Announcer: From the Library of Congress in
Washington D.C.
Ellen Taaffe Zwilich (ETZ): Is the level okay
and everything? My hair, for instance…this
is bad.
Ned Rorem (NR): The…first of all, those
two essays on Carnegie Hall which nobody seems
to have here.
ETZ: Oh, we've found them.
NR: You did?
ETZ: The "I Lost My Virginity" one…
NR: Let's see…any case, let's…me…okay…The
"I Lost My Virginity" is here, so you can
keep it, then. Then there's a statement made
for a musical classical magazine which, if
you don't have it, you should.
ETZ: Mm-hmm.
NR: What'll we do with it? Can someone xerox
in this room?
ETZ: Yes.
NR: Right this minute?
ETZ: Well, I think probably…when…
Off-camera voice: [indiscernable] Do you have
a xerox machine?
Other off-camera voice: Yes, right there on
the round table.
OCV: On the round table?
OOCV: Yeah, right there on the side…
ETZ: I think right there…is a xerox a machine…
NR: Give me…[to off-camera person]: You
don't need that, then, 'cause you've got it
already.
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: This is three pages.
ETZ: Got two of those, I think…
NR: Make just one for yourself and give that…make
me three copies of that…and then as we go
along, we'll see what else…does this run
continually or do you change it out?
[break in tape]
ETZ: …photo of you and Virgil and Bill.
NR: No.
ETZ: Flanagan?
NR: Uh, yeah.
ETZ: Oh, good. And how about you and Ned…you
and Lenny?
NR: Yes, they're both in the book here, so
they can be taken out.
ETZ: Oh, great…OK
NR: Can you…
ETZ: I want to remember to…
NR: Can you do that in a machine or in the
camera?
ETZ: We can do that. And how about you had
one with Previn and Grafman?
NR: I didn't have…feel like looking for
it.
ETZ: OK.
NR: It would have meant looking through two
thousand other pictures.
ETZ: Did you bring any of the pictures I took
of you?
NR: I couldn't f…don't know where they are
either.
ETZ: Oh.
NR: They're in a great big box. Do you have
any of them?
ETZ: I have the negatives, but…
NR: I wouldn't begin to know where to to look,
and I haven't had the time to shuffle through
everything. Are you going to take a picture
of this?
Cameraman: Yeah, I'll take a picture of that.
ETZ: Yeah, eventually we'll get…
NR: OK, we'll do that.
ETZ: We'll get to it. Why don't you…
NR: And then, the only time I played in Carnegie
was the Judy Collins program.
ETZ: Oh, that's nice. When was that, now?
NR: It was December 3, 1988.
ETZ: '88, OK.
NR: I think it's the only time I ever played…I
can't remember, but the…and then the scrapbook
has the program the first time I was ever…
ETZ: The very, very first time…
NR: …involved with Carnegie…eek! [Sings]
Da-da-lah-da…
ETZ: It's either a horse coming up the stairs
or it's…[laughs]…it's Robert.
Robert: Is it a horse, or is it Robert? I'll
have the croissants waiting here…Nick. It'
my big break.
NR: OK, that's there, and this is here.
ETZ: After…
NR: You look familiar. Have we…do you know
if…
Robert: Do you want to try…
ETZ: After, get…oh, definitely, that was
the whole point.
NR: This is the archive room, is that it?
ETZ: Yeah, this is…
NR: So.
ETZ: These are the archives.
NR: There must be more than this, though.
Or this is all microfilm and stuff like that?
ETZ: I don't know. It's all programs and whatever
else they have. It's really something that'
only been done for about ten years. So it's
not quite as…
NR: They must have…
ETZ: Thorough.
NR: …have things from before that, too.
ETZ: Well, they have things, but they've only
had an archivist for about ten years. Now,
much of the contemporary music had to do with
the New York Philharmonic, and that's in the
Philharmonic archives.
NR: Ah, yeah.
ETZ: So…
NR: Is Robert the archivist?
ETZ: No.
NR: And what s…
ETZ: Gino Francesconi's the archivist.
NR: Gino? Is that…
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: Is that her? Where? Her…
ETZ: No, he's downstairs.
NR: Oh.
ETZ: Or he's not…
Off-camera voice: Yeah, he's not here.
NR: Oh, and what's the…
[break in tape]
ETZ: For the record, I'm Ellen Taaffe Zwilich.
I hold the first Carnegie Hall Composer's
Chair. Today is May the eighth, 1996, and
I'm here in the Carnegie Hall archives today
with my dear friend and colleague, composer
Ned Rorem. Ned, you've been a fixture at Carnegie
Hall for many, many years. And it's always
stunning to me to see this kind of history
that you've had here, and I think of you as
such a young man that it's kind of amazing
how far back many of these things go. I should
say that in recent years, it seems to me that
your reputation as one of our absolute finest,
absolutely finest composers has just…Your
reputation has grown and grown, and the new
works like the new, the Fourth String Quartet
I heard the other day, which is such a wonderful
piece, is such an example of a flowering it
seems to me that's taken place in the last
twenty years. But I think what we ought to
do is kind of go back to the…start at the
beginning.
NR: Okay.
ETZ: If you don't mind, if you could tell
us a little bit about yourself and you background,
if you would, 'cause we're all so different
as American composers.
NR: I was born in 1923 to an intelligent,
middle-class, educated family, and I have
one older sister. I was born in Indiana and
moved to Chicago very early in my life - that
is to say at the age of six months - where
my father was a professor of economics at
the university. So, both my sister and I were
raised from the nursery school, age twenty
months through the senior in high school,
whereupon I left Chicago and went to Northwestern.
And I was musical from the…very early in
my life. Everything I am was pretty much by
the age of fifteen, and…
ETZ: That's an interesting comment. I think
it's probably true in the arts more than anywhere
else.
NR: Well I knew very, very early what I wanted
to do, and I considered myself very lucky
because I think that most people don't know
what they want to do…ever…including rich
people. To become rich is not a goal, really,
as I see it. But to be an artist, so called,
is, sort of, the least neurotic of adventures,
despite the reputation of artists in general
as being crazy or being this and that. In
fact, because they know what they want to
do, and if they're appreciated for doing what
they want to do, who can ask for more?
ETZ: Mmm…I like that.
NR: But the appreciation, especially in the
20th Century, is so evanescent. Artists - present
company excluded, since you have the job with
Carnegie Hall - on the whole, artists aren't
paid salaries for being artists. They're paid
for being something else. For knowing about
their art or for their reputation, one can…like
poets make a lot more money talking about
poetry than writing poetry.
ETZ: Do you think this has changed over the
years of your consciousness?
NR: It's changed for the worse, definitely.
ETZ: You mean it's harder for a composer,
you think, to…
NR: I think we're…
ETZ: …to make a living as a composer today?
NR: Yeah, I think we're at the lowest rung
of the ladder ever, in the twenty…in the
hundred years that art has been…Of course,
we have to define what art is, but the…elitist
art, which I think is a pretty good word and
probably true, and so what? There's always
been the art of the masses and the art of
the elite, but today the elite is considered
snobbish and superfluous and generally looked
down its noses by the very, very prosperous
pop art business. I'm not saying that we're
better, or that one thing is better and the
other is worse. But we as composers, you and
I don't really exist at the ken of the general
public. To ea…we're not even a despised
pariah, because to despise something, that
something has to exist. We don't exist.
ETZ: Well.
NR: Except to a teeny-weeny…and by "we,"
I mean composers of so-called contemporary
classical music. This is a dumb definition,
but it's the only one that will…
ETZ: Yeah, I'd say…
NR: …that people can vaguely know what you're
talking about these days.
ETZ: It seems that it's also…there's a possibility
within the world where it seems like all the
rewards, the social and financial rewards
are in the pop field. It does seem to me that
it's possible to carve out a niche that doesn't
reach the entire world, as in we are the world,
which leaves us out but reaches a small corner
of that world.
NR: That's, that's fine.
ETZ: I think the jazz public is a very devoted
public, and I think there's a small but devoted
public for contemporary music.
NR: Of course there is, and why should it
be more? Why does everybody have to like everything?
The thing is that we are not a young composer…what…we
are not part of the general fabric the way
Bach was or the way Debussy even was.
ETZ: Well, I don't know, I…Let's back up
to Bach. He was part of the fabric, but he
was also a teacher of Latin and an organist…
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: …and all kinds of other things as opp…besides
being a composer. His musical…
NR: But his music was played regularly every
Sunday, the way all contemporary music at
that time was, up until about a hundred years
ago. Today, contemporary music, the music
of mine and yours and our colleagues, is not
the music that is understood to be part of
the culture of our times, except by a small
minority. Whether that's good or whether it's
bad is a question of taste.
ETZ: Well, isn't there a trade-off involved?
NR: You see, the trouble with today is that
the either-or is between classical music that's
at least a hundred years old and pop music.
So it's…so the high-brow music's considered
the Three Tenors, for example, or a concert
of Beethoven symphonies. They didn't spend
their lives steeping themselves in the music
of the previous century, neither did they
do it in the 19th Century. It all began, the
business of contemporary music not being an
urgent or even existing part - except in a
teeny-weeny minority - it all began with the
advent of management and big-time public performance.
ETZ: Mm-hm. Oh, what I was thinking about
when I used the word "trade-off" is that…or
the phr…expression "trade-off," is that,
on the other hand, we have the music of Bach
and his contemporaries and people earlier
than him and later than him, and that seems
to me a treasure I would not want to give
up, to be, like, the only game in town. Seems
to me that Bach had to work very hard to explore
his interest in other composers. I mean, there's
this wonderful story about him walking miles
and miles to hear…
NR: Buxtehude, yeah.
ETZ: …Buxtehude play, and his study of Vivaldi.
But certainly our reverence for the past and
the keeping alive the past traditions is something
from which we benefit as well, it seems to
me.
NR: However, I was raised differently from
most people. By a fluke, the first concert
music I was exposed to was contemporary music,
or the contemporary music of my early tens,
which was…
ETZ: Which was?
NR: Debussy and Ravel and John Alden Carpenter
and Gershwin and Copland to some extent other
American composers. And then by the time I
was sixteen I knew everything Stravinsky had
ever written, as well as other minor composers
like Louis Gruenstein. I didn't know any Chopin.
I didn't know any Tchaikovsky. It wasn't until
I left high school and went to Northwestern
and saw…and specialized in the music school
and saw everybody pounding away on their Chopin
etudes who had no idea of Stravinsky or Louis
Gruenstein and I said "Gee, have I missed
the boat, or have they?" I felt that, in a
sense, my education was right and theirs was
wrong. Though, just as with singers, especially
in America, who learn to sing in every language
but their own, badly. In their own they can't
sing at all.
ETZ: Yeah, I, yeah that's a very interesting
point. Running back to the music that you
were first acquainted with, how did you…how
was this acquaintance made?
NR: Because…
ETZ: Through performance, or the radio, or…
NR: My parents, as I say, were intelligent,
a little bit left-wing, a lot left-wing, actually.
They were Quakers, pacifists, and worked in
the N-A-A-C-Pay, the NAACP, and the Society
for the Advancement of Colored People. And
they had a lot of "Negro friends" as the saying
goes. And so when I was twelve years old,
one of those friends, a protege of John Alden
Carpenter, Margaret Bonds, who is dead now
but has a reputation in black music circles
as something of a barnstormer in the…in
that she took spirituals and other things
and made orchestral suites out of them. My
first lesson with Margaret, and I still remember
me, a little white…
ETZ: Now, she was your piano teacher?
NR: Yes, my piano teacher. And I was a little
white boy and I got on the streetcar to go
to Wabash Avenue in South Chicago. And there
was Margaret with her piano and she played
me a lot of music that day. She played me
some Ravel and Debussy…
ETZ: At the piano?
NR: Yes, and I…this is what music was all
about. It wasn't the college songs that I
had learned in grammar school to sing with
the other kids. My parents were not…as I
say, were cultivated, but they were not specifically
musical. They were very lenient, so whatever
Margaret, who was not a fool, thought was
right was right, and from her I went on to
other piano teachers, all female, by the way.
There's no such thing as a male piano teacher
in those days. It's always Mrs. So-and-so,
and they gave you cookies when you left after
your lesson. And if they were less informed
than I was, I would say "I want to learn this
and I want to learn that," and so I did. That's
how people…With, the result is that now
I still have more trouble at a concert accustoming
myself to the nine-thousand seven-hundred
fifty-second performance of a Beethoven symphony
than to a first performance of yours or of
Charles Wuornin's because you and Wuornin,
and whether I like you or not, are bleeding
the blood that I bleed. You are writing out
of a certain necessity that I understand.
This has nothing to do with quality. It has
to do with…it's a sociological thing.
ETZ: Do you think that probably that…I know
that a lot of talk about role models today,
and you mentioned something on a very simple
level about a piano teacher, your first piano
teacher who transcribed things and wrote things.
I had, as a child, I had a trumpet teacher
who used to write etudes for his students.
And these were all very modest things and
little two-part inventions, and it seems to
me that that's a wonderful kind of role model
- pardon the expression - for a young musician,
you know, that people make music. They write
it, they transcribe it, they…
NR: Well, Margaret was not necessarily a role
model. I liked what she liked rather than
liking what she was. And I never had a composer
who was a role model, except dead composers,
Ravel and Debussy mainly.
ETZ: When did you start writing things?
NR: I still remember. I wrote a pice called
"The Glass Cloud"… and Margaret said…
ETZ: How old were you?
NR: Let's say ten.
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: And I made up a lot of little pieces before
that like , "The Farmers" or something or
other, and I gave them very imagistic titles
like the Debussy preludes, and Margaret said,
"I won't really take this seriously until
you can write it down. I will now write down
"The Glass Cloud" for you," which she did
from dictation as I played it. And after that
I felt terribly guilty, so I learned to notate,
and I learned to notate by looking at how
other people did it on published music, which
is, in a sense, still my model. I also remember
that I took "The Glass Cloud" and and something
called "The Fountain and the Stars" - I blush
as I say this -
[ETZ laughs]
NR: [pointing to camera]: Is this in color?
And went to Lionel Healey's and recorded this
stuff, mostly improvising, and sent this…
ETZ: What was the recording mechanism? This
would have been in the thirties, then, huh?
NR: Yes, it was in the late thirties, and
I sent it to John Alden Carpenter who lived
in Chicago, he of "Skyscrapers" fame, and
who did two ballets at least for the DeBasil
company, as far as I know, maybe even the
Diaghilev company as an American. I might
be wrong…anyway for a major ballet company
in those days, "Skyscrapers" and "Adventures
in a Perambulator." And he wrote back. I wish
I still had the two letters I had. I treasured
them. His…
ETZ: What did you send him? Was this a disk?
NR: I sent him a record, and he said, "Well,
learn to write it down, and then when you
sell it and make a lot of money as you say
you are going to…
ETZ: Oh, you…[Laughs]
NR: Please split the results with your teacher,
Margaret Bonds, who's a terrific pianist.
ETZ: It would be lovely to have a copy of
that letter…
NR: Yeah, and then I wrote him again, and
he sent me another letter with his engraved
stationary of a modest red on grey paper on
Sheridan Road in Chicago.
ETZ: It's…I'm getting a different image
here. I hear the son of Quakers, intellectuals,
sort of left leaning, who is now going to
make a fortune writing music. Is this, is
this what you thought?
NR: My parents were not left leaning in the
sense of political. They were not political
people. They were left in the sense that they
wanted equality of the races and of mankind
and so forth, which I…I'm not a bit political
myself. I'm…
ETZ: Were they political or just, just…?
NR: They voted…
ETZ: …Idealistic?
NR: Mother voted for Norman Thomas, who was
a socialist, and Father voted for Democrats.
But they weren't s… they weren't political
in any sense of…they were not… flag-waving
is hardly the word. They weren't…Mother
hated the American flag, and I said, "Well,
look, it's your flag, too," but she hated
it for the people who draped themselves in
the flag so as to impose their own Ku-Klux-Klanish
notions. But beyond that, which is fairly
obvious, she, they, were not political. They
certainly weren't communist in the sense of
sharing the money…
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: …and besides, the letter I wrote to
Carter was just juvenile claptrap.
ETZ: [laughing] Okay…
NR: I would like to make a lot of money, and
I would like…but the only way you can do
that is by conceding in some way or another,
and I'm just…I'm not against conceding,
but I never…I could…I've done a lot of
things but I'm not a whore. I wish I were,
and I can name two or three dear friends who
are…[ETZ chuckles]…in the sense that that
they get on bandwagons and do the kind of
music that's being done at the moment.
