Irving Berlin (1888–1989)

Born Israel Baline in Tyumen, in the Russian Empire, Irving Berlin came to New York as a child in 1893 when his family fled the Russian Empire to escape persecution of Jews. Growing up in poverty on the Lower East Side, the immigrant boy rose to become one of America’s greatest songwriters. As composer Jerome Kern famously quipped, “Irving Berlin has no place in American music… Irving Berlin is American music.” Berlin wrote both lyrics and music for an astounding 1,500 songs, encompassing Broadway show tunes, Hollywood hits, and patriotic anthems. Untrained in formal theory, he had an uncanny gift for crafting simple yet unforgettable melodies and heartfelt words that spoke to the American spirit.

Berlin’s contributions spanned the quintessential Great American Songbook. He secularized cherished holidays with songs like “White Christmas” and “Easter Parade,” and he boosted national morale with robust sing-alongs. For example, “God Bless America” – which Berlin originally drafted during World War I – was introduced by Kate Smith in 1938 as a hopeful hymn on the eve of World War II. Berlin, who deeply believed in his adopted country, dusted off the song 20 years after writing it, offering a musical counterpoint to his mounting alarm over events in Europe, including the persecution of Jews. Not everyone welcomed a patriotic anthem by a Jewish immigrant, but Berlin’s faith in American ideals never wavered; and he donated the song’s royalties to the Boy and Girl Scouts of America in perpetuity. Such stories illustrate how fully Berlin embraced America – and how America embraced his music.

On this program we hear a half-dozen of Berlin’s beloved songs, each reflecting a facet of his legacy. “Let’s Start the New Year Right,” written for the 1942 film Holiday Inn, captures Berlin’s gift for movie songwriting: Bing Crosby crooned this relaxed, hopeful number in a scene turning the page to midnight on New Year’s Eve. “Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor” comes from the Broadway show Miss Liberty (1949), where Berlin poignantly set Emma Lazarus’s Statue of Liberty inscription to music – an immigrant’s ode welcoming other immigrants. In contrast, “What’ll I Do?” (1923) and “Always” (1925) are enduring ballads, exemplifying what Cole Porter admiringly called “the Berlin ballad,” unmatched in their tender simplicity. “What’ll I Do?” is a plaintive song of lost love, its gentle refrain of yearning so universally resonant that it has become a standard for generations. “Always,” a love song Berlin dedicated to his bride, likewise enchants with its sincerity and has lived on in countless weddings and recordings. Berlin could also lift spirits with joyful optimism: “Blue Skies” (1926), with its jubilant “bluebird of happiness” imagery, was such a hit that Al Jolson performed it in the landmark 1927 sound film The Jazz Singer. And of course, Berlin’s heartfelt patriotism comes through in “God Bless America,” which has long since become an unofficial national hymn – a song born from the experience of a young refugee who found a home in America and gave thanks in melody. Together, these selections remind us why Berlin’s musical voice is woven into America’s identity, from the intimate moments of love to the collective hope of a nation.

Kurt Weill (1900–1950)

Kurt Weill’s journey to America was one of exile and reinvention. A celebrated composer in Weimar-era Germany (famed for The Threepenny Opera), Weill was forced to flee in 1933 when Hitler came to power. After two years as a refugee in Paris, he arrived in New York in 1935, an émigré driven by the necessity to escape Nazi persecution and the desire to start anew. In the United States, Weill astonishingly transformed himself into one of Broadway’s leading composers – “an amazing feat of assimilation,” as one scholar observed. Believing in the American dream, Weill embraced the new country wholeheartedly, even becoming a U.S. citizen in 1943. He brought with him European sophistication and social consciousness, and in the span of 15 years contributed substantially to American musical theater. Weill’s American works blended his Continental musical craft with American popular styles, from foxtrots to spirituals, often tackling issues of justice and identity.

