News came of the death of composer Harold Shapero this week. While most classical listeners were probably unfamiliar with the name, I knew it and it brought back a memory related to him, though I never met the man.

In 1986-87, I was studying at the Peabody Conservatory of Music in Baltimore and was given the rather large assignment of writing the program notes for the school’s performances. In February of 1987, Gunther Schuller came to town to conduct a Nadia Boulanger centenary concert with the Peabody Orchestra. On his program, naturally, he featured the music of several of Boulanger’s students, including that of one Harold Shapero. Here’s what I wrote, and let it serve as an introduction to the composer:

Harold Shapero

Nine Minute Overture

Born in Lynn, Massachusetts, Harold Shapero began his musical studies at an early age and soon became proficient on the piano. A fascination with jazz ensued, and he organized a dance band. He began his composition studies at the age of sixteen with Nicholas Slonimsky, continued with Ernst Krenek and Walter Piston at Harvard, Paul Hindemith at Tanglewood, and in 1942-43 with Nadia Boulanger at the Longy School of Music in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Of his teachers, “[Boulanger] had the most profound influence on me,” states Shapero. Hearing her perform the Beethoven string quartets on the piano opened new paths for him, and he began the study of Classical models. “She has a way of bringing out the best of which her pupils are capable,” says Shapero, “not through criticism so much as by approving the good parts in their music, and skipping over the others. It’s less what she says than what she leaves unsaid!”

A series of works with characteristics reminiscent of the Viennese masters followed, perhaps the most famous of which is his Symphony for Classical Orchestra (1947), given its premiere and recorded by Leonard Bernstein. By close study and imitation of Classical models, Shapero came to a technical mastery of his own style. Describing the process, Shapero wrote: “As the composer continues to work [daily] exercises in imitation of his models he will be surprised to find that along with the thousand subtleties of technique he will absorb from the masters, he will discover the personal materials of his own art.” Far from being a mere technician, however, “Shapero’s technical adroitness,” according to Copland, “is put at the service of a wonderfully spontaneous musical gift.” Copland characterized Shapero’s music as “ordered intensity.”

Since these Classically influenced works, Shapero has composed in a variety of idioms, using serialism in his Twelve-Tone Partita in C for piano and orchestra, Renaissance styles in Two Psalms for chorus, jazz in On Green Mountain for jazz ensemble, and electronic means in his Three Studies in C# for synthesizer and piano. In 1952 he helped form the first music faculty at Brandeis University, where the remained of his musical activities were centered. In 1968 he founded and directed the Brandeis electronic studios. In 1970 and 1971 he was Composer-in-Residence at the American Academy in Rome.

He has received numerous grants and awards, including two Guggenheim Fellowships, a Fulbright Fellowship, the Gershwin Prize and two American Prix de Rome. Commissions have come from the Koussevitzky Foundation, the Houston Philharmonic Orchestra, the Louisville Orchestra, and the American Jewish Tercentenary among others.

Written while still a student at Harvard, Shapero’s Nine Minute Overture was given its first performance in New York on June 8, 1941 by the CBS Orchestra conducted by Howard Barlow. Shapero jokingly states that the title “sounds like an egg.” The work earned him his first American Prix de Rome in nine short minutes.   –30–

The day of the concert arrived and I don’t remember seeing the program booklet before then. An editor took care of the program page listing the works to be performed. On it, for some reason unknown to me, the editor had put Shapero’s dates as (1920-1984). Schuller took to the podium (Shaperos’ overture was first item being performed) and immediately turned to the audience and said that he’d like to say that, contrary to the program notes, “Mr. Shapero is very much alive.” As my name was the only one listed in the program note credits, and all the students knew anyway that I was writing them, the entire audience — or so it seemed — turned from Schuller to stare accusingly at me.

I don’t remember that much about the performance of the work that followed, except that I believe the music was quite snappy and accomplished, and I bet it’s worth reviving. Later in the 80s, I was at the revival of the Symphony for Classical Orchestra by Andre Previn and the Los Angeles Philharmonic, which they subsequently recorded. That work, in a neoclassical style that recalls both Beethoven and Stravinsky, is definitely worth reviving.

In fact, just about a month before Shapero’s death, I included it on a list of interesting and neglected repertoire that I sent to an orchestra that had requested it.

Lisa Hirsch, who studied with Shapero, has a nice remembrance of him here. The New York Times has an obit here.

In today’s Orange County Register online, I review Friday night’s performance of “The Marriage of Figaro” by the Los Angeles Philharmonic and Gustavo Dudamel. Jean Nouvel provided the setting; Christopher Alden staged it.

Click here to read my review (subscription or one-day pass required), or pick up a copy of tomorrow’s newspaper.

photo: Craig T. Mathew & Greg Grudt/Mathew Imaging

In today’s Orange County Register, I review the Pacific Symphony playing the music of Duke Ellington and Daniel Schnyder.