ET: The flavor of the month, yeah…
NR: And I think it's great, and I think…and
I'm a little wistful about other people who
can do it. But I think I am…bec…in no
noble way, but I can't write music that doesn't
appeal to me. I can't write twelve-tone music.
I've done a little of it. I can't write serial
music, which I…I'm almost morally against
it. We can talk about that after awhile if
you want.
ETZ: Okay.
NR: Now, as a child, I was…so I was…I
knew what I was. I was a very early alcoholic
and drank to the point…
ETZ: As a teenager, you mean?
NR: Yeah, until age forty-three, and I stopped,
or I'd be dead today. I was homosexual from
the moment that I knew anything about the
sexes, and I never suffered from it the way
that everybody else says they did. I suffered,
I suffered more from being a composer as an
outcast…
ETZ: Yeah…
NR: …than from being gay. It's only in the
past ten years that I've aligned myself to
gay activism when they asked me to, because
I think it's important. But before that, I
found it…I didn't know what all the fuss
was about. And now when I see young people,
especially in the age go AIDS, if Paris is
worth a Mass, as Henry IV said as he converted
to Catholicism, so is the really unimportant
issue of homosexuality. It's important only
politically, 'cause homosexuals are just as
ordinary and dumb as heterosexuals, but insofar
as they're treated as pariahs, somebody must…I
was also an atheist and I still am, and I'm…it's
nothing I'm proud of. It's something that
has to do with…I don't…can't conceive…I
can conceive objectively the need for God,
but I can't conceive objectively or logically
of the fact of God.
ETZ: And yet you write very beautiful choral
music on religious themes.
NR: Yeah. It's interesting that in my huge
musical out…what's the word? Oeuvre…
ETZ: Oeuvre…
NR: …about half that is choral, and about
half the choral music is, in turn, what they
call "sacred" in the racket. I believe in
belief, and in the name of the Lord a great
deal of beautiful poetry and prose has been…has
come to be including by William Penn, who
founder…founded…one of the founders of
Quake…one of the establishers of Quakerism,
wrote a great deal of prose that I've set
to music, but also King David, the singers
in the Bible, and many others. There's a lot
of lousy literature in the name of the Lord,
of course, but there's also a lot of good
literature, and insofar as that is part of
the Mass or whatever church that may commission
me or you, why not? It's as kosher an outlet
as the concert hall.
ETZ: Mmm…Ned, let's reel back a little bit
to your schooling.
NR: Ok…
ETZ: You went to Northwestern? And…
NR: Yeah, at North - before I went to Northwestern,
I wasn't such a hot student in high school.
but it was a progressive high school founded
by the Hutchins…
ETZ: Oh, really?
NR: By Hutchins and, what's the other man's
name..?
ETZ: Adler?
NR: Adler. Adler's still alive someplace.
ETZ: I didn't know that.
NR: And they founded the great…in Aspen…
ETZ: These are Hutchins and Adler of University
of Chicago.
NR: Yes, and that went down to kids one year
old, which was me and my sister, and the Great
Books thing was established in those early
years, when I was, in the thirties, when I
was in high school and nursery school. Then
at the age of sixteen, I graduated - not because
I was smart, it just happened that way - and
went to Northwestern and studied with all
these performing musicians who were okay,
but not…no big deal, but it was fun to be
with them. Interesting…
ETZ: Did you make any friendships that have
lasted?
NR: I sort of did. Ralph Meeker, the movie
star later, was at Northwestern. And other
people, less famous, were at the school. I
wish I cold see some of them now, but I don't
know where they are.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm…
NR: But I was at Northwestern three weeks
or a month ago with Angelina Raya, our soprano
friend, and during a stroll between rehearsals,
I went to 1942 Orrington Street where I roomed
off-campus in this house, just a house. And
there were two boys sitting on the front porch
with long hair and one earring and stuff,
but I nevertheless said, "Hi, is this still
a rooming house? And they said, "Yes…" rather
suspiciously. And I said, "I used to live
in that room…"
ETZ: La plus ça change…
NR: …and they said, "Do you want to come
up and see it?" And I said, "No, I'll come
in fifty-four years again…" But there it
was, and it was just as when I go back to
the utterly unchanged streets of Chicago where
I went to school…in the South Side, which
is now a big ghetto, except for the immediate
University section, which still has a touch
of class. I shed a tear for about three minutes,
and then I get bored. I look…look at the
apartment house where we lived during my really
formative years, and the fence behind it.
It's still like a suburb, almost. And the
fence behind it between me and where Gene
Edwards lived next door still has a sag in
it where I used to jump on the fence to go
over to play with Gene.
ETZ: Mmm.
NR: Absolutely, I can still remember the physical
feeling of jumping over. At Northwestern,
I stayed for two and a half years. The draft
was on. I got out of the army…
ETZ: This would have been…
NR: From 1940 to 1943, and I told the Arm…I
got…I went into a class called 4E, which
is conscientious objection. Then I said, I
don't want to be 4E. I object to war, all
war, but not at the expense of stopping my
life and not being a musician. So I reapplied
and was nearsighted and flat feet and various
other things, and then Father took a bunch
of my notebooks and went to Curtis in Philadelphia,
and showed them to Curtis, and they accepted
me in mid-semester on a scholarship. So I
lived away from home.
ETZ: Now, did you study with Scalero?
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: Then at Curtis?
NR: And the thing I got out of Curtis, because
I was nineteen by now…I knew a thing or
two about counterpoint, and Scalero gave everybody
counterpoint and more counterpoint and more
counterpoint. He had, ten years earlier, given
Menotti and Barber, who were his two prize
pupils, a very good education. But they were
a lot younger than I was at the time, ad I
didn't like Scalero. He was a fascist bastard.
ETZ: Really?
NR: Plus, I think…
ETZ: Literally, you mean?
NR: Well, he wa…yes, he was fascist in the
sense that he said, "I will not allow you
to compose original music. You've got to write
all these counterpoint lessons 'til they come
out of your ears." And the other six students,
all male, never became buddies of mine because
I somehow didn't approve of this post-Brahmsian
style they were all…
ETZ: Was Lukas [Foss] there when you were
there?
NR: No, he had already been there.
ETZ: He had already been.
NR: Yeah, and…
ETZ: This one?
NR: That's fairly…
ETZ: Or this one?
NR: They're both saintly.
ETZ: Oh, saintly.
NR: The trouble with you is your lack of diabolicism.
[ETZ laughs] Where were we?
ETZ: Oh my…
NR: You, yeah, the friends.
ETZ: Someone once said to me, "You look too
wholesome to be a composer."
NR: Did someone say that to you?
ETZ: Yeah, and I found myself making an argument:
"Gee, I'm not really so wholesome after all."
I said, "This is ridiculous! It's OK to be
wholesome!"
NR: That's, yeah…Never assume the other
person's right and you're wrong. [ETZ laughs].
They're always wrong!
ETZ: Ned, can we go forward a little bit.
So you made some very good friends at Curtis,
but…
NR: I can finish my whole life in another
five minutes.
ETZ [laughing]: Well, please don't do that!
NR: Ah, from Curtis, I left in mid-stream.
I came to New York.
ETZ: Were there any other people that we,
you know, might mention you were close to
at Curtis? Like [Eugene] Istomin?
NR: For example, I met a girl, Shirley Rhodes,
who's now married to George Perle, but I don't
want to get into that because…for various
reasons - although this is private archives.
So Shirley, who…I stayed in the house with
her and her mother, who just died at the age
of 102, by the way, her mother…
ETZ: Ooh, really?
NR: …and she became, I would say, sort of
my best female friend for fifty years. We
are not close any longer, I'm sorry to say,
for various reasons.
ETZ: Was Bernstein around then?
NR: He had already graduated.
ETZ: He had already gone…
NR: But once in '43, and I was there-there
literally all of '43, from January through
December because, as I say, the war was on,
and I went in mid-mid-term, so they made exceptions
all over the place. Shirley said, "When you
go to New York to get drunk next time, and
to hear…and to go to Carnegie Hall," which
we'll get into after a while, "Look up Lenny
Bernstein." So I didn't know you were supposed
to phone people. I just knocked on his door,
and he said, "Well, hi." And he was rehearsing
with David Oppenheim, the clarinetist, but
he knew a good thing when he saw it, and he
said, "Come in and stay 'til we're through
rehearsing." And we became very good friends.
It was about six months before he had his
overnight coup…
ETZ: Yes, when he…
NR: Substituting for Bruno Walther…
ETZ: Mitropoulos, Bruno Walther, yes…
NR: Bruno Walther, and interestingly, people
always say later, "Isn't it nice Lenny hasn't
changed since he's become world-famous?" It's
because he was always incredibly conceited
and self-assured [ETZ laughs] so, of course
he didn't change. He knew he was the greatest.
And a very decent person in retrospect despite
the fact that was impossibly difficult all
of his life. But thinking back now, and I
have no complaints, 'cause he played a lot
of my music.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm. I thought he was really an extraordinary…
NR: Did you know him?
ETZ: Yes, I knew him. I actually played with
him for a while - once for him.
NR: In an orchestra?
ETZ: Yeah, and it was a stunning experience.
He was electrifying as a conductor. And he
was working up to playing a piece of mine,
and…
NR: And then died.
ETZ: Yeah, but…
NR: Well, he would have…
ETZ: Yes, he always said…He knew some of
my music, and he said wonderful things about
it. But the thing about him was that, to me,
was that he really was a complete musician…
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: …in a way that is very, very rare.
NR: So that when people say, "Isn't it too
bad that Lenny spread himself so thin." If
he had not spread himself thin, he wouldn't
have been Lenny.
ETZ: I quite agree.
NR: And he was pretty good at all of the things
that he did.
ETZ: Uh-huh.
NR: More, and the jack-of-all-trades is standard
fare for Europe, it always was. It's we Americans
who are such, so pious about general culture
rather than specific culture.
ETZ: Uh-huh. Ned, you wrote a, a charming
little essay that begins, "I lost my virginity
in Carnegie Hall many times, and found it
too…"
NR: Yeah…
ETZ: You want to speak about that for a minute,
because i have found the old programs of Schnabel
that you came down from Philadelphia to hear…
NR: Came up from Philadelphia to hear.
ETZ: Or, came up from Philadelphia to hear.
NR: I think that the first time I was ever
in Carnegie Hall would have been for the Schnabel
complete Beethoven series, whatever month
they were in 1943. Am I right?
ETZ: Here we go.
NR: I went to…the New Friends of Music was
later in Town Hall. So, well it was '43 and
then '44, by which time I was living in New
York. So I was here on that day, whenever
it was, March 20th at 8:45.
ETZ How…what was that like?
NR: I had already heard Schnabel in Chicago
several times on a series called The Adult
Education Concert Series. And, as a family
we subscribed to it, so heard every year five
of the major pianists at the time. We also
had a season subscription to the New York
orchestra, which was [under] Frank Stock in
those days, who, in 1940 interestingly, commissioned
everybody still living, in 1940, for their
fiftieth anniversary. And fifty years later,
they did it again. I wrote a big piece for
'em. It never occurred to me in 1940…
ETZ: That you would be...
NR: That fifty years later I would be, I would
be one…I would be like Milhaud or Stravinsky
Symphony in C, or the Chavez Concerto for
Four Horns, all of those pieces, when I sixteen,
seventeen, I was raised with. So Schnabel
played, and he was a sloppy, but conscientious
and inspired German genius, and also a composer,
as I guess you know.
ETZ: Yes, I do. How would you compare his
playing in these concerts, as opposed to the
recordings that he made of the…
NR: I don't know if I've ever listened to
the recordings. They were the same thing.
ETZ: Yeah, I just wondered.
NR: I guess…
ETZ: Fine. It's interesting. I see that, that
Robert Shaw was conducting the Collegiate
Chorale.
NR: As early as 19… Well, and I heard these
all the time and still in the 40s he commissioned
Hindemith to do "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard
Bloom'd." But I don't think, for some reason,
he did it in Carnegie Hall. Did he…Is this
Carnegie Hall?
ETZ: Town Hall.
OCV: It was Town Hall.
ETZ: Yeah. There's another br…Every one
of these things has a bra or corset ad.
NR: "The bra for bosom beauty, Flex-Air."
"Speak Spanish."
ETZ: Oh!
NR: All these people come back to me.
ETZ: Rudolph…
NR: Serkin was teaching, though not yet the
head of Curtis at that time. Here's more of
the Beethoven cycles.
ETZ: I know Edward Kilenyi.
NR: Sure.
ETZ: In fact, I still know him. He's still
alive. He taught at Florida State. Matter
of fact, I took his class in the Beethoven
piano sonatas. It was a wonderful, wonderful
experience.
NR: Are these all the programs for Carnegie?
ETZ: Yes, this is…this is everything from
the…
NR: 'Cause I brought…
ETZ: 1943-44 season.
NR: Oh, I brought it, up to the 1949 season…
ETZ: Okay.
NR: Where I first came…
ETZ [to Camera Operator]: 'Scuse, 'scuse me,
Nick. I just…We ought to jump ahead to…[to
NR] Although I think we…I ought to allow
you to at least say what it is you meant about
losing your virginity at Carnegie Hall, and…
NR: Well, it means, what's, what does virginity
mean? It means that you…it means losing
your innocence, I suppose. And so it can be
a metaphor for anything, and I heard so many…It
means doing something for the first time,
so I heard the Beethoven cycle for the first
time, and I heard all, except for what I had
heard in Chicago. I heard a great deal of
this and that for the first time, and also
in the company of my peers. Curtis was a lot
more sophisticated in spite of the fact that
there were little twelve-year-olds playing
rings around Horowitz, technically. I felt
much more in the swing of things at Curtis,
although a little ostracized because I was
a composer and because my friends sort of
pooh-poohed Scalero, and I did, too?
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: When I came to New York on those various
visits in 1943, I met Lenny, and Lenny gave
me a…called up Aaron Copland, said, "I'm
gonna send Ned Rorem over to you. You'll love
him." So I went over to see Copland for the
first time in '43 and played my little dumb
pieces for him. And then I went to see Virgil
Thomson, and Virgil said to me…I had already
seen him on a stage during a panel a few years
earlier and was very impressed. He was with
three others, Lehman Engel and Cecil Smith
and a woman, I've forgotten who, and maybe
another person. And I found him…on one of
those endless things like, "What is the meaning
of music?" ands forth. And then everyone said,
"Well, music soothes the savage breast" and
quoted Shakespeare. And Virgil said, "How
wrong they all are. Music is what musicians
do. It's as simple as that." And it seemed
like such a professional notion for…instead
of wallowing around in sentimental gook. You
learned to write music the way Bach did, and
then you write it. It's either good or it
isn't.
ETZ: I like his definition of American music,
too.
NR: Yes, the same thing…
ETZ: It's music written by Americans.
NR: Mmm-hmm. Then Virgil said, "Are you a
good copyist?" And I said, Yes. And he said,
"Show me some." So I sent him some. Then he
gave me a piece of his to copy, and I sent
it - for solo flute - and I sent it back to
New York. Then he said, "If you want to be
my regular copyist, you'll have to move to
New York." So, without telling my mother and
father, I left Curtis, this illustrious scholarship
school and went to New York, and they were
mad as hell. They were upset, rather, but
I learned. And Virgil…I give…I copied
his music with mixed feelings, but he gave
me orchestration lessons, and I also, as I
copied…
ETZ: Did he pay you?
NR: He paid me twenty dollars a week.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm…
NR: Of which, five dollars went to beer to
get drunk with. Ten dollars went to Morris
Golde, with whom I was living, to pay the
rent, and five dollars I put in the bank.
And both my father and Virgil were impressed
with the bank part of it.
ETZ: That's very impressive.
NR: I am too, in retrospect.
ETZ: This was what year?
NR: 1944.
ETZ: '44, '44-'45?
NR: I lived with Morris, who's still a very
good friend.
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: You know Morris.
ETZ: Sure.
NR: Then, I can remember everything Virgil
ever said, and I was copying, he would be
running the world, as a critic of he Herald-Tribune
from his bed in the side room, and I would
eavesdrop on all of his phone conversations
and all of his guests. And he received the
cream if the crop, by which I don't mean the
movie stars, but first-rate musicians, people
I'd heard about, or would hear about. And
on the Herald-Tribune…
ETZ: Was this at the Chelsea Hotel?