Weill is represented on our program by songs from the shows he wrote during his U.S. years – pieces that illuminate his versatility and assimilation into American culture. “How Can You Tell an American?” is a satirical number from Knickerbocker Holiday (1938), a Broadway operetta set in old New Amsterdam. With lyrics by Maxwell Anderson, the song wryly enumerates the traits of an American, already showing Weill’s ease with humor and the English language. From Weill’s very first American musical, Johnny Johnson (1936), we hear “Johnny’s Song (When Man Was First Created).” This poignant anti-war song, sung by the title character Johnny as a simple soldier reflecting on the folly of mankind, exemplifies Weill’s knack for tender melody underpinned by a pacifist message – a direct carryover of his concern for “the sufferings of underprivileged people,” as he once described his artistic motivation. By the 1940s, Weill was crafting hit Broadway scores. “I’m a Stranger Here Myself,” from the 1943 musical One Touch of Venus, is a sly and sophisticated comic song in which the goddess Venus (disguised as a modern woman) marvels at mid-century American attitudes to love. Its urbane wit and jazzy inflections show Weill mastering the Broadway idiom. In contrast, “Let Things Be Like They Always Was” (1947) comes from Street Scene, Weill’s “Broadway opera” about the lives of immigrant families in a New York tenement. In this plaintive solo, Frank Maruant laments the relentless pace of change in the neighborhood – a soulful, vernacular aria (with lyrics by Langston Hughes) that brings operatic depth to an American urban story. From Love Life (1948), a vaudeville-style musical chronicling a marriage through American history, we have “I Remember It Well.” In this duet (lyrics by Alan Jay Lerner), a couple nostalgically recalls – and humorously misrecalls – the details of their early life together, lending a bittersweet flavor that anyone can recognize. Finally, Weill’s gift for lyrical Americana shines in “And Where Is the One Who Will Mourn Me.” Despite its hymnic title, this piece is in fact an aria from Down in the Valley (1948), a one-act folk opera set in Appalachia. The young protagonist sings a bluegrass-tinged farewell asking who will mourn him when he’s gone. Weill based this opera on American folk tunes, and in this aria’s achingly simple lines we hear him adopting American folk idiom with touching authenticity.

Taken together, these songs trace Weill’s evolution from émigré to American composer. He proved that a refugee artist could turn himself into one of Broadway’s leading composers without losing his identity. Indeed, Weill’s adopted country inspired in him new creative life. He once said that wherever he found decency in the world, “it reminded me of America” – an optimism reflected in his music. From satire to love song, from operatic drama to homespun melody, Weill’s American works enriched Broadway and beyond, leaving a legacy as an immigrant who, in America’s embrace, found a new voice.

Erich Wolfgang Korngold (1897–1957)

Erich Korngold’s path to America also began under duress, yet led to a groundbreaking career in Hollywood. A child prodigy hailed by Mahler and celebrated in Vienna for lush late-Romantic operas, Korngold was living in Austria when the Nazi menace struck. In 1934, director Max Reinhardt invited him to California to adapt Mendelssohn’s music for a film – an offer that proved a providential lifeline. Korngold was back in Vienna in early 1938 when he was urgently summoned to Hollywood again to score The Adventures of Robin Hood. Mere weeks after he arrived in Los Angeles, Hitler’s forces annexed Austria (the Anschluss), making Korngold’s return home impossible. His house in Vienna was confiscated by the Nazis, and family and friends scattered or went into hiding. Thus, “forced into exile” in the U.S. in 1938, Korngold settled permanently in Los Angeles, later becoming an American citizen in 1943. This upheaval transformed the serious European composer into a pioneering figure of Hollywood’s Golden Age. In Europe Korngold had been a leading opera composer; in America he helped to redefine the possibilities of the classic symphonic Hollywood film score. With Warner Bros. he introduced a sweeping, symphonic sound to cinema – “a bold, orchestral style… that blended Wagnerian leitmotifs with cinematic drama,” as one account describes. He won two Academy Awards and set the template for generations of film composers. Though Korngold sometimes lamented that exile had diverted him from the opera house to the soundstage, history has come to recognize him as a founding father of film music, and a key figure in American popular culture of the 1930s–40s.

