THE RUSSIANS ARE COMING

THE RUSSIANS ARE COMING

By Jeffrey C Reynolds

July 24, 2026

Note from Jim:

My older brother Jeff spent nearly forty years as the bass trombonist of the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Like many professional musicians in Los Angeles, he also played countless studio sessions and crossed paths with an extraordinary cast of characters. Over the years he accumulated a treasure chest of stories. This is one of my favorites.

Today is Jeff’s 83^rd birthday.

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We had four openings for section violin in the Los Angeles Philharmonic.

The Russians took all four.

It wasn’t close.

This was in the late 1970s, while Zubin Mehta was still music director. I was chair of the orchestra’s audition committee at the time, and violin auditions were no casual matter. Hundreds of applicants typically submitted tapes, resumes, and professional histories. From there, the field was reduced to forty or fifty serious candidates before the live audition even began.

As we got closer to audition day, we began noticing an unusual number of Russian names on the list.

The old Soviet Union had recently relaxed its restrictions on Jewish emigration. The door had opened, though not without caveats. Many of those leaving had to surrender prized instruments and other possessions considered valuable to the Socialist State. That was the wage of passage.

Among those heading for the exits were some of the finest violinists and violists in the world. They came from great Soviet orchestras and chamber groups — the Leningrad Philharmonic, the Borodin String Quartet, and others. I suspect a few non-Jews were also in the rush to leave. When the door opens, people who have lived under communism tend to notice.

Russia has a long and vibrant history of producing great, and I mean great, string players.

Much of this came through the tradition of David Oistrakh and the extraordinary school of Russian string teaching. It produced world-class players who rose through the finest symphony orchestras, became soloists, and carried the great literature of Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Sibelius, and Shostakovich around the world.

We knew the Russian candidates would be good.

We did not know they would be that good.

The audition was a blowout.

All four section violin positions were filled by Russian expatriates. They were offered contracts, began the process of applying for green cards, and soon took their places in the orchestra.

That was not the end of the matter. Every new player in the Philharmonic faced a two-year probation period. At the end of each year, the committee and section would meet to assess the new player’s progress. This was not a formality. I remember two cellists who had been hired after a strong audition. They had nice tone and enough technique, but at the second-year review Zubin gave them a thumbs down.

“Neither adds anything to the orchestra’s sound,” he said.

That was that.

The Russians passed.

More than passed.

Over time, they moved up whenever advancement auditions were held. Eventually, they were at or near the top of the first and second violin sections.

One of those violinists was Mark Baranov.

Mark, anglicized from Marcus or Merek, arrived with his charming wife Lena and their fourteen-year-old son Michael, anglicized from Misha. The Baranovs moved into our town, and that began a long collegial association.

Lena was also a highly trained musician, a pianist with considerable technical skill. She had been trained as an accompanist and eventually played the pipe organ at the Moravian Church.

Mark had been born in Azerbaijan before moving to Leningrad and Moscow. He played in the Borodin String Quartet and other orchestras and had toured across the Soviet Union with a special waiver allowing him to pass between Soviet states.

He was a serious musician. Very serious.

He was also one of the most intense capitalists I have ever known.

Maybe that happens when a man spends the first part of his life at one end of the scale, under communism, and then suddenly finds himself at the other end, in a country where freedom and prosperity are actually available.

Mark bought an old car so he could get to work. He leased an apartment for the family. He immediately set about building a life.

Several of us in the orchestra lived in the same town, so Mark and I, along with two other Philharmonic members, took turns carpooling to the Music Center or the Hollywood Bowl for rehearsals. The first time Mark was the designated driver through Los Angeles traffic, the rest of us showed up wearing bicycle and motorcycle helmets.

It was a jest.

Mostly.

Like many of the Russian musicians I knew, Mark was devoted to assimilating into his new surroundings as fast as possible. I have never seen or heard of any immigrant group assimilate so quickly.

They learned the language.

They bought cars.

They leased apartments.

They bought homes.

They raised children.

They worked.

They did not arrive asking America to become Russia.

They came determined to become Americans.