NR: At the Chelsea Hotel, yeah, where he lived
his whole life. And he had a very nice pad
at the Chelsea. And his bedroom, and then
a dining room where I was, and then the parlor.
The second stringers on the Herald-Tribune
whom he employed were all, unlike the Times,
were all practicing composers.
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: He believed in that. Paul Bowles, for
example, who was here because of the war.
Here, meaning New York. Bill Flanagan, for
a while. Jay Harrison, Peggy Glanville-Hicks,
others who he couldn't get rid of or who,
I dunno, because they already had contracts
with the paper.
ETZ: That's an interesting fact that the…at
that time it was considered almost a qualification
to be a music critic, to be a working musician.
NR: Except…
ETZ: Whereas today, at the Times, it's…you're
not allowed to be…
NR: Even then they weren't allowed to be…
ETZ: If they could.
NR: Bec…the idea that you would be biased,
'cause you're going to be biased anyway. And
Virgil, amongst critics today, now fifty years
later, is still the most revered. They may
hate him; they may think he's giddy; but they
all learn, first of all, how to write well.
In other words, how to write French and English,
rather than German and English. [ETZ chuckles]
Say what you have to say. Use Anglo-Saxon
rather than Latinized. Don't say, "She sang
off-pitch" if you can say "She sang out of
tune." Or rather, don't say, "She had faulty
intonation," which is hoity-toity.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: She sang off pitch or she sang out of
tune. In other words, direct language to communicate
what happened last night. And all of this
was a very practical education for me.
ETZ: Were you writing diaries at this point,
Ned, or…
NR: No.
ETZ: Did that come later?
NR: That came a year later, after Morris kicked
me…he kicked out. I went to Juilliard then
in 1945-46 to make my parents happy and began…I
still remember, at Juilliard to get a degree
rather than a diploma. You had to take courses
in English literature and so forth. And I
took those at NYU, and one day the teacher
of the class said something that struck me,
and I went home and wrote it down. And I bought
a little book to write it down and started
my diary in 1945, and wrote it, in it ever
since.
ETZ: Hmm. That's interesting. Ned, when did
you move to Europe?
NR: In 19…
ETZ: Or, who did you study with at Juilliard.
Let's get it down.
NR: At Juilliard, I studied with Bernard Wagenaar.
ETZ: And that was in…
NR: And then I stopped for a year, and I went
back to Juilliard to get a Master's, and I
had fugue with Giannini. I liked both of them,
but I didn't think of…
ETZ: Did you say you had fugue with him?
NR: Fugue…
ETZ: Or that you had a feud with him?
NR: No, Fugue, with Giannini.
ETZ: Fugue.
NR: And I studied piano with a secondary teacher
whose name I've forgotten, a woman. I…the
things that I learned at Juilliard were not
musical things. They were English history,
a class in hygiene…
ETZ: Hygiene.
NR: …that we had to take as part of the
physical education thing because, again, because
of the war. And I made friends, but not…there
were people at Juilliard, like Robert Craft
was at Juilliard then, but it was a much bigger
school than Curtis. And so I remember…
ETZ: This was up on Morningside Drive?
NR: Yeah, and…
ETZ: Not Morningside Drive, but near the…
NR: Robert Starer was there, but I wasn't
buddies with any of them.
ETZ: Did you make any long-lasting friends?
NR: I didn't make any lifelong friends at
Juilliard. The friends I made were a lot old…I
already knew Virgil, his milieu, a whole generation
older.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: A generation and a half, and I was more
interested in them, at least sociologically,
if not…
ETZ: Sure…
NR: …carnally, than the people at Juilliard.
I dob't think I ever had any f-, I had a fling
with one person at Juilliard at that time,
whose name I've forgotten.
ETZ: How gallant.
NR: I'm not so gallant.
ETZ: Ned, then you went to Paris?
NR: Then I wrote a piece at Juilliard called
Overture in C.
ETZ: Ah-hah…
NR: Then I submitted it to the George Gershwin
Memorial Award. Are you listening?
ETZ: I'm listening. I'm walking over, getting
the program.
NR: And it won, to my astonishment, 'cause
I deserved the award, but the piece didn't.
It wasn't a very god piece. It won, and this
was the second or third year of the this prize,
which meant that the piece would be played
by the New York Philharmonic in Carnegie Hall.
Do you have a program for it there?
ETZ: We certainly do. George…
NR: Jesus…
ETZ: …Gershwin Memorial Concert.
NR: Well…
ETZ: Again, corsets and bras.
NR: Uh, where am I? Intermission. Ned…
ETZ: There we go.
NR: Ned Rorem, correctly spelled. And he,
Oscar Hammerstein, whom I loved. I just…he
was a nice, pock-marked mentor of Steven Sondheim.
As a matter of fact, he gave me the thousand
dollars on behalf of…B'Nai B'Rith and then
they played my piece…
ETZ: A thousand dollars in 1949 must have
gone a long way.
NR: It meant that…is this '49?…So I bought
a ticket to France, around-trip ticket to
France, and went to France, but never came
back. I went to France like everybody else
was going that…in those post-war years,
for the summer, but various things, including
love, kept me there for the next eight years.
And they made me more what I am than anything
before, I suppose, living in France amongst
the French, rather than among expatriates,
and among people who are…It never occurs
to you when you're young you're gonna meet
legends, let alone befriend them. But then
you do, and so the people that I loved became
friends, and of course, once they're friends,
they're no longer legends, they're just people…
ETZ: Sure
NR: …with their vulnerabilities and so on.
That plus three major love affairs plus…and
my music got to be played in France. I had
a Fulbright with Honegger, and I liked him
a lot, but I didn't learn enough…a great
deal. I went down to Morocco for two years
to live, during which I really started writing
my first of everything: first symphony, first
quartet, first thing without being in the
rat race of competition that was in Paris
and New York, so I got a lot done fortuitously.
The right things happened at the right time..
the time and space to be able to work without
distraction. And then I met a woman, Marie-Laure
de Noailles, again, a generation older than
me, rich, famous, powerful…
ETZ: Now this is in Paris…
NR: In Paris. I lived in her house then for
five years, and again, the ease of the life
didn't make me into a gigolo, but into a hard-wo…I
think that every composer should be given
everything and not have to give anything in
return except his music, or her music. And
that's how it was, and think that I'm…the
Quaker in me is a responsible person.
ETZ: That's interesting. I'll just take this…
NR: Michel Piastro, the conductor, was famous
for being…for having the Longines Sinfonietta
[Symphonette] at that time. Magic words for
radio audiences. Alec Templeton was on the
same program. And a very nice man, the little
I saw of him.
ETZ: Hmm. It's always interesting to me, when
you pull out these programs from the 40s,
that the music publishers are advertising,
you know, like, here's an ad from Carl Fischer,
"Contemporary Music for Piano: Roy Harris,
American Ballads, dollar-twenty-five; Alberto
Ginastera, Twelve American Preludes, each
volume a dollar…"
NR: I didn't realize that at all.
ETZ: Yeah. Virgil Thomson, Ten Etudes, $2.50…
NR: I copied those pieces, those e…those
Ten Etudes.
ETZ: Oh, really? That's a…
NR: And I think he wrote…
ETZ: There's so many intersections, it's…
NR: And he'd written for E. Robert Schmitz,
a major French pianist, despite his name,
at that time. And Virgil also got me my piano
teacher while I was studying with him, which
was a pupil of E. Robert Schmitz, a woman
named Betty Crawford. I wonder where she is
now…
ETZ: I love these old programs…
NR: Don't you, though?
ETZ: Myself. They're very…so, this was the
enabling…this really enabled your…
NR: Yes, I suppose.
ETZ: …your stay in, in Europe…got you
started.
NR: And then I cashed in my plane ticket the
following September and stayed on in France.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm…
NR: And finally just cashed it in and stayed
on in France and Morocco and came back to
America for three months in 1952, and then
came back to stay in '57.
ETZ: Now in '56, you had another major performance.
This was your first Carnegie Hall performance.
NR: That's the first Carnegie Hall.
ETZ: The Overture in C.
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: The prize-winning overture. Then you
had a performance of your First Symphony in
1956, with Anonini…
NR: Yes, I f…that was…and that's a good
piece. It's published by Southern, Pierce
Southern now. It was played, gee, perhaps…It
was written in 1950, I think, and played in
Vienna in '51 by Jonathan Sternberg, who's
still around, and played by maybe a dozen
different orchestras until it fell out of
the repertoire and is still out. And Antonini,
and I suppose I knew him through Oliver Daniel
who was running the…founded, what was it?
ETZ: BMI, wasn't it?
NR: Not BMI, but CR…the thing under BMI.
What is it called?
ETZ: I don't know…oh, ACA, or…
NR: ACA. He founded ACA.
ETZ: Antonini was at CBS, wasn't he?
NR: I think he was, yes.
ETZ: He conducted the orchestra at CBS.
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: And they still, in those days…the major
radio stations had symphony orchestras as
I understand…
NR: Yes, WOR, on Wednesdays at midnight. Wallenstein,
Bernard Hermann, they had these radio orchestras
who played terrific things. The…Bernard
Hermann, for example, the first time I ever
heard Wozzeck was Aileen Ferrell sang three
extracts from Wozzeck at midnight 'cause these
were live, and Ben Weber taped them, and I
heard the tape, and they're magical. It's
the only twelve-tone music that…
ETZ: Berg.
NR: …that speaks to me.
ETZ: Yeah, yeah, Berg speaks to me, too. It's
music that…of course, I feel that when you're
talking about twelve-tone technique or any
technique, I don't think that technique writes
pieces. I think people do, and if there's
something that lights a fire in a composer,
whatever the technique…
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: …it's the fire you're interested in,
and Berg, to me, has it. There's another bra
ad [NR laughs]. Now, what was the National
Association for American Composers and Conductors?
NR: Gosh, I don't know.
ETZ: Do you remember what it was, or…?
NR: Now, did they sponsor this concert?
ETZ; Yes, and they did a piece by George Chadwick,
Jubilee…
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: …your First Symphony, advertised as
the first New York performance, a piece by
John Powell, and Ulysses Kay, Serenade for
Orchestra.
NR: Yeah…John Powell, it seems to me, wrote
a "Rhapsodie Negre" for piano. Is that correct?
ETZ: Mmm, yeah, that's it.
NR: And Ulysses, I may or may not have met
him. We did…we became…yes, I would have
met Ulysses as early as 1951 in Rome.
ETZ: Now, were you…you came back from Europe
for this concert, or…
NRL No.
ETZ: You didn't come to the concert?
NR: No, I came back, the way I had in '52,
I came back for a season. In this case, I
came back for four or five months.
ETZ: In 1956?
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: But you don't…do you remember the concert,
or…?
NR: I do. I remember that I sat on stage,
on one of the little boxes, stage left. And
I remember I went with Gene Stein. I remember
Gore Vidal was there, of all people. And that's
about it. I have, I must have a review of
it someplace in a scrapbook, but I don't know
where it is.
ETZ: Are you interested in reviews? Do you…
NR: I like reviews.
ETZ: …collect them, and…
NR: And I don't like bad reviews, but worst
of all I hate no reviews. Yes, I'm interested
in reviews. John Corigliano says he never
reads any reviews by anybody, about anybody,
including himself. And I suppose I read…you
have to believe it if he says so…
ETZ: I find that hard to believe, but I'll
ask him.
NR: Yeah, because one is interested to read
reviews.
ETZ: I think it would be…it's one of those
things…it'd be very hard not to…
NR: I don't think they make any difference.
They can't ruin a composer, but they can ruin
a performer.
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: Because performers save their money to
give these concerts that cost a great deal
of money, programs, a new dress, all that,
and then, then he isn't even reviewed.
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: Or they get lambasted or something, but
a composer can't be destroyed by a review.
On the other hand, a good review, which is
nice to read…I usually read a good review
once and a bad review twice. I never agree,
because you can't say the essence of anything
about music…you can't say it in words, because
if you could, you wouldn't need the piece
of music.
ETZ: Yeah, that's right. I think also, you
know, whether you're a performer or a composer,
- and I do agree that we're in a much better
position because the music still exists after
the concert and after the review - but I think
you have to read those very dispassionately
so that, you know, when they call you a genius
you don't hold your head and say, "From now
on, I'm never takin' out the garbage! I'm
a genius!" And if they say something very
negative, you don't slash your wrists, you
know. That you sort of, you sort of take it
as a thing that happens to you because you're
in this field. And you sort of have a kind
of distance where you don't go all the way
with the feeling that one could have.
NR: I sometimes, as you know, I write prose
as well as music, and I write a lot about
other people's music, but I never write about
my own. Or seldom, mainly because I'm not
that interested in what other composers have
to say about their music.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm…
NR: Bec…I'd rather hear the music. I wish
they'd just tell me how long it is before
they put the tape on, and they, you wrote
it for this trumpet player or that violinist
or something. You can talk about music until
the cows come home, and when composers talk
about it…I had to talk about the other day
at a pre-concert lecture, and I very sweetly
said to Rob Schwartz, who was the Ellen Zwilich
in my life that day, there's three ways you
can talk about it. You can talk about it in
the sentimental way, for women's clubs, which
no longer exist, about "I was in love. I had
diverticulitis at this time, but I also took
walks under the moonlight, and suddenly the
truth came to me." Well, that's bullshit.
Then you…
ETZ: Probably, except for the diverticulitis.
NR: Except, yeah. [laughs] The…I would like
to think that is, too. Oh gosh…then you
can talk to students or young people about
the second theme and the third theme, and
I try…"I think I was doing this in the piece,
but, in fact, I've forgotten." I've read criticisms,
or rather, statements on my music but, and
said, "Gee, did I really do that?", in a program
note. I'd forgotten. And then the most interesting
way is simply, how much money was the commission?
How long did it take to write it? People like
to know that, for some reason. How long did
it take you to write that? Can, can you really
hear all those notes in your head? You know
those questions. And, How do you orchestrate?
and so forth. Those all have practical answers,
and you could put the lay person at rest by
trying to be cordial in your answers. But
when I write about other people's music, it's
like you were mentioning a while ago - John
Simon writing plays, and you want to go hear
the play. Usually, with music criticism, it's
too late. By the time they write it up, it's
already in the universe someplace. What do
I do? What I listen for in any music, including
Richard Strauss, is a French edge to it, which
is what gets me. And if it's French for me,
then it's French for me. That satisfies me.
And insofar as it's German - in other words,
prolix rather than economical - I may admire
it and respect it, but I don't need it.
ETZ: You, uh…
NR: That goes for Schubert, too…
ETZ: I have heard you say before that…
ETZ: …really, the first really, really big
performances. This is Leonard Bernstein with
the New York Philharmonic, 195- 1959, in April.
NR: Yes. I clearly, clearly, clearly remember
that. He, Bill Russo was on the same program,
and Maynard…
ETZ: And Irving Fine, I see.
NR: And Irving Fine, and Russo…Maynard Ferguson
had a…
ETZ [quietly]: Right.
NR: I mention that because I saw Maynard Ferguson
in the…picture in the paper the other day.
He's still playing the trumpet.
ETZ: I she really?
NR: Yes.
ETZ: I remember him…
NR: Hoary old thing with grey hair…
ETZ: Yeah…
NR: And a trumpet raised to his lips. And
I was impressed…
ETZ: Russo was a sort of big-band arranger,
wasn't he?
NR: For Woody Herman.
ETZ: And was this that kind of a piece? It's
his Symphony…
NR: Yeah, it was…yeah…
ETZ: …No. 2 in C, "Titans." Premiere…
NR: Yeah…
ETZ: with Maynard Ferguson.
NR: …little bit pretentious, like the title.
But I remember the piece well. Mine was, was
a better piece than his, but then…
ETZ: And this was your Third Symphony…
NR: Yeah, the second was written for Vladimir
Sokolov in California. It's a less good piece.
It has nice things in it. It's in three movements,
I think, maybe four, maybe three…
ETZ: The concert opened with Irving Fine,
Serious Song.
NR: Yeah, I remember that piece. Short piece.
ETZ: Your Third Symphony. Then Russo's Second
Symphony. Intermission.
NR: That was a…
ETZ: Then Isaac Stern played the Beethoven.
NR: That's right, yeah. And I had to sit through
that Beethoven four times.
