An Inside View

…or in Christopher’s words, “I’ve made a huge mistake!”

Although the opening concert of this season seemed last March to be in the distant future, I wondered nevertheless how we would pull this off, given the short timeline. Christopher assured me that he was used to working with tight deadlines, and he promised I would have some material to look at sometime in June, just three months in advance of the premiere.

I’ll admit that as I considered my options, this made me a little nervous. But, what a once in a lifetime opportunity: to work with a composer I knew and to premiere his concerto as soloist with a conductor dedicated to promoting living composers and new music! In the new shell, no less!

It was a no-brainer.

I took the plunge and agreed to do it.

Christopher and I tossed a few ideas around in some animated conversations that included my critiques of contemporary flute concertos and his animated accounts of the latest DVD from Netflix that he was viewing. After we conducted the business of the commission, he got to work.

In mid-May, following the HSO’s last concert, I became very busy in my work as marketing director, preparing for the new season. At the same time, the concerto was on my mind. I increased my practice routine—but what to practice? How does one prepare for a concerto that hasn’t been written?

I had an idea from playing Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride last February that Christopher’s writing for the flute would likely push the limits in some way that I could only guess. I created a routine of difficult etudes, scales studies and work in the extreme high range of the flute. My aim was to practice two hours a day during the week and three hours a day on weekends. I did this for weeks before I saw the first phrase of music.

Around the first of July, Christopher called to say that he was attempting to email a flute part containing substantial fragments of the concerto and a music file of a recording of the fragments made by two of his fellow students at Curtis (a flutist and a pianist). I received the flute part, but the music file transfer was not successful. Christopher gave up and sent a CD by Federal Express, making me promise NOT to try out the flute part until I had heard the recording! ARGH! He was very meticulous in the way he presented this first installment to me, almost as if he were trying to sell me on the idea of composing a concerto for me!

The next day, I had the CD. I gave it a quick listen, liked what I heard, and eagerly set out to learn the solo part of the yet-to-be-completed flute concerto.

(Scroll down for earlier blog entries.)

Since the program notes for the concert are already available online, I thought I’d go ahead and post the program note for the concerto here for those following the work’s development.

Look for Chapter Five, in which I will discuss my own approach to the compositional process, to be posted soon.

PHILADELPHIA. Thursday, August 23, 2007 7:48 p.m.

Christopher Weiss (born 1980)

The Distant Beacon (Concerto for Flute and Orchestra)

I. Moderato (with a steady pulse)
Cadenza
II. Intermezzo: Gently rocking
Cadenza
III. Sostenuto (serene) – Moderato (with a steady pulse, as before)

The Distant Beacon may be a Concerto for Flute and Orchestra, but it could just as easily be a tone poem, a fantasy, a ballade, or even a ballet. Much of my recent music, it seems, is driven by a strong narrative impulse, and this piece is no different. In both of my concertos (so far I’ve composed one each for flute and bassoon), the soloist fulfills a dramatic role, akin to the leading part in an opera. Indeed, while traditional conventions would describe The Distant Beacon as a concerto, I would be more apt to call it a “secret opera.”

The “secret” in question is one of specific dramatic or narrative content. One has to ask of a concerto, “Why is the soloist playing? What is the purpose of having a soloist in this piece?” In The Distant Beacon, I wanted to tell the story of a journey from one particular stage of life to another. The beacon represents a distant light on the horizon while the soloist represents the individual embarking on a journey to the light. I hope that when listening to the concerto audiences will be able to superimpose the details of their own personal journeys to distant beacons.

Composed and orchestrated between April 15, 2007 and August 8, 2007, the concerto is cast in three movements, which is a rather traditional approach. What is not traditional, however, is the manner with which the movements are treated. With the work’s influences lying in opera, the three movements are more like scenes, each performed straight through without pauses in between. What separates the movements are the concerto’s two cadenzas, each briefly commenting on the journey thus far.

The work opens with a pulsing, strobe-like effect in the woodwind section, as if a beacon or lighthouse were barely visible in the distance. These pulses become stronger and stronger, growing in volume and register until the entire orchestral apparatus is employed. The solo flute enters, introducing the work’s primary thematic material which becomes more and more virtuosic in its scope and ambition, thus beginning the journey.