That was true of the Baranovs. Their son Michael arrived already proficient in Russian and French. He was a natural linguist and quickly learned English as a third language. He was smart, talented, and energetic. By his third year in America, he was captain of the local high school debate team. He later became a brilliant lawyer specializing in international relations, with no trace of a Russian accent.

That is assimilation.

Not as theory.

As lived fact.

One morning, Mark and I were driving to work when I began lamenting the lack of truly fine music written for solo bass trombone. This has long been a sore spot for bass trombone players, at least for this bass trombone player.

Mark listened.

Then he replied with a story.

“You know, Geefree,” he said, “you will never know how is to play wiola in a Mowzart string qvartet. You may study the score and listen to recordings, but you will never know how is to play.”

He paused a few seconds.

“You will not know how is to play Bach Chaconne for solo wiolin. You will never know how is to play Sibelius Wiolin Conchert, no matter how many times you listen.”

Then came the landing.

“For these reasons, you will never be musician I am.”

That was Mark.

Confident.

Funny.

A little brutal.

And right.

I could study those works. I could listen to recordings. I could admire great performances. But I would never know what it felt like to sit inside a Mozart quartet or stand alone with a violin and play the Sibelius Concerto.

Every musician experiences the world through his instrument.

Mark’s world included some of the greatest music ever written.

Looking back, I understand his comment better now than I did at the time. It was not simply arrogance, although Mark certainly had a healthy supply. It was pride in a tradition.

The great Russian string players viewed themselves as custodians of something larger than themselves. They inherited centuries of teaching, discipline, interpretation, and musical culture. Playing Mozart, Bach, or Sibelius was not merely a professional assignment. It was a responsibility.

That sense of responsibility showed itself every time they picked up their instruments.

It also showed itself at the audition table.

Another Russian violinist caught up in that emigration wave was mild-mannered Mark Casper.

Mark was a smarty with loads of talent and eventually rose to the position of Principal Second Violin. In the Soviet Union, he had been known as something of a mathematics whiz kid who also happened to play the violin. He seized his ticket to the West when the Politburo was willing to let people go.

Mark Casper was always interesting to talk to. He spoke in short, concise sentences, giving the impression that he was not revealing too much information unless he chose to.

During one of our backstage chats while on tour with the Philharmonic, I mentioned that I was a war baby and had long been interested in World War II. Over the years, I had collected and read a sizable library on the subject.

I knew a good deal about the Russian battles against the Nazis and about America’s Lend-Lease support to the Soviet war effort. Many Russian soldiers and airmen knew the words “Studebaker” and “P-40 Warhawk.” Thousands of American-made two-and-a-half-ton Studebaker trucks and many P-40 Warhawk fighter aircraft were sent to the Russians to help stem and eventually turn the German advance.

So I said to Mark, “I’ve read a lot about the Russian battles against the Nazis, especially around Leningrad, and how the United States helped with materiel for the war effort.”

He knew all about it.

Then he made it personal.

His mother had lived through the 900-day Siege of Leningrad, from September 1941 to January 1944.

I about choked.

She was one of thousands of Leningraders who survived by peeling wallpaper from the walls to scrape what nourishment they could from the paste. They tore up floorboards to burn for heat. They endured starvation, cold, bombardment, and death on a scale most Americans can barely imagine.

She survived.

After the war, she married and gave birth to a son.

That son became a violinist.

That violinist left the Soviet Union, crossed an ocean, won an audition, and eventually rose to Principal Second Violin in the Los Angeles Philharmonic.

That is quite a path to the first chair.

Today immigration is often discussed in terms of numbers.

I think of people.

I think of Mark Baranov driving our carpool through Los Angeles traffic while the rest of us wore helmets.

I think of young Michael Baranov arriving in America speaking Russian and French, then becoming an American lawyer with no trace of an accent.

I think of Mark Casper’s mother scraping wallpaper paste from the walls of a freezing apartment in besieged Leningrad so her son could someday sit on the stage of the Los Angeles Philharmonic.

The Soviets spent generations producing extraordinary musicians.

Then they let many of them leave.

America gained remarkable violinists.

But it gained something more valuable.

Americans.