ETZ: Here again I see they're advertising
printed music. Vocal scores and study scores
in the programs as well as…
NR: I remember tha…
ETZ: This, this advertisement for Heifetz,
RCA Victor…
NR: …the rehearsal for the Third Symphony,
the first rehearsal. I was late because I
was on unemployment insurance at the time,
having written background music for a Tennessee
Williams play, which then folded. So, I qualified
for unemployment. You had to wait in line
every week to get your check. And the irony;
here is a major orchestra in a major hall
with a major conductor doing the premier of
my symphony, but I'm late because of unemployment
insurance. That's how composers fit into the
American scene.
ETZ: Yes, I have one of…not quite the same
story but a very similar one.
NR: It's sordid [ETZ laughs].
ETZ: Here's a picture of Bernstein in 1950.
NR: God, he looked good then, didn't he?
ETZ: Yeah, beautiful.
NR: Tilson-Thomas imitates him, doesn't he?
The picture I have of me and Lenny is much
later. It's just about eight years ago. I
put it in this book, so you can take that
now, if you want.
ETZ: Yes, it'd be nice.
NR: Uh, it's by…here it is. [to Camera Operator]
Is this good enough for you?
Camera Operator: Yeah, sure, sure.
NR: That's Lenny on the right. [ETZ laughs]
That's me, standing up. And we can pretend
it's in Carnegie Hall, though, in fact, it's
at the Dakota. The earlier picture of me and
Bill Flanagan and Virgil is…
ETZ: Yes, I'd like to see those,'cause we
don't have programs, but…
NR: Well, here's, here it is. This is for
Carnegie Hall, an…a publicity picture. That's
Bill Flanagan in the middle…
ETZ: …one could never tell.
NR: …Virgil on the left, and me on the right.
Publicity picture, 1959. [to Camera Operator]
Can you see this OK?
Camera Operator: Yes.
ETZ: Ned, tell us about this, 'cause this
is something we don't have programs for. But
you and William Flanagan…
NR: Bill, Bill Flanagan was my best friend
among composers…platonic and mutual admiration
society. And we were amongst the three or
four Americans writing songs who gave a damn
about writing songs, meaning pieces of under
five minutes for voice and piano.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: And we decided, why not make an issue
of it? And so we gave a concert of just his
and my music, the two of us, in 1959. Of songs.
Pat Neway sang mine, Patricia Neway, who was
pretty well-known then as Menotti's chief
diva. I don't know where she is now. She married
Lee Hoiby's boyfriend, and they both got fat,
and they're rolling around in a kitchen someplace
in Vermont, last I heard. But she was a major
star. She did Magda Sorel in The Consul, and
in France, people just laid down in the street
when she came over…came by. Plain looking,
a peasant-ish, with a beautiful voice and
intense presence on a stage. Anyway, she was
my singer. And Bill had some people of his
own. The Herald-Tribune, of course, reviewed
it dithyrambically. Bill was on the Tribune
at the time. Jay Harrison reviewed it. Virgil
had long since been off the Tribune, so I
forget who who…who was the big number, Francis
Perkins, maybe, on the, on the Herald-Tribune.
So we decided…
ETZ: How many newspapers were there in New
York at the time?
NR: About eight.
ETZ: That's a real change, isn't it?
NR: Then we decided to give another concert
but have a guest artist, so we asked Aaron
Copland. And Aaron accompanied his Emily Dickinson
songs. We said, "If you play on the program,
we'll get the audience. You don't have to
go around begging, as people always do." Then
we gave a third one in which Virgil was the
guest artist. And then we gave a last one
in which, again, it was a mixed bag: Him,
Bill and me and other songwriters of the time.
Daniel Pinkham was one. And then we felt we'd
done our good deed, and that was the end of
that. But they were a, sort of a legendary
thing, we like to feel, and…like the Sessions-Copland
concerts…
ETZ: Yeah, I was just gonna say, this is about
the same time as the Sessions-Copland concerts.
NR: No, that was…
ETZ: Was that…
NR: Easily, no, that was fifteen, twenty years
earlier. That was a thirty…
ETZ: Earlier?
NR: …thirties thing. But that was Carnegie
Recital Hall. And I did a lot of stuff at
Carnegie Recital Hall.
ETZ: Now, this was by way of, sort of introducing
you back to your home in the States?
NR: I suppose so, yeah, 'cause I had known
Bill in the forties, before I went to Europe,
and I never dug him particularly. And when
I came back from Europe, and he was…he lived
with Edward Albee. They were a thing, an item.
And Edward had money, and he had to a large
extent subsidized these, the first of these
concerts.
ETZ: Oh, that's very interesting.
NR: Yeah. I remember he paid for an ad in
The Village Voice, and The Villager, which
may still exist.
ETZ: This was in, this would be the late…
NR: 1959 through '61.
ETZ: So where does this fit in his output?
NR: When he became famous overnight with Zoo
Story, he no longer, uh…
ETZ: But that must have been around this time.
NR: It was around, yeah, he…actually, Zoo
Story was 1960.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? was 1962.
Then Bill, who always liked to think of himself
as a great star, but he wasn't, began to languish
and finally died in '69. Whereas, Edward went
on to high places and then faded, and now
he's back again. I never see him.
ETZ: It's interesting how you have always
had a circle that included more than just
musicians. That Albee would be an important
part, Edward Albee would be an important part
of your cycle is very interesting to me.
NR: Yeah, I've always had…I certainly know
as many literary people as I do musical people.
A lot of music people I know in the line of
duty, like performers. People…composers
don't really know composers, performers much,
except the ones that are playing their music.
I'm certainly not interested in hobnobbing
with Itzhak Perlman, except when I have to
sue him, as I did, because he lives across
the street from me. And he has this fucking
air-conditioner. Did I tell you about that?
ETZ: No, I didn't know about this!
NR: Well, he li…I've been where I am for
twenty-five years, and he moved into this
house three years ago with all of his wheelchairs.
And on the ceiling is a ten-million-dollar
air conditioner that throbs twenty-four hours
a day. So I wrote him a letter. I said, "This
won't do." And he was very nice about it.
I know him slightly from parties. When I got
the Grammy, he was the one who gave it to
me. Only I wasn't there, because I didn't
think I was going to get it. So he gave it
to a hand. It is an uninteresting story. I
said to him, "Look, you're a musician too.
How can you live with this going on all night?"
and "I hate coming home in the summer. I ha…It
ruins my sleep at night and it ruins my work
in the daytime." Finally, after a year-and-a-half,
he's done something to it.
ETZ: Got it insulated, yeah.
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: But you sued him?
NR: No…
ETZ: Oh, you just…
NR: …but I would have dome something.
ETZ: You just pleaded with him.
NR: I…he has a secretary with whom…she
and I are on a first-name basis and never
met with all these endless phone calls. And
she sent over an acoustician and stuff. Anyway,
I just want you to know that I know Itzhak
Perlman.
ETZ [laughing]: Sorry about the circumstances.
NR: But he's not…what do they do? You do
things with these superstars more than I do.
You write concertos for them. If they ask
me…
ETZ: Well, I feel very close to musicians.
NR: You mean performing musicians.
ETZ: Yeah, and you know I spent a good part
of my life as a professional violinist, and…so
I just feel very much a kinship with the people
who are performing. And with some performers
I have long-term, really important relationships.
NR: Well, some of them have…are well rounded
and have brains, too. Leon Fleischer, for
example, was in Paris.
ETZ: Yes, he's an interesting man.
NR: And he came to France when we all were,
only he's a little bit younger by three or
four years, which meant a lot in those days.
It doesn't now. And Eugene Istomin is an extremely
intellectual type. But still, they are in
a business of being run by a manager, which
composers aren't. It's not as cutthroat, and
it's not…
ETZ: Their world or our world?
NR: Yes, their world. Cutthroat is perhaps
not the right term, but managers are as much
at fault as anybody in determining the repertory
these days…of everybody…so that…
ETZ: Have you noticed a change over these
years that we're looking at? You think that
managers used to be more adventurous, or…?
NR: Managers have always thought about making
money, and if anything stands in the way,
the repertory is the first to go. It's certainly
true today. It's certainly true of every single
orchestra in America. It's certainly true
of singers. There is not one singer who can
give a recital and even break even, unless
they are a superstar. And then they're a superstar
because of their opera reputation, not their
song reputation.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: So nobody writes songs anymore. I think,
and man…huge, all-powerful czars of management
don't exist anym…longer, like Hurac and
Judson. But there are small, rather tough
managers, and some of them…But if they've
gotten more than three pianists, the rest
of them suffer. They just promote one or two.
And I don't…but I don't know them socially
anymore because there's nothing much that
I have to do with them. If a performer wants
to commission me to do something, it's done
through them and the…my publisher, rather
than through their manager…
ETZ: So you don't…
NR: Maybe through their manager, but I try
to stay out of it.
ETZ: Yeah. Ned, here is another, the next
performance you had at Carnegie Hall, which
is the Detroit Symphony with Sixten Ehrling,
uh…
NR: Oh, before that…wait a second. In 1956,
something very touching happened. David Diamond
said, "It's time for Mitropoulos and you to
get together, and what we will do is that
I, David, will take you for lunch at La Scala
restaurant on 56th Street."
ETZ: Yeah, that was his haunt.
NR: "Dmitri is always there." So David and
I went to La Scala. This is in 19…exactly
in 1956. And he was sitting with somebody.
And David said, "This is Ned Rorem." And Dmitri
said, "David has told me about you. Come and
see me next…Call me up." So I called him
up, and we made a date for me to go and see
him at the Great Northern Hotel the following
Wednesday. Meanwhile, the previous Monday,
I had a horrible experience of a love affair
that collapsed fr…between France and America.
And I was in a state of really prostrate desolation,
but I went to see Mitropoulos. And we chatted,
and blah-blahed, and finally I said, "Look,
I'm in a…I'm in a terrible state. This is
what has happened." And he instantly put aside
the music. He said, "Let's talk about it,
my dear boy," and so forth. "Let's go down
to the Blue Ribbon and have supper." So we
went to the Blue Ribbon and had supper, and
we talked about it. And he said, I still remember
him saying, "How I envy you to be able to
suffer this way from love. It's so long out
of my life." [ETZ laughs.] And then, I left
two scores with him. One was Design, for Orchestra,
which had been recorded by the Louisvi…commissioned
and recorded by the Louisville. He programmed
it for October of 1957 in Carnegie Hall whereupon,
and this is history, for the first time since
the death of Abraham Lincoln, Carnegie Hall,
or else the Philharmonic, I forget which,
went on strike. Is that in the archives? It's
gotta be. And the whole concert…
ETZ: I'm sure it's somewhere, but…
NR: The first concert…the first half of
the whole season was cancelled. And I was
feeling pretty lousy because of that, because
I wanted him to play my piece. So what he
did was he played another piece under other
auspices. He played a piece called…
ETZ: What year did you say this was?
NR: I met him in '56.
ETZ: '56.
NR: The piece would have been the opening
concert of 1957. In other words, September,
October. And look and see if that has a "cancelled"
written across.
ETZ: Yeah, e don't, we don't even have them,
so it didn't show up. We have '56 and we have
'58, '59…
NR: I would like to have known him better.
He then played a Sinfonia for fifteen woodwinds
of mine at a YMCA concert…YMHA concert.
He got sick, ad I went to see him the hospital.
I still remember it. He died whenever he died.
This is a few months…few years later. But
he looked beautiful in the hospital. He had
a huge room at New York Hospital, and he played
with Greek worry beads, which I'd never seen
before. And he was one of a kind.
ETZ: Yeah…
NR: Meaning that, as a conductor, he was unmarried
as a conductor. There's no such thing as an
unmarried conductor. And he played the music
he wanted to play, rather than what was forced
upon him. And yet, he was a virtuoso conductor.
ETZ: We have looked at programs of Mitropoulos
here, with David Diamond and Morton Gould
and Lukas Foss. And they were extraordinarily
interesting programs.
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: And it seems to me that when people who
really had a relationship with him, a professional
relationship with him, speak of him, they
all feel very strong feelings about him. He
must have been a very interesting man. I read
this…the new book, the Trotter book.
NR: It is not a good book.
ETZ: But it does depict the character.
NR: But it's wrong. There's a quote from me
on the back of that book, by the way, and
if I'd known the book was going to be what
it is, 'cause I gave the quote when Oliver
Daniel wrote the book. And it applies to Oliver
Daniel. But this guy took all of Oliver Daniel's
notes and made sort of a sensational thing
out of it. I resent it.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm. What specifically?
NR: Well, all the homosexual parts, for example.
He makes him into a…including me, into that
whole thing, which is incorrect.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: Mitropoulos - I wouldn't call him Dmitri
at all - Mitropoulos and I were strictly professional
friends except for one compassionate evening
where we talked about other things than music.
But he was very close to David Diamond, to
Lenny…
ETZ: Yeah, David likes that book very much.
He's the one that recommended it to me.
NR: Yeah, David says anything to anybody,
and he would've said that to this person.
The fact…obviously you don't know what…who
David knows and doesn't know, except that
David did know Mitropoulos, and they were
very fond of each other.
ETZ: There was a letter to the editor of the
musicians…the International Musician music
paper, which I received because I was given
a lifetime honorary membership in local 802.
And it was a letter from a former player in
the in the Philharmonic who wrote about this
book - how unfair it was about the orchestra,
how it cast them as mischievous bad guys,
and…
NR: I wonder if they were.
ETZ: …the cause of the downfall of Mitropoulos,
and he thought this was very unjust.
NR: Oh, said in this book…one thing he said
was that Lenny Bernstein choreographed Mitropoulos'
downfall so that he, Lenny, could take the
job. I don't believe it for one minute. Lenny
was a lot of things, but he wasn't…he wasn't
a shit.
ETZ: David, David believes that, I know.
NR: That Lenny was the cause of Mitropoulos'
downfall? Well, they'd know…the'd know better
than I. But…
ETZ: It doesn't square with what I knew about
Bernstein either. He didn't have to…
NR: No, he, his…
ETZ: For one thing…
NR: He cer…no, he certainly didn't. It makes
good reading but it's unfair.
ETZ: Does it ever strike you when you're thinking
about history, you know, we talk about the
eighteenth century as though we knew something
about it. And here's something where we're
talking about real people we have known, and
we're talking about a period that's not even
a half a century old, or maybe it…
NR: But everything…
ETZ: …and how ephemeral all these things
are, and how the judgments about what people
were like, even, are difficult to make.
NR: Everything is Rashomon from the minute
it happens. I mean, the three of us right
here, the four of us in this room, if we talk
about it to…go our separate ways tomorrow,
it'll be, it'll be four different impressions.
ETZ: It's interesting.
NR: And we remember what we choose to remember.
We remember…the past is always golden in
its way. But so many people I know say, "But
I don't remember anything." But I do. I remember
everything. I write it down. But I may be…but
David remembers everything because he writes
it down too, but he remembers it wrong. [laughter]
And yet he's David and it's his truth, and
he has as much right to it as anybody else.
And thinking…looking, as I was last night
at the pyramids and the Sphinx on a television
program which was interesting. We don't even
know about those pharaohs, much less the peasants,
or whatever you call them, that built it.
These trillions of people on Earth who have
left nothing of themselves. Not even the dust
of their bodies, which molders immediately.
ETZ: And yet that, that's such am intriguing
story because when you…I was in the Egyptian
museum in Cairo, and it's just an absolutely
stunning experience. The quality of the work.
The artistry. Not just the craftsmanship,
but the visionary artistry of these people
we know so little about. It's really quite
extraordinary. Actually, back to the present,
or the pa…the most recent past, here is
a program from 1965…
NR: Yep.
ETZ: …with the Detroit Symphony.
NR: Ormandy apparently did Eagles in 1960
- a ten minute piece which he premiered and
then took on tour quite a bit.
ETZ: Did he do it here? Because we don't have
'em.
NR: But he did do it here.
ETZ: He did it here.
NR: He did it here, and it was also…and
I wasn't present. But it…because I was someplace
else that night, which did not amuse him.
'Cause I still remember him saying, "Well,
if you have something else to do, I don't
want to keep you from it." We were not buddies
at all. He never…he never even said, "Do
you want to use the bathroom?" which he said
to David Del Tredici, I remember. [Laughter.]
