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.

I recently had occasion to visit my friend Stephen Campbell, professor of trumpet at Ball State University, and I noticed a great list he had created and posted on his door, which I share with you now:

Quality Musicians…

1. understand where and how they fit in the musical fabric at all times.
2. do what they can to make their work effective “in the hall.”
3. realize that playing in a large ensemble demands even more clarity than performing with a smaller group.
4. pace themselves during rehearsals and performances.
5. remember that higher notes sound louder than lower notes. Longer notes also sound louder than shorter notes.
6. don’t blast away in loud tutti passages, leaving themselves overly tired for solos or exposed passages.
7. know to play softer and less aggressively in unison sections.
8. play their best, regardless of who is on the podium.
9. do not play as loudly as possible, even when the conductor asks for the same.
10. are not defensive about suggestions from colleagues or the podium.
11. do not take up valuable rehearsal time asking dumb questions.
12. who are section leaders will be more effective with consistent playing rather than a lot of talking and gesturing.
13. are always supportive and considerate of their colleagues.
14. who are section players are more “chameleon-like” so as to be in a better position to follow the principal player and create a unified section.
15. realize they may be “the problem.”
16. always come to the first rehearsal prepared.
17. are not born. We become quality musicians only through experience, honing our skills and instincts, and constantly listening.

In about a month I’ll return to the Pierre Monteux School once again as Composer-in-Residence. Two projects are on the docket: a performance of my trio and the premiere of a new kids piece Carnival of the Animals: Maine Edition.

It’s a region-specific version of the old classic, so you’ve got movements like The Puffin, The Lobster, The Porcupine, The Eagle, etc.  In a nod to Saint-Saëns cheeky inclusion of “Pianists” in the original, I’ve included “Conductors” in my set.

Which brings me to my poem, which I’d really like you to read, because I am inordinately proud of it:

Conductors

Now we behold a rare sort of bird,
As odd as a duck and twice as absurd.
It thinks itself graceful, as smooth as a swan,
Look there in its wing: it holds a baton.

But unlike most others, this bird doesn’t sing,
It stands at the front and starts flapping its wing.
And lo and behold, musicians will play,
The Conductor will help them together to stay.

Conductor 1 starts full string section.

But observing this species while out in the field,
Some musicians will think that they’d rather not yield.
“A conductor direct me? What does she know?
Her style’s not learnèd and her tempo’s too slow!”

Conductor 2 starts inner circle strings; same music, half-step lower, faster tempo, senza vibrato. (Other strings stay with Conductor 1.)

But for others such methods are stuffy and prim;
Study and practice can strike them as grim.
“Students are eager, and they’ll think I’m cool.
Teaching’s the game – I’ll conduct in a school!”

Conductor 3 starts woodwinds; half-step higher, slower tempo, beginning band style (Orchestras 1 & 2 continue apace.)

Some others will think “I make a great host,
So I’ll give the crowds what they all want most.
Arrangements of rock, pop, and jazz – that’s my game;
There’s no way in the world that those could be lame!”

Conductor 4 starts brass; pops style. (Others continue as before.)

Then there are those who will spurn with derision
All music from the past, as lacking in vision.
“I’ll serve up the sounds that are loved by the few,
Bleak and discordant and aggressively new!”

Conductor 5 starts piano & percussion; high modernist style. (All others continue.)

What a mess, what a noise these birds have let loose!
I can’t take any more of this aural abuse!
There’s only one thing to do: I myself will try it
In the hopes of getting some peace and some quiet!

Narrator gives voracious cut-off. Musicians stop, conductors keep conducting.

Well there they go on, flapping their wings;
Thinking they rule over woodwinds and strings.
But musicians, I find, are always best led
By leaders who don’t let it go to their head.

Conductors realize; begin shouting at each other. Narrator cues a big unison ‘button’ to end the piece.

I’ve just recorded a new little pièce d’occasion of mine, titled Dans les champs de Valensole, and in order to present it to the world, I’ve made two videos and uploaded them both to YouTube. The question is: which will the algorithm find more enticing?

