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In September 1964, with Beatlemania in full swing throughout the country, especially on college campuses, I returned to Urbana, where all day every day, whenever I heard radios or jukeboxes, it was almost all Beatles music.
The previous year Salvatore
Martirano had joined the faculty. Sal, who was 37 at the time, was
a spectacularly creative musician, and had lived his whole life so
far on creative artist grants and commissions. This was his first
real full time job. Sal was the person to study with, if
you were interested in delving into the best of the best of
mainstream new music. During my year at home, I wrote him a letter
telling him of my desire to study with him when I returned to
school, to which he agreed. As soon as I got on campus, I
contacted him and reconfirmed the arrangement. By then I had a
reputation, and could have asked anyone on the faculty. I wanted
Sal.
The first several months of our lessons, Sal did a complete brain dump on me of his extensive knowledge of combinatorial serial techniques, which I did my best to understand, play with, and master. Sal came to regard me as his ``best'' student, at least for that period.
The composition department of a large university in a small town makes a small universe. Everyone involved with new music knew everyone else well. The intermingling between students and faculty was substantial. Sal was not merely my teacher, but became a friend. It was not at all unusual to run into each other at the various student hangouts we all haunted, and to sit and talk for hours over coffee or various foamy beverages. Sal and his wife also had me over to their house for dinner and on other occasions.
When in
Eternal Lines to Time Thou Grow'st
April 1965
When I started the year I had no composition projects in progress. In late fall I began work on what was eventually titled When in Eternal Lines to Time Thou Grow'st, subtitled ``A Sextet for Seven Players.'' The instrumentation was celeste, viola, electric mandolin, bass trombone, and three percussionists playing a forest of instruments. The title is a line from a Shakespeare Sonnet. The mallets part turned out to be so difficult I had to divide it between two players, which explains the subtitle.
It was by far my most ambitious composition to date. Its premiere was in spring of 1965 at a student composers forum at Northwestern, within walking distance of my home in Wilmette, but which once again my father was unable to attend because of work. The second performance was at University of Illinois two weeks later, and the third was on my senior recital in July 1966. I rehearsed and conducted all three performances. Faculty violist John Garvey, who also led the jazz band, and later a Russian balalaika orchestra, honored me by playing all three performances.
I'm not a string player, but have a good sense of what is possible. When I got the parts prepared for rehearsal, I happened to be back home in Wilmette, and asked my to father read through the viola part to be sure I hadn't written something utterly beyond the capability of the instrument.
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As he played through it, he came to a dead stop at one passage, thinking he'd found an impossibility. I told him I'd worked it out as feasible using various charts I had to guide me and wondered where I went wrong. He looked at it carefully, and a light bulb went on. ``Ah! First finger on A. Mr. Garvey will probably stumble over this. If he does, just tell him: `First finger on A'!''
The first time the ensemble read the piece, it happened exactly as predicted. John Garvey stopped us and declared I'd written something that was unplayable. I replied: ``How about first finger on A?'' He paused and then exclaimed. ``Oh!'' You should have seen the puzzled look he gave me. He knew I was not a string player, though he knew about my father. I never explained to him how I knew the sophisticated little trick Dad had discovered. I'm sure I won some points with John Garvey that day.
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