NPR Documentaries

The South Dakota Symphony’s week-long “New World Encounters” festival explored jazz as an instrument of cultural diplomacy. The participants included former US Ambassador to Russia John Beyrle. It linked to three universities and two high schools. The culminating concert included narration and a continuous visual track. Joe Horowitz showcases the festival as an exemplary exercise showing “what an orchestra is for” – not just to produce concerts, but to  foster mutual understanding throughout a distinctive community of patrons and students.

Addressing music students at Lincoln High School, Ambassador Beyrle described the impact of the Voice of America “Jazz Hour” in the Soviet Union during his tenure there. He also told Music and Political Science university students that in his opinion the US State Department faces “an existential crisis.” SDSO Music Director Delta David Gier tells Horowitz that his profession is undergoing an overdue “metamorphosis” -- that the template of the “jet-setting maestro,” with multiple jobs and no real home base, is receding. Horowitz comments: “The template in question – now a dysfunction crippling classical music internationally – originated with the late Ronald Wilford of Columbia Artists Management. Wilford realized he could maximize the income and prestige of his marquis conductors by stationing them on multiple podiums, preferably an ocean apart. This strategy was commercial – it had nothing to do with making better music.

In addition to Beyrle, Bavouzet, and Gier, participants in the show also include composer John Luther Adams, and faculty members and students from South Dakota State University (Brookings, SD), Dakota State University (Madison, SD), and Lincoln High School (Sioux Falls, SD). Excerpts from Jean-Efflam Bavouzet’s South Dakota performance of Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G are also heard.

The conductor JoAnn Falletta asks, “‘How can we grow as human beings without the arts?” She continues: “If you don’t learn through the arts as a child, you can’t open yourself up easily. I read once when I was very young that the arts help us deal with our mortality. That struck me, and it still strikes me. The only way you can have these feelings is if someone opens the door to you as a child, whether it’s taking you to a play which has an uncertain ending, or to a museum and looking at a painting that you can’t understand, or even a piece of music that might seem frightening but may be interesting.” 

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Of Bob Dylan, she says: “He’s not afraid to force us to listen. Even ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’ — it’s terrifying, that nothing changes for the better. I don’t think there’s anything like that today. There are love stories. There are stories of anger, but nothing that forces us to look at ourselves, that makes us feel uncomfortable.”

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The topic at hand is music that embodies the American experience today. I asked JoAnn and four others to pick a piece.

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—John McWhorter chose a song from Jerome Kern’s Show Boat that mediates between Black and white;

—Michael Dease chose John Coltrane’s Blue Train.

—Allen Guelzo chose Charles Ives’s tribute to a Black Civil War regiment

—Timothy Long chose music that speaks to him as a Native American living in multiple worlds.

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And I chose George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue: “It’s polyglot – it’s classical, it’s jazz, it’s Broadway, it’s Black, it’s Jewish. . . . And it’s always been controversial – patronized and deployed by generations of commentators as derivative and appropriative. And that controversy, in itself, surely tell us something about ourselves.”

Ives is a self-made Connecticut Yankee, born in 1874, who’s all about seeking common purpose, common sentiment, common good.  So at a moment when our nation seems to be coming apart, Ives speaks to us about the things that hold us together – or used to. And yet this year’s Ives Sesquicentenary – remarkably – is mainly being celebrated abroad, by European orchestras.

A nine-day Indiana University festival – was by far the biggest Ives celebration here in the US, with two and three events daily. Among the participants was the pianist Gilbert Kalish, still going strong at the age of 89. Back in the 1970s, when the music of Ives was being discovered half a century after he composed it, Kalish was a key figure in a great awakening. At a public forum on Ives’s piano music, I asked him to reflect upon the fate of Charles Ives in the US today. He suddenly fell into a crestfallen mode and said:  “It’s a kind of cultural tragedy in a way – if you think of it.”