Click here to read my review (subscription or one-day pass required), or pick up a copy of today’s paper.

And yes, I realize no one is clicking on these links anymore.

Video: The Duke Ellington Orchestra plays “The Opener.” Stick around to the end to hear the great Cat Anderson.

In today’s Orange County Register online, I offer a little reminiscence of my interviews with classical music’s elites.

Click here to read my article (subscription or one-day pass required), or pick up a copy of Sunday’s newspaper.

In today’s Orange County Register, I review Long Beach Opera’s production of a double bill featuring Stewart Copeland’s “Tell-Tale Heart” and Michael Gordon’s “Van Gogh.”

Click here to read my review (subscription, day pass, or seven-day free trial required), or pick up a copy of today’s newspaper.

photo: Keith Ian Polakoff

During the course of my coverage of the Pacific Symphony’s performance of “Singin’ in the Rain” over the past couple of weeks (it was a North American premiere; I wrote a preview and a review), I was surprised to find out that many of my peers, that is, people my age and even older, had never seen the film.

Now, I understand that some may have an aversion to musicals, though I don’t happen to. But “Singin’ in the Rain”? Really? As it is generally regarded as one one the best films ever made, and usually singled out as the most outstanding movie musical, aren’t these non-viewers curious enough to see why it’s so celebrated?

At any rate, I assure you there are reasons that it’s famous. Here’s one. As a public service, I give you the video above, which features the appearance of someone named Cyd Charisse (emerald-costumed) in the Broadway Melody scene (a dream sequence) of the film. Yes, that’s Gene Kelly dancing with her. Gentlemen, fasten your seat belts, please, and do try to at least notice the music.

Click here to read my review (one-day pass, subscription, or seven-day free trial required), or pick up a copy of tomorrow’s newspaper.

Today is the 99th birthday of conductor Carlo Maria Giulini. According to the book Serving Genius, I was the last American journalist to interview the maestro, a few days before his 90th birthday. It was unforgettable for me. The article printed below appeared in the Orange County Register on this day nine years ago.

May 9, 2004
The forgotten maestro

Carlo Maria Giulini brought greatness to the Los Angeles Philharmonic. But today, on his 90th birthday, all music has left him.

The bells are tolling in Milan, but Carlo Maria Giulini does not notice. When they are brought to his attention, he shows no interest.

The great conductor, who turns 90 today, has left all things musical behind. “It’s very far from my life now,” he says in heavily accented English. He apologizes for his sometimes broken sentences; there is little opportunity, or need, for him to speak anything but Italian these days. His voice sounds its age, worn and a little weary.

But he chuckles, too. Even on the phone, you can hear that he’s smiling. How does it feel to be turning 90? A little chuckle, then: “I can walk, I can read, I can think, and thanks God I am in good health. Touch wood.”

The celebrated maestro, the beloved music director of the Los Angeles Philharmonic from 1978 to 1984, retired from the podium several years ago after he began feeling ill while conducting. Heart problems. “I have a physical bad feeling,” he says, “then I stopped. I said,  ‘Now is finished.’ ” He seems since to have rather systematically removed all traces of music from his life. He no longer teaches or even listens. He is asked what made him decide to leave music completely behind.

“Because I was involved in my sentiments, and now in my age I need to be quiet.”

His contact with the musical world at large is minimal. He travels rarely, and then not far. His family (two sons, their wives, grandchildren) live near him, and care for him. He lost his wife, Marcella, a crushing blow, early in the 1990s.

There won’t be any public tributes to Giulini on his 90th. “No, no, nothing.” You can tell he wants it that way. The plans for the celebration are “very simple,” he says. He’ll be at home, “together with my sons and the grandchildren.” He wants nothing else.

The Giulini aura

Anyone who ever saw Giulini conduct remembers him. He cut a strikingly handsome and courtly figure on the podium. When the music began, it appeared to take possession of his body, and his face lit up like that of a suffering saint. But it was the music he made that was the most remarkable thing — superb performances of Beethoven, Schumann, Brahms, Verdi and others, meticulously prepared yet mellow and lyrical, stately in tempo yet inevitable in momentum. What’s more, Giulini never exaggerated to make a point; subtlety and sincerity were his hallmarks. His repertoire was relatively small, and he was but little interested, at least by the time he reached Los Angeles, in music of the 20th century. But whatever he chose to perform, including selected Modern works, he gave his whole being to — as listeners and musicians here, who still speak of Giulini with deep reverence, were soon to discover.

