Gary William Friedman is a jazz musician and classically trained composer who has written extensively for theater, television, and synagogue. Although a wide variety of his work has been recorded, Colloquy, in producer Tim Peierls’s words, “fills . . . a gap in the discography—call it ‘contemporary classical,’ ‘modern classical,’ or (if you will) ‘serious music’.” Possessed of an outgoing, ebullient personality, Gary was happy to express some of his thoughts on life and music in an interview. He’s an energetic conversationalist who seems gratefully bemused, even at this date in his long-established career, at the fate that has allowed him successfully to pursue his creative ambitions. To put his opening remarks in context, when I first spoke to him our thoughts seemed to mesh intuitively: we were immediately on the same wavelength.
G.W.F.: I must say, I believe that everything we say and do is in the ether somewhere.
R.S.: If only we knew how to retrieve the information.
G.W.F.: Exactly. We just have to figure out a way to do it.
R.S.: This reminds me of Madame Blavatsky’s idea of the Akashic Record, which supposedly contained all thoughts, words, and actions.
G.W.F.: You know, that’s really not improbable, I know it sounds so fantastical, but—I can’t believe that everything we do and say is gone forever.
R.S.: It’s an intriguing prospect, but, much as I enjoy metaphysical speculation, I have to drift back to earth, at least for a while. Your musical career took off when you won an Obie (an award honoring off-Broadway theater).
G.W.F.: Yes, for The Me Nobody Knows. Well, it opened off-Broadway in 1970. And at the time I was basically a schoolteacher—a substitute teacher in New York. I wanted to write the music for the show, which I felt was very important. It dealt with what used to be called “ghetto kids.” It was based on a book written by another New York City schoolteacher who had given his kids an assignment to write autobiographies: they were talking about “the me nobody knows.” So, that was the title of the assignment, and he was so touched by what they wrote that he compiled the writings into a book of the same name. Another collaborator of mine gave me that book, and I want to tell you, I just went out of my mind. I felt it was so beautiful, and I had a feeling it should be done as something called “a musical.” Of which I didn’t really know too much: it was the first time I did music for a musical per se. I started out literally setting the poems and stories the young people wrote for this collection. I had come to it from my background as a jazz musician, although I was studying classical composition with Jan Meyerowitz. Do you know Jan Meyerowitz?
R.S.: I’m afraid not. The name I recognize from the CD booklet is Ussachevsky, whom I think of as a composer of electronic music.
G.W.F.: Yes, Ussachevsky, but that was a little later, after I had graduated from Brooklyn College and became a schoolteacher.
R.S.: Were you teaching music?
G.W.F.: Actually, I taught math and science in BedStuy [the Bedford Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn, notorious for being a tough neighborhood]. It was pretty rough, and it ended with me passing a kidney stone.
R.S: Do you relate that terribly painful occurrence to your experiences as a teacher?
G.W.F.: (Laughing) I think there was a reason for it. But that was a sign, I think. Oh, my God, I passed out and I said, “I’m doing something wrong. It’s just too rough.” Anyway. The fact that I was a schoolteacher I think gave me this insight into the thoughts of these young people, these so-called “ghetto kids.” And then I started setting the poems and stories to music, then took it to a man who was called “a producer.” I had no idea what that was. And his name was Jeff Britton, and he said, “You know, Gary, I think you’re on to something here.” And then the rest is, as they say, history. The night the show opened—I came to this from a whole other world. Here I was, a free-form jazz musician, saxophone-player who had also played in the Catskill Mountains; I did the whole deal, played with the mambo bands. That’s where I really cut my teeth. But I always had a need to create, as a writer, as opposed to as a saxophone-player. So, The Me Nobody Knows gave me the wherewithal to do this, and that’s what started my career. The night it opened I had maybe $75 in the bank. And I was all prepared to go back to school the next day to start teaching. And then the reviews came out, which were unbelievable raves. And it changed my life.
R.S: It sounds like the plot of a 1940s film.
G.W.F.: Let’s write a musical.
R.S: That, and the sudden stardom.
G.W.F.: Well, you know, you’re absolutely right. It had that kind of impact. It was very dramatic. And that led to my going into the world of musical theater.
R.S: Did you start studying with Jan Meyerowitz after your success with the show?