Why would losing touch with Charles Ives seem a “tragedy” for Americans? It’s not just because he’s our most remarkable concert composer. It’s because he embodies what we’re losing touch within the American arts today: cultural memory. Here’s a perspective on Ives from a distinguished Civil War scholar, Allen Guelzo:

“Ives fills a great blank in the experience of a lot of Americans. We exist in an environment that is so immediate, that is so rootless, which lacks so much in the way of cultural ballast, that we feel sometimes like we’re floating weightlessly. In that respect we live downstream from the cultural shift that occurred in Ives’s lifetime. And Ives responds to it by trying to provide for us ballast in the form of the past and the experience of the past. And that’s different from the way other American composers have come at it. Because a lot of American composers who want to invoke the past really do it almost in a decorative fashion. It’s almost like walking into an antique store. That is not the case for Ives.”

Ives, Guelzo says, negotiated a “cultural shift” at the turn of the twentieth century, when American lives were challenged by new technology, and by a decline in the authority of religion and other sources of moral authority. That reminds him of today. And Allen Guelzo is also reminded, by Charles Ives, of Abraham Lincoln. They both feasted on American memory. They both furnished the kind of cultural ballast with which we’re losing touch.

Here’s the Leonard Bernstein story not told in “Maestro” – his musical odyssey; his prophetic disenchantment with what America had become. He all too well perceived the unravelling of the America in which he had once placed enthralled hopes. 

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“I don’t think anyone should doubt for a second the weight on Lennie’s soul,” comments  Thomas Hampson. “I think we are in dangerous times for people seeking enrichment to live. That may sound glorious and grand — but I’m a student of Leonard Bernstein. . . .  And I think to understand Lennie’s reaction in the sixties . . . would be terribly illuminating for people today.”

Bernstein’s elder daughter Jamie remembers her father’s response to the assassination of John F. Kennedy, whose White House he visited, then to the deaths of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King. “My parents started to feel really pessimistic about the United States. And then we were in the Nixon Administration, and we had the Vietnam War. . . . My father got very discouraged about the state of the union – and that sense of despair did not leave him for the rest of his life.” Bernstein’s 800-page FBI file revealed that hate mail the Bernsteins received for hosting a Black Panthers fund-raiser was generated by the FBI. “And this came straight out of J. Edgar Hoover’s playbook – it was his dream come true to pit Jews against Blacks. . . . My mother and father were just sitting ducks.”

To close my NPR program, I asked Thomas Hampson and Jamie Bernstein, and also the conductor JoAnn Falletta: “What is the significance, today, of the Bernstein odyssey?”

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For Hampson, forgetting who Leonard Bernstein was symptomizes a calamitous failure of American cultural memory. I can only agree.

This Hamms Beer commercial, which I vividly remember from childhood and our brand-new black-and-white TV, signals “Indian music” with a steady tom-tom beat. The tune (and its tom-tom) adapts the Dagger Dance in Victor Herbert’s opera Natoma. The words – “From the Land of Sky Blue Waters” – reference a once popular concert song by Charles Wakefield Cadman. Both Herbert’s opera and Cadman’s song belong to the “Indianist” movement in American music – the topic of “Native American Inspirations.”

“This tale in its totality,” as I remark at the top of the show, “is a battleground. It actually holds up a mirror to the discontinuity and mistrust that plague the American experience today. But it also incorporates some pretty remarkable music – some of which, you might say, is more or less ‘cancelled’ by present-day sensitivities.”

Unpacking it all, I confer with Timothy Long, who heads the opera program at the Eastman School of Music. Both his father, who was Muskogee Creek, and his mother, who was Choctaw, spoke English as a second language. His mother had been raised in an Indian orphanage in Oklahoma, after which she was moved to an Indian sanatorium. She was so bored there that she began to listen to Beethoven sonata recordings played by Wilhelm Kempff and Alfred Brendel – the music with which Long grew up. So Tim Long lives two musical lives. He also prefers not to listen to the Indianist composers. His reasoning has nothing to do with “appropriation” or “permission.” Rather, he says: “We still don’t get recognition – we’re not in the history books, people know nothing about us. This really makes it very difficult to me to listen to the Indianists. We were being occupied, and the occupiers were celebrating us with our music.”

