Composers Datebook

English is a quirky language, take for example the way English labels groups of birds — it can be quite idiosyncratic and even poetic: “A conspiracy of ravens,” “A trembling of finches.”

For composers, birdsong has always exerted great fascination and has been a source of inspiration, but on today’s date in 2006, bird nomenclature was the inspiration for a new string quartet that received its premiere in Tucson at a concert sponsored by the Arizona Friends of Chamber Music.

The new work was by American composer Jennifer Higdon, who explains: “The first time someone told me that a collection of larks is called an ‘exaltation’, I immediately thought, ‘What a sound an exaltation of larks must make!’ This prompted my imagination to run wild — in a composerly-fashion — thinking of thousands of birds flying and singing wildly, with extraordinary energy and intensity. How to capture the beauty of the idea of exalting and singing? A string quartet seemed perfect!“

Higdon’s new quartet, An Exaltation of Larks was given its 2006 premiere by the Tokyo String Quartet, but it was perhaps inevitable that its first recording was made by — who else? — the Lark Quartet.

Jennifer Higdon (b. 1962): An Exaltation of Larks; Lark Quartet; Bridge 9379

Today, some “off-the-cuff” remarks about the role of shirt cuffs in music history.

Starched, button-on, detachable cuffs for men’s shirts were very popular from the early 19th through the early 20th centuries, and could serve as a sort of white linen Post-It note if a melody suddenly popped into the head of a composer. Like Dvořák, say, out for a walk along the Turkey River in Spillville, Iowa — he could scribble the tune down on his shirt cuff, assuming he carried a pencil, that is, since writing it in ink before the era of ballpoint pens would not be very practical and certainly not be very popular with whoever did the composer’s laundry!

Years after Carl Nielsen’s Symphony No. 3 had its premiere — on today’s date in 1912 — the Danish composer still recalled the moment when a theme in its third movement came to him.

“I was standing on the back of a tram. And [the theme] came with such urgency that I had to quickly jot it down, partly on a scrap of paper I had in my pocket, and partly on one of my shirt cuffs,” Nielsen said.

Carl Nielsen (1865-1931): Symphony No. 3 (Sinfonia Espansiva); New York Philharmonic; Alan Gilbert, conductor; Dacapo 220623

On this date in 1814, Ludwig van Beethoven conducted the premiere performance of his Symphony No. 8. As the scherzo movement of his new symphony, Beethoven recycled a tune he originally used as a musical salute to Johann Nepomuk Maelzel, the inventor of the metronome. For a time, Maelzel was Beethoven’s friend and occasional collaborator on concerts and various mechanical projects.

Beethoven used Maelzel’s metronomes to add precise, if sometimes debatable, tempo markings to some of his earlier works. Some conductors choose to ignore these metronome markings, since they came after the fact of composition and at a time when Beethoven was increasingly deaf. In fact, in addition to metronomes, the versatile Maelzel also supplied the Beethoven with ear trumpets — the 19th-century version of hearing aids.

Perhaps Beethoven was using one of those ear trumpets when someone asked him why his Symphony No. 7 was more popular in Vienna than his Symphony No. 8. “Because the Eighth is so much better,” he growled in reply.

Closer to our own time, American composer Leroy Anderson, who lived from 1908 to 1975, immortalized the tick-tock of a mechanical timekeeper in his piece, The Syncopated Clock. Anderson was a master of the musical miniature, creating dozens of witty pieces with titles like Plink, Plank, Plunk, Bugler's Holiday, and Fiddle Faddle.

Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827): Symphony No. 8; Berlin Philharmonic; Herbert von Karajan, conductor; DG 429 036

Leroy Anderson (1908-1975): The Syncopated Clock; St. Louis Symphony; Leonard Slatkin, conductor; BMG/RCA 68048

Two interesting symphonies had their premieres on today’s date just eight years apart. Oddly enough, they were composed nearly ninety years apart.

The first was the Symphony No. 1 by Georges Bizet, written in 1855 when the composer was only 17. It was mislaid in his papers, ignored by Bizet himself as a naive youthful exercise, and not revived until 1935. It was performed for the first time on February 26 that year in Basel, Switzerland under the baton of Felix Weingartner, who found a copy of the score that had been kept in the Paris Conservatory.

