daron aric hagen

Composing concert music for traditional symphony orchestra (as opposed to commercial music for games and soundtracks, which is intended to be performed for microphones in a studio, recorded, and manipulated by audio technicians, which is quite another thing) requires an understanding of the culture of the orchestra as a performing unit, a specific set of musical skills-many of which can be learned only through hands on experience, and an appreciation of what it feels like (and sounds like) to both play in an orchestra and to hear an orchestra from the audience.

Orchestras are Big: they are particularly good at being Big and at expressing Big Thoughts. Rehearsal time is limited: composers who write practical pieces that are orchestrated in a fashion that makes the orchestra sound good in the allotted time get programmed. An orchestra can make complicated music sound straightforward if the composer is a good orchestrator. An orchestra all playing one pitch together in various octaves is as beautiful, opulent, and as stirring as the greatest organ: consequently, an orchestra-like any first-rate performer-can make superficial, even stupid music seem profound-at least while they are playing it.

The goal is to compose idiomatically for the orchestra as an instrument so that your music will 'sound' well in as many different contexts as possible. (An opera composer must also know how to score for an acoustic orchestra playing sixteen feet below the stage as opposed to one onstage, how to accommodate singers singing without amplification without overpowering them, and so forth. Amplification skews everything, and orchestrating for pit orchestras in which half of the players are wearing earphones (or are even playing in other rooms and their performances 'piped in') or synchronizing their performances to pre-recorded parts being mixed and broadcast into the house requires yet another set of skills.

How I Learned to Orchestrate

First, of course, there was the book: Nicolai Rimsky Korsakov's Principals of Orchestration. At the age of ten I found it at the Brookfield Square Mall Walden Books around the same time that adolescence found me. Leaning against the elm tree at the northeast corner of the intersection of Meadow Lane and Elm Grove Road during the winter of 1971, waiting for the school bus alone, poring over the Korsakov, I could feel the pull of the secret world of Musicians. In retrospect, its allure was a combination of things: its contents seemed to offer a path toward beginning to understand the unfathomable language of music; it served, as an object in itself, as a talisman or icon from the world of music, helping to make real to me a world that was still out of my reach, but might one day welcome me; finally, simply handling the book made me feel special. I read and re-read it obsessively. Had the scriptures affected me as viscerally at that age, I'd have become a minister instead of a composer.

At fifteen, Harry Sturm, assistant principal cellist of the Chicago Symphony under Fritz Reiner, took me under his wing, devised a great summer-long introduction to the ways of the orchestra: first, I was to play piano in the ensemble for a concert; second, I was to station myself in various parts of the ensemble and listen to how they interacted as he conducted rehearsals for another concert; third, I was to take lessons in the rudiments of conducting from his assistant; fourth, I was to compose, rehearse, and conduct the premiere of my piece. The result was Suite for a Lonely City-the piece that my mother sent to Leonard Bernstein that triggered a letter from him that changed my life forever. In his review of the concert, Jay Joslyn, the Milwaukee Journal critic back then, wrote that I must have felt like Moses atop Mount Pisgah, looking down from the podium into an orchestral Promised Land as I led my fellow teenagers in the premiere of my first orchestra piece. I did.

Although I've taught orchestration, I've never taken a class in it. I've learned by doing, composing for everything from high school band to the New York Philharmonic and everything in between. On 13 July 1979, the summer after graduating from Brookfield Central High School, I proudly accepted my first professional fee as an orchestrator-a Burt Bacharach tune for the Milwaukee Symphony-courtesy of John-David Anello, the fascinating founding conductor of the Milwaukee Pops. I still have the pay stub. The same summer Anello also gave me my first music copying gig-extracting the solo piano part for the Yellow River Concerto.

My conducting teacher at the University of Wisconsin, Catherine Comet, was a prodigy, had studied privately with Nadia Boulanger for three years as a pre-teen, graduated from Juilliard. 'Nadia never told me that I couldn't be a conductor,' Comet said. 'She never charged me for a lesson, saying that when I began making money as a conductor, I could pay her back. I did.' A drop-dead beautiful Parisian with absolutely impeccable technique, she terrified me. I idolized her. I left the University of Wisconsin before taking an orchestration class, but not before her razor-sharp disquisitions about orchestral combinations and the proper notation of string harmonics during my lessons had left me both edified and traumatized. I am still proud of the five measures of an orchestra piece I composed at the time that she singled out as 'deliciously orchestrated.' Ned, during my first composition lesson with him, about six months later, zeroed in on the same five bars.

