was born in Cleveland on

May 15, 1941. He graduated magna cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa from Harvard College in 1963, where he studied compo­ sition with Robert Moevs and Randall Thompson. Since 1966, Wilson has been on the faculty of Vassar College, where he is the Mary Conover Mellon Professor of Music there and he has served three times as chairman of the Department of Music.

In 2004, Richard Wilson received an Academy Award in Music from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, from which he previously received the Walter Hinrichsen Award. Other recent honors include: the Stoeger Prize; a Guggenheim Fellowship; the Cleveland Arts Prize; and commissions from the Koussevitzky, Fromm, and Naumburg Foundations, the Library of Congress, Chamber Music America, and the San Francisco Symphony.

“He is possessed of a hard­won idiom that has grown and developed over the years into a prob­ ing blend of wit, classics form, modern harmony, and impressionistic color.”

—Adam Baer, The New York Sun

“Wilson is a splendidly talented and highly accomplished composer whose music rewards seeking out.”

—David Cleary, 21st Century

Mozart composed his first symphony by the age of ten; Mendelssohn, by eleven; Saint­ Saëns, by fifteen. Spending the year 1983­ 84 in London away from teaching responsi­ bilities, I had ample opportunity to reflect upon these depressing statistics. I would walk along the Thames, or Regent's Canal and I would think, is it too late? Shall I jump? Then the radiant example of Zoltan Kodaly came to mind: he completed his first and only symphony at age seventy­ nine. That's more like it! I set to work.

My Symphony No. 1 exhibits four move­ ments. But it differs in one important respect from the traditional model: its first movement is an introductory, somewhat oblique mood­setting piece—not the assertive center of gravity that one might expect. The second movement is in tone and design a scherzo. The third, an expres­ sive slow movmenet, features a choir of trombones playing in their upper register. The finale, motoric and directional, pro­ vides some further suggestions of the scherzando manner.

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Evelyn Waugh began one of his novels with a chapter entitled, "Portrait of the Artist in Middle Age." My Symphony No. 2 could be thought of as "Portrait of the Composer Straining to Appear Still Young." Despite the writer's cramp, eyestrain, a sore back, loss of memory, and hair that is falling out, I attempt to project a balletic litheness, a rush of energy, a headstrong recklessness. It will be noticed that none of the symphony's three movements is a "slow movement": no contemplation of mortality or bucolic serenity here. Admittedly, traces of the tra­ ditional adagio may be found articulating the first movement and framing the second. But these passages tend to be overshad­ owed by extended areas of rapid activity. Restlessness and anxiety abound. As in the Waugh novel, insomnia may be a latent theme.

The causes of all this agitation are perhaps not for me to identify. About the musical materials themselves I can say that the aug­ mented triad—the least stable of the four types of triads—seems fundamental to the harmony. The rhythm, on the other hand, seems more stable, regular and motoric than in some of my music. As to the style in general, the work is not minimalist, neo tonal, neo­romantic, nor is it neo­eclectic. It may be neo­neo­classical—I am not sure what that is, but the term is appealing.

“Poised all the times between a more abstract, chromatic harmonic language, and a rhythmic directness which simplifies its speech, the Symphony No. 1 will not commit itself to either tonality or atonality, but teases the listener throughout with its indecision. Texturally, the result is enticing. A flurry of an ascending scale, fine skeins of string­writing pitted in scattered repartee against the brass, trills and tremolan­ dos which dissolve into thin air, and whirling moto perpetuos powdered with percussion keep the ear alert.”

—Hillary Finch, The London Times

SYMPHONIES

SYMPHONIES

“Mr. Wilson's language is direct, intense and often angular, and it gives the impression of tonality even though it resolutely avoids settling on a tonal center. its other characteristic is its incessant motion. In [Symphony No. 2], themes move quickly between string, wind, brass and percussion groups, creating a sense of cohesive discourse.”

—Allen Kozinn, The New York Times

Richard Wilson

Given the extraordinary array of already­ existing masterpieces in the genre, it is hard to think of a more intimidating assignment than to write a violin concerto. I have been haunted by a long lost of favorites: several by Bach, several by Mozart, the Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Schumann, Brahms, Tchaikovsky, Dvorak, Bartok, Berg, two by Prokoviev, and­ultimately­­the Stravinsky. What have these masters left unsaid, unbowed, and unsung?

