Piled on top of the fun of Carthage’s homecoming was also the excitement of the Kenosha Symphony’s first concert of the season, for which I was a participant on two fronts: as narrator for “Lincoln Portrait” by Aaron Copland and in preparing a small group of singers to perform the magnificent quintet “The Promise of Living” from his opera The Tender Land. Someone smarter than me would probably have told the KSO “sorry, I’ve got a lot going on that weekend with homecoming. Maybe another time.” But then again, who knows when the proverbial next time might actually come – or if these two particular opportunities would ever come again. When the opportunity comes along to narrate Lincoln Portrait or to perform The Promise of Living, one of my all-time favorite pieces of music, there is only one answer I’m going to give. Yes. It may be tricky. It may be challenging. But somehow, I have to do this. The answer is Yes.
First “Lincoln Portrait.” This work was composed by Copland back in 1942 and combines a colorful and wonderfully crafted score with spoken narration featuring some of Abraham Lincoln’s most powerful words. The first time I heard this piece was in the spring of 1981, at a special concert for the farewell of Luther College’s soon-to-retire President Farwell. I remember being powerfully moved and hoping that someday I would have the opportunity to narrate this piece. (I also remember that President Farwell’s assistant sat in the front row of the audience following the musical score and flipping a card every time President Farwell was to begin speaking another section of text. Tricky- and a wise idea if someone can’t read music.) I have narrated this several times before, and I still vividly remember the very first time, which was about twenty years ago. It was a Racine Symphony Lakeside Pops concert back in the days when they were played outdoors – and after it finished with those huge triumphant final chords and the audience went crazy, out on the to the stage walked my dear friend Walter Hermanns- dressed and made up as Lincoln, complete with beard and top hat. People later told me that they assumed that I knew about it ahead of time because I stayed so calm – – – but what looked like Calm in fact was Shock. I had no idea it was going to happen, and I still smile when I think of it. (And somewhere we have a picture of the moment when I am shaking hands with “Lincoln.”)
It had been a number of years since I last narrated Lincoln Portrait, so it was a privilege to be able to do it again. But what made this even more meaningful was that this time around, the words of Lincoln seemed to reverberate with modern America and the crisis in which we finds ourselves. At one point, for instance, I intone these words of our sixteenth president:
The dogmas of the quiet past are inadequate for a stormy present. The occasion is piled high with difficulty and we must rise with the occasion. As our case is new, so we must think anew and act anew. We must disenthrall ourselves, and then we shall save our country.
Or these words:
The fiery trial through which we pass will light us down in honor or dishonor, to the latest generation. We – even we here – hold the power and bear the responsibility.
It is impossible to read those words and not be powerfully affected – for it seems as if Lincoln is speaking directly to us from the grave – as though he wrote those words not only for his fellow Americans contending with the threat of our nation splitting in two, but as well for the sake of future Americans and the ferocious trials which they were sure to face.
This is a challenging piece to narrate – especially in this case when I wasn’t given a score to follow in order to know when each section of text was to begin and by what point in the music each bit of text needed to be finished. All I had were the words themselves in front of me and my own familiarity with the score to guide me (plus a head nod from the conductor, Miriam Burns, for when to start- but otherwise I was on my own.) We also never did a sound check – there just didn’t seem to be time – so it was up to us as we did it to try and gauge whether or not I could be clearly heard over the orchestra. There was also the matter of trying to be true to the splendor of Lincoln’s words yet saying them with a sense of simplicity and sincerity. I have heard an amazing array of narrators on various recordings: Henry Fonda, Carl Sandburg, James Earl Jones, Katherine Hepburn, General Norman Schwarzkopf, Charlton Heston – and what becomes evident is that you don’t need to speak these words as though you’re gunning for your fifth Oscar nomination. You need to speak them as though you really mean them. My favorite of all recordings is actually the one narrated by Adlai Stevenson. There was nothing histrionic about the way he narrated it; he just did it with sincerity and clarity and a no- nonsense directness that I think really worked. That’s always been my goal, although this time I found myself really pouring much more passion and fire into the delivery – not really meaning to but finding it to be all but unavoidable, given their added meaning and impact in these challenging days for our nation. And then when the last portion came with words from the Gettysburg address, my goal became simply – Don’t Lose It. Keep Speaking. Don’t Cry. It was incredibly difficult – and it made me realize that if I’m choked up like this when I’m 48, what happens if I’m fortunate enough to narrate this again in twenty years? I’ll have to wear rain gear for the concert, so awash will I be in tears.
The other facet of the concert in which I was involved was “The Promise of Living,” a magnificent moment from Copland’s opera The Tender Land. I first heard this piece when I was a sophomore in college. Someone I knew sang a lovely aria from it for her senior recital, and it made me curious about the rest of the opera- so I borrowed the LP from the college radio station. I took that album to my dorm room, began playing it over my headphones, and when I got to the last band on side one, “The Promise of Living,” I thought I had never heard anything so magnificent or moving in all my life. I sat there in my dorm room, hunched over my stereo from 10:30 pm until 3 in the morning, playing that five-minute quintet over and over and over again. In some circles, that might be called a quasi nervous breakdown. I prefer to think of it as falling head over heels in love with a piece of music like I never had before and really never have since.
I have listened to this music a lot over the years, but was has been most thrilling has been the occasions when I actually performed/ prepared it- twice with the Carthage Choir, once with the Chamber Singers- and most recently with five singers from my Musici Amici group. Miriam needed it to be a small group because that’s all that could be fit on the stage – and it was written for five solo voices rather than a choral ensemble . . . and I ended up choosing singers who were all living right in Kenosha or Racine and easily accessible for rehearsals. Sarah, Katie, Becky, Eric, and Nick came through with flying colors- and in fact, the audience’s ovation was so enthusiastic and sustained that we had to go back out on the stage for a second bow. What a thrill that was- and this time, rather than being stuck in the audience or stuck playing the piano accompaniment, I was up there onstage singing the baritone part (the baritone singer I recruited sort of went AWOL and it seemed best for me to just slip myself in his place) and having the time of my life. We all were – especially one of the singers who lost their voice for awhile this summer only to regain their singing voice ahead of schedule this fall. This performance in large measure was in thanksgiving for that – and in thanksgiving for the enormous blessing of being able to sing magnificent music together. It just makes life worth living like nothing else I know.
pictured above: The quintet’s first rehearsal with the Kenosha Symphony: Nick Sluss-Rodionov, Eric Leitzen, Sarah Gorke, Becky Whitefoot, and Katie Nagao.