“Art, in itself, is an attempt to bring order out of chaos.” - Stephen Sondheim
It could be said that memory, too, is a way of reorganizing the past, pulling together disparate experiences to create meaning and to tell the story of our lives. Sometimes artists can use these memories to create something new. In the case of composer Kenji Bunch (born July 27, 1973, Portland, OR ), he reached back into his own childhood when writing Ralph’s Old Records for Flute, Clarinet, Violin/Viola, Cello, and Piano. Bunch’s own history reflects a quintessential American tale. His father grew up poor, the son of a sheep rancher. He joined the Navy and, through the GI Bill, became the first person in his family to go to college, eventually becoming a professor of Political Science at Portland State University. His mother was born in Japan, and among her earliest memories was diving into ditches during WWII air raids. One passion both his parents shared was a deep respect for classical music. According to Bunch, his father saw it as “aspirational” and, for his mother, the “ultimate affirmation of the human spirit and resilience.”
While Bunch’s father admired classical music, his musical roots and interests were elsewhere. Kenji Bunch said the following about the inspiration for Ralph’s Old Records:
“Ralph is my dad. He literally has a box of old 78s that he gave to me. He’s a native Oregonian, born in Baker City in 1927, and he moved to Portland as a young boy and grew up during the Depression. He listened to a lot of jazz and popular music from that era. I remember when I was a kid that he put a lot of his old records onto cassette tape, which he labeled “Ralph’s Old Records.” I loved to listen to that tape. For this piece, I knew that I wanted to write something fun and revisit that old music that I used to listen to. So, I thought why not call it “Ralph’s Old Records.” It has a double meaning in that it is influenced by my dad’s collection of music, and it reflects the history of my dad’s youth.”
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In five movements, the work draws inspiration from the recordings, but is infused with contemporary touches. Moving, funny, and deeply personal, the piece is a beautiful and nostalgic ode to his father.
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Another American who grew up without many creature comforts, George Gershwin (born September 26, 1898, Brooklyn, NY; died July 11, 1937, Los Angeles, CA). Born to Russian-Jewish immigrants in a Yiddish enclave of Brooklyn, young George was not much interested in school, and was a bit of a worry to his parents.
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Gershwin recalled, “There is nothing I can really tell of my childhood… except that music never interested me, and that I spent most of my time with the boys in the street, [roller] skating and, in general, making a nuisance of myself.”
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It wasn’t until he heard a young violin prodigy, Max Rosenzweig, who had been invited to his school to perform, that Gershwin’s ears perked up. He actually was listening from the schoolyard because, as was typical for him, he skipped out on the performance. But he was struck and afterwards sought out Max, tracking his address down and showing up unannounced. They became close friends and Gershwin’s interest in music blossomed. By 1914, he was off the streets and on Tin Pan Alley (what they called the area near 28th Street where NYC publishers and songwriters churned out vast amounts of popular music from 1885-1950), hired as a “plugger” to play the music of other composers, but by 1919 had several of his own songs under his belt, including his first big hit, “Swanee,” made popular by Al Jolson. In that same year, he produced his one and only piece of chamber music.
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The Lullaby for String Quartet, written in his teens, is like an exquisite slice of key lime pie with a dollop of whipped cream. Creamy textures mix with the slightly tart, the perfect confection for a sultry summer evening. It became a favorite for gatherings at the Gershwin household, but was left unpublished. Yet, the main melody was recycled into Gershwin’s 1922 Opera Blue Monday in the aria “Has one of you seen Joe?”. The original version was first heard in public performance in 1967 by the Juilliard String Quartet, 40 years after it was written. What a shame that it went on a 40-year hiatus, but what a boon for us that we can hear it today.
When Gershwin died of a brain tumor in the summer of 1937 at the tender age of 39, Leonard Bernstein (born, August 25, 1918, Lawrence, MA; died October 14, 1990, New York, NY) was a teenage swimming and music instructor at a summer camp. Hearing the news on the radio that June morning, he was devastated. That day at lunch, he announced to the room that Gershwin had died and played his Second Prelude as tribute to a hushed audience. It may have been the first time he paid tribute to an idol, but it wouldn’t be his last. Later in his career, he would write a series of “Anniversaries,” short piano works that would be dedicated to colleagues and loved ones. Today, we’ll hear “For Stephen Sondheim,” written in 1988. It’s no surprise Bernstein wrote an Anniversary for Sondheim: the two partnered on the groundbreaking West Side Story, with Bernstein writing the score and a 25-year old Sondheim providing the lyrics. The two had vastly different working styles, but they overcame this challenge to produce one of the great and lasting musicals of all time. Sondheim would go on to compose himself, mounting huge Broadway hits including Into the Woods, Company, and Sweeney Todd. Bernstein’s tribute, written for Sondheim’s 35th birthday, captures the spirit of Sondheim’s jazzy and poignant music. Bernstein (like Gershwin with his Lullaby) returned to this melody nearly twenty years later and it became an important theme in his opera, “A Quiet Place.”
While on the topic of returning to and recycling music, Johannes Brahms (born May 7, 1833, Hamburg, Germany; died April 3, 1897, Vienna, Austria) had a difficult time birthing his Piano Quintet in F minor, Op. 34. First imagined as a cello quintet after the Schubert model, feedback from those he trusted, including Clara Schumann and the violinist Joseph Joachim, who reportedly said of that version, “what it is lacking, is, in a word, charm.” Undeterred (and maybe a little stung), Brahms forewent strings entirely in his second attempt for two pianos, but, again, the friendly critics felt it wasn’t done. Clara Schumann thought it had great potential and encouraged him to try to rework the material. They say the third time's the charm, and in this case the result is the phenomenal Piano Quintet in F minor. The piano provides a much needed percussive and propulsive quality, while the strings allow for melodies to sing and soften the rough edges. The work is in four brooding movements that bring the listener on a journey from dark to dark, with some light shining through in between. For the young Brahms, tortured as he was by an impossible love with Clara Schumann, life’s answers were still out of reach, and this quintet, heartfelt and ultimately devastating, asks us to keep searching for a better and brighter future. –ML