I have chosen the format of three connected movements the last of which, a moto per­ petuo, shows the soloist finally assuming a dominant role, Until this assertion of authority, with the exception of a few cadenza­like passages, the violin shares in the discourse, sometimes leading, some­ times following, after the fashion of cham­ ber music. This plan, by which the solo gains in confidence and assertiveness, has a two­fold purpose: to give a sense of organ­ ic growth to that part and to insure suffi­ cient contrast between the outer move­ ments. The middle movement is perhaps the most unusual of the three in its use of tuneable tom­tomes and certain aleatoric devices that cause the tempo to be tem­ porarily suspended.

By coloring the string orchestra with oboes, horns and drums, and omitting flutes, clar­ inets, bassoons and brasses, I hoped to arrive at a distinctive character in the accompaniment to support and complement the plaintive, rhapsodic, somewhat hebraic manner of much of the solo part.

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Though a Beethoven fan, I have always hated his Triple Concerto. Now having written my own, I have re­listened to his and found that it has improved considerably since my last hearing of it. All those scales and arpeggios that I used to find aimless now make a certain sense; and the anony­ mous harmonic changes are suddenly endearing. But there is still only one mem­ orable theme—luckily in the last move­ ment. The improvement in my opinion of his piece is counter­balanced by a deterio­ ration in confidence in my own effort. Was it wise for me to replace his piano/violin/cello solo group with horn/bass­clarinet/marimba? Will those instruments spring forth like The Three Musketeers? Or resemble instead The Three Stooges. The Three Tenors? Or Three Blind Mice. The Trinity? Or The Three Bears.

I chose this combination of soloists because I thought they would blend well, because I especially admired the playing of three members of the American Symphony Orchestra specializing in these intruments, and because—to my knowledge—no com­ poser had previously thought to feature them in combination. As a witty friend— trying to be helpful—said, "I climbed the mountain because it wasn't there." What is that supposed to mean?

Beethoven's work falls into the Sinfonia Concertante tradition. He must have loved­ ­who doesn't—Mozart's two contributions to that genre (assuming that Mozart did write the one for winds). And prior to that there are the Brandenburg Concertos, the second of which is just about the first piece of classical music that I fell in love with. It of course features four solo instruments— violin, flute, oboe and trumpet—represent­ ing different timbral worlds: string, wind without reed, wind with double reed, and brass. Because of its brilliant high register,

the trumpet always emerges as the heroic member of that featured quartet.

One generally thinks of the concerto as a heroic genre. My soloists are not, however, heros in the gladiator mold. I think of them rather as underprivileged but greatly accomplished individuals finally given a chance to assert themselves. Of course the horn has numerous concertos already writ­ ten for it—think of Mozart and Strauss, to say nothing of Knussen and Lieberson— but it is usually treated more gingerly than I have done. In my piece, the athletic capaci­ ties of marimba and bass clarinet prod the horn into behaving more dangerously than is usual. I'd like to think that no one of my three soloists upstages the others.

In the daily music reviews one reads that new music intended to assault the ears is a refreshing change from cloying efforts to please. (Not so long ago, listener­friendly music was deemed a refreshing change from the sea of impenetrable serialism.) I find that such considerations mean very lit­ tle to me. I write music that I want to hear and hope to like. If I do like it, there is a chance that others with the same predispo­ sition to Western classical music will also like it. But if those listeners happen to hate Wozzeck, are bored by Stravinsky's Symphony in Three Movements, and are baffled by Carter's Concerto for Orchestra, then they probably won't love my piece. I hope they will continue to attend my pre­ concert talks anyway. Schoenberg once worried that his tennis partners would shun him if they ever heard his music. Suddenly, I understand his concern. “It moves with quiet consistency and effective­ ness through a harmonically sophisticated world. It has subtlety of color, along with stormi­ er moments, notably at the beginning and end of the third movement. It is, of course, deftly writ­ ten for the unusual group of solo instruments (horn, marimba and bass clarinet) and for the large orchestra behind them. It follows a vener­ able pattern in its own way, being almost a four­ movement symphony with the scherzo in second place. And it ends with a bang.”

—Paul Griffiths, The New York Times

CONCERTO

S CONC

ERTOS

The viola is a somewhat put­upon instu­ ment, being the subject of rude jokes and accusations of inadequacies. I have attempted to lend it my support by writing Music for Solo Viola, Sonata for Viola and Piano and now Peregrinations for viola and orchestra.

