For the record it should be mentioned that last spring two of my symphonies were played in New York within a fortnight of each other. Lenny Bernstein conducted gorgeously the world premiere of the Third Symphony with his Philharmonic in April. It was the best performance of anything I've ever had anywhere: from that score of two million flytracks Lenny brought forth sounds I'd not known I'd placed there. Jay Harrison later wrote that the piece was all about being young and loving it; actually it was composed as a five-movement lament for Claude. The juxtaposition of interpretations is less ironic than the fact that the first rehearsal (which for a performance of such importance is a composer's most precious moment) coincided precisely with my appointment for an interview with Unemployment Insurance renewal. When I explained this incomprehensible situation to the interviewer (couldn't we hurry a little?) his answer was Huh! Of such is the stuff of our nation. So I left, met Shirley, and we rushed through the afternoon to Carnegie Hall where some two hundred of what I took to be Girl Scouts were assembled with special passes to attend the rehearsal. Fir their delectation Lenny, upon reaching the silent 2/4 measure on page 27, let loose a Cossack-type shriek which impelled the whole orchestra into their jazzy quadruple-fortissimo entrance. The Girl Scouts were thrilled, as as was I, and though the yell was not repeated in the performance, it shall of course be incorporated into the final publication. As to the content of the music, so much had altered my outer and inner selves since it was written that I hardly recognized it, much less recalled the conditions under which it was made. On the same program, though, was Bill Russo's new piece whose attractive last movement featured Maynard Ferguson's trumpet which, like Truman Capote's opinions, sometimes reached pitches only dogs can hear, sticking out like a sore thumb and rather sounding like one... << less