When he arrived in Los Angeles in 1978, he seemed an unlikely choice to succeed the flashy Zubin Mehta as music director of the Philharmonic. Southern California still had a reputation as a cultural backwater. At the time, Giulini had established himself as a serious Old World maestro with impeccable credentials, a resume that had included posts at La Scala, the Chicago Symphony and the Vienna Symphony, as well as a series of gold-standard recordings with legendary producer Walter Legge’s Philharmonia Orchestra in London.

He arrived at his first rehearsal, as was his custom, ready to work. The Giulini aura was immediately evident.

“Oh, it was unbelievable,” says Sidney Weiss, who served as Giulini’s concertmaster here and at the Chicago Symphony. “Every orchestra that he conducted was absolutely in a state of musical ecstasy while he was conducting and rehearsing.” Orchestra musicians, famously critical of conductors, felt differently about Giulini, Weiss says.

“He’s just pure music. The man is made of music and he comes before an orchestra interested in nothing but the music. He’s not looking for trouble, he’s not looking for who’s not playing well, or who might be sabotaging, that sort of thing. There’s nothing on his mind but the music, and he’s so inspiring that the impact is enormous.”

The Philharmonic soon fell in love with its gentleman maestro, says violinist Mark Kashper, who joined the Philharmonic shortly before Giulini arrived. “If not from day one, then maybe from week two. It was pretty quickly apparent to us what kind of musician was in front of us there.”

In rehearsals, Giulini was friendly, Kashper remembers, but always meant business. “(He was) very efficient in terms of use of time, always immaculately prepared, always immaculately well dressed and looking absolutely perfect.” Further endearing him to his musicians, says Kashper, Giulini preferred to show what he wanted rather than talk about it. “So, it was less talking, more playing. It was very good.”

Only in “extreme situations” would Giulini reveal even a hint of temper. It usually had to do, says Kashper, with a musician not giving a complete effort, or someone behaving unprofessionally.

“He would say something to the effect that this kind of thing will not be tolerated. And of course musicians had such great respect for him and admiration as a musician that this would always work, the kind of forceful pronouncement like that.”

Giulini’s effect on the Philharmonic’s sound proved considerable.

“I think it was very memorable,” Kashper says. “It was always very mellow, always very singing, kind of a little bit darkish and buttery kind of sound. I especially remember the sound of the cello section; I thought that was particularly beautiful. For example, the beginning of the second movement of Brahms’ Second Symphony, that there is just still in my ears.”

A time too brief

“He was the perfect antidote to Mehta,” remembers critic Martin Bernheimer. Love him or hate him, Bernheimer adds, Mehta produced a loud, brash, showy and extroverted orchestra sound. “And if anything, Giulini was just the opposite.”

Bernheimer admired Giulini’s Verdi and Brahms and his Beethoven especially. “It was slow and broad and thoughtful and my kind of Beethoven, poetic and Romantic and maybe a little bit bel canto Italian, which I think doesn’t hurt one bit.”

Soon the orchestra was recording Beethoven’s “Eroica” Symphony for classical music’s most prestigious label, Deutsche Grammophon, and the world found out what miracles Giulini was producing with his new orchestra.

Bernheimer calls it the Golden Age, but it didn’t last long. Amazingly enough, though, Giulini fit in well here. Never above doing the job, he conducted at the Hollywood Bowl and in outreach concerts at Santa Ana High School. The recordings continued. In 1982, in then opera-deprived Los Angeles, he even mounted a fully staged production of Verdi’s “Falstaff,” which marked the conductor’s first opera since 1967. Giulini oversaw every detail himself, even the costumes. Deutsche Grammophon recorded it live.

But in 1984, the maestro’s beloved wife, Marcella, took seriously ill. Giulini had depended upon her for everything, and he scarcely knew what to do without her.

“She took care of everything except the music in his life,” Weiss says. “He couldn’t even write a check. He had never written a check. He didn’t know anything about the mundane matters of existence. In fact he was so inept at those things that he didn’t even know he was supposed to eat three times a day. … He didn’t realize that he was supposed to eat, you know, before a performance. He would come and he hadn’t eaten all day, and he would be so weak he’d hardly be able to (conduct). They called the doctor one time — he almost collapsed when he came off a performance backstage. And the doctor said, after examining him, ‘This man is suffering from malnutrition!’ ”

It was soon clear that Giulini couldn’t continue. He left Los Angeles precipitously for Milan in 1984, intending to come back to guest conduct, but never to return.

“He was here too short a time for us,” Kashper says. “Sometimes music directors last too long. He was definitely too short.”

The sound in feeling

The memories fade for Giulini, or perhaps he has chosen to forget. “With music I have nothing to do anymore,” he says firmly. Does he like looking back? “No, I don’t want to think back.”

But he perks up when Los Angeles is mentioned.

“I heard that they have a new concert hall now, yeah? It’s beautiful?”

He is touched to find out that his orchestra and listeners still speak of him with admiration.