And yet I have long made the music of Arthur Farwell – the most sophisticated of the Indianists --- a cause. He seems to me the closest thing to an American Bartok. And he spearheaded a thirty-year chapter in American music that – make of it what you will -- is a significant part of our nation’s cultural history.

If you’ve ever heard Marian Anderson sing “Deep River,” you’ve heard an immortal concert spiritual by Harry Burleigh. His name won’t appear on the youtube captions – and yet Burleigh’s “Deep River” isn’t a mere arrangement. I unpack the genesis of “Deep River” – its surprising origins as an obscure “church militant” spiritual, its indebtedness to Antonin Dvorak, its subsidiary theme composed by Burleigh himself. The performances (other than Marian Anderson’s) were recorded in concert by the exceptional African-American baritone Sidney Outlaw. It was my pleasure to be the pianist.

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The show argues that Burleigh was a major creative force – more than the pivotal transcriber of spirituals as concert songs. “Burleigh consistently refused to participate in movements he considered separatist or chauvinistic,” writes Jean Snyder in her Burleigh biography. He believed that artists, not politicians, would most effect progressive change. “They are the true physicians who heal the ills of mankind,” he wrote. “They are the trailblazers. They find new worlds.” Burleigh’s own life story is a parable of faith. In New York City, opportunities did not merely arise in spite of his skin color; sometimes, they materialized because – dignified and composed — he was self-evidently a young Black man unusual in character, talent, and promise. In the long view, Burleigh commences a high lineage of Black vocalists whose renderings of the songs of Black America are buoyed by a courageous optimism. His first two great successors, both of whom he knew and admired, were Roland Hayes and Marian Anderson. Closing the NPR show, I ask: “Is Burleigh’s ‘deep river’ of common humanity a thing of the past?

Lawrence Tibbett was chosen by George Gershwin to make the first recordings of Porgy’s songs from Porgy and Bess. But Tibbett did not sing them at the Alvin Theatre – Todd Duncan (called by Gershwin “the Black Tibbett”) did. Gershwin wanted a Black Porgy onstage, and Tibbett was white.  He was also the supreme American operatic baritone of his (or any other) time. He would have been a peerless Porgy.

How to unpack all of this? I’m helped by Thomas Hampson, Conrad L. Osborne, and George Shirley -- and also by John McWhorter, who says: Though the notion that “white people should be allowed to sing like Black people” was “once OK,” today a white baritone singing and acting “Black” would “be hunted to a different planet.” This type of thinking, McWhorter argues, should be “reconsidered” – Tibbett singing Porgy embodies “an American artform evaluable in itself that need not be seen as mocking.”

As McWhorter happens to be a professional linguist, I asked him the most obvious question. He answered that, in the context of linguistic practice in 1935, Tibbett “sounds authentic to me.”

Sampling a terrific new 10-CD Tibbett tribute on Marston Records, I also include stunning Tibbett radio performances of songs by Cole Porter and Jerome Kern, and of aria by Verdi. And I marvel that such an artist could once command a vast commercial radio audience.

One of the most remarkable developments in classical music today is the profusion of gifted Black South African opera singers graduating from the University of Cape Town and winding up on major stages in Europe and the United States. Why and how is that happening? As I was recently in South Africa, I enjoyed an opportunity to try and find out. The outcome is the most recent of my “More than Music” documentaries on National Public Radio. 

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South Africa is a “singing country.” In segregated Black townships, under apartheid, singing was inherent to church and school. And it became commonplace for Black high schoolers to sing selections from oratorios. With the end of apartheid in 1991, the cork was out of the bottle. By 2000, more than 90 per cent of the opera students in Cape Town were Black. 