The first one features me and Kevin performing “live” and featuring beautiful shots of the lavender fields of southern France:

The second features the rolling score:

I’ve posted them both in various places just to get the ball rolling. My mother thinks its insane that anyone would prefer to watch the score video, but I think she underestimates the popularity of the medium, or the number of classical music nerds who sit around and watch this kind of stuff all day.

I particularly wonder which cellists will prefer – to see the player in action, or to see what it is that he’s actually playing.

Only time will tell. I’ll share the results in a couple of months.

I’m so pleased to present one of my latest pieces, a sonatina for clarinet and piano. I decided to make one of those YouTube score videos since those are all the rage these days (at least among me)

This was a case of writing something for a specific performer, a young clarinetist named Joseph Folwick, who played in the Metropolitan Youth Symphony during my year-long stint as conductor. Joseph was a technical wiz on the instrument, but more than that, his playing was full of a puckish vitality that I’ve rarely encountered. When he had a solo, he would interpolate licks from other pieces (“Rhapsody in Blue” during the “Cuban Overture” for example.)

He was always pushing the limits, trying to see how far he could go to make me laugh before I actually got pissed off. Even when we played my own music (the Mulligan Overture), he would play his part in different octaves and add freewheeling glissandi to the printed part. Rather than getting annoyed by his shenanigans, I changed the score to match his improvisations.

So I was looking out for an excuse to write a piece for him, and the opportunity came to perform at a New Year’s Eve concert here in Portland on December 31, 2017. The sonatina is in three short sections connected into a single movement, lasting about 12 minutes. It’s in turn zany, sultry, soulful, and jocular. He complained (and continues to complain) that the licks were too hard (“impossible!”), and then proceeded to play them perfectly, as you shall hear.

It was a blast to write and perform, as I hope it is to listen to.

Igor Stravinsky was an inveterate liar. He lied about big things, like the fact that he used authentic folk tunes to craft The Rite of Spring (not only did he use folk songs, all the songs he used were located on the bottom of right hand pages in the collection he was studying); and he also lied about little things, like what year he first heard Debussy’s “Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune” (it was premiered in Russia in 1904 in Pavlovsk, but Stravinsky himself was in Pavlovka, about 1,000 miles away.)

In preparing for talks at the Chicago Symphony this past weekend, I came across a real set of whoppers from old Igor, all to do with his opus 3, the Scherzo fantastique.

Bees

The Scherzo fantastique is music about bees. More specifically, it is a musical portrayal of bees in the hive, their communications, their mating rituals, and their general swarm of activity. This is Stravinsky’s prefatory note from the French edition of the score:

In the summer of 1907, I read many books on the life of bees and I was very much moved by many details in the life of this extraordinary world. The uninterrupted life of the swarm (hive) through the generations and the nuptial flight of the queen bee, the murder of the male, her lover, in the giddy heights, the vital energy and the ferocious lyricism served me as the so-called literary basis for this symphonic poem, which I have entitled Scherzo fantastique.

Most of that is true, except that Stravinsky definitely did not read “many books” about the life of bees that summer, he read one book: Maurice Maeterlinck’s La vie des abeilles (The life of bees).

It’s worth noting how weird it is that Stravinsky decided to compose a tone poem bases on a non-fiction treatise about insects. Maurice Maeterlinck wrote a few scientific essays, but he was mainly known as the leading poet-playwright in fin-de-siècle Europe, and most composers were setting Maeterlinck’s theatrical and lyrical masterpieces to music (Pelléas et Mélisdande, for example, was set by Fauré, Debussy, Schoenberg, and Sibelius.)

But Stravinsky was a weirdo so he wrote this bee piece. He was 26 years old and still in his infancy as a composer (unlike, say, Mozart or Mendelssohn, who were mature masters at that age.) In fact, he was still a student of Rimsky-Korsakov when he wrote the Scherzo and so he may have been inspired by his teacher’s most famous work.

While he was at his country estate working on the Scherzo, he kept Rimsky-Korsakov up to date on his progress, writing on June 18, 1907

When we see each other I’ll show you the spots in Maeterlinck I took for the program, since it won’t all go into a letter.

