Program Notes

Aaron Copland - A Lincoln Portrait

Aaron Copland is generally considered America’s greatest composer.  That is, it is he, through his compositions and through his essays, books, lectures, and other thoughts on music, who has done more than any other individual to establish a corpus of “serious” music in this country that has largely defined an “American Sound.”  He lived a long life; influenced generations of young composers; advanced the cause of art music in this country; and composed music that has delighted millions in the audiences of ballet, chamber music, symphonic music, radio, television, and the movies.  The son of Jewish immigrants, he lived for most of his life in New York City—or close by—but assimilated so much of the disparate elements of our culture that he came to be considered as representative of all of it.  In his music one finds jazz, ethnic, western, folk, intellectual, and populist elements and references—and much more: Cuban, Mexican, and European Continental.  But his wide-ranging intellect easily synthesized it all into an inimitable style (or small group of stylistic voices) with which his music spoke with a clear and unified expression.

 His greatest musical influence was undoubtedly the grande dame of teachers, Mme. Nadia Boulanger, with whom he studied in Paris during the early 1920s.   Teacher of generations of distinguished performers and composers, she counted Copland as her greatest pupil.   Of course, while spending those years in Paris—along with the so-called “lost” generation (Copland was assuredly not part of it)—he was exposed to a wealth of musical styles and composers.   Of them, Stravinsky was the other great influence upon Copland.

 Upon his return to the USA his early dalliance with jazz and “symphonic jazz” was more or less replaced by a severe, often dissonant style—one not often associated with Copland by much of today’s audiences, but definitely a life-long option for him in his compositions.  But during the 1930s his interest in socialist perspectives crystallized for him and he turned to a more accessible, populist style that has come to be his hallmark for mainstream America.  His ballets, Billy the Kid, Rodeo, and Appalachian Spring, as well as his music for the films, Of Mice and Men and Our Town and other works all endeared him to a wide audience and made his reputation as composer of “American” music.  He continued that trend with music for the film adaptation of Steinbeck’s Red Pony, and even wrote a clarinet concerto for the great Benny Goodman.  How mainstream American can you get?

 The advent of World War II wrought massive changes to American society, and its existential threat to the country stimulated an understandable surge in patriotism.  And those of the classical music establishment then—unlike much of it today—rushed to participate in celebrating our country’s history and values.  We all thrill to Copland’s Fanfare for the Common Man; it was the result of a 1942 commission of eighteen of America’s leading composers for fanfares to honor and celebrate those fighting in the war effort.

 A similar inspiration led to Copland’s A Lincoln Portrait.  For the 1942-43 symphonic season, the conductor, André Kostelanetz commissioned Virgil Thompson, Jerome Kern, and Copland each to compose a portrait of the “magnificent spirit of our country.”  For his contribution Copland had initially chosen the words of Walt Whitman, but he wisely acceded to Kostelanetz’s urging to turn to the magnificent, timeless rhetoric of Lincoln, instead.   Those words, combined with Copland’s populist “American Style,” produced a profound work.

 Those whose know and love Copland’s music from that time will immediately find familiar the musical “portrait.”  Copland wove together the simple elements of that style with his own melodies, but also incorporated two traditional American folk tunes, as well.  One—easily heard—is “Camptown Races,” which the composer chose because it had been used as one of Lincoln’s campaign songs.

 A Lincoln Portrait is basically in two broad sections:  The first is composed of three contrasting musical vignettes of Lincoln and his times.  The second introduces the narration of Lincoln’s words, accompanied by stirring recitative-like accompaniment from the orchestra.  The opening is tranquil, but ominous in its evocation of the constant dangers to our country—then and now.  Copland said that he “. . . hoped to suggest something of the mysterious sense of fatality that surrounds Lincoln’s personality.”  That he manifestly did. The music slowly grows in intensity, informed by a simple, three-note motive so typical of the composer.  As it swells in power and dignity, it seems to validate all to come.  The second of the musical vignettes begins with the solo clarinet, and is infused with much of the plain charm of Copland’s opera, The Tender Land.  Finally, the first section ends with upbeat folk dances that gradually are eclipsed by a broad, powerful countermelody that leads us inexorably to the serious matter of Lincoln’s text in the second part.  A dramatic smash on the gong and brass figures reminiscent of the Fanfare for the Common Man sets the tone for the words that follow.