The other work that premiered today was American composer Roy Harris’ Symphony No. 5. It was written in 1942, during World War II, and was reportedly inspired by reports of heroic resistance by the Soviet Union to the Nazi invasion. He dedicated this symphony to the Red Army in honor of its 25th anniversary.

The first performance — given by Koussevitzky and the Boston Symphony on February 26th, 1943 — was broadcast via short wave to the Soviet Union. Ironically, despite Harris’ unquestionable credentials as a loyal American and enthusiastic patriot, his pro-Soviet Symphony No. 5 was to become something of an embarrassment when our one-time Soviet allies became Public Enemy No. 1 during the long Cold War period that followed the end of World War II.

Georges Bizet (1823-1892): Symphony No. 1; ORTF Orchestra; Jean Martinon, conductor; DG 437 371

Roy Harris (1899-1979): Symphony No. 5; Louisville Orchestra; Robert Whitney, conductor; Albany 012

In London on today’s date in 1871 an audience gathered in the newly-finished Royal Albert Hall to attend the first-ever concert to be performed there. This occurred a month before the official opening of this famous Victorian edifice as a special thank-you for the workers who constructed the building.

The orchestra that played that concert was famous in its day — though now totally forgotten. It was called The Wandering Minstrels and its players were all British aristocrats — Lords, Right Honourables, and senior military — who from 1861 to 1896 played exclusively for charity events. One strict rule of membership was that only amateur musicians were allowed. If you earned even one penny as a professional, you were out.

That happened to one member, composer Frederick Clay, who had to leave The Wandering Minstrels when music he wrote for the stage started to pull in a few pennies. Clay even collaborated with W.S. Gilbert, the famous librettist for Arthur Sullivan, who occasionally performed as a guest with The Wandering Minstrels.

And yes, it’s likely that the Gilbert & Sullivan song “A Wandering Minstrel I” from The Mikado was an in-joke reference to the aristocratic orchestra, especially since Nanki-Poo, who sings it, was (after all) a nobleman in disguise.

W.S. Gilbert (1836-1911) & Arthur Sullivan (1842-1900): ‘A Wand’ring Minstrel I,’ from The Mikado; D’Oyly Carte Opera Company; Royal Philharmonic Orchestra; Royston Nash, conductor; London/Decca 425190

It’s quite possible that you or someone you know is the caregiver for an ill or aging relative or friend. If so, you know the emotional rewards — and heavy emotional toll — that caretaking involves.

On today’s date in 1989, American composer John Adams led the Saint Paul Chamber orchestra and baritone Sanford Sylvan in the premiere performance of a powerful new chamber work he had composed inspired by — and in honor of — caretakers everywhere.

In 1988, his father had died after years of struggling with Alzheimer’s, and Adams was haunted by images of his mother caring for her husband as the illness progressed. Living in San Francisco, he was also moved by Bay Area friends who nursed loved ones during those helpless early years of the AIDS epidemic.

He found that these 20th century experiences resonated in certain poems by 19th century American poet Walt Whitman, who had served as a volunteer nurse during the Civil War, initially to care for his own wounded brother, but subsequently to tend other wounded soldiers in those traumatic years.

Adams chose one Whitman poem, “The Wound Dresser,” as text and title for his new work. “The Wound Dresser is about the power of human compassion that is acted out on a daily basis,” he said. This work has become one of the most-performed and most-admired of all the compositions of John Adams.

John Adams (b. 1947): The Wound Dresser; Sanford Sylvan; baritone; Orchestra of St. Luke’s; John Adams, conductor; Nonesuch 79218

On today’s date in 2022, violinist Roger Zahab and the University of Pittsburgh Symphony premiered a Violin Concerto written some 50 years earlier by American composer Julia Perry. In his program notes, Zahab tells the story this way:

“One afternoon near the end of my undergraduate studies — around 1978–my violin teacher stepped out of his office and handed me a score by Julia Perry. She had sent … her Violin Concerto to him in the hope that he might know of someone who would play it, and he handed it to me. I called her phone number and spoke with her mother, who said that Julia was right next to her but unable to talk.”

Perry was unable to talk because she had suffered a debilitating stroke seven years earlier at 46, derailing her career as a composer. Cared for and nursed by her mother, Perry persisted in working on the concerto that would be her final work, as she died shortly after making contact with Zahab. For his part, the violinist made it his mission to create a full orchestral performance score of the concerto from Perry’s surviving sketches, a daunting project that took him decades to complete.

