"First impressions are very important," my mother would remind me periodically throughout my childhood, "so make good ones." At that time, though, I was still rocking the single-digit birthdays, and her words loosely translated to something as simple as "Be polite, son." And I was, and so I made remarkable first impressions because, face it, a courteous, well-mannered child is largely invisible to the public. Thanks, mom, for the advice, and I have great news...its current applicability far exceeds that of its first utterance to my young ears, and why shouldn't it? After all, "yes, sir" and "yes, ma'am" can only get one so far, and yes, the public will judge; I ain't invisible anymore. First impressions aren't just important, they're practically everything.
Where to begin, then? Ask this question of a friend, and you'll likely get the universal "um," followed by some troubled contemplation and a hesitant answer. Ask American composer/conductor Eric Whitacre, and I reckon you would get a real answer, something along the lines of: "Where to begin? Why, with a breath, of course!" I hope so, at least. There’s honesty in that response. What’s more, there’s an understanding of wonder, the same sort of wonder that illuminates the opening seconds of Light & Gold, Whitacre’s first recording in which he serves as conductor. Those seconds belong to title track “Lux Aurumque.” You hear the choir’s gentle inhalation, and then, under direction of their visionary leader, they do it – they breathe out beautiful chords, perfect chords, chords that defy simple explanation and leave me quoting the familiar phrase: “Where to begin?”
For starters, you should know that Whitacre’s compositions are not your typical choral works. This isn’t just church music. In fact, the bulk of Light & Gold is quite secular. Even “Three Songs of Faith,” an openly-spiritual opus in three parts, is a transposing of three e.e. cummings poems. In his other endeavors, too, Whitacre separates himself from the conventions of his art. Take, for example, Paradise Lost: Shadows and Wings, his self-proclaimed “musical/opera/techno/taiko/anime passion project,” an extravagant fusion of electronica and theater, or Whitacre’s virtual choir, an attempt “to create the world’s largest online choir ever.” This rare sense of originality, coupled with his gifted ability, however, is what makes him one of the essential traditional artists of our time. Rarely does Whitacre address his faith or his spirituality directly. Instead, he reveals it, quite effortlessly, too, whether through the narrative of a mother seal singing to her sleepy pup, through the image of a couple kissing tenderly on the grass, or through the surreal estimation of what Leonardo da Vinci’s dreams must have been like.
Words cannot define the products of Eric Whitacre’s fierce imagination, for they define themselves. Whitacre understands the gravity of the world, of its tribulations, but he understands the human heart, too, and its power. Thus, with a breath, Whitacre makes his first impression this: I am alive, and you also are alive, and now I’m going to prove it. “Sleep,” the concluding track on Light & Gold, is nothing short of a reaffirmation of his unspoken thesis. A reworking of Robert Frost’s “Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening,” “Sleep” crescendos to emotional heights hardly ever achieved; Whitacre’s singers pour their souls into three increasingly-heartshattering cries of “As I surrender unto sleep” with such conviction as if to flaunt life in the face of death. It’s nothing short of a glimpse into heaven. Whitacre strives to provide it, gladly. More importantly, he strives to inspire, and oh, how he does.
Where to begin, then? Ask this question of a friend, and you'll likely get the universal "um," followed by some troubled contemplation and a hesitant answer. Ask American composer/conductor Eric Whitacre, and I reckon you would get a real answer, something along the lines of: "Where to begin? Why, with a breath, of course!" I hope so, at least. There’s honesty in that response. What’s more, there’s an understanding of wonder, the same sort of wonder that illuminates the opening seconds of Light & Gold, Whitacre’s first recording in which he serves as conductor. Those seconds belong to title track “Lux Aurumque.” You hear the choir’s gentle inhalation, and then, under direction of their visionary leader, they do it – they breathe out beautiful chords, perfect chords, chords that defy simple explanation and leave me quoting the familiar phrase: “Where to begin?”
For starters, you should know that Whitacre’s compositions are not your typical choral works. This isn’t just church music. In fact, the bulk of Light & Gold is quite secular. Even “Three Songs of Faith,” an openly-spiritual opus in three parts, is a transposing of three e.e. cummings poems. In his other endeavors, too, Whitacre separates himself from the conventions of his art. Take, for example, Paradise Lost: Shadows and Wings, his self-proclaimed “musical/opera/techno/taiko/anime passion project,” an extravagant fusion of electronica and theater, or Whitacre’s virtual choir, an attempt “to create the world’s largest online choir ever.” This rare sense of originality, coupled with his gifted ability, however, is what makes him one of the essential traditional artists of our time. Rarely does Whitacre address his faith or his spirituality directly. Instead, he reveals it, quite effortlessly, too, whether through the narrative of a mother seal singing to her sleepy pup, through the image of a couple kissing tenderly on the grass, or through the surreal estimation of what Leonardo da Vinci’s dreams must have been like.
Words cannot define the products of Eric Whitacre’s fierce imagination, for they define themselves. Whitacre understands the gravity of the world, of its tribulations, but he understands the human heart, too, and its power. Thus, with a breath, Whitacre makes his first impression this: I am alive, and you also are alive, and now I’m going to prove it. “Sleep,” the concluding track on Light & Gold, is nothing short of a reaffirmation of his unspoken thesis. A reworking of Robert Frost’s “Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening,” “Sleep” crescendos to emotional heights hardly ever achieved; Whitacre’s singers pour their souls into three increasingly-heartshattering cries of “As I surrender unto sleep” with such conviction as if to flaunt life in the face of death. It’s nothing short of a glimpse into heaven. Whitacre strives to provide it, gladly. More importantly, he strives to inspire, and oh, how he does.