Following the first movement’s climax and the subsequent first cadenza comes an intermezzo. The musical material here is measure-for-measure from a song cycle which I composed in March of 2007 and based on poems by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. The poem-song in question, “Sweet and Low,” is a rocking lullaby sung by a father to his infant at home:

Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

Gustav Mahler, among other composers, included songs in his larger orchestral works. In this work, “Sweet and Low” reflects for me the specifics of my own personal narrative. For everyone else, I hope, the music (with the flute playing the part which a tenor would have sung) may evoke echoes of musical or aural fragments from each listener’s own journey.

The concerto ends with a harmonic and dramatic retrograde (a reversal or mirror image) of the work’s opening. Thus, the piece closes in the opposite manner that it begins, signifying that the goal has been achieved, the distant beacon has been reached. Everything has come full-circle and, thus, can begin anew.

The Distant Beacon is scored for three flutes, one doubling on alto flute and piccolo; three oboes; three B-flat clarinets, one doubling on B-flat bass clarinet; two bassoons; contrabassoon; four F horns; three C trumpets; two tenor trombones; bass trombone; tuba; timpani; two percussion playing bass drum, chimes, crash cymbals, sizzle cymbal, suspended cymbal, tam-tam, and triangle; harp; and strings in addition to the flute solo. The work runs approximately eighteen minutes in performance.

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YORK BEACH, Maine. Thursday, August 2, 2007 10:27 a.m.

When a soloist, chamber ensemble, or orchestra commissions a new work from a composer, there is a period of discussion and negotiation that occurs before any music is composed. It’s almost a combination of interviewing for a job and buying a car; each party has certain specific priorities and agreements need to be made. The items in question range from things musical, to things practical, to things financial – and all must be settled before a contract may be drawn up.

Two questions and the answers to them are almost always linked: For whom is the new work going to be written for and, thus, who will be performing it? A work commissioned for a pianist will nearly always be premiered by that pianist, just as a new orchestral work will receive its first performance by the orchestra who asked for it. Occasionally such an arrangement changes if a solo performer falls ill just before the concert. But even in such a rare case, the premiere would almost certainly be delayed and the new work moved to another concert date – thus allowing the intended soloist to play the piece following his or her recovery.

In the case of The Distant Beacon, my new flute concerto, the piece was commissioned by the Huntsville Symphony Orchestra and will be premiered by the HSO with its principle flutist Evelyn Loehrlein as soloist.

The next issue to come up is the date of the premiere. The HSO had locked in September 15, 2007 as the date they wanted the piece. This was both good and bad for me. The good: the date was the new season’s first concert and was sure to have a packed house. The bad: it was less than six months away, which meant that the music had to be finished even earlier than that so that the soloist, conductor, and musicians could learn it.

Sometimes the commissioning party will specify the mood or desired dramatic content of a work. Obviously, they cannot tell the composer what kind of melody to write, or what kind of harmony, rhythm, form or structure to use, but they can ask for a specifically celebratory work, for example. The manner in which the composer creates such is piece is at his discretion. While they may ask for a symphony or a tone-poem, a scherzo or a serenade, these decisions are, oftentimes, left up to the composer.

I was asked that The Distant Beacon be a full-on concerto for flute and orchestra with multiple movements rather than a shorter, single-movement work for soloist and orchestra.

Practical considerations include the new work’s duration and instrumentation. Both are usually determined to some degree by the other pieces scheduled on the concert’s program. In this case, there are two other pieces that will share the program with my new concerto. Concert order: an eight-minute opener, The Distant Beacon, intermission, and Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. The music director will look at the total duration of the concert as well as the proportion of each piece as it relates to the whole evening and make a decision about how long the new work should be.

I was initially asked for a work between eighteen and twenty minutes in duration. (An eight-minute opener, twenty-minute concerto, fifteen-minute intermission, and a sixty-minute symphony gives you just shy of a two-hour concert once you factor in orchestra tuning, time between pieces, and applause.)

Aside from knowing just how long an audience will be willing to sit, the music director must consider any musician’s union requirements regarding the length of rehearsals and concerts as it relates to pay scale. Additionally, if more music is programmed than can be rehearsed in the scheduled time and the orchestra is kept over, hefty overtime pay rates can be imposed. While an experienced conductor will know how long it will take to prepare the orchestra for the performance of standard repertoire like the Beethoven Ninth Symphony, it is much more difficult to judge how much rehearsal time he will need to prepare a work that does not yet even exist!

