Sour Notes

As concertmaster, William Preucil is the most powerful man in the Cleveland Orchestra. Situated in the seat closest to the audience, the 49-year-old crouches over as he plays, his rangy body curved into the shape of a "c." To the audience, it appears that his violin, tucked firmly under his chin, is an extension of his body. His feet begin to tap, his chest sways, and his head nods rhythmically. When the notes turn dramatic, his bow cuts so furiously into his violin that it looks as if the instrument might break. It's easy to fall for the man's grace, power, and aura.

Many have. When he arrived here 12 years ago, he was celebrated as a savior, a gifted concertmaster who would cement Cleveland's place in the upper echelon of world orchestras.

"Bill is one of the greatest concertmasters in the world," says Gary Hanson, executive director of the Cleveland Orchestra. "It's only appopriate for him to be playing for one of the greatest orchestras in the world."

But soon after Preucil arrived, he began to use his power for his own benefit, pushing for his family members to gain prominent spots on the orchestra floor, several members say. And as a teacher at the Cleveland Institute of Music, Preucil made an unwanted advance toward one of his students, say several people who know the woman involved. When the relationship threatened to become public, CIM paid for the student to transfer schools and continue her musical education elsewhere.

Now, as the consequences of Preucil's arrogance mount, some within the orchestra are wondering: Will the man who was supposed to save the orchestra end up destroying it?

When William Preucil arrived in 1995, the Cleveland Orchestra had been working without a concertmaster for a year and a half. The former concertmaster, Daniel Majeske -- a man best known for his enthusiastic Christianity -- died suddenly of prostate cancer in November 1993.

So when it was announced that Preucil would be taking the job, people were understandably excited. The concertmaster, an esteemed violinist who sits in front of the orchestra, is considered the most important member of the group. He sets the tone and pitch, and is the person other members turn to when they're lost in the notes. In many ways, the concertmaster is the voice and face of the orchestra.

Preucil had the perfect résumé for the job. He was known worldwide as a virtuoso who wasn't afraid to take musical risks. He also owned a proud pedigree -- his father, William Sr., served as the former principal violist of the Detroit Symphony. His mother, Doris, played violin in the National Symphony and started the acclaimed Preucil School of Music in Iowa. His brothers and sisters were scattered at orchestras across the country.

"If the Preucil name is behind someone or something, people in the music world listen," says Paul Landefeld, CEO of the International Suzuki Association.

After graduating from Indiana University, Preucil worked as concertmaster at the Nashville, Utah, and Atlanta symphonies. In the late '80s, he took a job touring with the Cleveland Quartet, a group considered to be the Beatles of classical music. But the group also kept rock- star hours. In the early '90s, Preucil expressed a desire to settle down. Orchestras around the country leapt at the opportunity to hire him. Philadelphia publicly and aggressively courted him. But in a major coup for Cleveland, Preucil chose to move to Ohio.

"The Philadelphia Orchestra is a great orchestra," he said at the time. "I have great respect for everyone there. All that said, it's Cleveland where I need and want to be."

The feeling was mutual.

"When he first came, we found him to be absolutely delightful, funny, and friendly," says Martha Aarons, a former member of the orchestra.

Preucil made himself available all hours of the day. Once, when the orchestra was on tour in Hong Kong, a new member asked Preucil to give her a few pointers. With no sleep, Preucil gave the member an hour lesson and wouldn't accept any payment for it.

"When you're a lowly performer, most experienced players won't associate with you," the orchestra member says. "He was different like that."