“They remember me, yes? Ah, thank you, I’m very happy because I also remember this beautiful period that I had. … I went and (we) started this beautiful, unforgettable musical and human contact with the orchestra.”

We attempt to talk about his recordings, but he says he just doesn’t listen anymore. He can’t name a favorite. “No, I can’t tell you because every time that I did something, I put into this music all my feeling, all my sentiment and I try to do my best. And I cannot say I like best this one or the other one.”

He does offer a surprising insight into the Giulini sound.

“Yes, because I can tell you I think I played very good viola, with good love and very good technique. And I think I wanted to produce the same sound in the other strings.” He always brought his own parts to an orchestra, he explained, with all his own markings, and bowings for the strings. This is one thing that helped him in Los Angeles.

“I am very happy that, yes, I am very quick … to produce the sound that is in my feeling.”

We ask again if there will be public tributes. No. Are journalists phoning? No. He wants nothing else than to be together with his family on his birthday.

Well, maybe, perhaps to be remembered a little. He seems genuinely surprised when told that his acclaimed recording of the “Eroica” with the Philharmonic is still in print. “Really? I am very happy.” He seems equally unaware that many of his other recordings are being re-released in advance of his 90th birthday, but is glad to know.

“Ah, thank you,” he says, “it is beautiful to be remembered for this music.”

Then, he has one last thought for his orchestra.

“Tell them I remember their great love for their sense of the music, but now I am (in old) age and staying quiet.”

In today’s Orange County Register online, I review super-organist Paul Jacobs in a recital of French music.

Click here to read my review (subscription or day pass required), or pick up a copy of tomorrow’s newspaper.

(There might be a free link out there somewhere.)

photo: Alexandre Guilmant. Library of Congress.

I was put in mind of my old friend Charles (it was always Charles, never Charlie) this week by two occurrences: Reading an essay about childhood and reuniting with our friends from then; and the surprise appearance of a box on my front porch containing the complete music criticism of George Bernard Shaw, sent by Paul. Here’s a column I wrote about Charles in 2004.

Requiem for a listener’s listener

Charles Warwick, resident of Anaheim, once sent me the nicest letter I have ever had from a reader. It was short and simple. It said he purchased the Register so he could read me.

Over time, I came to know him well. He wrote e-mails about my reviews, asked questions, reflected on his own listening and reading. It turned out that he was the most avid classical music listener that I’d ever met, bar none. He had a huge record, CD and tape collection, and especially enjoyed, just as I do, symphonic music and the great conductors. He subscribed to Gramophone and Opera News and read classical music articles in newspapers and would clip things and send them. He became, we joked, my personal clipping service.

A retired schoolteacher, he went to concerts constantly, and had been doing so since the ’50s. He had stories; he knew lore. When traveling, he visited composers’ homes and other musical landmarks. He knew more repertoire than I did, too, and soon started making me tapes, later CDs, of his collection, and passing them along gratis. I couldn’t have invented such a man. Here I was with my fancy music degrees and yet he was giving me an education. There were all sorts of audios he sent — symphonies by Vagn Holmboe, little-known Rossini overtures, interviews with conductors, rehearsals with Stravinsky, live performances conducted by Giulini and Monteux, the recordings of pianists Benno Moiseiwitsch and Leon Fleisher. Great stuff. He heard that I liked Radu Lupu but owned few of his recordings. Shortly thereafter, a batch of CDs arrived in the mail from Anaheim, including Lupu playing all the Beethoven concertos.

When I had an extra ticket, I began asking him along to concerts. He didn’t always say yes, and I liked him for it. He had taste. When he did come we had a good time. He had a Southern twang (he was from North Carolina) and had that rare gift these days, a gift for conversation, but he knew what was off-limits — namely, my opinion of the concert we were at. That had to wait for the review.

My ancient amplifier started acting up. Charles told me to bring it to the next concert. He took it home, opened it, found two decades of dirt, cleaned it up and promptly delivered it 20 miles to my house, in perfect working order.

When I was to meet Charles at a concert, I’d tell my wife I’d be late. We always ended up talking in the parking lot afterward, on and on. I hope he enjoyed it as much as I did.

The e-mails kept coming. He had a dry wit. “After reading your notice of the opening of the Bowl,” he wrote recently, “I’ve decided that my living room looks and sounds just fine, thank you very much.” Once he spied a famous conductor at an airport: “I figured he wasn’t going to come up to me and ask if I were Charles Warwick, so I approached him and asked if he were Andrew Litton. He said he was.” Of course they struck up a conversation. Litton finally asked Charles if he did anything besides go to concerts. “That about covers it,” Charles replied.

He passed away last Sunday. I have more than 200 of his e-mails in my inbox and can’t bear to delete them. You were a good friend, Charles.