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As remarkable: casting in opera became color-blind virtually overnight. In the US, opera companies and audiences resisted seeing Black tenors sing opposite white sopranos. Today, the acrimony continues over who should sing what, and whether the entire enterprise is “colonialist.”

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Here is the soprano Goitsemang Lehobye, whom you can hear singing Verdi and Gershwin on my “More than Music” show: “I want to sing [Puccini’s] Madame Butterfly one day. But am I not going to do it because I’m not Japanese, I’m not Asian? I come from a place where we don’t think like that. When you get onstage, you pretend to be what you’re supposed to be. And life goes on.”

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And here is the tenor Sakhumzi Martins, whom I (surreptitiously) recorded – in Fish Hook, South Africa — in a rapturous rendition of “Maria,” from West Side Story: “It’s a shame what Black Americans are facing. In South Africa, for you to get cast, you have to be  hard worker. There’s no short way. The opportunities are quite slim, so you have to work and sweat. We have learned not to take things personally. It’s just business, you have to want it more than the next person. So it’s got nothing to do with color [who gets chosen]. We all know one another. In South Africa, you get what you deserve.”

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And here is John McWhorter, quoted on my radio show: ”To a Black American, some Africans cam seem almost oddly secure and joyous – they don’t seem to have a basic sense of whiteness as an insult to them.”

The vanishing presence of the arts in the American experience has implications for America’s reputation abroad, and for its pursuit of foreign policy goals. If the US is in fact embarking on a new Cold War, the cultural Cold War with the USSR is urgently pertinent. This “More than Music” program is based on my new book The Propaganda of Freedom: JFK, Shostakovich, Stravinsky, and the Cultural Cold War. In a nutshell: the CIA-funded Congress of Cultural Freedom was initially a seminal Cold War propaganda instrument. In my book, I argue that, by claiming that only “free artists” in “free societies” produce great art, it failed to produce credible propaganda. Far more successful was cultural diplomacy with the Soviet Union, beginning in 1959 with Leonard Bernstein’s New York Philharmonic (a visit about which I have new things to say). But as the Cold War waned, so did cultural diplomacy. So much so that when in 1986 Vladimir Horowitz triumphantly returned to Russia, Ambassador Arthur Hartman had to raise funds on his own. Today, cultural diplomacy could be a formidable tool in, say, Central Africa, where the US is vying with China to exert influence. My “More than Music” show features remarkable testimony from Alexander Laskaris, the US Ambassador to Chad – who recently hosted the African-American baritone Sidney Outlaw. You can hear Sidney Outlaw sing “I am a Pilgrim of Sorrow” for fishermen on an island in Chad – and hear them sing a fishing song of their own in response. John Beyrle, former US Ambassador to Russia, contextualizes this vignette. Beyrle persuasively extols cultural diplomacy. He also worries that the arts today wind up “on the chopping block.”

What did Gustav Mahler and Leonard Bernstein have in common? As is well known, Bernstein was a triumphant advocate of Mahler’s symphonies at a moment when they had yet to enter the mainstream repertoire. And both were outsiders – Mahler as a Jew in Vienna, and Bernstein as someone trying to resolve the oxymoron “American classical musician.”

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But in my NPR interview about my new novel, The Marriage: The Mahlers in New York, found myself talking about what they did not have in common. Bernstein, conducting the New York Philharmonic in the 1960s, was an exemplary music director. Mahler, conducting the Philharmonic from 1908 to 1911, was judged a “failure” – not as a conductor, but as a cultural leader. Exploring this verdict, I contrast Bernstein’s excavation of little-known American works with Mahler’s inattention to the fledgling American composer. In the process, I have occasion to mull the challenge facing the Philharmonic and other American orchestras right now – a moment when the role of the “music director” must be redefined.

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I also discuss how I found myself sympathetic to the plight of Gustav’s controversial wife, Alma – and so discovered how historical fiction could be a crucial tool for the cultural historian.