Fittingly, the Korngold set on this program highlights his contribution to Hollywood’s musical heritage. We hear three romantic songs that Korngold wrote for the 1936 Paramount musical film Give Us This Night. This obscure movie – a star vehicle for Metropolitan Opera tenor Jan Kiepura and soprano Gladys Swarthout – gave Korngold a chance to write operetta-style numbers with American lyricist Oscar Hammerstein II. “Sweet Melody of Night,” “My Love and I,”and “I Mean to Say I Love You” are all drawn from Give Us This Night, and they glow with the old-world lyricism Korngold carried to Hollywood. In the original film,“Sweet Melody of Night,” is sung by a serenading tenor as he unfolds a long-spun melody worthy of the Viennese stage, while “My Love and I” is an ardent duet avowing eternal devotion. “I Mean to Say I Love You” is a lighthearted musical declaration, its soaring phrases underpinned by Korngold’s rich harmonies. These songs – full of sweeping violin lines and heartfelt climaxes – would not be out of place in a 1920s operetta, yet they were penned in 1930s California. They remind us that Hollywood, for Korngold, became a kind of “second Vienna,” a place where he could keep the flame of late-Romantic melody alive even as war consumed Europe. Indeed, Korngold famously said that Robin Hood saved his life: “We thought of ourselves as musicians, not refugees,” he later reflected of himself and fellow émigré composers. His melodies in exile were as sweet as ever. By bringing his sumptuous European musical language into American films, Korngold broadened the scope of American music – proving that, even in displacement, an artist’s voice can find new resonance.

Tania León (b. 1943)

Tania León’s story exemplifies a later generation of immigrant artist: one who arrived in the U.S. not because of war, but seeking freedom and opportunity during the Cold War era. Born and conservatory-trained in Havana, Cuba, León came to the United States in 1967 at age 24 – on one of the famous “Freedom Flights” that carried Cuban refugees to Miami in the late 1960s. Castro’s Communist regime had drastically curtailed artistic freedom and economic prospects; León, who grew up in poverty in Havana, seized the chance to pursue her musical dreams in New York. “When I left Cuba in 1967, I did not know if returning would be possible,” she later said, but she viewed the opportunity as “a golden ticket”. Soon after her arrival, she became a founding member of the Dance Theatre of Harlem at the invitation of Arthur Mitchell. As that ballet company’s first music director, León helped bring classical dance training to African-American communities – an early sign of her role as a cultural bridge-builder. Over the following decades, she blossomed into an influential composer, conductor, and educator in American music. León taught at Brooklyn College and other institutions, served on arts boards, and conducted ensembles worldwide. As a composer, she forged a unique style melding contemporary classical techniques with the rhythms and colors of her Afro-Cuban heritage. From pulsing Latin dance motifs to avant-garde textures, her work is notable for its stealthy, powerful, and unexpected character, reflecting a broad palette of influences. In recent years León has received some of the highest accolades in music, including the 2021 Pulitzer Prize for her orchestral work Stride. Through it all, she has been a passionate advocate for diversity in the arts – a voice for those historically overlooked. Having fled an oppressive regime, León found in America the liberty to experiment and the platform to be heard.

León’s composition “Mi amor es” (“My Love Is”) offers a glimpse into her lyrical side. Written in 2015 for baritone voice and piano, “Mi amor es” is an art-song setting of a poem by Cuban-American poet Carlos Pintado. True to its title, the poem is a loving meditation – each line beginning with “My love is…” – and León responds with music of intimate expressivity. The song unfolds in free, supple phrases that follow the cadence of the Spanish text, at times almost like a recitative, at others blossoming into gentle lyricism. Harmonically, León employs tonal colors with subtle twists: listen for soft clusters and rhythmic sparkles that evoke both classical impressionism and Afro-Cuban folk music. In performance, “Mi amor es” feels like a poetic whisper, only 4½ minutes long, yet containing a world of tenderness. While modest in scale, the song resonates with León’s personal journey. She once noted that upon arriving in 1967, she knew very little of American music beyond a Gershwin tune or two. But she eagerly absorbed jazz, blues, – “anything, for me, has been amazing” in this rich musical landscape, she said of her new home. In “Mi amor es,” one might hear how that openness to many cultures, combined with the emotional directness of her Cuban roots, yields a song at once soulful and sophisticated. It is a gentle celebration of love by a composer who herself exemplifies love for music’s limitless possibilities – a love nurtured in the freedom of America.

