937）正彈著琴，拉赫瑪尼諾夫突然打斷他，用俄式發音大聲命令：「戈羅維茨，坐下，彈你的舞曲！」
而在這一連串意氣風發的軼事底下，其實藏著另一種東西——1928年他重返卡內基音樂廳舉行首場獨奏會前，緊張得要命。台下坐著拉赫瑪尼諾夫、列文涅（Josef Lhévinne，1874–1944）、莫伊塞維奇（Benno Moiseiwitsch，1890–1963）、霍夫曼（Josef Hofmann，1876–1957）這些前輩。中場休息時，一位仰慕者硬是擠進來，一邊誇他彈得出神入化，一邊卻順嘴提到：剛剛聽到某位著名鋼琴家跟另一人說，不喜歡他剛彈完的蕭邦敘事曲。「您千萬別往心裡去，」對方安慰他，「就照您自己的方式彈！」霍洛維茲後來說：「你可以想像我聽完之後神經緊繃成了什麼樣子。」
一個23歲就能讓全世界為之瘋狂的天才，同時也是一個會被一句轉述的批評搞得徹夜難眠的人。這兩件事，其實是同一個人格的正反兩面——而這個性格，40年後會用一種更極端的方式再度出現。
為什麼一個怕鏡頭的人，最後把攝影機當成了朋友
跳到40年後的1968年。此時的霍洛維茲，早已不是當年那個緊張兮兮的青年，而是一位有能力讓CBS高層集體頭疼的傳奇人物。
他討厭電視,厭惡到什麼程度？唱片內頁寫得很直白：即使被開出鉅額酬勞，他也「頑強拒絕」了無數次邀約。真正的原因不是神經質，而是一種更深的恐懼——他害怕自己嚴肅的藝術，被鏡頭以不正確、被扭曲的方式傳播出去。這其實正是1928年那個在中場休息被批評刺痛的年輕人,活到晚年後,同一種敏感的放大版。
最終說服他的人，是他的樂評界友人、同時身兼電視製作人的哈沃德·陶布曼（Howard Taubman，1907–1996）。而霍洛維茲點頭之前，開出了一個條件：先進行一場完全比照正式演出的測試排練。1968年1月2日、3日，28位精選技術人員在卡內基音樂廳整整彩排兩天,連同正式錄製,總費用飆到27萬5000美元——這在當年是一筆嚇壞CBS管理層的天文數字，因為完全沒有贊助商承諾買單。
換算成當年的生活尺度，這筆錢的份量更清楚：1968年美國新屋的中位數房價是24,700美元，27萬5000美元等於當年十一棟全美中位數新屋；而當年美國家庭的中位數年收入是7,700美元，這筆錢也等於一個中產家庭三十五年不吃不喝的全部收入。CBS的管理高層，是拿一整代人一輩子攢不到的錢，去賭一個人願不願意坐在鏡頭前彈琴。
而真正讓人吃驚的，是那些沒人會想到要花錢的細節。重型攝影機一移動,老舊的舞台地板就會嘎吱作響,於是工作人員特別加固了地板結構,並在會發出聲響的接縫處貼上膠帶。攝影機滑輪滾動的摩擦聲,則靠著整個舞台鋪滿滑石粉來消除。技術人員甚至要求所有攝影師脫下皮鞋,換上柔軟的絲絨拖鞋工作。
連給觀眾的節目單都動了手腳。霍洛維茲的夫人萬妲（Wanda Toscanini Horowitz，1907–1998）,想起了自己的父親——指揮家托斯卡尼尼（Arturo Toscanini，1867–1957）——當年為了避免觀眾翻頁時發出雜音,特製過絲綢節目單。於是這次,工作團隊印製了一款經過塑膠塗層、和絲綢一樣安靜的無聲厚紙節目單,發給當天入場的每一位觀眾。
最初的合約裡,霍洛維茲堅持節目中間不能插入任何廣告,對方同意了。但他甚至連贊助商的商品出現在畫面上都不放心,於是最終螢幕上唯一出現的,只有一行單純的公司名稱:通用電話電子公司(General Telephone & Electronics Corporation)。
1968年2月1日,正式錄製之夜,卡內基音樂廳2730個座位座無虛席,其中還特別安排了約200位曾為了聽他某場售罄音樂會而徹夜排隊、卻始終沒能買到票的樂迷。5台攝影機——2台在舞台上、2台在二樓看台、1台藏在樂團樂池裡——悄悄記錄下這一切。第一首曲子蕭邦《升F小調波蘭舞曲》剛奏響,全場屏氣凝神。演奏結束後,他重彈了一次舒曼的《夢幻曲》——不是因為聲音需要重錄,純粹是為了換一個鏡頭角度。
而排練期間他自己說的一句話,或許是整件事最好的註腳:「我已經完全不再在意攝影機的存在了,它反而變得像親近的朋友。」
當時風靡一時，後來卻消失的影像
1968年9月22日晚上9點,這部節目在CBS電視網播出,長達一小時。當時全美只有三個電視頻道,沒有錄影帶店,沒有Netflix。這意味著,如果你家那天晚上沒守在電視機前,你這輩子就永遠錯過了親眼見證這位傳奇鋼琴家的機會。