My initial concern regarding the very short interval between commission and deadline led to the first bit of negotiation with the orchestra. The HSO wanted between eighteen and twenty minutes of music, but I was worried about conceiving and writing that much orchestra music in so little time. (I’ll discuss my compositional process in the next blog entry.) So, I asked if the orchestra would consider a ten to fourteen minute work instead, essentially a two movement concerto with each movement between five and seven minutes long. Eventually we settled on between twelve and sixteen minutes; the final duration was at my discretion but, they hoped, it would be closer to sixteen minutes. Now, having completed the first draft of the concerto, I know that it is closer in fact to the eighteen minutes the HSO had originally requested.

I also asked that the deadline to submit the score be as late as possible without compromising the amount of time Carlos would have to prepare the score. The deadline for the score was generously set for Friday, August 17, 2007 and the deadline for the orchestra’s set of parts (more on this in an upcoming chapter) was set a week later on Friday, August 24. The first rehearsal was scheduled for Tuesday, September 11, thus giving Carlos only twenty-five days to learn an entirely new work before he would have to stand in front of the orchestra.

Another practical matter up for discussion would be the work’s instrumentation, that is, the number of orchestra performers the final score would require. For new works, the starting point is always the number of performers the orchestra is already going to hire in order to play the music they’ve already scheduled on the program.

The orchestra’s personnel manager, Hunter Thomas, would look at the instrumentation for the concert and discover the following: Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony requires a woodwind section of two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, and two bassoons; a brass section of two horns, two trumpets, and two trombones; a percussion section including a timpanist and three “auxiliary” percussionists who play a variety of other instruments; and a full string section. In addition to these instruments, the concert opener required another flute, two more horns (with an optional two more on top of that for six horns total), two more trumpets, one more trombone, a tuba, one more auxiliary percussionist, and a harp, effectively enlarging the orchestra’s size to the standard modern complement.

This would be the starting point for the orchestra’s role in The Distant Beacon… nine woodwinds, fourteen brass, timpani and four auxiliary percussion, harp, and strings.

Even though I hadn’t yet written a single note, I knew that I would not need such large brass or percussion sections. The flute is not among the loudest instruments on the roster, and I knew one of the challenges in this piece, as in my bassoon concerto, would be to not “cover up” the soloist with orchestral volume or frenzy. Fourteen brass players were way too many for this piece – even Beethoven’s brass section of six players could obliterate the sound of a single flute. Ditto for the percussion section.

What I did need, however, were a few more players in the woodwind section. Much of the orchestra’s accompanimental textures would be scored for the woodwinds and strings, reserving most of the brass section for the major climaxes and sections where the flute was resting.

But engaging more players costs the orchestra more money, and orchestras are often hesitant to spend additional funds on performers who will only play eighteen minutes of music on the entire concert.

In the end, the HSO very generously hired the additional three woodwind players I had requested for the concerto. Final instrumentation for the piece: a woodwind section of three flutes, three oboes, three clarinets, and three bassoons; a brass section of four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, and tuba; a percussion section including a timpanist and two auxiliary percussionists; harp; and strings.

The final major considerations are financial. A fee must be worked out that will include what the composer will be paid for the composition of the work as well as the work’s publication. A percentage of the fee will be offered up front, with the rest upon completion of the piece.

It is important to mention that I, as a composer, am never paid for my music. A composer’s music is priceless; it cannot be valued and, thus, cannot be sold. What the orchestra is paying for is the composer’s time – the time in which it takes to produce that work. This is a very important distinction.

These are all major points of negotiation between the commissioning party and the composer and, while it may seem like necessary, but dull business, it actually helps me to form my first thoughts about the piece I will write. For me, starting is the most difficult part, but when I have some guidelines at the onset, I’m able to narrow down some the musical possibilities and potential to something more manageable. Sometimes even limitations can bring incredible freedom.

(Scroll down for earlier blog entries.)

ROCHESTER, New Hampshire. Tuesday, July 31, 2007 2:31 p.m.

I began my relationship with the Huntsville Symphony Orchestra in February 2007 when I was invited to join them for their annual young people’s concerts. The program that year was circus themed, and a short orchestra piece that I had composed in 2006 (actually, the first I’d ever written) seemed to fit the bill.