Osvaldo Golijov (b. 1960)

Born to Eastern European Jewish parents in Argentina, Osvaldo Golijov has emerged as one of the most original voices in contemporary music – another beneficiary of America’s embrace of immigrant talent. Golijov grew up in La Plata, Argentina, surrounded by a mix of classical chamber music, klezmer tunes, and the nuevo tango of Piazzolla. In his twenties he lived in Israel for several years, then in 1986 he emigrated to the United States for graduate study. He earned a Ph.D. in composition at the University of Pennsylvania (studying with George Crumb) and further honed his craft at Tanglewood. From the late 1990s onward, Golijov’s career took flight in the U.S., where the eclecticism of his background found fertile ground. He became known for fusing Latin American, Jewish, classical, and popular influences into a vibrant new musical language. American ensembles were quick to champion him: the St. Lawrence and Kronos Quartets, for example, gave early premieres of his works blending folk and classical elements. In 2000 Golijov’s La Pasión según San Marcos – an Afro-Cuban flavored setting of the Passion story – burst onto the scene, cementing his international reputation. He has since received a MacArthur “Genius” Fellowship and multiple Grammy Awards. Though Golijov’s musical roots span continents, his professional life is largely rooted in the United States, where he has stated he feels creatively “at home” among diverse traditions. His success illustrates how American music in the 21st century thrives on cross-pollination of global cultures.

Golijov’s “Lúa Descolorida” (Galician for “Colorless Moon”) is one of his most haunting works, and one of the first to gain wide popularity. Composed in 1999 for soprano Dawn Upshaw, “Lúa Descolorida” is a setting of a 19th-century poem by Rosalía de Castro, sung in the Galician language of northwest Spain. The poem speaks of despair – a solitary soul addressing a moon “drained of color” by grief. Golijov’s musical setting, in his own words, “defines despair in a way that is simultaneously tender and tragic.” The song is hushed and “quietly radiant,” built on what the composer calls “a constellation of clearly defined symbols that affirm contradictory things at the same time.” In practical terms, this translates into a hypnotic slow melody that arches upward only to fall back, harmonized by simple, archaic-sounding chords that subtly bend in unexpected directions. The influence of Schubert is present – Golijov aimed to echo the single tearful moment in Schubert’s Schwanengesang – as is the spiritual austerity of Gregorian chant or a Sephardic lullaby. Originally scored for voice and string quartet, “Lúa Descolorida” is often performed in a piano-accompanied version, as in this concert. Its long lyrical lines and plaintive refrain “Meu amor” (“my love”) have made it a signature piece for many singers. Dawn Upshaw’s “rainbow of a voice” was Golijov’s muse, and indeed singers love how this piece shows off the voice’s pure, gentle emotion. Yet beneath its beauty lies a deep cultural layering: an Argentinian Jewish composer in America, setting a Galician text beloved by a Spanish poet who was admired by Cuba’s Federico García Lorca. Somehow, through Golijov’s sensitive artistry, all these threads knit into one transcendent song. Lúa Descolorida invites us into a universal space of longing – proof that in America’s mosaic, a voice enriched by many heritages can touch hearts everywhere.