 Lincoln’s words include excerpts from the Gettysburg Address, the Lincoln-Douglas debates, and one of his State of the Union speeches.  Copland artfully crafts the accompaniment to the text: bold or quiet, dramatic or serene, wistful or triumphal—accordingly.  In the best tradition of music and words, they mutually enhance each other, and the union is a work that never fails to engender both pride and reflection regarding our great experiment in democracy.

 The work truly was an inspiration for the difficult times of the war, but about 1950 both Copland’s musical style and his popular place in society took a distinct turn.  His earlier support of socialist causes (he supported the American Communist Party in the election of 1936) made him a target of Red Hysteria and Senator McCarthy.   The Republican Party cancelled a performance of his Lincoln Portrait for Ike’s inauguration, and other indignities followed him for a few years.

 His music began—but not completely—to return to the severe and dissonant basis that characterized his early work, and he disappointed those who commissioned works thinking they were going to get another Appalachian Spring.  By 1972, in his own words, it was “as if someone had simply turned off a faucet,” and he gave up composition completely.   He died in 1990 of Alzheimer’s disease.

 –Wm. E. Runyan

 ©2023 William E. Runyan

Glen Cortese - Apparitions, Ghosts and Spirits

The idea for Apparitions, Ghosts and Spirits evolved from my fascination with the spirit world and its various inhabitants. Different cultures from around the world have different spirits and legends to which the ascribe, though there are actually some that are constants. When Lisa Leonard asked me to write her a piano concerto, I knew that I didn’t want to write a work in traditional form. Her singular artistry and our unique friendship over the last 30 years prompted me to create something equally as different and unusual. This led me to the idea of incorporating my previously mentioned fascination into a musical work that doesn’t fit into the standard mold of an instrumental concerto.

The work is cast in five sections, each depicting a different type of entity from the spirit world. The form and character of these sections was dictated by the nature of those entities.

1. Shapeshifters

Shapeshifters in the spirit world, found across global folklore and shamanic traditions, are beings capable of transforming their form through magic, curses, or innate ability to navigate between human, animal, and spiritual realms. They often serve as intermediaries, protectors, or malevolent entities using deception. My musical depiction of them was to compose a theme and small set of variations to represent their ability to change. This section also introduces the material that is used for the entire work.

2. Orbs of Light

             Orbs of light, frequently captured in photographs, are widely interpreted as spirit manifestations, energy forms, or guardian angels. These circular, often colorful, phenomena are believed to be ways spirits travel, convey messages, or show presence, especially during high-energy family events or in historically significant locations. I represented them by creating a serene background in which bursts of sound occur both in the orchestra with the piano and the piano alone.

 3. Shadow People

Shadow People are also known as Dark Shadows or Lost Souls and are generally considered the most tragic of ghost entities. They are most often viewed out of the corner of one’s eye through peripheral vision, only to vanish the moment one turns their head to get a better look. It is said that the absolute darkness of their form reflects their spiritual state. Shadow People are said to be utterly bereft of the guiding light of heaven, and wander aimlessly, with the light of their eyes representing the little inner light they have left, if any: they are the souls of humans that have lost all light within them through their desperate attempts to escape the afterlife. My musical representation is a fast, fleeting scherzo which phases in and out of lighter music (the little light left in their eyes) to darker music.

4. Seraphim

          Seraphim are the highest order of angels in the celestial hierarchy, often described as six-winged "burning ones" who surround God's throne, symbolizing divine love, purity, and unceasing adoration. Mentioned in Isaiah 6, they use their wings for reverence, humility, and service, constantly proclaiming God's holiness. They are fiery, powerful beings, sometimes associated with purifying agents in some traditions. My musical depiction is a serene, hymn-like setting with a musical climax to represent their fire and intensity.

5. Poltergeists

Poltergeists (German for “noisy ghosts”) are disembodied spirits or supernatural force credited with certain malicious or disturbing phenomena, such as inexplicable noises, sudden wild movements, or breakage of household items. Poltergeists are also blamed for violent actions; throwing stones or setting fire to clothing and furniture. Such events are said to be sporadic, unpredictable, and often repetitive. Unlike traditional ghosts, they are often linked to specific individuals, frequently adolescents, or to intense negative energy in a location. They can be perceived as mischievous, dangerous, or even, according to some belief systems, as lower-level, non-human entities. I painted the musical picture of these entities with a slow unsettling opening followed by wild, raucous episodes, a more subdued section with a repeated figure (sporadic, unpredictable, and often repetitive), a cadenza and coda. This section is the most challenging for the soloist and features the interval of the tritone, known for its unsettling tension, historically called the “devil in music” for its use in sacred music. My deepest gratitude goes to Lisa and to Lynn University for commissioning this work.

