Call him Morton. The formal address, Mr. Gould, “makes me get very stuffy,” explains the composer.
Morton Gould is being facetious, of course. Whatever else you could call a man who has led one of the more richly diverse lives in American music-as composer, conductor, pianist, arranger, administrator and radio personality-stuffy is hardly the designation that comes to mind.
Unlike, say, Kurt Weill-another versatile composer who achieved success in the commercial arena during the 1940s-Gould has lived long enough to see his early reputation as a purveyor of classical “pops” give way to widespread critical attention, even praise. That attention is likely to increase as he nears his 80th birthday in December, with Gould celebrations being planned near and far.
Thursday night at Orchestra Hall, with Gould in attendance, the Chicago Symphony Orchestra will hop aboard the birthday bandwagon with a performance, under Kenneth Jean’s direction, of Gould’s 1948 “Fall River Legend” ballet suite. It appears on the CSO subscription series for the first time, with repeat performances scheduled for Nov. 19 and Dec. 18.
Throughout Gould’s remarkably long career-he composed his first work at age 6 and was a Juilliard scholarship student at 8-he has steadfastly gone his own way. He has worn his eclecticism as a credo. In the best American tradition, he took creative inspiration from any and all vernacular sources-popular music, jazz, folk, blues, gospel, country, rock. And he found nothing improper in adapting those borrowed impulses to his chosen classical forms.
A crossover composer well before crossover had a name, Gould has written prolifically for film, television, dance, Broadway, jazz and symphonic band. One of his most recent compositions is titled “The Jogger and the Dinosaur” and takes the form of a theatrical concerto for rapper and orchestra; it had its premiere last May by the Pittsburgh Youth Symphony. If somebody wishes to nickname the piece “Dr. Dre Goes to Jurassic Park,” Gould wouldn’t mind.
“I’m not a dogmatist, nor have I ever been part of any group,” the composer says. “Anybody who tells me they have the truth is suspect, be it in the social or the artistic sense. To me, one of the wonderful things about music is that it is so many things. That doesn’t mean one is indiscriminate. Real creativity is the most prejudicial act, because you have all kinds of opportunities and you select the particular components you use.
“I write music for two reasons. One, because it’s the only thing I know how to do. Two, because composing is a visceral thing for me. I love it and enjoy it. I express whatever ability I have and hopefully I do it with discipline and craft.”
Indeed he does. While other composers of the late 20th Century have put themselves at the front lines of music, arguing style and syntax, proselytizing, creating systems to explain their music, Gould has stuck to the more practical task of reaching audiences. Shunning artificial dichotomies between high culture and entertainment, he aims to make his works useful for those with ears willing to listen.
In one important respect, in fact, his music stands at a polar remove from that of Milton Babbitt, the Northeastern academic serialist who once defined his elitist stance in a notorious article titled “Who Cares If You Listen?” Gould, of course, cares very much who listens to his music. He always has cared. Even his most popular scores like “Pavanne,” “Latin-American Symphonette” or “Fall River Legend” use the American vernacular without pandering or condescending to audiences. His music doesn’t pretend to be anything more than what it is: well-made, tuneful and accessible.
“I am very flattered to hear that,” Gould says. “I would hope that whatever I do, whether it’s good or bad, has a kind of integrity. I have found all these genres very exciting and stimulating to my creativity.”
There was a time, however, when the composer wasn’t so forthcoming about the sources of his inspiration. “I grew up during radio’s so-called `golden age,’ when I was surrounded by intellectual friends who were musical purists. They felt Beethoven sold out with the finale to his Ninth Symphony, because he asked for applause at the end. For many years, I bought into that.”
So much so, in fact, that during the 1930s when Gould was conducting and arranging for his weekly series of radio orchestra programs-first for the Mutual Radio Network, later CBS-he was concealing his double life from classical colleagues. When Arturo Toscanini expressed an interest in one of his radio selections, Gould was shocked: He knew his secret was out.
Perhaps the two musical worlds were never as far apart as Gould or the highbrow clique believed. Conductors like Fritz Reiner, Leopold Stokowski, Dmitri Mitropoulos, Artur Rodzinski and Toscanini played Gould’s concert works. Choreographer Jerome Robbins based one of his most durable ballets, “Interplay,” on Gould’s “American Concertette.” The twin streams in Gould’s career, while flowing independently, also have productively fed one other.
“Fall River Legend” proved one of the more notable collaborations in American dance. The ballet was commissioned by Ballet Theatre (later American Ballet Theatre) and is based on the story of Lizzie Borden, the ax-murderer whose story has long been a vital part of American legend. The choreography was by Agnes de Mille, who also had been responsible for producing “Rodeo,” to a score by Aaron Copland.
De Mille’s dreamlike scenario drew from Gould one of his most melodic and appealing scores, its waltzes and other dances vividly descriptive of Lizzie Borden’s New England. Gould himself conducted the ballet’s premiere on April 22, 1947, at the Metropolitan Opera in New York. He later extracted a concert suite, using seven sections of the complete score, that went on to become one of his most-performed scores.
“Agnes was terrific to work with, a most eloquent and civilized person,” Gould says. He recalls one brainstorming session with the choreographer at the Russian Tea Room. “She said she was hung up on how to end the ballet. Now, the real Lizzie Borden was acquitted of murdering her parents. Agnes wondered how to handle that. `It’s simple,’ I said. `Why don’t we hang her instead?’ Agnes protested. I said I didn’t care what happened in real life, because this was theater.
” `Besides,’ I said, `I can write hanging music but I can’t write acquittal music. And I think the same goes for your choreography.’ And that’s the way it happened.”
Composing is far from Gould’s sole livelihood these days. He has served since 1986 as president of the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers, the oldest performing rights organization in the world. Gould is the first composer to be elected to the top ASCAP post since Deems Taylor (1942 to 1948). He draws a reported six-figure salary comparable to that of any major corporate executive officer. It’s a powerful job, but Gould’s experience and versatility make him well suited for it; he, in turn, brings unique perspectives to ASCAP.
“I’m always running on four or five tracks at the same time,” he sighs. The job, he says, has left him with hardly any time for composition, and he confesses it was something of a miracle that he recently managed to complete a major work for string orchestra on commission from the National Symphony. He often finds himself presiding over meetings that start at 8 in the morning and continue all day. That leaves only the wee hours of the morning for composition.
Gould, who has averaged a new work every year, says he has never been a self-starter, nor does he regard composition as a regimen. “My colleague, the late Bill Schuman, would get up early every morning and do a certain number of hours of composing; it was like someone else going to the office. I was never that way.
“I need the discipline of a commission to get me going. In fact, I hardly remember a time when I didn’t have commissions. To be very honest and blunt, I am inspired by money! A commission is a great inspiration. I’m not comparing myself to the great classical composers, but they all thrived in that atmosphere, whether they were writing for a patron or the church. They delivered a product.
“That’s the way I operate, too. When I find myself with a deadline, I can go for months with two hours’ or no sleep, because the adrenalin keeps me going. At midnight, when I’m fighting the deadline, sometimes I pity myself. I ask myself who the hell cares whether I write these notes or not. Once I can get past that barrier, it’s great. That is the greatest part-when the creative juices just flow. The act itself is what is rewarding to any creative person. Everything after that-the first performances, the attention-is nice, but the real zinger is when you have the illusion that you are going somewhere creatively.”