But he played five of my pieces, and I love
him for that. They were wonderful performances
and conscientious ones. Up until before…just
before he went sort of gaga. In what…what
was it? Sunday Morning, which is in eight
movements, he wanted to cut one of the movements
'cause it was just really making it too hard,
and I said, "You and only you can do it, so
do it." And so he did. And I like him for
that. And it was always "Mister Rorem, Mister
Rorem." But I didn't call him anything - he
called me Mr. Rorem. And he did Lions…and
that would be on a concert…I mean Eagles.
ETZ: No, he did Eagles, yes.
NR: And that would be on a concert that was
privately subsidized. This comes back to me.
This is remembering.
ETZ: So that might be the reason we don't
have any archive.
NR: It would have been paid for by…some
electric company or some…or a fundraising
thing. It was a non-reviewed event that took
place at Carnegie Hall.
ETZ: Was it the Philadelphia Orchestra.
NR: Yes…yes.
ETZ: Okay, so then it would be in the archives
of the Philadelphia Orchestra.
NR: Yes, it would be in their archives.
ETZ: [to the camera] For the record, the performance
of Eagles with the Philadelphia Orchestra
and Eugene Ormandy in 1960 was a concert that
might appear in the Philadelphia Orchestra
archives. [to NR] Do you have anything else
before '65?
NR: No, not on this list.
ETZ: Okay.
NR: It would…I'm not including recitalists.
ETZ: Yes, we're just…
NR: 'Cause recital people…This is just orchestra
things.
ETZ: Okay. There's a lot of recital stuff
here. But here's the Detroit Symphony with
Sixten Ehrling…
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: …doing Lions.
NR: He had done the premiere of Lions earlier
that year in Detroit. Then he did it in here…at
the same week that Miss Julie was premiered
at the City Opera on 55th Street.
ETZ: That was a nice, busy week.
NR: It was, yeah. And…
ETZ: This was world premiere of Lions…
NR: It was.
ETZ: According to this.
NR: The New York premiere. He had done the
world premiere in Detroit.
ETZ: Oh, well…
NR: And since Miss Julie was in November,
this would have been November or perhaps late
October.
ETZ: This was October 28th.
NR: Okay.
ETZ: And it claims to be the world premiere.
NR: But it can't have been, 'cause I remember.
ETZ: But we'll, we'll tell, [to camera] we'll
tell the world that it wasn't really the world
premiere.
NR: He had definitely done it in Detroit earlier.
And if I'm remembering wrong, somebody knows
the truth. It'll be in the Detroit archives,
too, I guess.
ETZ: Guess who's playing the Sibelius Violin
Concerto on this program.
NR: Who?
ETZ: Itzhak Perlman.
NR: Was he on that program?
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: In fact, the first time I ever met him
would have been then, 'cause we met at a radio
station, WNYC. And I'd never heard of him,
and he'd never heard of me. And we both very
nice to each other, and he kept talking about
baseball…
ETZ: He must have been…
NR: …what was it, or football.
ETZ: …quite young.
NR: Yeah, he was. So that's when I first…and
we would have been at NYC to plug this concert
of Li…Ehrling concert.
ETZ: Interesting little sign of the times,
right here we have…here's an ad for the
Columbia Masterworks series of Stravinsky
recordings, which was such an important…
NR: That's what Goddard Lieberson was doing
in those days. And that was considered quite
a venture, even for Stravinsky, the most famous
composer then, and of our century. The…th…and…
ETZ: Well, it certainly was. I mean, he did…it
says here forty, more than forty works. I
remember this and finding out about this.
It was an incredible…this was Columbia Records
getting behind a composer that Goddard Lieberson
felt was very important.
NR: And after he died his wife, Vera Serena
[Sudeinka], took over…sponsored a lot of
those pieces.
ETZ: Hmm. Interesting. Ned, my next thing
is 1971. And the…
NR: Well, I've got…what do I have? Okay,
1972. What's that?
ETZ: I have the, the Utah Symphony under Abravanel
doing your Symphony No. 3.
NR: That's right. I forgot to put that on
this list.
ETZ: The same work that Bernstein…
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: …did the premiere of.
NR: He also recorded it, and it was reissued
recently on a…Four American Symphonies,
I think it's called.
ETZ: This also was…as I recall, the Utah
Symphony under Abravanel…
NR: It was.
ETZ: …did quite a bit of recording.
NR: Yes.
ETZ: And it's interesting to see that these
were…there was always the Louisville Project,
I think, for…during this period.
NR: Yeah, but Abravanel didn't commission
pieces.
ETZ: Uh, no, but he recorded.
NR: He recorded pieces.
ETZ: Do you remember what label that was?
NR: Yeah, it was the label Mandels…somebody
named Mendelssohn…
ETZ: Vox.
NR: Vox boxes, they were called.
ETZ: Ralph [George] Mendelssohn, would have
been.
NR: I never met him, I don't think.
ETZ: But now, Vox was a commercial company,
and the Stravinsky series of recordings was
on Columbia.
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: Somebody considered these potential sales.
It's very interesting. It's a change, I think,
that's taken place. I don't think that when
Goddard Lieberson did this he was looking
at the bottom line. I think he though of it
as an important project…
NR: He did, definitely.
ETZ: …rather than an immediate money-maker.
The next thing I have is the first of your
Carnegie Hall performances with Leontyne Price.
Um, 1972.
NR: Yeah, I know Leontyne if anyone knows
her…
ETZ: Here's a picture from around that time.
NR: …in 1954 in Rome. Rome had a…
ETZ: Did you spend a…spend time in Rome...
NR: I spent…
ETZ: …at the Academy or anything?
NR: No. I lived next door to the Academy,
in sin with another person. And there was
a big festival in 1954, before I went to live
there, of contemporary music sponsored by
Nabo…Nabokov. And that was the height of
Boulez's fame, and the concert was all of
this unlistenable stuff until Sam and Leontyne
in this…I think the…
ETZ: Sam Barber, you mean?
NR: Samuel Barber and Leontyne in this same
dress. It was blue…came out on the stage
and Leontyne sang the Hermit Songs. Well,
you can't laugh her off because that was the
most beautiful voice in the world.
ETZ: Oh, I loved her voice.
NR: But the music..I still remember when they
finished the Hermit Songs, somebody in the
audience went [sings] da-da-da-dum. [laughs]
It was considered absolute trash. I loved
it.
ETZ: Really?
NR: Yeah. You don't do that in this day and
age, in 1954, in Europe.
ETZ: Do you feel…?
NR: She was rather humble in those days. That's
before she was at the Met.
ETZ: She wasn't at the Met yet?
NR: She was at the Met…
ETZ: Oh, you mean '54.
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: Yeah, but at this time she was, at '72.
She would have, yeah…
NR: In '72, oh yeah, she was a big star.
ETZ: You mentioned the…this issue of, well,
now our word would be "politically correct."
I mean like the stylistically correct ways
to write music, and everything else is considered…
ETZ: …of stylistic control in music, and
you felt, in the 50s, you were speaking of
the concert in Rome…
NR: That virus, and of course I'm being sort
of facetious, I think what happens in the
arts happens. There's no good or there's no
bad. One can tell in retrospect, usually centuries
later, that there are weak periods and strong
periods, and fallow periods and fruitful periods.
Art doesn't progress, except insofar as it
advances. Progress in itself is not necessarily
good. Cancer progresses. But periods in music
go from contrapuntal to harmonic and then
back to contrapuntal and harmonic forever.
And ever since music has been "Music," in
other words, the past 600 or even 500 years
by…composers who sign their names, unlike
painters, who go back…or sculptors, at least,
who go back thousands of years. We don't know
the names of composers 1000 years ago. They've
gone from complex periods, like Bach to…contrapuntal
periods to harmonic periods, Beethoven and
Chopin and then into…and then they revert
to Wagner, who is then dethroned by Les Six
in France, and then…Each of these things
lasts about a ten…two generations, and then
they go back. We're coming out of the twelve-tone
or integral serialist period. But I was in
the middle of it all when it…and I couldn't
believe what was happening because in Chicago,
all that twelve-tone stuff have proved a little
bit fruitless. [to off-camera person] Is that
alright?
ETZ: Just go ahead and talk, and they'll tape
you up as they go.
NR: I was surprised…I contend, and I can't
prove it, but no one can prove otherwise,
that often, great trends in the arts happen
according to one strong personality, and Boulez
has that personality. And I really think that
he himself swayed the way music went for a
very long time. And certainly in Paris and
in Germany and in New York. And, by extension,
with Stravinsky and Copland and other people
who were very much tonal composers. And I
felt…I said to myself, "Have I…?" It was
like going to Northwestern and hearing people
play Chopin, "Have I missed the boat? My music
is not at all in that style." And people were
much more intolerant in those days than they
are now…composers, of each other's…If
you don't write this kind of music, you're
wrong. And Wuorinen's statement of, "Any composer
who not felt the necessity of the serial method
is not a composer." To which I agree, if you
omit the word not. [ETZ chuckles]. Then when
things began to come back with tonal music,
with a vengeance, with Rochberg and Del Tredici
and later, Steve Reich. I felt, as I've often
said, like the prodigal son's brother. I was…always
been a good boy.
ETZ: You were always at home, yes.
NR: Yeah, and…
ETZ: Well, Ned, don't you think, though, that…I
mean, during this period,it's true that Stravinsky
and Copland did pay homage to…
NR: That's what I'm saying.
ETZ: But, but also it's true that David Diamond
was going his own way . You were going your
own way. Lou Harrison. I mean, we could come
up with a long list of American composers
who…
NR: But David Diamond and Lou Harrison were
very much out of vogue in this period. People
turned up their noses at them.
ETZ: But it didn't stop them from…
NR: No, the did what they were doing. David
capitulated...
ETZ: I didn't, you either, which is very…
NR: It's…and as I say, I would like to be
a whore, but I couldn't. So a lot of people
were raised in this Eric…in this Fromm condition.
What was his first name?
ETZ: Paul Fromm.
NR: Paul Fromm. Nice man.
ETZ: You mean Paul Fromm, the, the patron
of…
NR: Yeah. Did you ever meet him?
ETZ: Yes, I certainly did.
NR: Well, could you ever understand a word
he said?
ETZ: No.
NR: I though I'd once like to give a party
and ask him, ask Bernard Holland, who stutters
pitifully, and ask Virgil Thomson who [speaking
in falsetto] speaks way up there, and see
what the conversion goes to. But Fromm, I
think since this music was so difficult, big
orchestras never played it, so a whole new
outlet, which was the university, is what
played it, thanks to the money of Paul, Paul
Fromm and the chutzpah of Pierre Boulez. I
feel nothing came out of it, nothing, but
that's me talking. And who am I? Looking back,
though, I can't think of any catalog of music
that's emerged from this. I think that Elliott
Carter probably wouldn't have done what he
is doing if he didn't have the intellectual
push of Boulez behind him. And he's still
played all over the…
ETZ: In Europe, yeah.
NR: All over the world. And Europe is still
a little bit serial minded.
ETZ: Looking forward to…
NR: If you live long enough, you'll come back…something
good happens. But if Elliott Carter had died
at the age of forty, he would not be known
today for the early works that he did. Likewise
John, John Cage, I think. And perhaps, Milton
Babbitt is not known for his music, he's known
for his premises.
ETZ: It's interesting, though, we historically
have two models of composers: there's the
composer that peaks very early and does fabulous
work, and, you know, such as Mozart…
NR: Yeah, well, there's no rules.
ETZ: …you could die at thirty-five and,
and have this incredible repertoire behind
you…
NR: Yeah…
ETZ: …or Schubert. And then there's.
NR: And then there's another. There's other
people who peak and then stop, but live to
be eighty. Sibelius, for example.
ETZ: Yes…
NR: And, I think, is it Rossini?
ETZ: Rossini, yes, absolutely.
NR: They just stop when they, like, when they've
made their money, as though it were a practical
thing. Then there's…
ETZ: But then there's a composer like Haydn,
and like Verdi, who later in life, began to
really sort of morph, be what they are…
NR: So there's no rules. And Verdi certainly
wrote…
ETZ: I don't think so.
NR: There's no rules. And there's other people
who commit suicide very young. There are other
people who, and you can't tell until a person
is dead whether they've…or, there's other
composers who change all the time, like painters,
like Stravinsky and Picasso. Although, in
retrospect, you can see it all came from the
pen of a single person. And then there's others
like Ravel or Chopin who wrote the same music
all their life, first-class, nearly all of
it, not an awful lot compared to Milhaud,
for example, or Mozart, who did write s…who
did write some ordinary pieces. And certainly
Milhaud did. The prolific composers are uneven.
But others like, say, like Ravel and Chopin
wrote good music at the beginning and kept…they
spoke the same language their whole life.
ETZ: I suppose the real challenge for any
composer, just as any artist, I guess, is
to have a life in music and to make sure that
you're doing…the next thing you do is the
next thing that's right for you artistically
and, and to have this kind of continuity…
NR: Again, the…yeah, the…you're talking
about after the fact. You can't make a recipe
and say, "This is what the composer does."
'Cause no sooner do you do that, then you…then
someone breaks the rule by writing a masterpiece
in a completely different genre.
ETZ: Oh, absolutely. I, I agree with that,
but I do think that each of us individually
has to face this issue. Like, what is the
next proper piece to be writing? And having
this sense of continuity in you life…
NR: Well, if you get to a place where you
and I are, the people…the next piece that
we write is a piece we usually want to write.
ETZ:. Mmm-hmm.
NR: So if it's a commission, I usually…and
people commission you to do what they know
you can do rather than what you can't…what…I'm
inclined to get vocal commissions or things
of that sort. But if I wanted another…if
I wanted to write a piece, you can usually
arrange to get a commission for what you feel
you've got to write at this point.
ETZ: Do you turn down commissions?
NR: Yeah, if there's not enough money, I'll
turn it down.
ETZ: What about if you…
NR: Not if it's something I'm dying to do,
or if it's something that I don't approve
of. I wrote a piece, for example, that was
not played - which was rather insulting - fairly
recently. Actually it was for the Singing
Sergeants, the Singing Sergeants…
ETZ: Oh, the Air Force…
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: in Washington?
NR: And they happened to be quite good.
ETZ: I know.
NR: And they had done a piece of mine, and
so they asked me to do a piece, and so I did
it for mixed chorus and four different pieces.
I called it, I can't quite remember what I
called it. Present Laughter - it's from Shakespeare.
It's quite giddy, except one of them. The
forms are all humoristic: One is by Dryden
and one's by Shakespeare, and one's by an
Englishman from the late nineteenth century,
and another one is Donne, about young love
and stuff - for four horns, piano and mixed
chorus.
ETZ: Why didn't they do it?
NR: And they didn't…it wasn't done, and
it wasn't done, and it wasn't done, and Boosey
and Hawkes weren't able to get answers to
their letters, and where the hell? And you
have to fill out millions of forms. And it
was the Singing Sergeants, which I'm against
in principle anyway, because I don't believe
in wars. But I think the people…I think
that soldiers should be singing instead of
killing people, so that's okay. Then I got
a letter just a few mon…a month or less
ago from…the old head of it is in a different…has
changed jobs and the new man is thrilled to
be inheriting my piece because he loves it.
He didn't say that the previous man didn't
like it and was disappointed in it. I feel
he should have done it anyway.
ETZ: Yeah, just for the record, this, the
piece that Leontyne did here first, Leontyne
Price, was your Psalm 148. And there were
three different performances with Leontyne
Price. But I'd love to get to this next…1975,
where Thomas Schippers did a work of yours
called…
NR: Air Music.
ETZ: Air Music.
NR: I had known Tommy Schippers, who began
his career as an accompanist at…in, in Pre-Spoleto
days for Menotti.
ETZ: Hmm.
NR: So, he was the pianist. I think he was
the rehearsal pianist for the Consul. Tommy
was…
ETZ: Here is…Schippers at that time.
NR: He was dashingly handsome, as he always
was.
ETZ: Beautiful man, yeah.
NR: If he's your type. But, I…man, everybody
agrees he's handsome, but I don't know if
he turns everybody on. But he turned Menotti
on, and therefore became the official conductor
in that whole milieu of Barber and Menotti.
And so I met him in the line of duty, too.
And I remember early…I remember him saying
something rather unpleasant about me in an
interview sometime in the early…late 60's,
coulda been. And then he called me up once,
said, "We want you to write a piece." And
so I wrote it, and we talked about the price
and everything on the telephone. And he said
it should be a f…sizable affair for the
Cincinnati Orchestra, and I wrote a piece
called Air Music. In ei…
ETZ: And I…
NR: In sev…in the summer of '73 or '74.