As a student at the Curtis, I enjoyed each Saturday morning what I felt was the catbird's seat, perched behind a grand piano on the stage of Curtis Hall, stationed slightly above and behind William Smith (who became a treasured mentor and friend) as he rehearsed the Curtis Orchestra in whatever repertoire the Philadelphians were playing that week. Bill collected composer facsimile scores, and would bring a copy of the work at hand, if he had it, for me to look at; Clint Newig-the coolly capable Philadelphia Orchestra librarian-would send over their full score, which contained all the bowings that helped make the Philadelphia Orchestra glow; and I would bring my own score. As I listened to rehearsal and Bill dispensed his profoundly useful, unpretentious brand of wisdom to my classmates, I would array before me for comparison all three scores, taking notes, listening, and learning.

Curtis didn't offer a class in orchestration when I was there and, in any event, I was by this point developing my chops by composing as much orchestral music as I possibly could, since the Director, John de Lancie, had miraculously (and with what now seems Olympian generosity) decreed that I was to be allowed (nay, required, since he told me when I asked him why he was allowing me this golden opportunity that he cordially detested the idea of composers 'sitting on their hands' while conductors and performers tried to make sense of their scores) to conduct the premieres of whichever orchestral works I was able to complete. He kept his promise, authorizing me to compose and conduct the premieres of about six hours' worth of orchestral music-concertos for violin and cello, an orchestral song cycle, a suite, an overture, a symphony, and Prayer for Peace for string orchestra-while a student at the Curtis, along with a dozen chamber works, a one act opera which I staged and conducted, songs, and cycles.

By the time I reached Juilliard, I was already fulfilling commissions from major orchestras, so I didn't see the point of submitting to the (then) rather Byzantine process of competing for a chance to have one's music sight-read by the second-level orchestra there. I had begun learning the brutal professional orchestra world lessons before graduation from the Curtis. For example, orchestra players (like small children) are brutally honest in their criticism of composers. And they should be, since performing a bad piece of music is for them much more like being trapped on a coast-to-coast flight with a screaming infant than most composers seem to understand.  Halfway through the first rehearsal of Prayer for Peace, the composition with which I made my professional debut as a composer with the Philadelphia Orchestra at nineteen, I felt the tide of opinion turn in my piece's favor when William dePasquale turned to Joe dePasquale and said, 'I know he's young, but c'mon, Joe, let's give the kid a break.'

Dealing with Players

Orchestral players are proud members of an exceedingly close-knit community with strict codes of behavior who customarily function in a highly stressful work environment. From their earliest days at conservatory they've labored to blend well with their colleagues, to simultaneously stand out, yet serve as a cog in an enormous eighteenth century music-making apparatus. I recall observing John de Lancie's wind sectional rehearsals as a student: he would beat four, command each player to enter on beat one with their softest note, grow louder as the beat proceeded to four, and then diminish to nothing as four more beats went by. The tension was incredible. This developed the players' nerves, taught them how to perform under severe pressure, and served to shape them into a section.

Working for many years as a professional music copyist (for both concert and commercial projects) taught me a lot about what orchestral players need to see in the part that is put in front of them. Although when the parts go on the stands the composer has all the Power, his Authority diminishes every time something is harder to play than it needs to be, the notes are unidiomatic for the instruments, or when technical mistakes and errata emerge in the performance materials. Adhering to the Major Orchestra Librarians' Association guidelines is a good start. (If you use copyists, make sure they do; if you copy your own parts, know them.) Observing Norman Carol (back then the concertmaster of the Philadelphia Orchestra) conducting my classmates in a string sectional, I once saw him toss a Krzysztof Penderecki score over his shoulder in disgust because the string parts were so poorly notated. 'Maybe he's a genius, who knows?' he cried, exasperated. 'I certainly can't tell by looking at these parts!'

If asked by the conductor to address the orchestra, speak no more than three minutes and save the description of your inner motivation for your program note-if anyone cares, they can always read it later. Don't take personally the 'Don't tell me why you wrote this thing fella just tell me if you want it fast or slow, loud or soft' attitude that can seem to come off the stage like air out of a walk-in freezer. If you've written a good piece, the temperature in the room will rise. You might even get a 'good job' or two. Orchestral players are people who want to express themselves: embraces, gratitude, even tears really are possible, if you the piece has earned them.

Orchestra players don't care about synthesizers-except if they're being used to take the place of humans. Commercial orchestrators and composers are using fewer and fewer living players, more and more gadgets. This concerns everyone.

