This coming February 9, I’m going to premiere a new orchestration of my setting of the 46th psalm (titled, aptly, Psalm 46), realizing an intention that I’ve harbored since I composed the piece in 2011. The piece was originally scored for organ, handbells, brass and timpani (and choir).

As I’ve come back to the piece to give it its new orchestral garb, the memories of its creation have come flooding back. It’s my own little Proustian madeleine.

I composed Psalm 46 in one of my off-years from full-time conducting, ironically enough, right after having completed my masters degree (…in conducting.) It wasn’t for a lack of trying that I didn’t have a job; I had applied for every position I could find. I was roundly rejected from every one.

So I decided to move back to Chicago from Bloomington, IN, which was a bit of a let down, but it seemed like the best choice. My professional network was in Chicago, and I assumed I could always pick up a bit of extra work giving lectures for the Chicago Symphony (it turned out they only offered me 3 concerts that season.)

I rented a little apartment in Ukrainian Village on Chicago’s west side. My landlady was a somber Polish woman whom I hardly ever saw since she spent most of her time in Poland “visiting her son”. When I asked where he lived, she told me he was dead. That has always stuck with me.

My landlady owned only half three of my building’s six units. The others were owned by a truly loathsome man who lived on the top floor with his wife. He was immature and aggressive, a bully and a tormenter. He was so abhorrent that – and I’m not making this up – the previous tenant in my apartment had defecated in the communal washing machine as a final act of retribution.

This landlord and his equally detestable wife often had violent shouting matches. During one such outburst, when they were arguing about something to do with the building, I heard them refer to me as “the composer”, which I’ll admit I did appreciate.

This year when I didn’t have a real job was a challenge but it also proved that I had very many loyal friends who were willing to help me. Most of that help came in the guise of commissions for new pieces. Psalm 46 was one of those works.

The piece was commissioned by the church where I had been working right before I left for Bloomington, and it’s really a testament to the kindness of that congregation, since I had left after only a year when they were fully expecting me to stick around for at least four or five.

The commission was quite specific with regards to instrumentation: it would be written to celebrate the retirement of their longtime organist (a dear friend) who was also the director of the handbell program. As the church also had a resident brass ensemble, they were to be included as well.

As happy as I was to have the commission, that ensemble was a field of land mines. Writing for organ is always fraught, though Mike, the organist was and is a good friend and a dream to work with, and he greatly improved my writing for the instrument.

Nobody could improve my writing for the handbells though; they simply shouldn’t be written for.

Inexplicably, some people enjoy the so-called English handbell choir. To me, they sound like the unholy union of a tin can and a cowbell, and what’s more, I can not fathom why anyone would want to play in an ensemble where you only get to play one note (“But if you play the little ones, you can play up to four at a time!” I am told. Gee willikers.)

Compositionally, this piece was a big step in my development. Parts of it were probably a bit too outré for those lovely singers in suburban Illinois, but they tackled their task with gusto, led by my successor, who turned out to be a petty bitch. He actually kicked me out of the dress rehearsal of my own piece when I tried to adjust the balance from where I was sitting in the back of the sanctuary.

But now I get a second go on this piece. In addition to re-scoring it for large orchestra, I’ve also added some extra amens for the chorus at the end, since one of the original chorus members complained to me that she was miffed that the chorus didn’t get to sing the end the piece. (They still don’t, but they get much closer.)

The thing I’m most looking forward to hearing is the work’s major climax, a huge modulation that takes place near the end of the piece, landing on a monumental C major chord. I remember being so delighted by that passage when I wrote it that I called my friend Tim and begged him to come over and listen to it.

But there was something that robbed that moment of its fullest glory, something I desperately wanted but couldn’t have: a cymbal crash. I’ve been awaiting that cymbal crash for 8 years, and now, god willing, I’ll finally get to hear it.

I was recently a guest on Seattle’s classical music station, 98.1 KingFM, on a program called “Musical Chairs” in which local musicians choose a handful of their favorite recordings and explain why they’re important to them.

Royalties and copyrights prevent the station can’t post these episodes on its web site, so I thought I’d assemble my little list here:

1) William White, Acadia Fanfare

This piece has turned into a real calling card for me – this season alone it will receive 5 or 6 separate performances, and I used it as the kickoff of my very first concert as music director of OSSCS. I wrote it for the Monteux School, so in addition to trying to capture the effect of Acadia National Park, it’s also got allusions to French music (Ravel and Debussy). And of course to Sondheim – always Sondheim.