The five-minute piece, called Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, received its premiere with my “home field” orchestra, the Symphony Orchestra of The Curtis Institute of Music, in March 2006. Then it went on to win the Jacksonville Symphony Orchestra’s “Fresh Ink” Composer’s Competition in June 2006 (the orchestra also performed the piece on the finalists’ concert).

The thing to keep in mind here is the tremendous infrequency with which a new work receives a second performance… especially a work written by a twenty-six year old graduate student. Even the work of an established, successful composer (such as my current teacher Richard Danielpour) may, after the premiere, sit on the shelf for years before it’s performed again. As contemporary composers, our music is most often only performed once, and yet here I was with performances by two orchestras in four months. I was very thankful and most thrilled that so many people were able to hear my work. Imagine my excitement when I was told the Huntsville symphony wanted to perform the piece on five concerts!

I felt like I just made a full house on the river. A win was a sure thing. Not only would I get to know a third orchestra (and have a third orchestra get to know my music), I was going to be able to reach thousands of children through my music and help shape their musical interests and expand their aural palate.

The concerts went wonderfully. The orchestra sounded terrific, obviously enjoying playing for the young audience, and Carlos had the children riled up almost to the point of frenzy. It was an extraordinary experience for everyone involved.

One of the most common questions I’m asked is, “What is it like to hear your music played?” Let me tell you, it is truly a unique experience. But, believe it or not, it’s not my favorite part of the process; hearing my music is, at least for me, the second best part.

The thing I love the most is collaboration. I’m always comforted when I read or see interviews with well-known composers who say they hate the actual act of composing. So very much of what composers do is solitary. We lock ourselves away for hours, working slowly, tediously, sometimes even painfully. (I’ll discuss this in more detail in a future chapter about the second most often asked question: “What’s your process?”)

Interacting with the conductor and the musicians during rehearsals is the high point. The best opportunities for collaboration come from composing a piece for a soloist or working with a librettist on an opera. To be able to bounce creative ideas off one another, to talk things through, and to try different approaches or different solutions to a problem is the most exciting part of the entire process of creation.

And so when, during what I thought was simply a casual conversation during rehearsal break, principal flutist Evelyn Loehrlein asked if I would ever compose a flute concerto, I responded, “Absolutely… if I knew I’d have someone to play it.”

Fast-forward only a month to March 2007, T-minus three minutes until the start of an orchestra rehearsal with the “home field” orchestra. My cell phone is on silent, sitting on a music stand behind the conductor as I work out some details with the percussion section at the back of the stage. I return to my seat and my close friend, bassoonist Matthew McDonald (who is playing Six Past Midnight, the Forest Wakes, my bassoon concerto, on this program), tells me that my phone rang, the caller ID displaying an Alabama area code. I race out of the hall, check the voicemail, receive a message from Evelyn asking me to call her as soon as possible – she has something she wants to speak with me about.

Figuring they just want to return my set of instrument parts and that the conversation will be brief, I return her call. The conversation went something like this:

Christopher: Hey, Evelyn! I’m about one minute away from an orchestra rehearsal, but wanted to give you a quick call back.

Evelyn: Thanks for calling right away, but I’m going to need more than a minute.

C: That’s fine, just tell me what’s up.

E: Well, okay… Do you remember when we were speaking during rehearsal break and I asked if you’d ever want to write a flute concerto?

C: Yes…

E: This September marks the thirtieth anniversary of my first concert with the Huntsville Symphony and, to commemorate that, I’ll be performing a concerto on the season’s first concert. I was wondering if, instead of playing something in the standard repertoire, you would like to write a concerto for me?

And so, with only seconds to spare before the conductor’s downbeat, I raced back into the hall to hear my last few months’ worth of composition with a brand new picture of what my next few months of composition would be.

(Scroll down for earlier blog entries.)

ORLANDO, Florida. Monday, July 23, 2007 11:08 p.m.

“I’ve made a huge mistake.”

It’s amazing just how many times that thought races through your mind during the long, often tedious, always lonely process of composition. But what kind of mistake? It’s not what you might be thinking. Not that I feel that I’ve made a huge mistake in choosing a title, or in settling on issues of form and structure. It’s not a mistake in orchestrating, in harmony or melody, in pacing, or even in a work’s dramatic goal. It’s actually…

Yeah… well, actually, it’s exactly that. All of that… and sometimes all at the same time.