And…
ETZ: This was premiered.
NR: Then he premiered it in '75, I guess,
in Cincinnati, and I went to it. He was a
hard-working, responsible conductor with his
own tastes. And his tastes in contemporary
music were strict…were definitely tonal
pieces like Barber and Menotti and me.
ETZ: Did he play much contemporary music?
NR: What he played was always that.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: He certainly wasn't playing Ralph Shapey.
ETZ: Ned, we should…
NR: He was a pretty good pianist. He got married
too, by the way, and didn't have any children.
He married a woman [Elaine Phipps] in…who's
from the Bier [?] family who died quite young
of cancer, and Tommy Schippers…
ETZ: He died very young.
NR: He died very young too, of pretty much
the same thing. The piece that I wrote for
him, I liked the piece, and I liked his performance
and I liked the…Cincinnati. And then he
played it in New York, and then it won the
Pulitzer Prize. So of course, he was…he
felt vindicated, I suppose, from having asked
me, and I certainly felt warmly toward him.
I'm not sure I ever saw him again. However,
the Cincinnati Orchestra, a couple of years
later, asked me to write a piece for cello
and piano and orchestra, and I wrote it…
ETZ: Remembering…
NR: Remember…it was…
ETZ: Remembering Tommy.
NR: Called Double Concerto, at first, in Ten
Movements.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: And I remember that the man who wrote
[sic] it..and his wife was cellist, and he
was a pianist…came to see me in New York
and said, "We're very disconcerted by this
piece you've written. We thought it would
be much more difficult, much more, uh, up-to-date…"
All sorts of things. And I said, "What'd you
ask me for if you want these, these terms?"
They didn't…then she died. So they didn't
play it. The following year it was played,
but the conductor died, who was…married
to the current wife of Tony Fell, and Janice
Susskind, Susskind died.
ETZ: Walter Susskind, you mean.
NR: Yeah. So two young people played it under
George Mester. I li…It's a very nice piece,
and then I changed the title to Remembering
Tommy. And cut one of the ten movements and
used it in another piece, and it's…it was
played in New York at Juilliard, and it hasn't
been played since.
ETZ: Hmm.
NR: And, well, that's Cincinnati.
ETZ: You know, it's interesting, Ned, you
describe yourself as, you know, a vocal writer,
a writer of vocal music, but most of what
we've picked out of the archives so far, and
this is from 1945 to 1979, is substantial
orchestra music. And…
NR: All of it, in fact.
ETZ: And I think, well except for Leontyne
Price, and I think it's been, it was perhaps
something of a surprise to people in the music
world that you're winning the Pulitzer Prize
for an instrumental work…
NR: Including to me, it was a surprise. Because…
ETZ: How did you find to, by the way?
NR: In those days, nobody knew…it was really
very, very tight, and I even now I don't know
who was on the board. But I had…Jim was
in Nantucket. He had gone that morning to
Nantucket, and I had gone out and walked the
streets and came home about eight in the evening,
and the phone was ringing. And it was a music
critic in Pittsburgh, I think, who said, "Can
I be the first one to interview you?" And
I said, "Well, for what?"
ETZ: For what? Yes.
NR: Yeah, and he said, "You won the Pulitzer
Prize. And I said, "Well, wait a minute. There's
a telegram under my door." And I went back,
and I thought it was some joke [laughs] because,
why me? I was so out of fashion, but it was.
And I said, "Sure, interview me." And then
I called Jim, and then I called my mother
and father. Then it was in papers, so it was
official. And then I…and then John Gruen
interviewed me for the New York Times. But
before he came, I wrote out the whole interview.
I said everything I wanted to say, instead
of his questions.
ETZ: Mmm.
NR: Including…
ETZ: How does it feel?
NR: How does it feel, and also about getting
it for a non-vocal piece. In Carnegie Hall,
I had one big vocal piece, period, performed,
and that would have been just three or four
years ago. I wasn't there. I had the flue…called
Sun, S-u-n, with the American Composers Orchestra.
ETZ: Yes, that was in 1994.
NR: Was it?
ETZ: With Paul Dunkel…
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: Conducting ACO. It's interesting, in
the 70s they still had telegrams, I guess
instead of fax.
NR: It was a telegram. Telegram doesn't exist
today, does it?
ETZ: I don't think so. I know I found out…I
was just sitting at my desk writing and this…the
phone rang and I answered it, and a man wanted
background information on me. He said he was
from UPI, and I said, "What do you mean?"
And he said…spelled out my name, "Is this
Ellen Zwilich, Z-w-i-l-i-c-h?" I said, yes.
He said, "Oh, maybe you don't know. You won
the Pulitzer Prize."
NR: And what did you think?
ETZ: I thought…well, first of all, I though,
Wow! you know, this is really wonderful. And
then, as I'm talking to this man, I begin
to think, do I know anybody this malicious,
you know, that would call me and play this
charade? And when I got just at the end of
this interview, some neighbors of mine, whose
son was on Wall Street, they rang the bell,
and he had seen it through the ticker tape
or something. But, the…and this was in '83,
and they still didn't have a really kind of
nice system of notifying you. AndI did know
I'd been nominated. You probably did, too.
NR: I didn't know. I didn't.
ETZ: But, I didn't…
NR: I didn't know. I hadn't the remotest notion.
ETZ: I didn't go. I certainly didn't plan
on it.
NR: I felt that…
ETZ: Do you think it, it helped you a great
deal?
ETZ: Yes I do, I thought…I have…my feeling
was because of my wicked ways that I was automatically
not up for a Pulitzer Prize. And I think that
I believe…
ETZ: Your wicked ways being writing...
NR: Oh, writing…
ETZ: Tonal music and…?
NR: No, writing diaries about myself and other
people and not making any secret about the
life that I led. I think Hugo Weisgal was
on…he allowed me to believe that he coulda
been on board.
ETZ: Hmm.
NR: I also think that my getting the Pulitzer
was a sign of the charge of weather in the
world of tonal and non-tonal music. It definitely
was, 'cause the year after somebody else unlikely
won it, seems to me…several people and Del
Tredici got it. Didn't he get one?
ETZ: David…Yes I think…
NR: I think he did, too.
ETZ: I think he did. I don't really know.
[to Robert, off-camera]: Do we have an almanac
here?
Robert: Hmm…
ETZ: 'Cause it's …these things are listed
in there. Robert, if you happen to find it,
we would…
Robert: Okay.
ETZ: …be curious. [to NR]: In what ways
do you feel that this was helpful to you,
the Pulitzer Prize?
NR: It makes people have to take you seriously,
whether they want to or not, for one thing.
'Cause it's magic words in America. 'Cause
the money with it, it was nothing. It was
a thousand dollars for me. It was…
ETZ: Yeah, it was still a thousand when I
got it. Its up now [chuckles].
NR: But it's publicity for about a year, all
over the place. And then it becomes history,
and your name is all…"Ellen Zwilich, Pulitzer
Prize winner, was arrested yesterday for jaywalking."
[ETZ laughs.] But it's…you're always "Pulitzer
Prize winner." And people say it in hushed
tones when they introduce you for f…on a
stage or something like that sort. And that
way, I think it's…I'm glad for my mother
and father, too, because they...
ETZ: Because my mother enjoyed it very much,
too.
NR: It makes a difference. They've invested
in you, and it vindicates the weirdness of
being composer to the outside world.
ETZ: And your parents were still alive in
'75.
NR: Definitely. They died rather recently
in their nineties. Father would have been
a hundred last year, and Mother, in get late
nineties. They both died about ten years ago.
ETZ: And they followed your career up…
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: …to this point.
NR: Father was very, very, very, very proud
of me.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: And I'm so glad.
ETZ: It's very nice, yeah.
NR: He once said, I don't remember, but he
said, he said that I said, "I'm gonna be…I
am a composer." Not "I'm gonna be a composer."
"I am a composer."
ETZ: I am a composer.
NR: And then he said, apparently, "Well, how
do you think you're going to make a living?"
And apparently I said, "I don't care how I
make a living as long as I have enough to
eat and sleep…in other words, I don't want
to be a 'My son the doctor,' or a lawyer or
Wall Street, and Father was impressed by that.
It was such an un-American answer. And he
was helpful to me financially. He gave me
an allowance, and they didn't have that kind
of money. But, and then when I started supporting
myself doing what I wanted to do without making
concessions, they…he was impressed.
ETZ: Hmm.
NR: But it's a, it's a modest life compared
to, uh, Itzhak Perlman.
ETZ: Well, it's a rich life, I feel…
NR: It's a modest life financially, is what
I mean.
ETZ: That, you know, to be able to…I feel
like a very rich person to be able to do what
I…
NR: But that's metaphoric. I'm talking about
money.
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: And people worry about their children
just getting along in the world…
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: …without being evicted.
ETZ: I sometimes feel that things like, you
know, the Pulitzer Prize and various kinds
of recognition, they mean something to you,
sort of, in relation to what they mean to
other people, like the parents who will say…
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: Gee, it was worth it. Or…
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: …she was right after all, or he was
right after all to do this. Or the people
who have believed in you over the years,
NR: So it's a symbol.
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: Because a lot of people…I'm sure there
are people you feel don't deserve it, and
others who should have it who haven't had
it. So it is a symbol, like Academy Awards.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: And then, of course, the prize doesn't
always go to the best work of that person.
It has to be a work that was performed within
the year.
ETZ: Yes.
NR: In my case, I think Air Music is a good
piece. But I think I deserved the Prize, too,
as well as that particular work.
ETZ: Hmm. We have a whole series of…[to
Camera operator] excuse me, Nick…a whole
series of performances following this. In
1977, the North Carolina Symphony did Assembly…
NR: In '76, I think. That was called Assembly
in Fall.
ETZ: Assembly in Fall.
[Off-camera voices, unintelligible]
ETZ: Is there anything you would like to say
about that one?
NR: They asked me to write a piece that would
be sizable, and I wrote it. At the same…it
often happens with me…does it happen with
you?…that I'll write two pieces of exactly
the same kind at the…one following the other.
For example, when I wrote Day Music for violin
and piano, then I got another commission to
write another piece for violin and piano.
So I wrote Night Music. Although I did wri…said
everything I had to say for violin, but then
I hadn't. Same with my…with those two recent
string quartets. And I'd like to write another
one now. Here, I had already written Air Music,
and then Gosling of North Carolina asked me
to write a piece, so I wrote a piece quite
different in…it's in one long movement of
a half an hour, about. It's an imperfect,
but interesting piece with four soloists:
a trumpet, a viola, a timpani player, and…
what else is there? Oboe…
ETZ: Hmm.
NR: …trumpet, oboe, timpani player, and
I'm leaving some…and a fourth instrument…I
forget what, though.
ETZ: And this was first performed…this was
the New York premiere, and this was in March
of
'97 [1977].
NR: Yeah, it was first performed twice in
North Carolina, in two different towns, and
then it was done in Carnegie Hall.
ETZ: Following this, there was another Leontyne
Price performance in Carnegie Hall?
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: Two Songs, then the American Symphony
in 1983 did your Piano Concerto in Six Movements.
NR: With a woman named Rita Bouboulidi, who
was just awful.
ETZ [chuckling]: Really?
NR: Yeah, she…I mean the piece is published,
so anyone has a right to do it, and she called
me again just a few weeks ago. She's not a
real pianist. She's got rich friends or something
like that. And when I went to hear her play
it at her house, the fast movements were twice
as slow as they should be. And I said, "Look,
this is twice as slow." And she said, "Well,
you don't realize how beautiful your music
is, and you mustn't rush through it."
[NR and ETZ laugh]
ETZ: Oh gosh!
NR: So, that kind of thing, and it may be
because her fingers didn't work that fast.
She still wants me to recommend her for things,
which I won't do.
ETZ: This is Mosche Atzman. I don't think
I…
NR: Yeah, he was a nice man from Israel, and
he conducted it.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: And he got stuck with her.
ETZ: You know, I was in the American Symphony
under Stokowski…
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: …for seven years, and that was a very
important part of my life. But I was out long
before this, and, so I didn't have the pleasure
of this.
NR: Then Jerry Lowenthal played the same piece…
ETZ: Oh, well then…
NR: …wonderfully...
ETZ: Yes.
NR: …about four months later with the Composer's
Orchestra. And he…it was written for him,
and he's recorded this rather fu…
ETZ: Here?
NR: No, in Tully Hall.
ETZ: Oh, oh, okay.
NR: I think…
ETZ: Oh, that's right, they were playing in
Alice Tully Hall in those days.
NR: Yes.
ETZ: Now I remember.
NR: And it's his piece, and he plays the hell
out of it.
ETZ: Oh, he's a terrific pianist. Then in
'84, we have Leontyne Price doing Snake. There's
a bunch of Recital Hall stuff, including,
in '85, Marc-Andre Hamelin did your Etudes.
Let me see if that's it…nope…
NR: That's what somebody told me. Was it you,
recently?
ETZ: Yes, I read it to you from the list that
we have. It's hard to find these things here.
At any rate, Marc must have played this as
a part of the competition that was…yeah,
here it is: The Finals of the 1985 Carnegie
Hall International American Music Competition
for Pianists. And Marc played your piece along
with Davidovsky…
NR: Did he play all of the etudes or just
one of them?
ETZ: He played Etude No. 1 from the Eight
Etudes. Those are the pieces that I know.
NR: Yes.
ETZ: Right? He did a piece by Davidovsky,
you, John Cage, Scriabin, and the Concord
Sonata of Ives. And, an interesting thing
about this is that Marc won this competition.
And a part of the prize, Carnegie Hall, the
Detroit Symphony, and ASOL - the American
Symphony Orchestra League - commissioned me
to write a piano concerto for the person who
would win this. So not too long after this,
in fact the next summer, Marc-Andre Hammelin
did the world premiere of my Piano Concerto.
NR: Which I have never heard and would love
to hear.
ETZ: Oh, we have to do a…
NR: I'd love to hear it.
ETZ: …an eshte [?] one of these days.
NR: Yeah, okay.
ETZ: So we were connected in this way.
ETZ": …he won this, which was very, very,
very unusual…very young. Fine, French-Canadian,
young pianist. We have a performance in '86
of Robert Shaw leading the String Symphony.
NR: Yes.
ETZ: [singing] Here we go…I think. We'll,
we'll save this. That's with the Atlanta Symphony.
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: Remember that performance?
NR: Yeah. I remember it.
ETZ: Shaw is still very much around and with
us, and…
NR" I know he is. I remember before that performance
we went to a restaurant across the street
from Carnegie.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: And Bing was there, but he was quite gaga.
ETZ: Oh, Fontana de Trevi, probably…
NR: Coulda been. Right across the street.
ETZ: Yeah, the Italian…
NR: And I was with about six, six or eight
people. And Bing was…didn't know…remember
if he had paid the check or not. He was Alzheimer-ish.
I love Shaw. I think he's…
ETZ: In '86 already, I, gee that's…
NR: Struck me. I didn't ever…
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: That's not so long ago.
ETZ: Ten years ago.
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: The last time I saw Bing he was sort
of, like, wandering around at Avery Fisher
Hall…
NR: Yeah, yeah…
ETZ: …at a performance. I don't think he
knew where he was or why or…It's a sad,
sad case. But Shaw, you were speaking of Shaw…he's
such a wonderful musician.
NR: Yeah. I had heard him perform things back
in the 40s with the Collegiate Chorale, and
it was always…and also at Tanglewood in
the summer of '46 he was there, and I went
to some of his rehearsals. And I never knew
him at all, but he was quite magical and seductive
in the way he could deal with a…with choruses
and make them do things which seem to me the
right things.
ETZ: Did you go to Tanglewood?
NR: Yes, in the summer of '46 and '47. Those
were idyllic summers.
ETZ: And…
NR: Tanglew…
ETZ: …Bernstein was there, and Copland.
NR: '46 was the first year it opened after
the war. It had been closed in '40. And they
did Peter Grimes in '46. Britten came for
it. And Lenny was all over the place, and
he conducted it. And this summer…
ETZ: Wow.
NR: …fifty years later, they're gonna do
a big…they're doing it again.
ETZ: Yes.
NR: So, I was with Copland as well as five
other people. And the other composer was…
ETZ: Lukas [Foss], wasn't he there?
NR: No, Lukas was around, but he was not there
in any teaching facility. There's always a
guest composer, and this first summer it was
Honegger. But Honegger…no, it was Martinu.