G.W.F.: No. Actually, Jan was teaching composition at Brooklyn College when I was going there in the 1960s, and I had a need . . . I mean Robert, it was very weird, but when I saw this man, I loved him, he was a very interesting person. He was a survivor from Europe and the war, and he was just brilliant. I loved his music and his whole personality. And I used to follow him through the streets (laughter) around the college. I’d say, “Please, could you be my teacher; I must study with you.” And he’d say (imitating an Eastern European accent), “Gary, you’re too pale. You’re too fragile; you won’t be able to be a composer.” I think I weighed 27 pounds. And he really was avoiding me. He sensed—it was very funny, because he sensed my need. And I really stalked this guy. Until finally he said “Okay, okay, come to my place, come.” He lived in Cresskill, New Jersey, and I had no way of getting to his place, because here I was, a kid from Brooklyn; I lived on Ocean Parkway near Brighton Beach. I just loved growing up there. Fabulous. Anyway, I bought a used car. Some kind of cockamamie old—it was probably like an 1812 something. And the problem with the car was once you turned the key and stopped it you couldn’t start it again. So, I used to park on a hill, I swear to God, and at the end of the lesson, he and his wife Margaret would come outside and say, “Gary, we must watch you start the car.” And I would roll the car down the hill, jump in and put it into gear and take off. And that’s a true story. By the way, Jan studied with Respighi; he was a student of his. Anyway, that was the start of my compositional career.
R.S.: How long did you study with him?
G.W.F.: I studied with him for several years. And it was wonderful. Then I had a desire to look into the electronic music situation. I was drawn to the abstractness, and the atonal aspect, etc. So that’s when I studied with Ussachevsky. That was a very interesting bunch of students. Bob Moog was in that group. And he was telling me about this machine he’s working on, he wants to synthesize all this stuff. I said, “Oh, come on, Bob, that’s a crazy idea.” And he went on and he did it. But in those years we had to literally create the sounds. It was all about cutting, splicing the tape, and my fingers would be bloody, with those razor blades. But you know something, it was great to be in at the beginning of the movement. And maybe there’s a Zelig-like aspect, because I was also there at the beginning of the free-form improvisational movement in the 1960s, with the jazz music, which I was very much a part of: Alan Silva, Burton Greene, and all those wonderful musicians. In a funny way I think that all that experience informs where I am right now. And believe me, I take that information lovingly.
R.S: I don’t hear much of a jazz influence in your CD; maybe a bit here and there.
G.W.F.: Well, I’m happy to hear that. I’ve been trying to—there was a time when jazz, the influence of jazz, was important to me. But as I mature, forgive the phrase, it’s like, how can I say, maybe a little pentimento; it’s there, but it’s not there. Rhythmically, I think that there’s a certain thing that might go back to its roots in jazz, but I’m not sure. So, that’s what I’m doing now, I’m experimenting and always looking for that new kind of rhythmic aspect, not necessarily jazz.
R.S.: Your third important teacher was Hall Overton, who had a career in both serious music and jazz.
G.W.F.: He did charts for Thelonious Monk. He started as a jazz musician and pianist, and he became an arranger and did a lot of great, orchestrated big-band arrangements. With Hall, it was like, “Watch out for the converted.” When I studied with him he was so adamantly, in a sense, anti-jazz. He didn’t want the jazz influence. He wanted to be a so-called pure composer. Whatever that is. But whatever it was, it was important to him. We’d go through harmony and chords, and God forbid I should say, “Hey, that’s a hip progression.” I was with him for a couple of years. I think he felt a certain duality—a conflict in some way. He’s yet to be reexamined. He’s one of those people who maybe has to be gone for a while before he’s rediscovered, which I hope is not the case with me. He was a character, bigger than life. He was like six-foot five, a big guy; had a place, a walk-up on Sixth Avenue in the twenties, the flower district, and you’d walk up and walk up, and there were always some very interesting people hanging around.
R.S: The clarinet, of course, is very much a part of the jazz tradition, but Passages (Gary’s clarinet concerto), which I enjoyed greatly, doesn’t really reflect that heritage. And Colloquy for piano and viola is written in yet another idiom: more atonal, but still classical.
G.W.F.: Thank you. Passages came from a very profound and emotionally challenging moment in my life, during the illness and death of my first wife. And then I was blessed, and maybe I did something right in some life and I met another woman, Stevie Holland, and that encouraged me to write Colloquy. She’s a very interesting woman. She’s a jazz musician and gifted singer, and we work together, and that’s the whole other side of the “me.” Which I really try, not desperately, but I do try to keep distinct in some ways.
R.S: Do you write arrangements for Stevie?
G.W.F.: Yes, I do. But the jazz lives in another part of my brain. Which I guess is fine.
R.S: In his liner notes, Tim Peierls says he encouraged you to record your classical works.
G.W.F.: That’s true. I’ve always written classical music. However, I’ve never had a moment in my life when I was blessed with being able to have it on a disc that people can hear, finally.