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Ultimately, Mahler’s supreme importance was not as a conductor or a husband, but as a great composer – a verdict supported by a supremely beautiful orchestral extract (from the slow movement of Mahler’s Fourth) at the close.

In my book Dvorak’s Prophecy and the Vexed Fate of Black Classical Music, I call “an antipathy to jazz” one of the defining attributes of American classical music during the interwar decades. I’ve also written a lot about “the jazz threat.” In the US, jazz bore a Black taint; it was linked to brothels and nightclubs; it was declasse. Henry Ford’s notorious Dearborn Independent denounced jazz as a “morally filthy” alliance of crude African-Americans and clever Jewish “merchandizers.” European-born composers more greatly esteemed jazz than their American colleagues.

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All of this feeds the topic here. Eventually, I ask Michael Dease if the jazz threat persists. His short answer is: yes – jazz remains more prestigious abroad. A nation’s music anchors its identity. That America’s music is formidably Black creates tensions that continue to stress the national fabric.

 I document the impact of a remarkable contextualized performance of Shostakovich’s Leningrad Symphony by Delta David Gier and his singular South Dakota Symphony last February – and ponder its significance for the future of embattled American orchestras striving to retain pertinence today. Shostakovich’s symphony was composed during the Nazis’ strangling 872-day siege of Leningrad . . . 

What if George Gershwin, a contemporary of Aaron Copland, had lived as long as Copland did – and died in 1988 at the age of 90 rather than in 1937 at the age of 38? I then turn to the music historian Mark Clague, who heads the Gershwin Initiative at the University of Michigan. Mark memorably responds: 

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“One of the most powerful experiences I had researching Gershwin’s music was at the Library of Congress looking through his letters – and I found one in which he was speculating about the projects he would undertake after Porgy and Bess. One of them was a symphony. It was like a punch to the heart to read about what George Gershwin might have done had he not died at the age of 38. It would have completely changed what we think of as American music. . . 

Harry Burleigh, who turned spirituals into concert songs sung by Marian Anderson and Paul Robeson, wrote in 1917 that “the voice is not nearly so important as the spirit” in performing his historic arrangements. George Shirley, still singing at the age of eighty-nine, is an artist who today gloriously affirms Burleigh’s claim. In 1961, Shirley became the first Black tenor to sing leading roles at the Metropolitan Opera. He subsequently pursued a notable international career. Today, he continues to sing in concert. It is my privilege to sometimes accompany him . . .

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The Shirley tenor remains strong and true. If its firmness and luster are compromised, in their place is a different kind of steadiness: to stand still and peer deep. Shirley says of Marian Anderson: “She was attuned in such a manner that the spirit sang through her.” And so it does when George Shirley sings Harry Burleigh’s “Deep River” (go to 43:00).

While the present-day conflation of the arts with instruments for social justice is dangerously overdrawn, some musical experiences are unquestionably therapeutic, and some composers are more wholesome than others. Of Lou Harrison’s music, I observe: 

“In today’s terms, it was ‘global’ and ‘inclusive.’ It celebrates ‘diversity.’ He was an early apostle for gay rights. He campaigned for world peace. He enfolded both East and West – without ever dabbling. ’Globalization,’ we are told, can mean diffusion – a thinning of the cultural fabric, an unmooring from tradition. Lou Harrison – the man, the musician — was both global and anchored. He was a composer far ahead of his time. We should aspire to catch up with him.”

Kurt Weill, a refugee from Nazi Germany, turned himself into one of Broadway’s leading composers – an amazing feat of assimilation. After the war, he only returned to Europe once, in 1947  – and reported: “Strangely enough, wherever I found decency and humanity in the world, it reminded me of America.” How does that sentiment play today? I here treat Weill’s odyssey as a lesson in immigration.  The commentators include the social critic John McWhorter and the Weill scholar Kim Kowalke, both of whom reference Weill’s anti-apartheid musical Lost in the Stars (1949) – an implicit condemnation of Jim Crow.

