EDITOR’S NOTE: The Naxos label has a series called American Classics, and on it is an album called A Pocket of Time. It consists of songs by Lee Hoiby, sung by Julia Faulkner (soprano) and Andrew Garland (baritone), with the composer at the piano. Jay Nordlinger has written the liner notes for the album — a version of which is below.
Lee Hoiby has written a variety of music, in a long composing career: sonatas, concertos, chamber works, oratorios, operas. Probably his two most acclaimed operas are Summer and Smoke (based on the Tennessee Williams play) and A Month in the Country (based on the Turgenev). He has worked with the librettist Mark Shulgasser for many years. Who knows what other operas may emerge from their studio?
But it’s as a song composer that Hoiby is best known, and best loved. He has written about a hundred of them — songs, that is. And we have on the present album about 20 of them. You will want to acquaint yourself with the other 80, too, when you can.
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Hoiby was born in Wisconsin in 1926. He was a pianist, and, as you can hear on this disc, is still a pianist. He studied with one of the great players and teachers of the 20th century, Egon Petri (a pupil of Busoni). He still practices Chopin études, every day.
But he gave up the career of a touring pianist to compose. It was a calling he could not turn away from. His principal composition teacher was Gian Carlo Menotti, at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia. But he also worked with others, including Darius Milhaud and Samuel Barber.
While Hoiby was finding his way in the world, a curious thing was happening to music: Atonality was in, tonality was out; severity and formalism were in, beauty and inspiration were out. And Hoiby could not swim with this tide. He had no choice but to swim against it, because he had to write the music that was in him.
In 1952, he won a Fulbright scholarship, allowing him to study at the Santa Cecilia Academy in Rome. But they — the academy officials — would not allow him in. They said that he had to hop on board, compose in modern, accepted fashions, abandoning all “19th century” notions. And Hoiby refused. As he likes to say, “I wanted to grow heirloom roses, but they allowed you nothing but cactuses.”
He has always been a nonconformist, even a rebel. Recently, a young composer referred to him as a “maverick,” which tickled Hoiby. Obviously, there is a price to be paid for nonconformity: a price in fame, commissions, and general acceptance. But Hoiby insists that no one feel sorry for him: “I have had a wonderful life. I have been free to compose as I please, and there have always been people around — mainly singers — who would commission something. I never starved. And I’ve had the privilege and thrill of writing music!”
Important influences on him have been Schubert, Strauss, Mahler, and Barber. When he was a student, Hoiby and a friend would ring in the new year by reading through Schubert songs — on into the night. “It was Schubert who taught me to write songs,” Hoiby says. And he has requested a specific track for his funeral: Schubert’s “Im Abendrot,” sung by Elisabeth Schumann. As for Strauss, “he was the one, in
Capriccio, who gave me the courage to write simple lyricism.”
Hoiby will also cite to you a pop artist: Joni Mitchell. She proved that “there is still juice in the tree of melody.” And that juice will never run out, as long as there are people who are open to it.
Hoiby had one great champion, the Mississippi-born soprano Leontyne Price. She took Hoiby songs all over the world, and they were a great success for her. She was kind to them; they were kind to her. Often, she would set off a near riot in the hall, after a stirring, passionate Hoiby song. I know, because I was there, several times. Price retired in 1997, and a singular Hoiby voice was stilled. But the songs go on, of course.
Dalton Baldwin, the pianist and accompanist, once paid Hoiby a supreme compliment. On meeting him, Baldwin said, “Your songs are for the ages.” He may well prove right.
There are familiar and beloved songs on the present album, such as “Where the Music Comes From.” Hoiby has called it “my Cat Stevens song.” Also, “The Lamb,” to Blake’s famous poem. And “Lady of the Harbor,” written for the bicentennial of the Statue of Liberty. Hoiby says, “It’s only a minute long, but it’s a kick-ass piece.” One cannot disagree.
