How a wartime song became an American anthem of resilience
CINCINNATI --- He heard it all in his head: The drum-bursts like distant bombs, and then the somber trumpet fanfare, played seamlessly in unison by three trumpeters. Horns, trombones and tuba joined in a display of tonal splendor that would ascend to a spacious, powerful climax.
Aaron Copland signed “Nov. 6 1942” on the last page of his Fanfare for the Common Man and laid down his pen.
He had no idea that his contribution to the war effort would live far beyond its premiere by the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra later that season. He didn’t know that his fanfare would endure for nearly 75 years as one of America’s most patriotic pieces of music.
Nor did he know it would become so ingrained in our national fabric that nearly every citizen would understand its meaning at first hearing. Or that it would come to symbolize America in all its greatness and humanity, played at Olympic Games, presidential inaugurations and at services to remember Sept. 11.
As the nation prepares to vote on Tuesday, it is a reminder of those ordinary people who fought for democracy at a time when Americans seemed more united in purpose and principle. It also serves to remind how music can bring people together at a time when people seem so far apart – and, in fact, bringing people together was the purpose behind this iconic work.
It's important to note it was not written for a general or a president, but for the "Common Man," those “doing all the dirty work” in wartime – in Copland’s own words. For those who voted and paid taxes. For those who rationed sugar and gasoline. For a nation united against a common foe. For those who waited for their young men and women to come home.
The idea of playing a series of uplifting fanfares at the beginning of the war was the brainchild of Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra music director Eugene Goossens.
He had done something similar during the first world war and, thus, invited 18 of America's top composers to do this "in a spirit of friendly comradeship ... for the cause we all have at heart.”
Meaning they wouldn’t be paid.
Holed up in a small rented cottage known as Dellbrook Farm in Oakland, N.J., he squeezed it in between writing Danzón Cubano for the League of Composers and the premiere of his ballet, Rodeo, for Agnes de Mille in 1942. Lincoln Portrait for André Kostelanetz had been premiered by the Cincinnati Symphony just months earlier. Meanwhile, he was corresponding with Martha Graham about her next ballet, which would be the Pulitzer Prize-winning Appalachian Spring.
To some, Copland might have seemed like an unlikely person to pen one of America’s most patriotic works. The composer was plainspoken, modest, bespectacled. The son of Russian Jewish immigrants, he was admittedly left-leaning, but not a Communist.
But from the start, Copland had aimed to create an authentic “American” music.
Copland's "American style” was a melting pot of jazz he heard in New York, the lean French music he heard in Paris in the ‘20s while working with legend Nadia Boulanger, the folk songs he heard in travels to Mexico and the West.
“On one hand, you’ve got this guy born in Brooklyn who lived in cities for much of his life, and a lot of his early, more abstract music reflect the busy bustle of urban America,” said David Loebel, associate director of orchestras at the New England Conservatory, Boston. “Yet, he managed with uncanny skill to capture the wide-open spaces of the Midwest and the American West.”
Howard Pollack, author of Aaron Copland: The Life and Work of an Uncommon Man, hears another element in Copland's Fanfare.
“Typical fanfares begin with a flourish, but his is more somber, declamatory. I think that a case could be made for, in terms of his Jewish background, the declamatory chanting that goes on in the synagogue. It sounds almost prophetic, almost religious, as opposed to a fanfare that’s coming out of military tradition.”
Perhaps it continues to resonate because Copland's fanfare is the rare classical work to cross over to pop culture. Its gong crash is a rallying cry, rousing fans to their feet at United Center when the Chicago Blackhawks first hit the ice. In 1975, that melody meant the Rolling Stones were about to rock.
That French horn harmony was applause honoring both President Reagan's 1981 and President Obama's 2009 inaugurations. It accompanied Pope Francis's speech in Philadelphia last year as well as the final flight of the Space Shuttle Endeavour. It has been the morning alarm clock for those on the Space Shuttle Atlantis.
It famously honored Olympic champions in London and served to dedicate the 9/11 Museum. And, just two months ago, it laid Arnold Palmer to rest.
It is for heroes, then. All kinds.
