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Copland: Since 1943
A composer's candid life story has been repackaged for a release coinciding with the centenary celebration of his birth, and includes not only stories of Copland himself, but also those of many of his illustrious colleagues, such as Leonard Bernstein. Reprint.
- GenresMusic
463 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1989
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About the author
Aaron Copland
388 books77 followersWorks of American composer Aaron Copland include the ballets
Rodeo
(1942) and
Appalachian Spring
(1944), which won a Pulitzer Prize, any of several awards that, conferred annually for accomplishment in various fields of American journalism, literature, and music, Joseph Pulitzer established.
His musical works ranged from orchestral to choral and movie scores. For the better part of four decades, people considered Aaron Copland the premier.
From an older sister, Copland learned to play piano. He decided his career before the time he fifteen years in 1915. His first tentative steps included a correspondence course in writing harmony. In 1921, Copland traveled to Paris to attend the newly founded music school for Americans at Fontainebleau. He, the first such American, studied of the brilliant teacher, Nadia Juliette Boulanger. After three years in Paris, he returned to New York with his first major commission, writing an organ concerto for the American appearances of Boulanger. His "Symphony for Organ and Orchestra" premiered in at Carnegie Hall in 1925.
Growth of Copland mirrored important trends of his time. After his return from Paris, he worked with jazz rhythms in his "Piano Concerto" (1926). Neoclassicism of Igor Fyodorovich Stravinsky strongly influenced his "Piano Variations" (1930).
In 1936, he changed his orientation toward a simpler style. This made his music more meaningful to the large loving audience that radio and the movies created. American folklore based his most important works, including "Billy the Kid" (1938) and "Rodeo" (1942), during this period. Another work during this period, a series of movie scores, included "Of Mice and Men" (1938) and "The Heiress" (1948).
In later years, work of Copland reflected the serial techniques of the "12-tone" school of Arnold Schoenberg. People commissioned notable "Connotations" (1962) for the opening of Lincoln center.
Copland after 1970 stopped composing but through the mid-1980s continued to lecture and to conduct. He died at the Phelps memorial hospital in Tarrytown (Westchester county), New York.
His musical works ranged from orchestral to choral and movie scores. For the better part of four decades, people considered Aaron Copland the premier.
From an older sister, Copland learned to play piano. He decided his career before the time he fifteen years in 1915. His first tentative steps included a correspondence course in writing harmony. In 1921, Copland traveled to Paris to attend the newly founded music school for Americans at Fontainebleau. He, the first such American, studied of the brilliant teacher, Nadia Juliette Boulanger. After three years in Paris, he returned to New York with his first major commission, writing an organ concerto for the American appearances of Boulanger. His "Symphony for Organ and Orchestra" premiered in at Carnegie Hall in 1925.
Growth of Copland mirrored important trends of his time. After his return from Paris, he worked with jazz rhythms in his "Piano Concerto" (1926). Neoclassicism of Igor Fyodorovich Stravinsky strongly influenced his "Piano Variations" (1930).
In 1936, he changed his orientation toward a simpler style. This made his music more meaningful to the large loving audience that radio and the movies created. American folklore based his most important works, including "Billy the Kid" (1938) and "Rodeo" (1942), during this period. Another work during this period, a series of movie scores, included "Of Mice and Men" (1938) and "The Heiress" (1948).
In later years, work of Copland reflected the serial techniques of the "12-tone" school of Arnold Schoenberg. People commissioned notable "Connotations" (1962) for the opening of Lincoln center.
Copland after 1970 stopped composing but through the mid-1980s continued to lecture and to conduct. He died at the Phelps memorial hospital in Tarrytown (Westchester county), New York.
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
August 24, 2023
Has to be one of the dullest biographies ever, since Copland stopped composing about midway through the book. At that point he switched to conducting and lecturing. By his own account, conducting was something he did just for "fun" and to pay the bills, which is perfectly acceptable, I suppose, if not really admirable, and then the remainder of the book is just him accepting one honorary doctorate after another (he received over thirty) and going to birthday celebrations, receptions and galas while receiving endless adulation, medals, and awards. Meanwhile, his actual life is completely hidden from view: there is nothing at all about his love life, for one. There's wanting to be discreet, and there's simply hiding your sexuality, pretending you have no love life whatsoever, which is odd and cowardice and contrary to the art of biography. Friends, interviewed for the book, do make odd comments about Victor Kraft, described as an "intimate friend". Yeah, right. But you'd also leave the book thinking Copland was in the best health of his life, fit as a spring chicken, ready to head out into the world. He was actually very ill, lived with a nurse, and could barely write or dictate much, so many pages of this book were plundered from previous writing by Copland.