– Glen Cortese

© 2026 Titanicor Music

Antonín Dvořák - Symphony No. 9 in E Minor, Op. 95, B. 178 (“From the New World”)

Dvořák is the preeminent Czech composer of the nineteenth century, and perhaps of all of his successors, as well.   This is no small achievement, considering the number of great musicians–Mozart, for example—who thought of Bohemia as the most musical country in Europe.  Even today, one can hardly get on a streetcar in Prague without stepping around a double bass. Americans today, if they think of Czech music at all, other than two works by Smetana, it is of the music of Dvořák. They know little of the other composers of the incredible musical wealth of Bohemia—including Fibich, Ostrčil, Janáček, Foerster, Hába, and Martinů—just to name a few.  Dvořák is merely “first among equals” in the history of Czech music, and many more of the compositions of “the conservatory of Europe” need to reach our own concert stages.

 Dvořák owed his initial recognition to Johannes Brahms, who encountered his music somewhat early in Dvořák’s career, and saw to it that he was enabled to spend time in Vienna for further study.  While Dvořák’s fundamental stylistic orientation is similar to the older composer in its classical restraint and dedication to traditional forms and procedures, his compositions are unmistakably Czech in myriad subtle ways.  Turns of harmony, melody, and rhythm firmly establish Dvořák’s ethnicity, even within the disciplined tradition of musical composition leading back to, say, Beethoven.  Like Brahms, Dvořák wrote stunningly well in the genres of string quartets, sonatas, and symphonies.  But unlike Brahms, he also wrote tone poems, and was an active and successful opera composer, although only his Rusalka is widely known in this country.  He was interested in almost every genre, and few of his contemporaries composed successfully in as many different ones as did Dvořák.

 He clearly thought of himself as a champion of Czech music, and he incorporated significant Czech musical, literary, and historical elements into his works.   His Slavonic Rhapsodies, tone poems, operas, and songs—the list goes on and on—all are heavily infused with Czech melodies, linguistic inflections and characteristic rhythms, and national legends and stories.   And it must be admitted that these essential elements of his artistic voice are near the core of his attractiveness to audiences worldwide—not just in his homeland. Yet, to focus inordinately on these elements would miss the mark in understanding the most important aspect of the nature of his music. As deeply rooted as he is in the Czech musical tradition, it would be a mistake to consign him primarily to the category of “nationalist” composers.  For Dvořák was a clear adherent of the artistic thinking of those composers of the nineteenth century who were firmly rooted in the tradition of Mozart, Haydn, and Beethoven (and later, Mendelssohn and Brahms) as a fundamental way of composing.  That is, they favored classical forms and designs, integrated development of musical ideas, and in general, a restrained and balanced expression that placed strong emphasis on music as an abstract art.  Generally speaking not for them were the “stories” and programs of folks like Liszt and Wagner, and their followers.   And in his mastery of the resilience of this style, the symphonies of Dvořák have taken a central place in the symphonic repertoire from those times that are favored today by concert audiences.

 Dvořák wrote nine symphonies, but Americans are most familiar with his last one, Symphony No. 9 in E Minor, “From the New World.”  Its popularity and success was assured from its première in Carnegie Hall in 1893.  It is safe to say that it is the most important work composed in the United States up until that time.  By the 1880s Dvořák was a leading composer with a worldwide reputation, although he had not achieved great financial security for his beloved family.  So it was with notable alacrity that he responded to the offer by a wealthy New York philanthropist to come to that city and assume the duties of head of her new American Conservatory—and at a stunning salary!  He came to America in 1892 and stayed for three years, during that time composing several significant works, including the cello concerto, the “American” string quartet, and, of course, the ninth symphony.