During our association of more than twenty years, I have heard Blanca Uribe play—live or on tape—the following concertos: Bach, in D minor, Mozart, in C major (nos. 13 and 21), Beethoven, numbers two through five, the Schumann, Liszt, in E­flat, Brahms, in D minor, Tchaikovsky, in B­flat minor, Stravinsky, the Capriccio and the Concerto with winds, and Ginastera, his first. Without its having been deliberate, I believe that each of these works has influ­ enced my concerto to one extent or another although it would be foolish to try to list all of the ways in which this is true. Among the important relationships are: thematic trans­ formation in the first movement of the Schumann and in my finale; the timbral affinity between clarinet and piano exploit­ ed by Schumann and Liszt and which I favor throughout; bell sounds interacting with the piano, made famous by Liszt, and which figure in my second and third move­ ments; harp figuration taken up by the piano, found especially in Beethoven's Fourth as well as in Schumann, Liszt and Brahms, and which I cannot seem to do without; passages in double octaves, from Tchaikovsky and Brahms, appearing in my first movement; and an extended orchestral exposition upon which the piano later com­ ments, found in all Mozarts, Beethovens, and the Brahms D­minor, which is central to my first movement.

Of course I hope that there is something of me in this work as well. I have written two large—and complex—solo piano works for Ms. Uribe in the past, and I believe that the concerto is an extension of these pieces, which I regarded as explorations of the rich potential of the instrument. I wanted my concerto not to be an orchestral work with piano obbligato—which is how a number of recent concertos strike me—but rather a very pianistic statement set against the orchestra, which always contents itself with a simpler and more direct language.

My work entitled Intimations falls into a genre—piano with orchestra, but not a con­ certo­­that is historically somewhat margin­ alized. With effort, one thinks of Weber’s Concertstück, Schumann’s Introduction and Allegro Appassionato or Strauss’s Burlesque. In the 20th century, there are Falla’s Nights in the Gardens of Spain, Stravinsky’s Movements, and the two other Richard Strauss works, Parergon and Panathenäenzug, that are for left hand alone and virtually never played.

As its title implies, my piece finds the orchestra giving hints and suggestions to the pianist, who counters with his own set of hints and suggestions. In this manner do the two impel each other to action. The scoring is on the light side so that the solo writing can avoid Lisztian bombast and still be heard. In contrast to concerto practice, my soloist is something of an anti­hero: blustering at first, then timid, then silent, then apologetic. He looks to individual instruments of the orchestra for comfort and encouragement; his particular friends include the oboe, bassoon, flute and tim­ pani. Some of his utterances are whimsical, others plaintive.

Brahms mischievously and misleadingly characterized the second movement of his Second Piano Concerto as “a tiny, tiny wisp of a scherzo.”Perhaps I have written the piece that fits that description.

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“[The Rhapsody] was full of sounds of the most marvelous delicacy with wonderful coloring... The second movement is a moving "Threnody." This has remarkable keyboard writing in it.”

—Richard Dyer, The Boston Globe

Dr. Johnson on the idea of a bassoon con­ certo (spurious): "Like a dog's walking on his hind legs it is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all." My reaction when asked to write such a piece was of skepticism. I worried that the bassoon, famous for its ability to blend­­to become a horn, clarinet, oboe or whatever to fill out an instrumental choir­­would fail to project, would fade into the wallpaper, would become the antihero in a traditionally hero­ ic genre. Beyond this chameleonic tenden­ cy, the acoustical complexity of the instru­ ment gives rise to fingering patterns that often impede fluency and inhibit virtuosic display.

Then there is the image problem. Operatic composers since Mozart have labelled the bassoon a buffoon and linked it to prepos­ terous characters and situations on stage. But it is an instrument that I have always loved. It renders rhythms with particular crispness and clarity. Its plaintive, primor­ dial voice speaks and sings of the precari­ ousness of the human condition. I could not resist the chance to help it reach out to a larger audience.

My concerto exhibits three joined move­ ments that are framed by music acting as prelude and postlude. The first two move­ ments are rather fast and possess at least some characteristics of waltz and toccata, respectively. The concluding slow move­ ment is of a lyrical nature.

Throughout, the bassoon displays a capaci­ ty for friendship. Its principal dialogues take place with the English Horn, French Horn, Solo Cello, Bass Clarinet and Contrabassoon. It is most at home among the harp and marimba. It is most threatened by the trumpets and trombone. In the end, of course, it easily withstands their onslaughts to have, so to speak, the last word.