Really, the book just made me sad: here you have a talented but far from perfect composer, lying about his life (through omission), while surrounded by friends practically bowing before him and proclaiming him their savior. In reality, Copland appears a great craftsman but not quite a composer of the first rank, and you feel vaguely that Americans overpraised him because he was their best. His most performed and recorded work during his lifetime was the Lincoln Portrait, an unintentionally hilarious work especially loved by politicians, in which a speaker pronounces some maudlin words by Lincoln gravely, surrounded by mellow strings and blistering C major chords pronouncing the greatness of America. It's a little much, you know, although it fares better than Copland's later experiments with serialism, which are simply woefully unssuccesful and convinced neither friends, colleagues, or, God forbid, the general public. Copland stand behinds these works, while in interviews with friends you see that even they had grave doubts and wished Copland would try his hand at composing some real, substantial works. He never composed much more at all, though, preferring a comfortable life of travelling through Europe, conducting and giving lectures. He had a full schedule and worked hard, sure, I'd work hard if it included travelling the world, surrounded by people praising you for work you did dozens of years ago. Perhaps Americans should have stopped giving him medals and left him alone for some months so he could sit down behind his desk. Copland himself admitted that composition requires solitude, but that he preferred company and struggled to find time in his busy schedule. He also didn't really have an artist's temperament, he was more of a diplomat and businessman, as some colleagues begrudgingly admit was part of the reason for his success. Leonard Bernstein attempted to spurn him on to compose again a number of times, it is revealed, but it led to some strain in their relationship.
At one point, Copland writes that contemporary American composers are stifled by their academic positions. They should have more freedom to compose, and being academics removes them from their audience. This is very true, and still a problem today, but it's naive of him not to see the same happened to him: surrounded by praise and adulation, he lost the impulse to create, preferring to bask in his pleasant and fun life. Good for you, but not good for the reader, or for American music. Nor does Vivian Perlis, who provides interludes that expound on subjects that Copland doesn't want to discuss, tell the real story, which is that Copland started to feel alienated from the younger generation of composers, who were more modern and didn't take his populist works seriously, so he fiddled around with serialism to prove his artistic prowess, but it backfired, and eventually he thought it nicer to reminisce about past glory and tour as conductor than to keep facing negative reviews. It's a sad story, and the endless, endless, irritating words of praise by friends, pretending Copland is God's gift to music, are a little much -- actually, not just a little. After reading Copland's two volumes of autobiography, I like him less, not more, and have become somewhat disillusioned about his music, which is, I assume, the last thing either author wished for. Is this really your best, America? He's certainly not worth reading 800 pages of puff for.
Really, the book just made me sad: here you have a talented but far from perfect composer, lying about his life (through omission), while surrounded by friends practically bowing before him and proclaiming him their savior. In reality, Copland appears a great craftsman but not quite a composer of the first rank, and you feel vaguely that Americans overpraised him because he was their best. His most performed and recorded work during his lifetime was the Lincoln Portrait, an unintentionally hilarious work especially loved by politicians, in which a speaker pronounces some maudlin words by Lincoln gravely, surrounded by mellow strings and blistering C major chords pronouncing the greatness of America. It's a little much, you know, although it fares better than Copland's later experiments with serialism, which are simply woefully unssuccesful and convinced neither friends, colleagues, or, God forbid, the general public. Copland stand behinds these works, while in interviews with friends you see that even they had grave doubts and wished Copland would try his hand at composing some real, substantial works. He never composed much more at all, though, preferring a comfortable life of travelling through Europe, conducting and giving lectures. He had a full schedule and worked hard, sure, I'd work hard if it included travelling the world, surrounded by people praising you for work you did dozens of years ago. Perhaps Americans should have stopped giving him medals and left him alone for some months so he could sit down behind his desk. Copland himself admitted that composition requires solitude, but that he preferred company and struggled to find time in his busy schedule. He also didn't really have an artist's temperament, he was more of a diplomat and businessman, as some colleagues begrudgingly admit was part of the reason for his success. Leonard Bernstein attempted to spurn him on to compose again a number of times, it is revealed, but it led to some strain in their relationship.
At one point, Copland writes that contemporary American composers are stifled by their academic positions. They should have more freedom to compose, and being academics removes them from their audience. This is very true, and still a problem today, but it's naive of him not to see the same happened to him: surrounded by praise and adulation, he lost the impulse to create, preferring to bask in his pleasant and fun life. Good for you, but not good for the reader, or for American music. Nor does Vivian Perlis, who provides interludes that expound on subjects that Copland doesn't want to discuss, tell the real story, which is that Copland started to feel alienated from the younger generation of composers, who were more modern and didn't take his populist works seriously, so he fiddled around with serialism to prove his artistic prowess, but it backfired, and eventually he thought it nicer to reminisce about past glory and tour as conductor than to keep facing negative reviews. It's a sad story, and the endless, endless, irritating words of praise by friends, pretending Copland is God's gift to music, are a little much -- actually, not just a little. After reading Copland's two volumes of autobiography, I like him less, not more, and have become somewhat disillusioned about his music, which is, I assume, the last thing either author wished for. Is this really your best, America? He's certainly not worth reading 800 pages of puff for.
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