And Martinu had an acc…fell off of a barricade
at Barrington, where…he lived in the same
house that several of us lived in, too…and
so he had to go to the hospital. So he was…he
was substituted by Lipatnikov. The next sumer,
the same thing happened. Honegger had a heart
attack, so Sam Barber took over where Honegger…
ETZ: Hmm.
NR: But both summers, I was with Copland.
I learned quite a bit, mainly not from…
ETZ: You say you were with him. You mean you
studied with him...?
NR: I was one of…
ETZ: …showed him your material?
NR: …one of his six classes. And we had
two lessons a week, and then there were also
two meetings a week with all the…all sixteen
composers who were guest flock…
ETZ: What was it like studying with Copland?
NR: I learned more from the classes than from
the one-to-one thing.
ETZ: The…the master classes where everybody
was showing music, and…
NR: Yeah, because the master classes would
be on different things. One time it was on
movie music, and he would lecture us about
how you write movie scores and what you do
when and how it's done. And that was very,
very interesting.
ETZ: Oh, that is.
NR: And I still remember it.
ETZ: I remember him saying…when I was at
Juilliard, he came and did a sort of master
class…and I remember him saying about the
movie, Washington Square…
NR: Yes.
ETZ: …that that scene, that horribly sad
recognition scene where she goes to the window…
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: And the carriage is coming, and it passes.
NR: Yes.
ETZ: He said that the first time they screened
this…
NR: People laughed, yeah.
ETZ: …the audience laughed. Then he changed
the scoring, and then it became the dramatic
moment.
NR: It's 'cause…music never means anything
specific. The movie makes it mean…gives
it different meanings.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: So music can…any music works for any
scene, but it can make a scene ridiculous,
or it can make air seem tragic or what all.
When I did the one movie I did years later,
everything Copland wrote came back to me…about
how they use a click track of this sort, and
you look…you can see the movie in your home
over and over again…
ETZ: A moviola, sort of…
NR: And moviolas.
ETZ: What score did you do, Ned? I don't know.
NR: They threw it all out after I finished,
which they usually do with most scores. It
was…[ETZ gasps]…they didn't use any music.
It didn't need music, anyway. It was a documentary
type of movie. It was called Panic in Needle
Park…
ETZ: Oh, I remember that title at least. I
don't think I…
NR: …which Al Pacino was…it's his first
movie. And a girl named Kitty Winn. And the
director was Faye Dunaway's lover, named Jerry
Schatzberg. And the producer was Dominick
Dunne, who just wrote a…who was just the
official CBS commentator on the…that murder
out in California.
ETZ: Mmm. You were engaged to write the score..,
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: …for this movie, and then they just
didn't use it, or…?
NR: Yeah. It's..it's kind of weird too. You…I
wore it for eleven instruments. Then they
get eleven union musicians who are crack sight-readers.
Then you all meet. I did, let's say , thirty-two
cues. One was three seconds long, one was
four minutes long, especially for the titles,
which was was most important. Another was
about three minutes long. And you finish it,
and you confer a great deal with the director.
Then the great day comes, and you get the
crack sight readers. I remember Paul Jacobs
was the pianist. [ETZ chuckles] and they read
it through. Then they record it. Then they
put down their instruments. Then a screen
is lowered in which you see a black-and-white
version of the music…of the images against
which the music is supposed to…illustrate.
And all of these tough producer types, who
don't know nothing, except they know they
can…
ETZ: They know what they like…
NR: …look at the damn thing [laughs], and
then that's pulled up again. Then we rehearse
the next section. And I still… I thought
it worked fine for some of the sections, and
I thought it was…
ETZ: Too present?
NR: Glamorous, in a way for oth… it sort
of took away from…stark horror of some of
the movie. I remember that Auric wrote the
music for Topkapi…is that it? Do you remember
that movie? About a Greek theft in a museum.
And there's a scene that lasts about twenty…
ETZ: In Turkey, yes?
NR: …a scene of twenty minutes where the
thief is lowered simply by upside-down, with
his mouth opens something or other...
ETZ: I saw that movie, yes.
NR: …and takes…and Auric had written…
ETZ: Set in Topkapi, supposedly, in Istanbul.
NR: …terrific music for all that, and then
the cinema-maker - he's American - married
to Melina Mercouri…what's his name? - said
to Auric, "I'm going to show you the movie
again twice, once with your music, and once
without it. And if you want us to use music,
we will." And Auric realized his music ruined
the horrible silence where a pin-drop could
mean that there's a guard coming, or something
like that. Anyway, I did that. And Copland'
classes were informative. And sometimes he
would have all of us orchestrate the same
twelve measures from a piece of his, and then
we would compare it, and that kind of thing.
ETZ: That's interesting.
NR: On the one-to-one situation with him,
I don't remember as well…as the classes.
ETZ: What did he do? Just look at your music
and…
NR: Yeah…and he was…what he did was say
what Nadia Boulanger would have said, "There's
too many notes."
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: I can't remember, sort of…I wrote a
little opera and played it…sang it for him,
fool that I was. [ETZ chuckles] And various
other pieces. He and I got along fine. I liked
him very, very much as a person and missed
him, and still do, when he died. I never knew
quite what he thought of my music, ever, and…
ETZ: Do you think that's a good thing from
a teacher?
NR: To not know?
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: I don't know. I don't know quite what
teaching is.
ETZ: How do you teach composition? I know
that you do. How do you approach it?
NR: Well, I've done it. The first time I did
it was at Buffalo in 1959, and they offered
me a job, and…with a salary. Leon Kirchner
just had it, and it was a generous thing.
And I'd never, ever in my life had…I had
a Social Security number because I had played
the piano for Martha Graham when I was twenty
years old. And I had to get my cer…but I
had never taught anybody anything. I sort
of did as a prac…when I was…but I never
had a responsible salary job ever. And it
was understood that I would write…I would
give six public lectures, for Christ's sake,
each accompanied by a concert of my own devising
at Buffalo. So it was a major…plus teaching.
I wrote the lectures the summer before about…I
said, "What do I know?" I mean, I know all
about music, exc…I know how to write music,
but I don't know how to write about writing
music. But I gave…then I wrote a speech
called Writing Songs…How You Write a Song.
In other words, practical things.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: Another one called, Song and Singer: What's
the Relation? Another one about answering
questions composers always hear, like, "Do
you hear all those notes in your head?" called
Four Questions Answered. And another one on,
"Is New Music New? - What's So New About New
Music," and so on. And when I realized people
would listen to me - 'cause I'd just written
diaries before that, and here was writing
about things other than my own navel. About
teaching, I had six or seven students who
ha…I took them whether I wanted to or not.
I liked all of them. And I also had a class
with…in which I would have them all set
the same poem to music or something of that
sort. But again I said to myself, What do
I know about teaching? and I still say it.
Is there such a thing as teaching musical
composition? You can teach orchestration.
It's a craft. And if…I think David Diamond
teaches composition as a craft, too. And I
think he's probably right. He's got more patience
than I in making people write fu…
ETZ: Well, he teaches fugue, and…things
like that.
NR: He teaches fugue, and he teaches all kinds
of things, and I'm too lazy for that. I'd
rather have them take it, fugue, from somebody
else down the hall. And I feel a little less…I
still feel responsible, but a little less
academic than I used to think, now.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: And I still assign them to do things and
solve it…solve it as best they can. And
then what you do is they bring it to you.
You tell why you don't think it's…it works.
Or why it does work, 'cause you have to compliment
them, always. I…they all wrote operas in
the past six months, which were then done
at Curtis.
ETZ: Do you let them know…you were speaking
of Copland where you were never quite sure…do
you give them verbal encouragement, like "I
think you're on the right track" or things
like this or just…
NR: I sometimes say, "I think you're on the
wrong track. Why don't we scrap this whole
thing and do another kind of piece? Because
this just isn't right." I'll tell them, and
I'll even tell them after four years a piece
can be…is a dud. And they…we've all…get
off on the wrong foot sometimes. And then
I'll say, "Let's not do this. I'm not interested
myself in it, so let's do something else."
I…it's had to a …I ask myself the same
question every day, How do you teach it? And
also I've had some students at Curtis, where
I've been now for nearly fifteen years, who
of the maybe twenty-five people I've had since
I've been there, two or three have been hopeless
from the beginning, And since I chose them…they're
admitted, and it's scholarship…I do feel
a little responsible for…about all that.
ETZ: What do you do?
NR: I…you keep them on, and maybe they'll
drop out of their own accord.
ETZ: Hmm. Back to our log here; there's really
so much to cover. I have American Symphony
with Serebrier doing a piece called Frolic.
NR: I didn't hear that.
ETZ: Does that ring any bells?
NR: I know the piece. [ETZ chuckles] It was
a piece written for, I think it was a piece
written for the Houston Orchestra who commissioned
everybody to write fanfares of some sort…
ETZ: Oh, yes.
NR: But I wrote a…about three-minute piece,
called it Frolic.
ETZ: Then we have…something very important
to the history of Carnegie Hall. We have the
premiere of your Spring Music by the Beaux
Arts Trio in February of 1991.
NR: Well, yeah. Carnegie commissioned that,
didn't they?
ETZ: Carnegie Hall did commission this.
NR: And I was all pleased because I had written…never
written a trio. I've written two other trios…three
other trios, but never for standard combination.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm…
NR: One was for voice, clarinet and piano.
Another was for cello, piano and flute. And
another was for clarinet, violin and piano.
And this is in a real trio.
ETZ: [to camera operator] Nick, you wanna,
you wanna get a little of this?
Camera operator: Oh, excuse me [indiscernable].
NR: Can you play any of it as background or
something?
ETZ: When you say a, when you say in a real
trio, you mean…
NR: I mean a standard form.
ETZ: …you mean a standard piano trio.
NR: I…of course, this is more fun than writing
it for three strings. But if someone asked
me to do it for three strings, I'd do that
too. You could play this…play it as background
music. There's a pretty good CD of it.
ETZ: The Toccota, yeah.
NR: The recording is by a different violinist
than the one who played it on the world premiere,
because Ida Kavafian is now the violinist,
and she's very good.
ETZ: Izzy Cohen was still the violinist…
NR: He was, yes.
ETZ: It was Isadore Cohen, Menachem Pressler,
pianist, and Peter Wiley, cello. And the Beaux
Arts now has...
NR: I also…
ETZ: …Ida Kavafian as their violinist.
NR: Yes, she's good.
ETZ: She's wonderful.
NR: They're all good.
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: Pressler's terrific.
ETZ: Excellent.
NR: And incidentally, the cellist is the cellist
who played…who was the soloist in Remembering
Tommy in Cincinnati.
ETZ: Oh, Peter.
NR: Yes.
ETZ: Peter Wiley, oh.
NR: Yep, mmm-hmm. And the pianist was Lee
Luvisi.
ETZ: Yes, yes, sure.
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: Was Peter in the Cincinnati Symphony,
or…
NR: Yes, he was cel…he was the first cellist.
ETZ: Principal cellist…
NR: They got him instead of this woman who
died, because she was dead.
ETZ: That's a good reason…
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: …not to engage her, I guess [chuckles].
Yes, I was at this performance.
NR: Were you?
ETZ: I remember this. Yes, this was a…
NR: But we didn't know each other especially
then, did we?
ETZ: Umm…yes. We did.
NR: How long ago was that?
ETZ: This was in '91.
NR: Oh, we knew each other then.
ETZ: This was the centennial…cause we really
got acquainted at Santa Fe Chamber Music.
NR: Was that in '90?
ETZ: Which was in 1990.
NR: God, time flies.
ETZ: I know. It's amazing isn't it.
NR: I made another note: the only time I ever
played the piano in Carnegie Hall…
ETZ: Yes, you must, you must share this with
us, if you…
NR: …was an encore with Judy Collins, and
I brought the program. Since I'm not on the
program, I had to bring the review of it that
said I was…just so you don't think I'm lying.
ETZ: Oh, we don't think you're lying.
NR: Judy Collins, looking a lot older than
this, gave a concert on December 8, 1988.
And I wrote, I played Early in the Morning
and A Christmas Carol. Toot , toot. And the
review by Stephen Holden, who was just beginning
to review in that said, "stylistic breadth
that ran from Ned Rorem's lovely setting of
a Robert Hillier poem, with the composer in
the…at the piano - to Bob Dylan's Like a
Rolling Stone." So there. [ETZ laughs] I don't
think I've ever played there before in any
form or shape.
ETZ: How did you feel, standing on the…or
sitting on the stage. It's…
NR: I didn't say, I'm…here's Carnegie Hall.
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: I said, does this audience have the remotest
idea who a composer is?
ETZ: [laughing] Who am I and what am I doing…
NR: With, yeah, with Judy, who is a pop star.
With whom I'm on a program tomorrow night,
as a matter of fact. You wanna come? At Jim's
church?
ETZ: I don't think I can.
NR: Yeah, I don't think you…
ETZ: What's the date?
NR: It's a fundraising concert for…last
about an hour.
ETZ: Yeah, no. I wouldn't be able to come
tomorrow night.
NR: I got Judy to sing...
ETZ: That's very nice.
NR: …Amazing Grace at the end.
ETZ: What time is it, Ned?
NR: And Angelina's going to sing, too.
ETZ: Oh.
NR: In fact, I'm…a lot of little black girls
who hate white people are gonna sing some
stuff.
ETZ: I will call you later because we probably
ought to go. I'd love to hear her again.
NRL Well, Angelina is one of four singers
who are going to stand up in a row and sing
twenty minutes of my songs. Then Jim will
have…and then there are some other soloists
doing cabaret kind of stuff.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NRL It's at 7:30 promptly in his church.
ETZ: Okay, I don't have my book with me. I
think we have something, but maybe I can move
it around, or…Ned, another fairly recent,
but moving along this chronology of performance
is the Curtis Orchestra.
NR: Oh yeah.
ETZ: Andre Previn conducting and Gary Graffman
playing your Concerto for the Left Hand.
NR: I loved that.
ETZ: I didn't hear this performance, but I've
heard the CD, and…
NR: It's a good piece.
ETZ: It's a terrific piece.
NR: And let me see, Gary Graffman, whom I've
known since he was just a little brat at Curtis
[ETZ chuckles] wearing short pants. He's about
five years younger than me, is now, as you
know, the director of the Curtis Institute
of Music, and he only plays with his left
hand. And so I wrote…he asked me to write
a concerto for him, and I said, "I will,"
knowing that a major conductor or a reputed
conductor would be conducting it, and they
would both do it in Philadelphia, at the Academy,
and in New York. And so I wrote a piece which
I think is a pretty good piece. And Gary plays
the, he…plays it, just…I can't think of
a better performance.
ETZ: The recording is certainly strong.
NR: I made a very terrible gaffe, just like
the gaffe I made with Robert Shaw and the
Louisville Orch…the Atlanta Orchestra. Before
I went to Atlanta, they…I was interviewed
on the rad…on the telephone by somebody,
and I said to this person, "The South is a
very mysterious place for me. And if I'm on
a bus in New York, and somebody with a heavy
Southern accent is saying anything, something
intelligent, I'm always surprised. Just as
I'm surprised when people with English accents
say something stupid."
ETZ [chuckling]: Oh…
NR: They printed this. Somebody in the orchestra
took it out of the newspaper, circled that
rearm in red, and put on the bulletin board
backstage for everybody to read.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm. And they welcomed you with open
arms, no doubt.
NR: They welcomed me with open arms in any
case [ETZ laughs] but at Curtis, before I
went to the first rehearsal, I did a similar
interview, and I said to the interviewer,
who then put it in the paper, I said, "It's
marvelous to have this student orchestra.
They play just like the Philadelphia Orchestra.
And, of course, it's like slave labor."
[NR and ETZ laugh]
NR: And they were not amused. And before this
rehearsal, the final rehearsal, I was going
to…everyone took me into a private office,
said with serious, unsmiling faces, "Ned,
you've got to…you've got to apologize."
And so I went out beforehand and…
ETZ: And spoke to the slaves.
NR: I said, "Look, you're the best performers
in the entire world. I don't like to apologize,
but I'll apologize. I think you're great.
I was wrong. You're right. I'm at your feet
and please forgive me. And now I'll shut up."
And then Previn [ETZ chuckles] accompanied
it, I guess is the word, but he made it sound
really very good. But is it him, or is it
the orchestra? It's these children who are
under twenty, mostly.
ETZ: Yes, some of the Juilliard Orchestra
is also extraordinary.
