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For many years the University of
Cincinnati was home to a very unusual radio station. It featured a
diverse line up of programs, including classical, jazz, avant-garde, all
sorts of international music, and an equally broad variety of news and
informational fare. What distinguished it even more from its peers was
that musicians were regularly invited to record full-length chamber
music or jazz concerts, in any style, to be broadcast, not as fluff for
the off hours, but in time periods that guaranteed a respectable number
of listeners. Sadly, around the turn of the new century, the WGUC-FM -
not to be confused with the current station that acquired the same call
letters and frequency, a sort of classical Muzak service favored by some
doctors, bookstores and up-scale car dealers - that many remember so
fondly, expired.
The station also had a history for keeping up with
the latest technical developments in both the broadcast and recording
areas and in 1983, while still healthy and well-supported, was
approached by National Public Radio to inaugurate a new international
digital broadcast service. The plan was to use this new technology to
broadcast a live concert from the U.S. to Sweden.
The University of Cincinnati's College-Conservatory
of Music has always been among the premiere music schools in the U.S.
and with an excellent sounding concert hall - Corbett Auditorium, where
WGUC had installed direct recording lines - and a selection of
first-class ensembles to choose from, NPR's choice was quite
logical.
A one-hour concert was scheduled for the broadcast
and the ensemble chosen for the affair was CCM's splendid Brass Choir
conducted by Betty Glover. NPR thought that having a world premiere open
the concert would be appropriate and I was asked to provide a
three-minute fanfare for the grand event. Having never heard the Brass
Choir before, I attended some rehearsals and was very impressed with
both the musical and technical caliber of the group. At the time Betty
and I were colleagues in the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra and seeing
each other almost every day, we discussed this digital broadcast project
constantly. Upon learning that the Brass Choir also included just about
as much percussion as any composer would care to assemble in one place
and a double bass, I began agitating for more time than the three
minutes scheduled for my piece.
Usually when a new musical work is in the planning or
talking about stage all timings, especially if it's to be played on a
live concert, are approximate - ball park figures. However, since this
was a broadcast where satellite time was being reserved and a whole slew
of people on two continents had to work together, with absolute
precision, we had to adhere to the time limitations religiously. There
was absolutely no room for wiggle. 45 minutes of music meant 45 minutes
and not 46 minutes! I took a look at the program and noticed that there
were quite a few selections listed. This meant that there were many
short pieces. 'Ah ha, an opening!' I thought. I mentioned to Betty that
perhaps we could remove a couple of shorter pieces allowing the world
premiere to be a bit longer. "Fine" she said, and we were now talking
five to seven minutes. I went home and began
composing.
Many times we have no idea of where the compositional
process will take us. I became very excited about the project after
hearing what this bunch of students could do and found myself
progressing effortlessly. In less than two days, the first movement,
which should have been it, was finished. I immediately began working on
a second, finishing it in another couple days. I knew I was already way
over my allotted time, but I thought; I'll deal with that later.
Besides, I was enjoying myself immensely. I tore into a third movement
and again finished quickly. I looked at what I had and after the first
wave of being pleased with my work for the week wore off thought: 'Uh
oh, what am I going to tell Betty?'
"What! How long!? Twennnntyyy minutes!!?" she
responded after I gave her the news. "It's a radio broadcast for God's
sake! We can't go over!" She was not happy. We let it simmer for a
couple of days, then began perusing the program again. "Humm, we could
take these off, cut that one . . ." Well, she made it work! Through some
artful cutting and adjusting my twenty-minute world premiere would see
the light of day!
Challenges can come in different flavors. There's the
straight technical challenge. That being the one that says to the
player: "OK, let's see you play all of these notes, cleanly, in tune,
with a beautiful sound." Lots of tough stuff here, involving dexterity,
stamina, concentration and the like. Then there's the really demanding
confrontation: The musical proposition. It's a bit like asking: "OK, you
might be able to play all of those notes, but what is it you're trying
to communicate to your audience? Are you getting through to them? Are
you touching them?" Whose fault is it that the audience is not
stimulated by a particular work, the composer or performer? Both? How
many times have we heard an impressive rendering, at breakneck speed, a
flurry of notes - higher, faster, louder - only to have an inner yawn,
while being inspired to tears by the delivery of a simple melody?
Musical challenges are the toughest of all, but when
issued at the same time with those of a technical nature the results are
oftentimes unpredictable. So why do we (composers) habitually insist on
issuing both at the same time? There are lots of possibilities to
explore here, but just to touch on a couple: When we come across a
special player who is not only exceedingly technically endowed but able
to communicate at the highest levels with audiences we get so inspired
that it becomes very easy to shoot the moon. We go for it! Sometimes a
conductor (leader) might say to us something like: "This orchestra
(band) of mine can play anything, just give a listen." And we listen and
(sometimes) we think: "Wow, look at what I'm going to work with this
month!" So when Betty Glover, conductor of the Brass Choir, said to me:
"Wait 'till you hear these kids, they can do anything," the challenge to
me was issued!
The music in the Three Movements resides in a style
that while not classical, is not jazz either. Sometimes it is one or the
other, sometimes it is both, and it is in these areas where the
performers must be able to use their musical experiences to communicate
coherently with their audience. Some would call this American music. I
would tend to agree, since we, as a nation, being a huge melting pot,
see not only music, but also other aspects of our differing societies
constantly mixed together. Playing music like this convincingly usually
requires somewhat of a cosmopolitan attitude by the performers. It's not
enough to play the notes at the right time, in tune and with a beautiful
sound. It's more like knowing whether that pianissimo passage is meant
to whisper tenderly or hiss menacingly or when the huge climax should
scream victoriously or frighteningly. The notes can never convey this
message alone. Of course if we consider music as some form of
communication, all of it should be approached from this perspective.
However, it's the more unfamiliar pieces that stand the most to gain
with this method, since like new acquaintances from different cultures,
real understanding usually takes a little extra time and effort before
mutual enjoyment is arrived at.
The Three Movements for Brass Choir and Percussion is
dedicated to the memory of Norman Dinnerstein. Norman, born in 1937, was
a composer-musician friend of mine. We both lived and frequently worked
together in New York City in the 1960s. After I joined the Cincinnati
Symphony Orchestra in 1966 we lost track of each other until one day in
the mid 1970s, to my complete surprise, he showed up in Cincinnati,
having just been appointed Dean of the College-Conservatory of Music. He
died, at the age of 45 a few months before the
premiere.