Julia Perry (1924-1979): Violin Concerto; Curtis J. Stewart, violin; Experiential Orchestra; James Blachly, conductor; Bright Shiny Things 200

On today’s date in 1951, Leonard Bernstein conducted the New York Philharmonic in the premiere performance of Charles Ives’ Symphony No. 2. Ives was then 76 and living in Connecticut. Heart disease and diabetes left him far too weak to attend the Carnegie Hall premiere. Nicholas Slonimsky recalls once asking the thin and pale Ives how he was feeling, to which Ives replied he felt so weak that he said, “I can’t even spit into the fireplace.”

Ives didn’t own a radio, so he visited his neighbors, the Ryders, to hear Bernstein conduct the Sunday afternoon broadcast performance of music he had composed some 50 years earlier.

“There’s not much to say about the Symphony. I express the musical feelings of the Connecticut country in the 1890s. It’s full of the tunes they sang and played then, and I thought it would be a sort of a joke to have some of these tunes in counterpoint with some Bach-like tunes,” he said at the time.

His neighbor, Mrs. Ryder, recalled how he reacted to the radio broadcast: “Mr. Ives sat in the front room and listened as quietly as could be, and I sat way back behind him, because I didn’t want him to think I was looking at him. After it was over, I’m sure he was very much moved. He stood up, walked over the fireplace, and spat! And then he walked out into the kitchen and said not a word.”

Charles Ives (1874-1954): Symphony No. 2 New York Philharmonic; Leonard Bernstein, conductor; DG 429 220

Many music lovers will confess they prefer to hear symphonies or operas in the comfort of their own home rather than live in person at a concert hall or theater.

On today’s date in 1911, famous French novelist, hypochondriac and notorious homebody Marcel Proust wrote to his friend, composer Reynaldo Hahn, that he had just listened to a live afternoon performance of the whole first act of Wagner’s opera Die Meistersinger tucked up in bed and planned to hear Debussy’s still-new opera Pelléas and Mélisande later that same evening, once again snugly secure in his Parisian apartment.

Now, these days with radio, TV and multiple livestreaming devices, this would be no big deal — but in 1911 how could that be possible?

Well, for 60 francs a month — a small fortune in 1911 — wealthy Parisians could hear live performances of operas and plays relayed by a special phone line to a home receiver called the théâtrophone. First demonstrated in Paris in 1881, by 1890, the théâtrophone was commercialized and the service continued 1932.

Of course, even an enthusiastic subscriber like Proust had to admit the phone line sound quality was “très mal” (“really bad” in plain English) and hardly the same as being there in person.

Claude Debussy (1862-1918): Pelléas et Mélisande Symphonie Suite (arr. Marius Constant); Orchestre National de Lyon; Jun Märkl, conductor; Naxos 8.570993

In 1996, American composer John Harbison received an unusual commission — a ballet for dancers and symphonic winds. The commission came from a consortium of 14 wind ensembles, all members of the College Band Directors National Association.

Maybe the 1996 summer Olympics in Atlanta had something to do with it, but his imagination turned in that direction: he titled the resulting work Olympic Dances, and Atlanta also happened to be the venue for the work’s premiere performance on today’s date in 1997, with the Pilobus Dance Theatre and the University of North Texas Wind Symphony performing.

“When asked to do a piece for dancers and winds, it immediately suggested something ‘classical,’ not our musical 18th century, but an imaginative vision of ancient worlds … I thought of an imagined harmony between dance, sport and sound that we can imagine from serene oranges and blacks on Greek vases, the celebration of bodies in motion that we see in the matchless sculpture of ancient times, and perhaps most important to this piece, the celebration of the ideal tableau, the moment frozen in time, that is present still in the friezes that adorn the temples and in the architecture of the temples themselves,” he said.

Harbison’s ballet is an austere, rather than flashy score, reminiscent of Stravinsky’s austere, neo-classical scores like Agon and Apollo, which — like our modern Olympics — were also inspired by ancient Greek ideals.

John Harbison (b. 1938): Olympic Dances; New England Conservatory Wind Ensemble; Dr. Frank Battisti, conductor; Albany 340