“The recently­composed Bassoon Concerto was a most delightful instrumental work, which pres­ ents the instrument a rare leading role. Wilson’s work is youthful in its spirit and it leaves the lis­ tener basking in its splendor of color.”

—Bruno Schreiber, Kleine Zeitung

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My piece necessarily illustrates yet a third meaning of articulation, which is the com­ mon musical use of the word to denote how notes are connected­­whether legato or staccato, tenuto or pizzicato, glottal or smooth. Each musical instrument has its individual style of articulation. In a work for full orchestra, the many contrasts in attack and release are an important part of the musical substance if only because they form the very basis for timbral distinctions. It is also the case that phrasing, so impor­ tant to musical expression, depends on pay­ ing the most careful attention to the various means of articulation.

The subtitles Unrest, Introspection, and Quickening, are intended to convey a sense of the character of each portion of the work as well as to imply a generalized psycho­ logical progression. The extended central movement, which culminates in an oboe solo, engages in an inward sorting out which, by simplification and reduction, strives to define primary musical aims. Through it, the fitful, unsettled opening is transformed to a closing that is confident and life­affirming.

“Articulate it is in its bravura flourishes, its pro­ fusion of ryhthmic cells that rush through the orchestra pell­mell, right from the sliding strings in the first movement. The sheer freedom of Wilson’s harmonic eclecticism, with its 12­tone elements grounded in diatonicism, is refreshing. And the manner in which he concerns himself with the fundamental connective tissues of music reveals itself in profound craftsmanship.”

—Allan Ulrich, San Francisco Examiner

Agitations, composed in 1994, is a Mendelssohnian scherzo that goes haywire. Its thematic material is of quirky origin. My beleaguered Golden Retriever, Tracy, died ten years before this orchestral work was written. She had sustained me through Nixon,Watergate, and early Reagan. Patiently, she assumed the roles of Martha Mitchell, Dita Beard, E. Howard Hunt, J. Edgar Hoover and a string of other culprits as I issued a steady stream of accusations and beratings. She was the ideal therapist. In her sweet memory, I have translated some of my relatively supportive sayings to her into phrases that comprise the musical material of this work. The bulk of these are private and incomprehensible to others; one example­­delivered by cellos and bassoons a few minutes into the piece­­ will suffice: "Is this doggy some kind of a goat?"

I hasten to add that this is not program music but rather an abstract piece whose zoological aspects remain­­I hope­­well hidden.

The second idea, which introduces the first clear pulse, takes on the character of a pro­ cessional in which the lower brasses assume principal importance. This second idea is transformed in the coda into a some­ what faster march that, because of its asym­ metrical meter, seems here and there to teeter. Well before this, the first idea has recurred as a sort of reprise, its sequence of events rearranged, individual woodwind solos extended and weighted, and its open­ ing bell considerably elaborated upon.

I do not know whether American school children still cut out paper silhouettes of famous historical figures. We did in my youth, of Jefferson and Lincoln, in black against an orange background. I wasn't very good at it. My Lincolns and Jeffersons, and Washingtons and Franklins, all looked like Brahms­­which I claimed was intentional. No one was well enough informed to dispute me.

In 1988 I composed an orchestral work to serve as a companion piece for the Brahms D­minor Piano Concerto. In this brief orchestral prelude I attempted­­once again­ ­a silhouette. Delineated in sound rather than on paper, it was meant to convey a broad shape rather than the detailed work­ ing out of ideas. At several points during the piece, one instrument outlines another's more elaborate figure. This is true of trom­ bone and timpani, bassoon and timpani, violins and a woodwind pair, violins and flute, violins and trumpet etc. In fact, this reducing or simplifying of a melody occurs often enough to be a basic motif, perhaps a musical equivalent of silhouetting.

In 2003, I added a celebratory extension to the existent work to mark the fortieth anniversary of the American Symphony Orchestra. Thus, Silhouette with Revelry.

FULL FULL

ORCHESTRA

ORCH

ESTRA

The dictionary instructs us that an articu­ lated locomotive is one that has two or three connected sections. It is in this sense that I first mean the title of my work, for the piece falls into three sections that are played with only a brief pause between. (These pauses are "live" rather than "dead": not a time for coughers to cough, critics to scribble, or latecomers to be seated.) But other meanings should not be ruled out: "Making clear and distinct," "expressed, formulated or presented with clarity," or "having distinct areas organized into a coherent or meaningful whole" are, it seems to me, pertinent and laudable goals for a composer.