NR: And the Juilliard Orchestra, and they
can play as good as anybody else.
ETZ: Yeah
NR: And they're…
ETZ: And they're slave labor [laughs].
NR: …and every one of them is a soloist,
but every one of them…but they can also
play together.
ETZ: Yep. Well…
NR: Which is fine, 'cause most of them are
going to end up with orchestras anyway, rather
than being soloists. And then the following
night…
ETZ: Yes…
NR: …they played it in the Academy in Philly,
and the following night they played it in
Carnegie Hall. And I felt good about that.
ETZ: It's interesting how, you know, you mention
the accompanying…that has kind of a negative
connotation, but it seems to me that it's
a very strong test of a conductor whether
they can really…
NR: I'm sorry, I'm so awful.
ETZ: …collaborate with…
Off-camera person: It's alright.
ETZ: …a solist in a concerto.
NR: I think the word "accompanist" is a very
noble word.
ETZ: I do. Yes, I do too.
NR: A singer…
ETZ: I don't think it should have the connotation…
NR: A singer and the pianist accompany…she's
an accompanist or he's an accompanist of the
pianist, who they accompany each other through
the adventure of a song.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: And they help each other out.
ETZ: But that's a very…I think it's a gift
to begin with.
NR: Yes.
ETZ: A comp…a conductor to be able to do
it, and it's also cultivated. And not everybody
can do it.
NR: I like with pianists, for example, with
singers, I like an accompan…when I accompany,
and I'm pretty good if I practice, I like
the lid full open.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: I think it looks nice, and it throws the
singer's voice out to the audience. And I
would rather play down with the lid up than
play up with the lid down.
ETZ: Yes.
NR: And if, as soon as you can convince singers
of that, they'll say okay.
ETZ: I'm a lid up person myself. Finally we
have a program of the Philadelphia Orchestra
doing Eagles, but now we're in 1993. And it's
really quite stunning when you were recalling
that early…
NR: Oh, that awful man…
NR and ETZ: Sawallisch!
NR: He…I think he's a horrible man, but
he's a very good conductor. It's…
ETZ: I don't know him.
NR: It's like Edo De Waart. I think he had
to play Air Music in California, because it
was agreed for a consortium or something like
that. And I…somebody sent me a tape from
San Francisco, and I wrote him a letter and
said, "This is…you're divine!" He never
answered the letter. Then a few years later,
he conducted the Remembering Tommy piece in
Phil…Aspen. And I didn't meet him until
I came out to take a bow. And then in the
green room I said, "I loved your performance."
He sort of went "Hmpf" and turned his back.
But everyone has told me he likes women more
than men. He's been married many times, but
I thought…and then he's Dutch. [to Camera
Operator]: Are you Dutch? [to ETZ]: And the
Dutch don't know quite how to behave at all
occasions. And Sawallisch is is much worse.
'Cause I was asked to come a day early to
Philadelphia, and Sawallisch was going to
do my piece…
ETZ: Here's a picture of Sawallisch.
NR: Well, I'll be…yeah, he's just like his
picture - self-important.
ETZ: Don't make me laugh, I'll move the picture.
NR: I didn't meet him. I said to the woman
who runs the orchestra, "Please give me ten
minutes with him before…" But he, I didn't
meet him 'til he's about to go out on the
stage. And he said, "Oh, oh, Rorem, will you
go out front and listen?" After he played
my piece, I came up to the apron of the stage
and said, "It's terrific. I want to make…just
tell you a couple things." He said, "Well,
make it snappy because we're…" That, I'm…it's
not gracious. And after it was played I went
with my sister backstage, just to say, "How
nice," but I was clearly infringing on his
precious time. I might add that, sort of the
high…Perlman was on the same program. And
I had said to myself in New York, "Since I
will be seeing Perlman in person, I'm not
gonna press the point here." Before the rehearsal,
I went back to Perlman's dressing room. There
was somebody doing an interview. I said, "Can
I see you alone for a minute." And he said,
"Oh, I know what it's all about." And he got
rid of the person.
ETZ: This was about the air conditioner?
NR: He said, "I know what it's about. I'm
going to do everything I can. We'll really
do everything." And he did.
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: He was decent about it.
ETZ: Well, that's nice.
NR: But Sawallisch treated me like a composer,
and he treated what's-his-name…Perlman,
like a performer. And you can see where their…what's
the word?…their priorities lie. The composer
is non-essential, but the performer is not.
And I…it was so transparent that…I do
not like him. I also, then, just to be nice,
gave him a pr…a gift of a signed one of
my books, which he never acknowledged. So…and
he's got secretaries who could do those sort
of things. So, off with his head, I say! The
performance was very good. I'm not like you,
Ellen. You're very good with people, especially
conductors, but I don't…I don't know, except
for Lenny Bernstein and a couple of other,
much less famous conductors. I don't know
how to talk to them. I've never known how
to talk to a conductor, and they are absolute
monarchs. In the green room, everyone's backstage
trying to think of the right thing to say
and buttering them up. And the conductor's
wife is always there, looking stoical when
women are…when he's flirting with women,
which he always is, including you, I'm sure.
Most of the conductors.
ETZ: Oh, I'm a little, I'm a little ol…
NR: I shot at that one quickly.
[NR and ETZ laugh.]
NR: It's a whole breed unto itself, and I
see this a Curtis, in the student conductors,
age twenty, who are students of…it's a German
man. Very early they get…they have to get
it because they had to…they have to lord
it over these people. They are absolute monarchs,
and if they aren't, the rehearsal is not an
orderly affair. But they get this imperious
notion of themselves pretty early. Maybe they're
right, maybe they're wrong. Stokowski, who
did two of my pieces, gorgeously…
ETZ: What did he do?
NR: He did…the first time he ever performed
with the Boston Symphony, ever, he did Eagles,
which, again, I heard on the radio.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: I have a tape of it. And later he did
a piece called Pilgrims, for strings. He never
asked me to be…I never even met him…he
never asked me to be…I met him, yes, in
Paris, once at Jean Stein's, at a party. She
was a friend of Gloria Vanderbilt's, and Gloria
had asked Stokowski, who was coming to Paris
alone, to look up Jean, which would have been
in 1953. And I said hi, or something like
that, but he wouldn't have remembered. I like
him very much for having done my pieces that
were neither world premieres, nor was he…nor
did he want me to come and take a bow. He
did them 'cause he liked the pieces. And that's
how things should be done.
ETZ: Yeah, and he believed, you know. I played
for him for seven years…
NR: Yes, and how did you find him?
ETZ: …in the American Symphony, and in retrospect,
it was an incredible education, because not
only did we have him, but we had Ansermet
and Eugen Jochum and Karl Bohm and Aram Katchaturian
and, I mean just, on and on as guest conductors.
NR: As guest cond…
ETZ: So it was just a real laboratory for
me as a young composer. I was violinist in
the symphony, in the American Symphony, but
I was always, you know, a composer. I found
Stokowski to be, at the time, he was a difficult
man. He was very imperious, and he had to
be addresses as Maestro, and, you know, he
sort of hired and fired at will, and…
ETZ: I wasn't in the orchestra.
NR: 19…in 1972, he did Pilgrims, for strings.
ETZ: Okay…and I was there.
NR: Were you in the orchestra?
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: It's a sh…it's about a six-minute piece.
ETZ: And you didn't show up, or…
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: When he…[chuckles]
NR: And was that in Town Hall? Could it have
been in Town Hall?
ETZ: It would have had to be either here,
at Carnegie Hall, or…
NR: You played the trumpet.
ETZ: No, violin.
NR: Violin.
ETZ: I played the trumpet long ago.
NR: Well, then you played this. There are
two violin solos in that piece, playing trills,
but they're not the first and second. They're
the seventeenth and eighteenth. They're way
in the back.
ETZ: Yeah…
NR: Anyway, Gloria Vanderbilt is a friend
of mine. I'm not…don't mean to drop her
name, but she was married to Stokowski, as
you know.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: She was under twenty when they got married,
and she…he was the second of her four husbands.
And they were married about eight years. And
I said to her, finally, 'cause she's not especially
musical, but she led a very…went to all
his rehearsals and things and I said, "Why
did you get divorced? What was he like?" And
she said, "We got di…" She said, "I divorced
him 'cause I never really knew him. I don't
know what he was like."
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: And I can…I know what she's saying.
ETZ: I can understand that. I mean, you know…
NR: And they had two sons. And the oldest
son, to whom I just gave a tape of Eagles
a few years ago, so well bred. He's in his
late forties now, handsome. The youngest son
committed suicide about, or rather, he died
right in front of his mother…it's horrible…jumped
out the window five or six years ago.
ETZ: Oh. That's terrible.
NR; So of her four boys, on…she's only got
two left. 'Cause another one, by another marriage,
just vanished and said, "I hate you all."
And the lawyer sends checks to a certain box
number in a…someplace, but they haven't
been able to retrieve him.
ETZ: Terrible.
NR: Anyway, Stokowski, when I, when I met
him another time with Virgil after he played
a Virgil…and I said, went backstage to see
Virgil, and Stokowski was there, and I said,
"Hi , I'm Ned Rorem, and you've done my pieces."
And I said, "You did Eagles so beautifully.
And all he did was go [gesturing] flap his
arms like an eagle. That was…that's his
conversation.
ETZ: That was…that was warm.
NR: But I would have liked to say, "How was…what
was Greta Garbo like?"
ETZ [chuckling]: You'd be better asking Greta
Garbo what he was like, 'cause I…as I said,
I worked with him for seven years in rehearsals
and performances, and…
NR: Well, w…
ETZ: …he was not really that knowable a
person. But what I want to say about him is
that the thing that I admire so much, particularly
in retrospect, is that he really did believe
in contemporary music.
NR: He most certainly did.
ETZ: This didn't mean that he always learned
the music or that he did it extremely well…
NR: He did Wozzeck in America for the first
time.
ETZ: Oh, I know. He did…
NR: And he could have done Le Sacre for the
first time, of Stravinsky, and many, many,
many other European masterpieces…
ETZ: But, the, but…
NR: …in the teens and the twenties.
ETZ: Also, it was sort of a philosophy that
when you have a program of music, you have
a contemporary piece on it. Unless it's, you
know, a Boito Mephistophele or something like
that.
NR: And a lot of the education I was talking
about before I specialized in music, at home,
were Stokowski records. He made records of
Afternoon of a Faun three times, the flute
getting ever more tenuous in that opening.
So he finally stretched it out like taffy
with those triplets.
ETZ: I played that with him, and I just thought
his performance of that was one of those things
that I…
NR: Yeah. So sensual, yeah.
ETZ: Really, very sensual, and all these,
you know, really slurpy slides in the violins…and
very, very Romantic sort of approach to the
music.
NR: Yes. And then he…we…then he was considered
vulgar.
ETZ: Yes.
NR: But…we should be so vulgar, vulgar with
those wonderful sounds…
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: …like Andre Kostelanetz, too. Virgil...
ETZ: And also he had a, just the way he brought
[gesturing] his hands down when conducting.
He had a way of making the orchestra sound,
sort of warm, resonant, glorious sound.
NR: I remember Virgil was one of his guest
conductors with his student orchestra. [to
off-camera person]: I'm sorry.
Other person: It's OK.
NR: And as Virgil's copyist, I had to go and
correct mistakes and stuff. And Virgil was
very sure of himself about everything except
as a conductor. And when he was a conductor…
ETZ: Yeah, that's reasonable.
NR: …because he was insecure, he was very
imperious.
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: And so Virgil was up there conducting
these…the Mayor LaGuardia Waltzes, they
were called. And Stokowski, meanwhile, [softly]
walked amongst the orchestra as he did [places
hand to ear] and did this sort of thing. And
Virgil was saying [yelling] "SOFTER, GODDAMMIT!
CAN'T YOU PLAY SOFTER? Stoki, how can they…how
can you make them play softer?" And Stokowski
simply went to the orchestra, [whispering]
"Soft." [ETZ laughs] And they played softer
[NR chuckles].
ETZ: That's funny.
NR: What a…what a cond…I'm, I'm asking
you, isn't…
ETZ: You know, you said something…excuse
me, you said something very interesting th…about
Virgil. You said, because he was insecure,
he was very imperious.
NR: Yes. Like my landlord, now.
ETZ: Do you think sometimes that one of the
problems a performer, or particularly, maybe,
a conductor has with a living composer, us
not having the grace to be dead already, where
they didn't have to face us? But it, it might
be very different for many conductors to have
their neck on the block in the sense of having
the composer who wrote the music sitting there
listening to it.
NR: The situation is different.
ETZ: And I think it's…
NR: It depends if it is a premiere. If it's
the first time…the first time, then a composer
is almost as innocent as the conductor. If
it's an orchestra piece. I remember, for example,
with Zinman, I orchestrated a piece called…about
eight organ pieces, and Gerald Schwartz' wife
had a miscarriage. So Zinman was to do the
premiere and had to learn them in two days.
And I'd never heard the piece. And I went
to see him in his hotel. His son was there.
He knew the score backwards by heart, much
better than I did.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: So all he wanted to know, "Should this
be…I just want to set the tempos," said
he. And he ca…and it was perfect. In a way,
they know their business better than we know
the business, unless we happen to be conductors
also. With singers, if I do what's called
a master class of my songs, they're all songs
I've heard a million times. Plus, the singer
assumes that the composer knows what he wants,
which a composer doesn't always know. And
with singers especially, there is a much bigger
difference between the male singer and this
female singer than there is between two oboists
or two pianists.
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: Women are women, and men are men. I…and
so I'll…
ETZ: I've noticed.
NR: Have a man, let a man sing the same song
slower because of overtones or whatever it
is. And then I'm interest…and then have…the
words…is, is…"what do these words mean?"
they always say to me. So they are intimidated,
and I try to be easy with them because of
that. And afterwords, I say, "You sing divinely!"
And then I talk to them about how I happened
to write the piece and who the poet was, if
I knew him, and my feelings about words and
music. I don't much talk about interpretation,
unless it's, I'll say, "Let the words speak
for themselves. Don't interpret."
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: I don't like too much interpretation,
being French. Nevertheless, when some - one
Jaime Laredo or Sharon Robinson, whom I know
you love, and so do I…if they'll do an extra
little goose of a something. I'm always rather
flattered that they've put some meaning into
it, or interpretive meaning…
ETZ: Well, I feel that, for me, you know,
there's this kind of magic moment when a piece
becomes a performer's piece. It's no longer
mine, and I love it when they have approached
it, as you say…I don't think it's so much
that they know their business, and we know
ours, but it's like theirs is a slightly different
world…
NR It is.
ETZ: …dealing with the same object. And
we come at it from one side of the mirror,
and they're on the other, in a way.
NR: Plus, if they put it in their repertory.
Tom Stacy's played my English Horn concerto
all over the place, and I'm very flattered
and honored. But he recorded it, alas, not
with the Philharmonic, but with the Rochester
Symphony. And he denies it, but I'm sure he
said…it sounds wonderful, but the orchestra
is mic-ed in such a way that the nuances I've
put into the orchestra are not there…
ETZ: Mmm-hmm.
NR: …because he is featured. He is just
as happy if I don't come to the performances,
'cause it…to quote you, it's his piece now.
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: And, gosh, there are so many different
ways of playing a piece, all of them right
ways, according to the personality of the
soloist or the conductor.
ETZ: And it, it ripens and matures and changes
over time…
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: …also.
NR: Yeah.
ETZ: Ned, we're about at the end of this,
and I feel like we're just getting started.
NR: God, what time is it now?
ETZ: It's a couple minutes after five.
NR: After five?
ETZ: Yeah.
NR: God.
ETZ: Is there anything you want to say in
parting, or…
NR: No.
ETZ: Anything we didn't cover we should have?
NR: No, no. I think you're terrifically good
at all of this, Ellen. To allow someone like
me to just blather on with his ego. I'll do
it for you sometime.
ETZ: Okay, that's a date.
NR: For the archives.
ETZ: That's a date.
NR: Yeah, okay, well, I'd love to. It's easy
and the time has flown.
ETZ: Ned, thank you very, very much.
NR: My pleasure. Okay. Should I leave this
book…donate this book to the library, or
will it, will it…
Off-camera person: I think that would be great.
NR: Who should I inscribe it to? To Carnegie
Hall?
OCP: I think she knows.
NR: 'Cause there's a lot about Carnegie Hall
in here.
OCP: Gino would be very happy if you did such
a…
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