2) Lili Boulanger, Psalm 24

Lili Boulanger is the focus of my season with OSSCS – we’re doing one of her works on every concert. I chose this piece for the first concert because a) it’s the first piece of hers I ever learned and b) it’s just so damned trilling. Her musical language owes debts to many sources, but I’m at a loss to figure out exactly where this piece sprung from. Her voice is vital and original, and I’m really hoping that our audiences will have a deep appreciation for her art after this season is over.

3) Maurice Ravel, La Valse

Speaking of French music and L’École Monteux, this is a piece that I learned in Maine and have come back to many times over. Monteux recorded the work several times – you’ll find versions from 1930, 1941, and 1965 on YouTube. The ’65 version with the LSO is the most famous and most widely available, but I much prefer this version with the San Francisco Symphony from ’41.

This is a piece that tells a real story in music, in this case, the story of the desolation of the European “Old World” in World War I.

4) Heinrich Schütz, “Alleluja! Lobet den Herrn”

I wanted to be sure to get a bit of early music on the list, and this is such a splendid work. I took a semester-long course on the music of Schütz when I was in grad school at IU, and his work has spoken to me ever since. It’s not all just “Saul, Saul”! (Though, that piece is deservedly celebrated.)

5) Arturo Marquez, Danzon No. 2

This piece makes me think fondly on all of my time spent working with youth orchestras. Whenever I’ve done this piece, I’ve added choreography and staging, and the kids always bring a ton of ideas to bring the piece to life. It’s endless fun and brings a real feel of collaboration to the life of an orchestra.

6) Quinn Mason, Concerto for Violin and Chamber Ensemble

I wanted to include something from the next generation of composers, and as far as I’m concerned, Quinn Mason is a leading voice of the under 25 crowd. He and I have been correspondents for at least a year now, and I’ve been thrilled to observe his development as a composer and the advancement of his career. I’ve never come across a composer who produces music so voluminously before – it seems like every other week, Quinn is sending me another movement of a symphony or suite or chamber piece. He’s starting to be recognized for the incredible talent he has, which is a welcome development in American musical life.

Two interviews, one in podcast form, another via email, in which young musicians ask me my thoughts about music and life, because I am now an old man:

1. Jeremiah Tabb‘s Hype Harmony Podcast, episode 11. Available at the Hype Harmony website or on iTunes (or anywhere else fine podcasts are to be gotten.)
2. An email interview with a former student of mine from Cincinnati who is now an undergraduate student at DePaul University. The interview was part of a project for an arts management class about musicians who manage their own careers. A condensed version of my responses:

What traits do you find most valuable about yourself when you are in a leadership position?

It’s Lenny’s birthday today, and not just any birthday, his hundredth.

Like so many other composers and conductors, I spent a large portion of my teens and 20’s totally in his thrall. I watched every concert and studied every documentary. I read all the books that he wrote and the ones that were written about him. I listened to every piece (some, like MASS, every day.)

I watched all the conducting footage I could get my hands on, dissecting and imitating the tiniest details of his gestural vocabulary. His conducting remains the foundation of my own technique, embedded in my body like a second set of bones.

I’m perfectly happy to acknowledge Lenny’s great gifts and his prodigious legacy and his lasting effect on my life and career. But I’m also convinced that he’s a lot more complicated a figure than anyone seems willing to grapple with as the celebrations roll in.

Lenny (and here I’m speaking from a mountain of substantiated accounts as well as rumor and gossip) was an egregious flirt, a serial philanderer, and a deliverer of unwanted attentions and advances. Like, Bill Clinton level. He traded on sex and he would do it with anyone. Which is why I’m surprised that amid all the pomp, Lenny seems to be the one person to have totally escaped any kind of critical reappraisal in the context of the #metoo movement.

Maybe it’s that we all agree that he was simply abiding by the mores of his era, that he had an understanding with his wife, and that we’re willing to look past the scuzz to see the genius. Perhaps, as Norman Lebrecht says, it was all ok because Lenny stayed attractive to the end, unlike James Levine who got ugly (!)

But I’m afraid that what’s more likely is that there’s an awful lot of money in “Bernstein at 100”, and nobody wants to grapple with the demons. It may be that everything Lenny did was consensual, but haven’t we learned that power clouds the picture when it comes to consent? Goodness knows there was nobody more powerful in the world of classical music.

So while I salute Lenny and marvel at his talents, I think we can also look at him as an example of someone who overstepped his boundaries sometimes, and we can try to hold ourselves to a higher standard, as much as we may stumble. I think it’s possible to hold to ideas in our heads at once, and to remember that he was human too, just like the rest of us.