Miguel Sandoval (1902–1953)

Our program also shines a light on Miguel Sandoval – a composer not as widely known today, but in his mid-20th-century heyday, a prominent figure linking Latin America and the United States. Sandoval was born in Guatemala City and showed prodigious musical talent from a young age. At 16, with little more than hope and skill at the piano, he immigrated alone to New York City. This was around 1918, long before large-scale Latin American migration; one can only imagine the courage it took for a teenager to arrive penniless in Manhattan. Sandoval thrived: he studied and worked his way into the classical music world, becoming, by his twenties, “the most famous Guatemalan-born musician of his time.” He became a U.S. citizen in the early 1920s, fully embracing his new country. As a pianist and coach, he joined the staff of the Metropolitan Opera, training singers and assisting productions. He also conducted for smaller opera companies and ventured into composing. In the 1940s, Hollywood beckoned; Sandoval composed music for a number of films. Later he served as a composer, conductor, and pianist for CBS, one of the major American radio/TV networks. His career thus spanned high opera, popular media, and everything in between – a true musical bridge. Throughout, Sandoval retained and celebrated his Latin heritage. Many of his works, even those written in New York or Los Angeles, pulse with Spanish and Latin American rhythms and melodic turns. In effect, he functioned as a cultural ambassador, bringing a Latin flair to American music mid-century.

One of Sandoval’s best-known composition is the song “Sin tu amor” (“Without Your Love”), written in 1936 – and it is the piece we feature on our program. “Sin tu amor” became something of a hit in its day, performed by both opera and pop singers. Listening to it, one immediately hears the blend of influences: it is at its heart a Latin romanza, with thrilling rhythms and passionate melody in the Spanish bolero style, yet crafted with the polish of a Tin Pan Alley ballad. The song’s text (in Spanish) is an outpouring of longing: the singer proclaims that without the beloved’s eyes and kiss, life is meaningless. If only he could hear her say “Te amo,” he would fall at her feet whispering “I love you” in return. The accompaniment propels forward with an insistent tango-like rhythm. As the song builds, the melody twice peaks on a high sustained note – the singer practically crying out in desire – then descends to a tender resolution. “Sin tu amor” condenses the spirit of Latin romanticism into three unforgettable minutes. In its own way, it also tells a story of the American experience: the immigrant’s hybrid identity.

Igor Stravinsky (1882–1971)

The elder statesman of our program, Igor Stravinsky, needs little introduction – but his American chapter is especially fascinating. By the time he arrived in the United States, Stravinsky was already one of the most famous composers in the world, known for revolutionary works like The Rite of Spring. A Russian by birth, he had lived in France since 1920. In September 1939, just weeks after World War II erupted, Stravinsky emigrated from Europe to America. He and his second wife Vera settled in Los Angeles in 1940, joining a remarkable community of émigré artists in Hollywood (which included Schönberg, Thomas Mann, and others escaping Nazi Europe). The Stravinskys became U.S. citizens in 1945. Though nearly 60 when he arrived, Stravinsky entered a long and productive “American period” that lasted three decades until his death. He found inspiration in the U.S., composing major works on American soil – including his only full-length opera, The Rake’s Progress (written 1947–51 in Hollywood). Stravinsky also absorbed American influences: he conducted U.S. orchestras, lectured at Harvard, even dabbled in jazz and arranged the “Star-Spangled Banner” (which led to a famous minor kerfuffle with Boston police). Ever adaptable, Stravinsky transitioned from the cosmopolitan glamour of pre-war Paris to the sunny modernity of post-war California. By the 1960s he had become an icon of American musical life, appearing on television and mentoring younger U.S. composers. In sum, this towering figure – once a revolutionary of Old World music – spent a full third of his long life as an American, influencing the course of American concert music in the 20th century.

It is fitting, then, that we hear a selection from The Rake’s Progress, Stravinsky’s most significant American work.  The opera itself is an English-language morality tale set in 18th-century London, with a libretto by W. H. Auden and Chester Kallman – a decidedly Anglo-American venture for the Russian master. Notably, Stravinsky composed The Rake’s Progress while living in West Hollywood, far from the graveyards of Auden’s England. But for Chicago audiences, there is another important connection: Stravinsky was inspired to compose The Rake’s Progress after encountering William Hogarth’s series of engravings at the Art Institute of Chicago in 1947!