當年雖風靡一時，但這捲影像,首播之後就消失了。整整45年,它沒有再以任何形式公開露面過,直到2013年Sony Classical發行大型套裝紀念專輯,才第一次把它收錄成DVD重見天日。紐約書評的樂評人蒂姆·佩吉（Tim Page,1954-）後來寫道,這場轉播「改變了許多人的一生」。
45年的消失,不是意外,是那個時代的限制——沒有任何複製、備份、雲端保存的可能性,一次播出,就是唯一的機會。今天任何一場直播,都能被無限次重播、下載、剪輯、轉發,「僅此一次」這四個字,幾乎已經失去了重量。而1968年的這捲影像,恰恰因為那份限制,才承載了那麼重的份量。
這兩張唱片
放在一起看,這兩張黑膠其實是同一個故事的兩端。一端是紅色RCA Victor標籤,只有單聲道(ONLY MONO),收錄著一位語言不通的23歲青年最初的忐忑;另一端是CBS/Sony藍白標籤的日本版SONC 10028,立體聲(STEREO),收錄著同一個人45歲那年,終於學會把恐懼馴服成藝術的那一小時。
中間隔著整整40年,隔著12年的隱退與病痛,隔著27萬5000美元和一屋子屏住呼吸的技術人員。而這兩件事之所以都能留到今天,靠的不是誰刻意保存了什麼偉大的東西——而是有人,願意花時間去確認一張黑膠的製作版本、封套裡那篇日文解說寫了什麼、那段45年不曾露面的影像,究竟是怎麼回到世人眼前的。
一個人用一生的時間,從害怕被誤解,走到懂得馴服那份害怕。你自己身上,有沒有一件事,也是花了很久、很久,才終於學會不再抗拒的?
YT上有整場的影像：
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【Gudian Music Stories】He Refused Television for Twenty Years, but CBS Spent the Price of Eleven Houses on Him: Vladimir Horowitz’s (1903–1989) 1968 Television Concert
An Intriguing Coincidence
In 1968, two completely unrelated record labels did the exact same thing: they looked back to tell the story of Vladimir Horowitz (1903–1989).
RCA opened its vaults after forty years of dust, taking the very earliest recordings of that twenty-three-year-old Russian youth—who had just stepped off the boat onto American soil, unable to speak a single word of English—and compiled them into an anthology titled The Young Horowitz. Meanwhile, CBS/Columbia documented the opposite pole: a master notorious for his intense aversion to the camera, who had repeatedly declined massive broadcast offers, finally agreeing to his first-ever television taping—a historic event that came extraordinarily close to never happening at all.
The same year. The same man. The two opposite poles of a career laid out side by side. What is striking is that, when read together, these two extremes reveal themselves as two expressions of the exact same temperament.