 Dvořák plunged right in with his work in New York, and took the opportunity to continue in greater depth his interest in indigenous America musical materials—especially Black American spirituals and whatever Native American music—or what passed for that in those days—that he could find.  The exact nature of “American” melodies, rhythms, and harmonies that surfaced in his music during those three years has long been a major source of controversy.  And the “New World” symphony was ground zero for those debates.  For the last century, scholars of all ilk have posited this tune and that melody in the symphony as derived or quoted from native sources.   Characteristic “American” rhythms are served up as influences upon Dvořák.  Longfellow’s epic poem, Hiawatha, is adduced as the model for the middle movements.  And the famous melody of the slow movement for many years was claimed to be a Black spiritual, when in fact the “spiritual” was born three decades later, when newly-composed words in dialect were set to Dvořák’s immortal tune.  It all was a fine kettle of fish.  Recent historical analysis has pretty much relegated specific American elements in the symphony as broad and vaguely inspirational—for most of what had been previously heard as “From the New World” is now known to be mostly from the “European World.”  Characteristic scales and melodic shapes in the work are common to many cultures around the world.  In the end, it is best to hear this great composition as essentially Czech in almost every way—Dvořák really couldn’t help being himself.  Listen carefully to his many other compositions, and it’s clear that the  “New World Symphony” is Bohemian from top to bottom.

 The first movement begins with a brief, slow introduction, which lays out an essential melodic shape, important through the movement.  Soon, after a spiky accent from the strings, the main theme is heard again, but clearly now in the horns.  After a while the other main idea–a rather dark little bucolic “village dance”–is introduced by oboes and flute.  The last idea is an optimistic tune, first heard in the low register of the solo flute.  With all the themes introduced, a relatively short development of them ensues—all of the ideas easily recognized.  And, as at the beginning, the horns start our trip back home with the main theme.  After a harmonic surprise, the movement ends with the same dynamic mood of the beginning.

 A few dark, low chords in the brass and woodwinds introduce the famous English horn solo—just try to not think of the faux spiritual, “Goin’ Home,” if you can!  The middle section, in the minor mode, seems to be a gentle, funereal march, supported after a little while by pizzicato basses.  Softer and softer, the mood is sustained until a sudden interruption from dancing woodwinds brings in a brighter frame of mind, sounding almost like rustic bagpipes skirling.  At this juncture, Dvořák, in a characteristic move, brings back two important ideas, easily remembered from the first movement—one played by the trombones, the other by the horns and violins. These he combines with the English horn tune, now in the trumpets—all in one measure!  The solo English horn from the beginning quickly returns, and after a wistful contribution from a solo violin and cello, the ominous chords that opened the movement bring us to the end.

 The third movement scherzo is a mad Czech dance, with the added treat of two trios–rather than the conventional single one–in the middle as contrast.  They serve as a lyrical foil to the hammering freneticism of this careening Slavic folk choreography.  By now, you’ve undoubtedly noticed how, in the best Romantic fashion, Dvořák is tying all the movements together, not only by quoting the same themes from movement to movement, but also by slyly fashioning all of them from the same simple musical intervals, creatively varied.  This movement is no exception—after the dynamic opening (with some cross-accents familiar to those who remember his Slavonic Dances), the more relaxed first trio echoes the English horn tune from the slow movement.  After a brief return to the thundering opening the second trio provides a diversion in the guise of a lilting Ländler, replete with the composer’s penchant for trills.  Then, back to the hammering first section, ending with a coda, and what else?—a quote of the familiar horn motif from the opening of the symphony.

 The last movement starts ominously in a dark, march-like mood, with unison horns and trumpets pealing out the famous modal theme.  After chewing on this a bit, the orchestra goes to the expected second theme. This pleasant contrasting material is heard first in the soothing solo clarinet, followed by others.  What then ensues is a magic development of all of almost everything that you will remember as a tune from all the movements–varied, combined, and worked through as only a composer at the height of his powers, and a true disciple of Beethoven and Brahms could do.  Even without all of this truly admirable intellectual and musical discipline, the psychological buildup to the end is sheer joy to experience.  Constantly changing moods, tempos, and dynamics inevitably lead us to the triumph at the end, as minor turns to major, sustained by fortissimo statements of our familiar melodies.  Interspersed are the familiar ominous chords from the slow movement, now sounded out in stentorian tones by all the winds.  A final last reiteration of the main themes of the first and last movements takes us home. When all has been said, it really doesn’t matter at all whether this magnificent work is from the “New World,” or the world of Dvořák’s beloved Bohemia—there is no doubt that it is from the musical world of a genius.

 –Wm. E. Runyan

 © 2015 William E. Runyan