R.S.: You must be very happy with the quality of the performances; all the musicians are first-class.
G.W.F.: Oh, they are so wonderful. Each one of them is just brilliant. Ed Matthew, the clarinet soloist; and the Judys—Judy Nelson and Judy Stillman, wow! Judy Nelson is a violist with the Philharmonic and Judith Lynn Stillman is a world-class pianist.
R.S: I was impressed with the sound quality, as well.
G.W.F.: Yes, Tim worked very hard on that.
R.S: He hears some Klezmer in Passages.
G.W.F.: Well, it does get very modal, which I guess is my Yiddish background. I did tap into my roots as a kid, playing all those weddings and bar mitzvahs.
R.S: Do you double on clarinet?
G.W.F.: Sure, I’ve played the clarinet. In fact, I even play the bassoon. In my high school orchestra: played the bassoon. And then, when I had to get my license as a teacher I had to play the violin.
R.S.: You’re required to demonstrate proficiency on a variety of instruments.
G.W.F.: That’s right. So, I had to take the test on the violin.
R.S: Do you like to write for the violin?
G.W.F.: Oh, I love violin. I love strings. I write for strings with great glee.
R.S: Did you write anything else for the theater after The Me Nobody Knows?
G.W.F.: Well, that was my first and most successful, and I went on to other things. Did you ever hear of The Electric Company? As music director I wrote a lot for The Electric Company. I wrote a theme song for the Spider Man character (singing in a slightly gravelly voice). That’s me singing.
R.S.: That was you?
G.W.F.: Yes. So, it was a job, and the 1970s—and it was a wonderful experience with all those characters. I was not the first music director, Joe Raposo was. Joe left the show and because of the influence of The Me Nobody Knows they hired the cast: a lot of the people in Sesame Street and The Electric Company were cast members of The Me Nobody Knows. So it was a natural leap. I also wrote Platinum for Broadway, starring Alexis Smith. There were several other Broadway forays. I then went out to California and scored some films.
R.S.: What was working in Hollywood like?
G.W.F.: Well, that’s the least interesting part of my life. It was frustrating out there because—how can I say this? Forgive me for saying a priori and a posteria, if I may. When one writes music, you are the creator; it’s coming from you initially, and it’s real and honest, etc. In the movies, it’s after the fact. You’re looking at a piece of celluloid or a video and you must score to that. That was a little rough. Ultimately, I think there’s something maybe a little dangerous in that for a composer.
R.S.: I’ve heard there are instances where scenes are cut to the music.
G.W.F.: Erich Korngold . . . He was a brilliant composer before he went to Hollywood. His Violin Concerto is gorgeous and it’s being played a lot now. But he wrote that before he went to Hollywood.
R.S.: You think that diluted his art?
G.W.F.: I don’t know. I’m sure that people do tend to say that. A lot of Hollywood composers would probably want to tar and feather me for saying that. But it’s not as if I’m speaking as someone who didn’t do it. I was there, and it wasn’t the healthiest thing I could have done.
R.S.: The glamour is more seductive than the reality.
G.W.F.: And it’s lucrative. I mean the money one makes out there is off the wall. Here I am in New York. I’m trying so hard—I dedicate years to writing classical works and without any compensation. The concerto took years. It started off as a sketch and then I redid it and worked on it. Colloquy took me a year and a half. You know, you must give everything to it, because if you don’t, it knows it. Once in a while you get a commission, which is wonderful. But basically you’re inner motivated, which, in a way, is at it should be.
R.S.: I suppose the ideal is to write whatever you like without having to scramble after money, but not too many people are in that fortunate position.
G.W.F.: There have been some. Sibelius had help from the government, but we don’t have enough of that in this country.
R.S.: You mentioned Colloquy just now. That’s an interesting piece, because it’s somewhat atonal and yet likeable.
G.W.F.: I’m always seeking ways of using atonality. And trying to infuse it with emotion, creativity, so I’m not walking well-trod paths.
R.S.: I think you succeeded, and it’s not easy to be lyrical using the 12-tone system.
G.W.F.: I agree with you. Even in The Song of Moses, there is a lot of atonalism. In fact, there’s a 12-tone row, but I’m not going to tell you where it is! Again, the challenge is to—I guess it’s about communication, when it’s all said and done. Can we communicate what we have in our souls and does it resonate in another soul? That’s what I’m looking for, that’s really the reason for my creative life.
R.S.: My Heart’s Friend isn’t written in the same style as The Song of Moses.
G.W.F.: I’m using all kinds of compositional techniques in my settings. The string-writing is a little more complex than it might sound. My hope was to make those two voices emotional and challenging at the same time.