How a Youth Who Spoke No English Conquered the World
Let us begin at the starting line. On March 26, 1928, Horowitz was guided into Victor’s recording studio in Camden, New Jersey, to cut the first phonograph records of his life. Decades later, reminiscing with producer John Pfeiffer (1920–1996), Horowitz remarked: "I have never been to Camden."
His explanation was disarmingly honest: "I didn’t speak a single word of English. Where they took me, I went; where there was a piano, I played." He even remembered how his manager urged him to invest his earnings into stocks and bonds—only to see every penny wiped out the following year in the crash of 1929. "Ever since then, I put all my money into fine paintings." He did indeed become a distinguished art collector, guided by the principle of quality over quantity.
The impact of those maiden discs was immediate. In Victor’s June 1928 trade catalog, a striking announcement, set entirely apart from standard releases, heralded the arrival of this twenty-three-year-old phenomenon. An even more telling piece of testimony came from a Philadelphia pianist who heard the test pressings blind, without the slightest clue who was playing, and instantly declared: "This could only be the work of Horowitz." No one had uttered a name.
Concealed within that same batch of sessions was an anecdote that made Horowitz blush even in his later years. The lively Danse excentrique was an impromptu trifle he had written at eighteen for an older brother’s party, dashed off in a single afternoon. Sergei Rachmaninoff (1873–1943) had a particular fondness for it. At a gathering where George Gershwin (1898–1937) was seated at the keyboard, Rachmaninoff suddenly cut him off, barking in his deep Russian accent: "Gorowitz, sit down and play your dance!"
Yet beneath these triumphant episodes lay an entirely different reality. Returning to Carnegie Hall in 1928 for his first solo recital there, Horowitz was gripped by debilitating stage fright. Sitting in the hall were giants of the keyboard: Rachmaninoff, Josef Lhévinne (1874–1944), Benno Moiseiwitsch (1890–1963), and Josef Hofmann (1876–1957). During the intermission, an admirer pushed through the backstage crowd, showering him with effusive praise, only to let slip that he had just overheard a famous pianist whisper to another how much he disliked the Chopin ballade Horowitz had just played. "Don't let it bother you," the admirer offered consolingly. "Just play it your own way!" Horowitz later reflected: "You can imagine what that did to my nerves."
A twenty-three-year-old genius capable of setting the entire globe on fire, yet simultaneously fragile enough to be kept awake all night by a single secondhand criticism. These were not contradictory traits; they were two sides of the same artistic persona. And forty years later, that very vulnerability would resurface in an even more dramatic fashion.
Why a Camera-Shy Giant Ended Up Befriending the Lens
Fast-forward four decades to 1968. By this time, Horowitz was no longer the nervous young newcomer, but a legendary figure capable of giving the entire executive suite at CBS collective migraines.
How much did he despise television? The album liner notes state it plainly: even when dangled astronomical sums, he offered an "adamant refusal" to countless broadcast invitations. The real reason was not mere eccentricity, but a profound anxiety: he feared his serious artistic intentions would be vulgarized or distorted through the lens of a camera. It was simply the magnified, late-life reflection of that same sensitive youth who had been pierced by backstage gossip in 1928.
The man who finally swayed him was his friend, the music critic and television producer Howard Taubman (1907–1996). Yet before Horowitz consented, he laid down an absolute condition: a full-scale test rehearsal mirroring every operational condition of a live performance. On January 2 and 3, 1968, twenty-eight handpicked technicians held intensive rehearsals inside Carnegie Hall. Factoring in the final broadcast taping, the total production budget soared to $275,000—an astronomical expenditure that petrified CBS management, particularly as no commercial sponsor had yet stepped forward to underwrite the broadcast.
To grasp the weight of that expenditure, consider the economic context of 1968: the median price of a newly constructed American home was $24,700, meaning $275,000 was the equivalent of eleven brand-new American houses. The median household income was $7,700, making the budget equivalent to thirty-five years of an average middle-class family's entire gross earnings. The executive board of CBS staked the financial equivalent of a lifetime's labor on the gamble of whether one man would feel comfortable playing before a camera.
