A 23-year-old pianist from Kilgore gave sagging morale back home a much-needed boost by winning first prize at the International Tchaikovsky competition on Apr. 12, 1958.
Van Cliburn was just what the doctor ordered for a country still down in the dumps over the Soviets’ Sputnik space spectacular six months earlier. With American morale lower than at any time since Pearl Harbor, the curly-headed celebrity was Charles Lindbergh in a tuxedo.
In the rush to claim the superstar as one of their own, Texans tactfully ignored the fact that Harvey Levan Cliburn, Jr. was actually born in Shreveport, Louisiana. But his parents soon corrected that “mistake” by moving to Kilgore and raising their gifted child in the Lone Star State.
Van displayed a precocious musical talent at the tender age of three. After nine years of professional instruction from his mother, an accomplished pianist in her own right, he won a contest that resulted in his debut with the Houston Symphony in 1946.
Another prestigious award led to highly acclaimed performances with the New York Philharmonic and the civic orchestras of Cleveland, Buffalo, Denver and Detroit. His phenomenal success pried open the door to the world-renown Juilliard School of Music in Manhattan, where he began his studies in 1951.
During a visit to Juilliard by Skitch Henderson, Van auditioned for the “Tonight Show.” This chance encounter yielded two guest appearances on national late-night television, which Johnny Carson’s bandleader later boasted “kept the kid eating for a year.”
By 1957, however, the novelty had worn off for a teenaged prodigy in his early twenties, and a drastic decline in bookings cut his annual income in half. Van was reduced to entertaining the dinner crowd at a Kilgore restaurant in order to pay off a loan at a local bank.
At this critical crossroads in his career, his Juilliard teacher encouraged Van to enter the impending competition in Moscow. Knowing he would be pitted against the finest young pianists on the planet, he practiced eight hours a day in preparation for the challenge of his life.
The Moscow gold medal in April 1958 came complete with hugs and kisses from Nikita Khruschev, the gruff Soviet strongman better known for his shoe-banging threat to bury the capitalist West. Although cold-war zealots criticized Van for fraternizing with the communist enemy, he spoke only of his genuine “love affair for the Russian people” and avoided any comment on the Soviet system.
Van’s ticker-tape welcome in New York City, first ever for a musician, was followed by equally ecstatic receptions in Philadelphia, Washington and his native Texas. People, who did not know Tchaikovsky from tater tots, turned out for a fleeting glimpse of the six-foot-four king of the keyboards.
Before his Moscow magic, Van felt fortunate to earn a hundred dollars a night for tickling the ivories. As a household name, he was now able to command as much as $10,000 a show. The most amazing proof of his popularity was the unprecedented response to his recording of Tchaikovsky’s Concerto No. 1, the first classical LP to sell a million copies.
But his attempt to satisfy the insatiable appetite of an adoring public did have its down side. When antibiotics failed to cure a chronically sore finger, he had to have the bone surgically scraped. For the next six months, the piano was off-limits.
After more than 20 years of nearly non-stop playing, Van decided to take some time off in 1978. Although he planned on returning to the concert circuit in a year or two, the hard-earned hiatus stretched into a decade and rumors began to make the rounds that he had become a recluse.
The 53-year-old resident of Fort Worth came out of retirement for a special performance in 1987. Van accepted an invitation from President Ronald Reagan to play at a White House dinner for Russian leader Mikhail Gorbachev.
Anticipating a formal affair, Van presumed he would be shown the door the moment he finished. But after a relaxed conversation with the president, Mrs. Gorbachev requested an encore.
“I said I would if she would help me,” Van told a Texas newspaper, “and impulsively I sat down and began playing and singing ‘Moscow Nights.’ After a minute, the Gorbachevs joined in, and we wound up having a sing-along.”
Back at his hotel later that night, Van fretted he had gone too far in letting his hair down. “To be honest, I was horrified at what I had done.”
His mother, always his toughest critic, soothed his fears. He had, after all, started out with classical compositions before going off on the folk-music tangent.
Then she added, “But don’t you dare do anything like that again!”
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