And indeed, if we compare La vie des abeilles to Stravinsky’s Scherzo, it’s pretty obvious how the whole thing lines up, starting with the very first notes, the “war-song of the queen bee”, which Maeterlinck describes as “resembling somewhat the note of a distant trumpet of silver,” and which Stravinsky gives to a muted trumpet playing forte.

From here the specific musical allusions continue apace. This sort of musical image-making is a perfectly fine thing for a composer to engage in, and it’s probably fine that Stravinsky hadn’t neither sought nor received permission from Maeterlinck to set his treatise to music – after all, it was a purely instrumental piece inspired by a scientific essay.

Lies

The big lies started about ten years later in 1917, when the Paris Opera’s ballet company planned a production of a new ballet called “Les abeilles” (the bees) set to the music of the Scherzo fantastique, and advertised the ballet and the music as being based on Maeterlinck’s treatise.

That’s when the lawyers got involved. Maeterlinck sued Stravinsky and the Paris Opera, but Stravinsky played dumb, claiming that, not only had he not based his piece on La vie des abeilles, but that he had been totally unaware of the Paris Opera’s intentions. He stopped barely short of claiming not to know what a bee was or that such insects even existed.

Stravinsky’s claim crumbles like the proverbial house of cards under the slightest scrutiny. In December 1916, he had written to Gabriel Pierné that he was looking forward to the ballet’s première, and we know for a fact that he had approved of the plans of the ballet with Jacques Rouché, the director of the Paris Opera, and that he had even been scheduled to conduct the opening night performance (and would have had he not been sick.)

It seems like he was able to deceive Maeterlinck well enough to evade any serious ramifications, and nothing really came of the lawsuit. This would of course embolden Stravinsky as he went on to rewrite his own personal history in essays and interviews in the coming years.

Coda

Maurice Maeterlinck, it turned out, was hardly a boy scout himself. In 1926, he wrote his long awaited follow up to The life of bees called The life of the termites, which he plagiarized nearly word-for-word from the Afrikaner poet-scientist Eugène Marais. (A linguistic note: Maeterlinck was Belgian, and though he wrote in French, he spoke Dutch well enough to read Marais’ Afrikaans treatise.)

Basically, nobody connected to the Scherzo fantastique had so much as a single moral fiber in their body.

Odds and ends

• The style of the Scherzo, which Stravinsky claimed had been inspired by modern French music (i.e. the Debussy pieces that he had never heard), rigorously followed Rimsky-Korsakov’s principals of harmony. That is, until the central portion of the piece, in which Stravinsky stole unabashedly from Richard Wagner. Listen to the section beginning at 3:42 in the above video and compare it to Wagner’s Siegfried Idyll.
• Stravinsky was quite pleased later in life with this early work, saying that it was “quite a good opus 3”.
• The orchestration of the Scherzo is unique in the repertoire. It is scored for triple woodwinds, four horns, three trumpets (including alto in F), celesta, and three harps, but completely dispenses with low brass, and includes only a part for suspended cymbal in the percussion department.
• In another letter to Rimsky-Korsakov, Stravinsky said that, “the harmony in The Bees will be fierce, like a toothache, but all at once it should turn pleasant, like cocaine.”

One thing I may not have expressed well enough in the last post is just how much of a role random chance, accidents, and gut level queasiness play in composing a piece from scratch.

Sometimes you accidentally hit a bunch notes on the piano and they turn out to be a chord you never would have thought of but works.

Sometimes you type something into the computer wrong or copy it into the wrong measure, and it’s not at all what you had intended but is in fact WAY better.

Sometimes you think you’ve finished work on a passage but it nags at you for weeks and you finally go back and throw the whole thing out and redo it.

John McPhee has a nice passage in his Draft No. 4:

What counts is a finished piece, and how you get there is idiosyncratic. Alternating between handwriting and computer typing almost always moves me along, but that doesn’t mean it will work for you. It just might. I knew an editor who had a lot of contempt for nearly all writers and did his own writing with a quill pen.

Interestingly, I would say that 90% of people are disappointed when I tell them I compose symphonies and sonatas with a computer instead of a quill.