The true marvel lay in the acoustic details where money had to be spent. Because the old stage floor creaked whenever heavy broadcast dollies moved, crew members reinforced the staging and taped down every vocal joint. To silence the rumbling friction of rolling camera castors, the entire stage surface was dusted with talcum powder. Technicians even required camera operators to abandon their leather shoes for silent, soft-soled velvet slippers.
Even the audience programs were engineered for silence. Horowitz’s wife, Wanda Toscanini Horowitz (1907–1998), recalled how her father, conductor Arturo Toscanini (1867–1957), had once commissioned silk concert programs to eliminate the rustling of turning pages during performances. Emulating that idea, the production team manufactured thick, plastic-coated program sheets designed to turn as noiselessly as silk, distributing them to every ticket holder at the door.
In the initial negotiations, Horowitz insisted that no commercial breaks disrupt the musical flow, and CBS yielded. Yet he remained uncomfortable with commercial branding appearing on screen; consequently, the sole sponsor acknowledgment permitted on the broadcast was a single, unadorned title card reading: General Telephone & Electronics Corporation.
On the evening of February 1, 1968, the official taping commenced before an audience filling all 2,730 seats of Carnegie Hall. Among them were roughly two hundred devoted music lovers who had previously waited in line through freezing nights for sold-out recitals without securing a seat, specially invited for the occasion. Five cameras—two on the stage apron, two in the tiers, and one concealed within the orchestra pit—quietly documented the event. As the opening chords of Chopin’s Polonaise in F-sharp minor rang out, the house held its collective breath. When the formal program concluded, Horowitz retook the stage to perform Schumann’s Träumerei a second time—not because the audio was flawed, but purely to provide the director with an alternate visual angle.
A casual remark he made during rehearsals serves as the finest postscript to the entire endeavor: "I am not aware of the camera any more. It has become a close friend."
An Overnight Phenomenon That Vanished for Decades
At 9:00 PM on the evening of September 22, 1968, the one-hour telecast aired nationwide over the CBS network. In that era, the American television landscape comprised only three major networks; there were no home VCRs, no video rental shops, and no streaming platforms. If your family was not seated before a television set that Sunday evening, you missed your sole opportunity in a lifetime to watch the legendary pianist perform in your living room.
Yet despite its immense cultural impact, the visual footage vanished almost immediately after broadcast. For forty-five years, it remained locked away, unseen by the public in any form until Sony Classical restored and issued it on DVD in a 2013 commemorative box set. Writing in The New York Review of Books, critic Tim Page (b. 1954) observed that this single broadcast "changed many lives."
That forty-five-year disappearance was not an oversight, but a reflection of the era's technical limitations: with no domestic recording media, consumer backups, or digital clouds, a broadcast lived and died in the moment of transmission. Today, any live feed can be endlessly replayed, downloaded, dissected, and shared; the phrase "a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence" has lost much of its former weight. It is precisely because of those mid-century physical constraints that the 1968 broadcast carried such historical gravity.
The Two Phonograph Records
Viewed together, these two vinyl releases form the outer boundaries of a single life.
At one pole sits the red RCA Victor label, pressed strictly in mono, capturing the initial hesitations of an English-less twenty-three-year-old newcomer. At the other stands the blue-and-white CBS/Sony label of the Japanese stereo pressing (SONC 10028), preserving the sixty-four-year-old master who had finally learned to harness his deepest apprehensions and transform them into art.
Between them lie forty long years: twelve years of retirement, physical suffering, $275,000, and a hall full of technicians holding their breath. That both records remain available to us today is not because an institution set out to monumentalize them, but because curious listeners took the time to verify the physical pressing variants, read what was printed in the Japanese liner notes, and piece together how forty-five years of missing footage finally reemerged into the light.
It took an artist an entire lifetime to journey from the terror of being misunderstood to the quiet mastery of his own fear. Is there a vulnerability in your own life that took you a long, long time to finally stop resisting?