Today marks the Jewish new year, Rosh Hashanah, and the beginning of the High Holy Days. This festival comes from a biblical command God gave to Moses:

In the seventh month, on the first day of the month, you shall observe a day of complete rest, a holy convocation commemorated with trumpet blasts.

Trumpet blasts? Sounds good to me. How about Leonard Bernstein‘s Chichester Psalms? Bernstein only wrote a handful of religious works; you could argue that his Kadish Symphony and Mass are better described as anti-religious. The Chichester Psalms is unique in his repertoire as having a positive spin on religion, even if it isn’t backed by any belief on his part. The piece bears an English name because it was commissioned by Chichester Cathedral. It is often performed in a slightly strange reduced instrumentation – organ, percussion, and harp. Though they are often found in synagogues, the organ here perhaps acts as a symbol for Christianity, while the harp and percussion call to mind the ancient Hebrew psalms. In the first movement (today’s piece) they sing from Psalm 108:

Awake, O harp and lyre! I will awake the dawn.

With the synthesis of Jewish and Christian instruments, the Hebrew text, and an Anglican Cathedral’s name on the piece, makes me want to see this work as a symbol of healing between the two religions.

Being involved in Art Music often is an experience that produces an oceanic feeling – a sense that we are connected to the past, present, and future, to people around the world, to the entire universe, perhaps. Music has to be experienced in order for it to be music and not just noise. It’s the old “if a tree falls in the woods and nobody is there to hear it” game. Whether the music is performed live, recorded, or in the imagination of a person’s brain, it is the human experience that makes it music and not merely vibrating air molecules (or imagined vibrating air molecules).

So every time you hear a piece by a dead composer, you’re still hearing the present, even if you sense a window to the past. And when you hear a new piece by a living composer, you might envision future audiences being moved by the same strains long after you’re gone. Still, you’re in the present, and the music is in the present.

It is part of the human experience to acknowledge that we are finite. Maybe music is one of the things we turn to because we want something to be infinite; we want a piece of our life experience to exist after we have departed from the world. And that’s when the oceanic feelings come sweeping into the heart.

This week I heard a brand new piece for organ and timpani by Kurt Knecht. The title – Toccata, Adagio, & Fugue – reminds us of a famous piece from the past by the same name by Johann Sebastian Bach. So even though I heard no Bach, in a sense, I still experienced Bach’s legacy. But despite the traditional title and forms, the piece has a harmonic and rhythmic edge – something fresh and exciting – that was emphasized by the untraditional instrumentation: organ and percussion. In the present, I was sitting by the composer himself, and next to one of Philadelphia’s most famous composers, as we heard music organized in a way never heard before (well, except in the composer’s head). In the future – who can really say? The musical ideas are recorded on paper and the piece has a chance at immortality. Even so, the notes on the paper are just dots – and the music itself must be somehow be in the present to become real.

What a thrill to be a part of a continuous, living, evolving, history of music!

Kurt is also a co-founder of MusicSpoke, a music publisher which is nothing short of revolutionary.

I originally had written a different post for today, but Saturday night’s tragic event forced me to publish it earlier than expected.

A year ago today, nine people in Charleston were killed in an act of hatred and terrorism. Sadly, we Americans hear this story a couple of times a year. It’s all too familiar; we humans are very capable of some very disturbing behavior. If you want to read about that, you can find it by searching any media site. Instead, I want to counter this frighteningly common, disturbing behavior, with the fact that humans are also capable of creating things of beauty – things that uplift our species and help us to look forward, even though there are some of us who behave like animals.

Composer Parker Kitterman was deeply moved by the 2015 Charleston tragedy, both because of the senselessness of the crime, and because of his deep south roots. His response to the massacre was to write a Requiem in nine movements – one for each of the victims of the attack. As the Charleston shooting was intended to incite a racial war, Kitterman responded by writing a work that seamlessly blends the sounds of European Art Music with that of African-American Gospel. The end result is a brand-new work (less than a year old) that will hopefully carry the banner of love and help bring healing to a sick world.

Kitterman’s Requiem was premiered on November 1st, 2015, on the Feast of All Saints’, when the Christian Church remembers those who have died in the last year. I am very proud to be participating in the second performance of this work, this evening.

This recording, from the Nov. 1 premiere, is the Introit, which gives just a little taste of the work. This performance is for choir and organ alone; tonight’s performance will use piano, drums, and bass as well.