“Come, Master” is Nick Shadow’s aria from The Rake’s Progress. Nick Shadow is the opera’s villain (in essence, the Devil in gentleman’s guise), who has entered into a Faustian pact with the protagonist, Tom Rakewell. In this aria, Nick urges Tom to embrace what he calls “ultimate freedom” by marrying the bearded lady, Baba the Turk—framing the act as a deliberate rejection of conventional love, responsibility, and moral restraint. Masquerading as Tom’s servant, Nick exploits Tom’s restless desire for independence, casting this grotesque union as the purest form of self-assertion and liberation. In doing so, he lures Tom away from the steadfast devotion of his fiancée, Anne Trulove, and pushes him further along the path toward moral and personal ruin. The music is a witty pastiche of Mozartian opera – neo-classical elegance tinged with sly dissonances. Nick unfurls a mock-philosophical aria, pointing out epitaphs on tombstones and tempting Tom with the idea that each dead soul regretted not indulging enough in life.  Stravinsky’s score here is cool and crystalline: the melody is stepwise and detached, almost a wicked lullaby, while the orchestra’s poised chords hark back to the formality of Don Giovanni. Yet there are telltale modern touches – tart harmonies, unexpected rhythmic pauses – that let us know the 20th-century puppet-master is at work. Stravinsky, ever the chameleon, managed to capture the spirit of Mozartian opera, filtered through his modernist sensibility, all while adapting to a new life in America. Thus even in this devilish aria, one senses a composer revitalized by his transplant to American soil, blending old and new worlds together.

Lukas Foss (1922–2009)

Lukas Foss represents another immigrant musician who profoundly shaped American music – not only as a composer, but equally as a conductor, pianist, and catalyst for new music. Born Lukas Fuchs to a Jewish family in Berlin, he experienced the rise of Nazi terror as a boy. In 1933, when Foss was 11, his parents swiftly emigrated from Germany to Paris to escape the persecution of Jews after Hitler came to power. Foss spent four years in Paris studying piano and composition, then in 1937 the family resettled in the United States. At 15, young Lukas continued his studies at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia, training with famed teachers (Isabelle Vengerova for piano, Rosario Scalero and Randall Thompson for composition, Fritz Reiner for conducting). America became his permanent home and creative proving ground. Foss quickly absorbed American musical currents; as he later quipped, “I fell in love with America because of people like Aaron [Copland]”. By age 22 he had composed an acclaimed oratorio (The Prairie, premiered 1944) and was hailed as one of the brightest new talents. Aaron Copland himself praised Foss’s works as “among the most original and stimulating in American music.” Indeed, over the next decades Foss built a remarkable career. He became, as one chronicle puts it, “universally regarded not only as one of America’s leading 20th-century composers but also as one of the major forces on the American music scene.” As a composer, Foss was strikingly versatile – “eclectic” in the best sense. His pieces ranged from neoclassical ballets to aleatoric (chance) experiments, from folk-infused choral works to minimalist sketches, always with his own imprint. As a conductor, he led the Buffalo Philharmonic and Brooklyn Philharmonia, championing contemporary composers and inventive programs, and he served as an influential music educator and advocate. A true American maverick, Foss relished not having a single “box” to fit into. He became a U.S. citizen and spent over 70 years here, contributing at every level to America’s musical vitality.

One of Foss’s most charming creations is the opera Griffelkin (1955), a “children’s opera” he wrote on commission for NBC Television. Griffelkin – about a little devil boy who is sent to Earth for a day of mischief – allowed Foss to exercise his playful, accessible side (while still incorporating sophisticated music). The excerpt “Good morning, good gracious, you look like the devil” comes from Act II of Griffelkin. In the opera’s story, this line is exclaimed by a character named the Letterbox (a talking mailbox) when the young devil Griffelkin reappears looking disheveled after a night of adventures. Foss’s score here is bright, witty, and rhythmically spry – a sprightly allegro number that would not be out of place in a Broadway musical. The phrase “you look like the devil” is, of course, an innocent idiom in English, but in context it’s a pun (the character literally is a devil!). Foss has fun with such wordplay. The music bounces with syncopation and jazzy flair, reflecting that by 1955 Foss was as attuned to American popular sounds as to European classical traditions. In this short scene, woodwinds scamper and the melody leaps energetically as the Letterbox greets Griffelkin. The piece shows Foss’s knack for writing modern yet approachable music – it’s tonal and tuneful, yet full of clever touches and quick changes of meter that keep performers on their toes. When it premiered on national television, Griffelkin delighted audiences of all ages, and it marked an effort to bring contemporary opera to a broad public. For Foss, who as a teen had idolized Copland’s populist works, this opera was a natural extension of his belief that new music could engage and entertain. “Good morning, good gracious…” stands as a lighthearted gem in Foss’s output. And in the context of tonight’s theme, it also symbolizes the mischievous joy immigrants can bring to their adopted culture. Who better than a one-time wunderkind refugee to pen the adventures of a curious little devil discovering the human world? Foss’s journey – from fleeing Nazi oppression to becoming an enfant terrible (and later a beloved elder) of American music – comes full circle in such a piece, which revels in the freedom and humor of a life made possible in America.