Composers are, in all honesty, usually overly self-conscious, occasionally self-doubting, and very often indecisive. The numbers of decisions we make regarding our music from its conception to its premiere are virtually endless, and the light at the end of the tunnel is usually a freight train, out of control and barreling down on us.

Of course, it’s not all like that. When you think of composers, don’t think only about the starving artist, slaving in lonely obscurity, working on a manuscript at the piano with candlelight as the only illumination. Don’t think only about the long hours, the sad, tormented soul, the hopeless romantic…

Yeah… actually, if it’ll get me a date, think about exactly that.

Composers are, in all honesty, fairly well fed, usually happy, and very often social people. We’re also charming, funny, honest, and handsome. (See? I’m going for that date thing again.) Being a composer is mostly about achieving a strange state of balance – balance in one’s music between successfully contrasting light and dark, between opposing musical materials, between a soloist and the orchestra. Balance is also necessary in one’s career – between working by yourself in your apartment or practice room and working with an orchestra in the concert hall or recording studio, and between discovering the music and understanding it yourself and helping the audience to discover the music and understand it. And then there’s life in general, achieving balance between rehearsal night and movie night, between sleeping until one in the afternoon and making an eleven a.m. train.

As composers, we don’t always know where our next rent check is going to come from or where our next commission is going to come from. We don’t always know what new friend we’re going to meet or what book we’re going to read. We don’t always know what great performer we’re going to work with, what brilliant conductor will get to know our music, or what orchestra we’re going to make music with. And, yes, we don’t always know what piece we’re going to write next or even what happens after the climax in the third movement of a flute concerto.

Or even if there is a third movement.

We don’t always know. And that’s when the little voice in our head says, “I’ve made a huge mistake.”

Being a composer is rarely easy, but it is, often times enough, a real thrill. That huge mistake nearly always leads you to finding another way – to finding a better way. And then you get that little rush of adrenaline, maybe you even jump out of the seat, excited such that you need to stand up and move around a little bit.

I wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world.

I was talking the other day with my friend Robert Salinas, who wondered what our staff was up to during the summer when there are no Symphony concerts. “It’s quite simple,” I replied. “During the summer, our staff organizes the production details and engages the musicians for all the concerts. We sell most of the tickets, do the majority of the fundraising and produce the ninety-page printed program.”

Immediately, Robert grasped exactly what I was talking about. As a radio personality on WAHR, Star 99.1, he has first-hand experience of how much advance work is required before stepping into the studio for the show. So it is with the Symphony.

What is an ordinary summer like for me? As the HSO’s marketing director and artistic administrator, my days are filled with new season preparations. As the HSO’s principal flute, I also begin preparing my parts for the upcoming concerts, which means that CD recordings and orchestral parts to Beethoven’s Ninth, Tchaikovsky’s Sixth, Carnival of the Animals, Der Rosenkavalier and others contribute to the clutter around my music stand at home.

What makes this an extraordinary summer is that I am also preparing to play the world premiere performance of a piece commissioned by the HSO, composed by Christopher Weiss, a gifted young graduate student at the Curtis Institute of Music.

I began my association with Christopher last season when we programmed his colorful and imaginative composition “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride” on our Young People’s and Family concerts. Christopher is very good friends with bassoonist Matthew McDonald of Huntsville, also a Curtis student and a former student of HSO principal bassoonist Hunter Thomas. A little over a year ago, Hunter met Christopher during a visit to Matthew in Philadelphia. Hunter brought back a CD of “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride,” and we were sold!

When Christopher was in Huntsville for our rehearsals and performances of Mr. Toad last February, I was close to making a repertoire choice following Carlos’ invitation to perform a solo at the opening concert. When I mentioned offhandedly to Christopher that I was looking for a concerto, he said cheerily, “I’ll write one for you!”

Following the warm response to our world premiere performance of The Da Vinci Concerto last April, I decided it would be fun for our patrons to follow the evolution of the commissioned flute concerto. A blog seemed to be the answer, although we at the Symphony had no previous experience with this vehicle and no tools at our disposal. Brad Towery and our friends at HiWAAY Internet Services came to our rescue, providing the usual high level of customer support as we prepared to launch this new endeavor. Thanks, Brad!

As I write this first entry, Christopher is busily composing the flute concerto. I’ve only recently seen some material which he sent to me by email (isn’t technology wonderful!). In the coming weeks leading up to September 15, Christopher and I will share our perspectives on these pages.