R.S.: There were times when I thought I could hear a former Broadway composer at work.
G.W.F.: Uh-oh!
R.S.: That wasn’t intended as a criticism. Especially when you consider the many great composers who’ve written for the theater.
G.W.F.: By way of an answer, I just want to go back to The Me, because everything started with that. Part of the assignment (given to the students before the teacher compiled the book) was to write haiku poems. So I took four haiku poems and created a fugue, and called it Fugue for Four Girls. So, not only can Broadway inform classical writing, but classical writing can inform Broadway.
R.S.: My Heart’s Friend was written at Tim Peierls’s request?
G.W.F.: Yes, he commissioned a piece to celebrate his 20th wedding anniversary. So I chose these four love poems and set them to music. Again, you know, it’s so mysterious, the why and what, etc., but he originally wanted me to write a piece for him and his wife Ilene for two voices and piano four hands, because they both play the piano and sing. I got so excited about writing the piece that I felt I needed a larger palette. That’s when the strings came in. And I wanted the emotionalism, because it was about love, and love is about strings, right? The Song of Moses was a whole other trip. The first part of it was written in the 1990s. But then, when we actually recorded it and we heard it for the first time, Tim said to me “Gary, it’s so beautiful.” Then I felt maybe there’s more to be written. The Song of Moses, originally called The Burning Bush, is now the second part as well as the title of the piece.
R.S.: Have you found synagogues to be adventurous in their programming?
G.W.F.: Oh, God, that’s a whole other conversation. I’ve written much music for the synagogue. For example, I’ve written a Selichot service [An American Selichot]. Selichot is the holy week before Rosh Hashanah. It’s a preparation for the depth of feeling that Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur examines in our soul. It’s intended to be a midnight service. Too late for most people, so it’s usually moved to around 10:00 pm. Cantor Jack Chomsky came to me and asked me to do a contemporary version, which has been performed several times around the country. I’m very pleased with that, but it’s difficult, in general, to get synagogues to look at, to appreciate, to examine, and to commission new works.
R.S.: Are they pretty much living in the 19th century, musically?
G.W.F.: I think so. They’re hearing those gorgeous, beautiful, basically German tunes. But, I’m trying. I’m doing my bit.
R.S.: The cantorial tradition also includes a strong strain of Hebraic melody.
G.W.F.: Yes, and that’s what I think people want to hear, whether they say so or not. And I tap into that in my Selichot service. It’s modal and a little jazzy. I’m happy that it does get performed. In general, what I think’s important is resonance, and it’s our job to get it out there. And I pray that whatever’s in my soul will reach your soul and make you a happier person. And that’s really what I want to do in my life as a composer.
R.S.: That’s a wonderful aspiration.
G.W.F.: Well, composing is serious business.
R.S.: I’m curious if you find it hard to sustain the initial impulse, once the hard work of shaping and honing is underway.
G.W.F.: It’s interesting that you’re saying that, because it’s not difficult. If the initial impulse to write the work came from a real, true, deep, honest place in your heart, then to go back to that place should not be difficult. I think that was definitely shown in The Song of Moses. Because that was part one; and with part two, there’s 15 years between them.
R.S.: They are a little different, though.
G.W.F.: They are, but not that different. I mean, it wasn’t, “Oh, my God, where did this come from?” Sure, it was different, because a person’s 15 years older:; definitely different, but not outrageously so.
R.S.: I suppose you could think of them as two movements of a symphony, in which each has its own character.
G.W.F.: Exactly. So, I went back to the place where I was when I wrote it, and I said, “I will come from that place.” If the kernel is true, you can chew on that kernel forever.
R.S.: How do people react to the CD?
G.W.F.: It seems to reach them emotionally.
R.S.: When I first heard Passages, I thought of it a bit more analytically, as a cyclical form with the ending returning to the relatively quiescent, atmospheric quality of the concerto’s opening measures.
G.W.F.: Well, it’s a journey, an emotional journey of hope and the awesomeness of what we call life, I guess, and the mysteriousness of it and the elusiveness of it. And how it’s not going to last forever. There’s an overriding sadness to it, I think. But again, this is only programmatic and maybe dangerous even to express.
R. S.: Because programs tend to color the way we hear a piece?
G.W.F.: I think that might be true. And Colloquy—the piece, not the CD, I think, could be a conversation of newness, the reaffirmation of life, and it goes on.
R.S.: It’s a natural tendency to think of things in one’s life when composing, but I can’t help but wonder what people would hear if they were never told about the program.
G.W.F.: Well, The Enigma Variations has been confounding people for years, right? (laughter). So, is it better to know, or not?