The Violin Maker by John Marchese

things that frustrate me too.” When Gene visited the shop in Brooklyn, he played several of Sam’s instruments and gravitated toward models that were based on the designs of Guarneri del Gesù.
    “I tried two Guarneri models that he had in the shop,” Gene said, “and I wanted a sort of fusion of the two. I took to those instruments very quickly. A few times I’ve had the good fortune to put my hands on a Guarneri del Gesù. Most of them were just amazing. There’s a reason that they’re the most expensive violins in existence. They are very powerful but they have this depth and a dark, robust sound. I have to say that my Strad has a darker sound than most Strads. So in that sense, maybe it reflects some of my preferences.
    “But all these words become rather limited when you really try to imagine the sound characteristics of different instruments. We only have a few words to describe the sound of an instrument, and the gradations are far morenumerous than the words we have to describe them.”
    Listening to Gene made me realize the difficulty inherent in a successful transaction between a luthier and a violinist. There was goodwill on both sides, of course; both men wanted a great-sounding new violin. But there seemed to be huge potential for misunderstanding.
    “I don’t know exactly what effect the new violin is going to have on me individually or on the group,” Gene said. “I suppose it’s going to be similar to what happened when Sam’s other instruments came into the group. The sound will be more powerful and clearer.
    “I’m just going to wait and see. I don’t want to make Sam nervous. I’m sure it’s going to be a fine instrument. It’s just that it may be a little harder to please me than it was for Phil and David, because neither of them was playing a Stradivari. I have to say that no matter how much trouble I sometimes have with my Strad, the kind of up-and-down relationship I have with it, it’s still one of the best early Strads and Stradivari is still the greatest violin maker who ever lived.
    “It’s going to be harder for me to say, ‘I don’t need that anymore.’ The soul nourishment it has given me over the years is great. I’ve been playing it for nearly twenty years now and it is so very much a part of my identity.”

Chapter 5
THE SINGING TREE
    G iven, a log of wood.
    Make a fiddle.
    Trouble is, there really are no givens in violin making.
    After we both returned to New York from Oberlin, I began to call Sam regularly and invite myself to Brooklyn for visits. He kept assuring me that he was going to get started on the fiddle for Gene Drucker anytime now. There were a few odds and ends to clear off his workbench. And it was summer, and, as might be expected of anyone who thinks of himself as only a demi-American, Sam was following the European ethos and planning a long vacation. In this case, off to Italy to visit his wife’srelatives in the northern lake region. And maybe a side trip to a wood dealer near Brescia, just about an hour’s train ride from Stradivari’s home, Cremona.
    Good-tone wood for a high-end fiddle doesn’t exactly fall from trees. And choosing the right wood is the crucial first step in building a new instrument. “There are decisions I have to make first that will predetermine the quality of the instrument,” Sam told me. “The character of the wood will definitely predispose the character of the sound. The nature of the fiddle is in its materials.”
    Two kinds of wood are used predominately—spruce for the belly, or sound board, and maple for the back. Both are quite common, but coming up with the perfect raw material is nearly as much of an art as the careful carving that will follow. In 1866, the top violin maker of the day, Jean-Baptiste Vuillame, wrote to a client, “If you could see the bother I have and the lengths I go through to find the right materials for my violins.” Times haven’t changed.
    One day I arrived at his studio and