André Previn (1929–2019)

Few musicians have worn as many hats in American music as André Previn, who, over the course of a lifetime, excelled as a composer, conductor, and pianist in both popular and classical domains. Born in Berlin in 1929 as Andreas Priwin, Previn was the son of a distinguished Jewish lawyer. When he was nine, the Previn family fled Nazi Germany in the aftermath of Kristallnacht. In 1938 they escaped to Paris, and by 1939 they had made their way to the United States, eventually settling in Los Angeles. André grew up in L.A., soaking in the golden age of Hollywood. A precocious talent, he started working at MGM as a teenager, arranging and composing for films. He became an American citizen at 14 and graduated from Beverly Hills High School in 1946. Previn’s first act was in Tinseltown: through the 1950s he scored and adapted music for dozens of movies, earning four Academy Awards by the age of 35. Simultaneously, he indulged his love of jazz, performing as a jazz pianist and even bridging into popular recordings with stars like Dinah Shore and Doris Day. In the 1960s Previn reinvented himself yet again, turning to the classical concert world. He became principal conductor of the Houston Symphony, then the London Symphony (1968–79), and later led the Pittsburgh Symphony and Los Angeles Philharmonic in the 1980s. As an interpreter, Previn was admired for bringing a songful, rhythmic vitality to the orchestra – perhaps a legacy of his Hollywood and jazz days. He championed American composers and often performed his own concert works. By the 1990s, composing returned to the forefront for Previn as he wrote a series of concerti, chamber pieces, and stage works. Throughout these varied phases, a through-line was Previn’s fluency across genres. A colleague noted, “Mr. Previn bridged the gap between classical music and Hollywood in a way no one else did.” In doing so, he attracted new audiences to classical music and proved that serious music could be welcoming. Previn’s extraordinary career – from refugee child to Hollywood prodigy to maestro – stands as a testament to the opportunities America afforded immigrant artists, and the rich hybridity that can result.

A crowning achievement of Previn’s late career was his first opera, A Streetcar Named Desire, premiered in 1998 by San Francisco Opera. Based on Tennessee Williams’s famous American play, Streetcar combined Previn’s dramatic instincts (honed in film) with his classical craft. This program features two arias from Streetcar, pieces that vividly convey character and emotion through Previn’s music. “I Want Magic!” is the best-known aria from the opera – a tour-de-force for the soprano portraying Blanche DuBois. Occurring in Act II, this scene is drawn from Blanche’s climactic monologue in the play, in which she rejects the harshness of reality in favor of beautiful illusion. Previn sets Blanche’s plea for magic as a soaring, Puccini-esque soliloquy.  The aria begins quietly and pensively, with shimmering strings supporting Blanche’s nostalgic recollections of old romance, then builds to a passionate outburst as she enumerates her desires: “I want magic! Yes, yes, magic!” Previn’s harmonic language here is lushly tonal, even neo-Romantic, befitting the emotionally charged moment. Those who know Previn’s film scores might even hear a kinship with classic Hollywood melodrama underscoring – except now the singer’s voice takes center stage. By writing such an unabashedly expressive aria, Previn showed that he dared to embrace the grand opera tradition on its own terms. Soprano Renée Fleming, who originated Blanche’s role, noted that few modern composers have “the courage to set such an iconic play,” but Previn’s background in Hollywood gave him the storytelling instincts to make it work. Hearing “I Want Magic!” in concert, one can appreciate its standalone impact as a statement of longing and vulnerability.