A composer must first ask himself how he failed when something doesn't sound the way he thought it would. Making changes during rehearsals, dreaming up extra-musical rationales for why something isn't working, is for amateurs. Don't try to make up for your failure to properly notate what you heard by explaining yourself to the conductor, or by coaching the players; leave them alone. Let them do their jobs. Period.

Dealing with Conductors

Respect the chain of command. Speak when spoken to. Never address a player directly during rehearsal; all interaction should be through the conductor.

Obey the house rules: if you compose for an orchestra hurl not your sabot into the machinery. Whether or not you think the person standing on the podium deserves it, tradition dictates that he be addressed as Maestro. Orchestras are tyrannies ruled by conductors, not democracies, and that fact can be really hard on people who became instrumentalists partly out of an urge to express their individuality. One thing a conductor can count on, to paraphrase Oscar Levant, is the knowledge that the players in their orchestra will inevitably grow to despise him. With the Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra in my early thirties I alienated the conductor forever when, in response to his request for a few comments, I mounted the podium (another mistake) and, in five minutes, rattled off all of my notes to the orchestra. The players shuffled their feet, applauding me, but really they were just enjoying the discomfiture of their sovereign. The composer is the only person in the room who knows the score better than the conductor. Accordingly, conductors prefer that we smile gratefully and to remain mute, no matter what.

Don't be a backseat driver. Unless you are waving the stick, your tempo is not necessarily the correct one. The conductor's job is to make his orchestra and (secondarily) your piece sound good. He has already taken a risk by programming your work. I don't vouch for the veracity of this story, but I repeat it because, if it is apocryphal, then is truer than truth. It involves Serge Koussevitzky and Béla Bartók, who during a rehearsal of the majestic Concerto for Orchestra, kept piping up with comments. Maestro asked maestro: 'Can you please hold your comments until the break, and we will discuss them in my dressing room?' The maestros met; through the door a furious battle. When the rehearsal resumed, Maestro announced to the players that the Maestros had agreed that everything was going just fine.

Dealing with Management

Composers and performers rarely think about the fact that orchestras are charities, that ticket sales cover only a relatively small portion of the cost of concerts, that donors underwrite everyone's salaries. Composers are paid a fraction to compose the concertos that soloists are paid to play a single time-for entirely understandable reasons. Audiences, boards, players, and conductors are-with famous and noble exceptions-resistant to programming new works-even ones that are stylistically ingratiating. When you think about it, it's a miracle that there are as many orchestras as there are.

Try to understand that the audience isn't there to hear your piece, and behave accordingly. As far as programming is concerned, folks are there mainly to hear the soloist play the concerto; the standard repertoire celebrates the artistry of the orchestra and the players; to the audience your piece is a new piece of music is at best little bit like the relative from out of town who tags along on a date; at worst, your piece is, well, another version of the screaming baby in an airplane scenario. Management knows and accepts this, even if you do not. Usually folks in management have never heard of you; your piece has been programmed on the say-so of the music director, or the executive director joined a consortium and now they have to fulfill their side of the bargain. Be nice. Be real. Ask questions. Study the myriad practical issues they are facing, and they will try to understand yours.

Dealing with the Audience

It isn't just important that young people should meet and speak with a living composer; it is important for composers to be reminded about the fact that, to most young people, we simply don't exist. We can do something about it. If you are asked by your conductor or the education folks at an orchestra to visit schools, say yes. Be friendly, unpretentious, accessible, and do not condescend.

If you are asked to speak to the audience, keep your remarks under three minutes and don't make things up or try to be clever. Speak from the heart-that's eloquent enough. Let your music do the talking.

If you are asked to speak to donors, ask the development people in management to explain to you who they are and what they do. Respect yourself and the people around you by wearing a good suit and tie or a dress to the concert and surrounding events.

If you are asked to give a pre-concert talk, you have been given a marvelous opportunity to be an advocate not just for your piece, but for contemporary music. It isn't about you.

The soloist and the conductor are the most important people in the Green Room. Don't feel badly if people don't recognize you, or know what to say to you. Take up only as much space as your personal value system is comfortable with. Stay centered; be happy (you've just had a première!); look people in the eye when they shake your hand and congratulate you; listen to them; don't dig your toe in the ground-actually or metaphorically. Thank your conductor; thank players. If a player compliments you, savor the fact that that is not a given and thank her: we are all professionals, but no composer is entitled to a good performance.