The Star-Spangled Banner is controversial today for three reasons. The first is that Francis Scott Key, who wrote the words, owned slaves. The second is that the little-known third verse references “hireling and slave” – and we’re not sure what that means. The third is that American identity is being scrutinized as never before in living memory – what does it mean, right now, when we sing “land of the free”?

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The music historian Mark Clague tells us that Key both owned slaves and, as an attorney, freed nearly 200 enslaved Black Americans. He explains that “slave,” in Key’s third verse, doesn’t refer to African-Americans (which, he adds, doesn’t let Key off the hook). And Mark eloquently makes a case for retaining The Star-Spangled Banner – with two revisions. As part of our national inheritance, it stands witness to our history; it changes significance over time; it instigates a virtual “conversation” about the shifting meaning of American patriotism. Additional commentary: bass-baritone Davone Tines, historian Allen Guelzo.

Fill in the blanks:

“This was performed and broadcast to millions of people. And something that should resonate with all of us today is the confluence of fine art and popular art and a mass medium – something we’ve lost in this era, when we’re being sliced into ever narrower shards of demographics. The brilliance of what xxx and xxx did was to embrace all of us, in the best [Walt] Whitman spirit. To make all of us one nation, one community. How I wish we had something like that today.”

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The blanks read “Bernard Herrmann” and “Norman Corwin.” The speaker is Murray Horwitz, former head of cultural programing for National Public Radio. My topic: the radio plays of the 1930s and 1940s generally, and the Corwin/Herrmann “Whitman” (June 20, 1944) specifically.

Art promoting social justice is everywhere upon us. It’s what our composers and visual artists and playwrights want to produce, it’s what presenters want to present, it’s what our foundations want to fund. We all feel that we’re responding to a state of emergency, especially with regard to issues of race and social justice – and that includes composer of classical music. Mexico, in the 1920s and ‘30s, was a place where political art flourished. The political murals of Diego Rivera, the political music of Silvestre Revueltas rose above ideology and propaganda to inspirationally define a nation. How and why that happened – and what we can learn from it today – is the topic I pursue.

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I’m joined by the social critic John McWhorter, author of the best-selling Woke Racism, who warns that woke activism can diminish the arts (go to 34:50). 

At the conclusion of this show, Jenn White asks me:

“In the Foreword to your new book Dvorak’s Prophecy, George Shirley – the first Black tenor to sing leading roles at the Met — writes: ‘Because of our current conversation about race, we now observe a seemingly desperate effort to make up for lost time, to present Black faces in the concert hall. But if it’s going to become a permanent new way of thinking, there has to be new understanding.’ What does he mean by that?”

I answer:

“You know, I went to a prestigious liberal arts college [it was Swarthmore]. I graduated a long time ago, in 1970. I majored in History. And in my four years there I never once heard the name  W. E. B. Du Bois. And I certainly did not read Du Bois’s The Souls of Black Folk, which today I regard as pretty much obligatory reading for educated Americans. Du Bois, his book – they’re part of a usable American past, something we can all utilize as an anchor. George Shirley references ‘a seemingly desperate effort.’ What is this about? It says that we have to rethink the concert experience in our concert halls, on our campuses. We need to rethink the learning the experience. It’s not enough just to perform Black classical music. We should use the story of Du Bois, the story of Dvorak, the story of Harry Burleigh. We need to tell stories about the American past in order to anchor a constructive American future.”

The show narrates in considerable detail Copland’s adventures on the political left – and the price he paid: a 1953 interrogation by Joseph McCarthy and Roy Cohn, which we re-enact.

If the New World Symphony remains the most beloved symphony composed on American soil, I think that’s because in the sadness and poignance of this work we recognize, however subliminally, an act of empathy –- Dvorak’s empathy for the African-American, born in slavery, and for the Native American, facing extinction. But there’s an elephant in the room – “cultural appropriation.”