The second aria, “I’m Not a Boy,” provides a foil to Blanche’s plea. It is sung by the character Mitch, a kind-hearted but awkward suitor to Blanche, in Act II of the opera. In this scene (drawn from Williams’s text), Mitch responds to Blanche’s teasing by asserting his maturity: “I’m not a boy,” he says – meaning he’s a grown man ready for a serious relationship. Previn gives Mitch (a tenor role) a gentle, introspective aria of his own. The music is warm and lyrical, with a hint of American popular song in its genial lilt. “I’m Not a Boy” endears us to Mitch’s character and heightens the poignancy of the story – for we sense his hope will soon be dashed by Blanche’s tragic fate. In Previn’s hands, the aria feels like an homage to the great American tradition of the musical theater “I am” song, where a character reveals their heart.

Together, these two Streetcar arias display Previn’s consummate theatrical flair. He once said that in writing the opera, he was driven by the drama of Williams’s story above all. Decades of scoring films taught him how to shape musical timing to human emotion – a skill fully evident in Streetcar’s score. By bringing his multifaceted background to the opera stage, Previn created a work that feels both freshly modern and rooted in the timeless American story.

Aleksandra Vrebalov (b. 1970)

Representing the youngest generation on this program, Aleksandra Vrebalov illustrates how America continues to attract and inspire composers from across the world. Vrebalov was born in the former Yugoslavia (in what is now Serbia) and came of age amid the turmoil of the Balkan wars in the 1990s. In 1995, in her mid-20s, she moved to the United States to pursue advanced studies in composition. Settling first in California, she studied at the San Francisco Conservatory and later earned a doctorate at the University of Michigan. Like many from Yugoslavia’s “last generation,” Vrebalov sought in the U.S. not only education but also a refuge from the conflict and instability back home. She has since made New York City and Novi Sad (Serbia) her two bases, embodying a dual identity as Serbian-American. Over nearly three decades in the U.S., Vrebalov has composed an impressive body of over 100 works, ranging from string quartets to operas, from ballet scores to multimedia installations. Her music is striking for its integration of disparate elements: Orthodox church chants, folk songs from the Balkans, avant-garde techniques, ambient sounds, even rock influences. Critics have noted a spiritual and ritualistic quality in much of her work – likely a reflection of witnessing both the devastation of war and the resilience of culture. Vrebalov often collaborates with groups like the Kronos Quartet, who have championed her pieces addressing themes of memory, war, and hope. She has also engaged in projects with refugees and musically underserved communities, exemplifying her belief in music’s social role. In 2023, Vrebalov was awarded the University of Louisville’s prestigious Grawemeyer Award for Music Composition, confirming her status as a major contemporary composer. Having become a U.S. citizen in 2015, she stands as another example of an artist whose creative voice was nurtured and amplified by the American milieu.

Tonight’s program features “Here we are. Home of the Commander.” This aria is from Vrebalov’s opera The Knock (libretto by Deborah Brevoort), which premiered in film format in 2021 through the Glimmerglass Festival, and on stage in 2023 at Cincinnati Opera. The Knock is a one-act opera about a group of American military wives awaiting news of their husbands who are on deployment in the Iraq War. Vrebalov, though not American by birth, approaches this very American story – one of duty, sacrifice, and community – with great empathy and insight. The opera’s scenario takes place at the home of the base Commanding Officer’s Wife (the “C.O.W.”) at Fort Carson, Colorado. When communications from the battlefield are cut off (a “blackout”), protocol dictates that the wives gather at the C.O.’s residence to support each other until news comes. In this scene, Lieutenant Gonzalez has been sent to deliver the news to one of the wives that her husband has been killed.  This is the first time that he has had to deliver a death notification, which, in the military, is referred to as “The Knock.”