I tried in this piece to set in contrast two musical ideas or textures. The first consists of atmospheric, sustained sonorities against which abrupt punctuations sound at irregular intervals of time. Generally the strings sustain and the winds and brasses attempt to interrupt.

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It was during a prolonged losing streak of the New York Yankees that, musing on the subject of failure, I decided to write an opera about Æthelred the Unready. The libretto I wrote is mainly whimsical. But it does draw on history, presenting three char­ acters who actually existed:

Æthelred the Second lived from about 965 until 1016. He was king of England from 978 until 1016. Æthelred acquired the epi­ thet “the unrede” meaning “the ill­coun­ seled.” In time this was corrupted to “the unready” despite the different meaning. He was indeed cursed at his baptism by Dunstan, the Archbishop of Canterbury, for defiling the font. The words of Dunstan's curse, quoted in the opera, are drawn from the chronicles of William of Malmesbury.

Emma married Æthelred in 1002. She was the sister of Richard II, duke of Normandy

William of Malmesbury lived from about 1096 until 1143. His great work entitled Gesta regum Anglorum (The Deeds of the English Kings) is a history of England from 449 to 1127. Much of the text of William's part in the opera is taken directly from this chronicle.

Reference is made to an anti­Æthelred poem containing the expression, "with knees unsteady." This is "An Archaic Jingle"”by Christopher Logue, from his collection Abecedary.

Scene One—"Upping the Epithet" The periodic Tribunal of Historical Revision is soon to take place. Prodded by his nagging wife Emma, Æthelred the Unready agrees to approach Clio, the pow­ erful Muse of History, in hopes of improv­ ing his reputation upon the 1,000th anniver­ sary of his death.

Scene Six—"The Great Encounter"

Æthelred begins his interview with Clio in a bold and convincing manner; the trance is working. Clio seems impressed. The Assistant interrupts and causes Æthelred to mention—by accident—the forbidden word. Æthelred goes to pieces. His speech comes out wrong, full of spoonerisms and incoherent slips. Clio is bewildered. She dismisses him as a fraud.

Scene Seven—"Aftermath"

Æthelred encounters Emma, who scorns him; William, who mistakes him for some other English king and drifts off telling of obscure battles; and The Publicist, who pro­ poses a new and more outlandish strategy. Æthelred goes off alone to ponder his fate. To console himself, he sings an ancient love song. The Hypnotist appears and, finding him depressed, puts Æthelred to sleep. While he sleeps, Emma, Clio, William, and The Publicist, as a chorus, sing fatuous warnings against sloth and indolence. while advocating bold and bloody actions. Æthelred, assertive at last, sends each of them packing. Finally at peace, in a dream state, he picks up a trumpet and plays a wistful solo

OPERA OPERA

“[Æthelred] was given before an audience that included American music's current Grand Old Man, Elliott Carter, whose smile at Aethelred's final soliloquy, "I've spared the world so much travail," was particularly sweet.” —Barrymore Scherer, The Wall Street Journal

“[Æthelred] offers both a scenario (a Monty Pythonesque lampoon of medieval society) and score (an atonal yet stylistically rich idiom) that proved engaging and often highly entertaining.”

—Brian Wise, American Record Guide

“A work of whimsy and even an occasional belly laugh, though there are also genuinely touching moments in it to remind us of the eternal human need for self­esteem... For any follower of con­ temporary music theater, who enjoys a little fun with history, this CD is joyously recommended.”

—Barry Cohen, New Music Connisseur

Although Emma has still grander aspira­ tions (“Æthelred the Ardent” or “Æthelred the Urgent”), he would be content merely to have his epithet changed to “Æthelred the Adequate.” Worrying that her husband will make a mess of his appeal, Emma resolves to consult The Publicist for advice. After she leaves, Æthelred is haunted by his childhood disgrace, his “baptismal embar­ rassment,” which prompted him to be cursed by the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Scene Two—"The Forgetful Muse"

Clio is reminded of the upcoming Tribunal by The Assistant, who draws her attention to a request by an obscure Saxon king. Clio has not heard of Æthelred the Unready and plans to ask her friend, the chronicler William of Malmesbury, about him. William appears and, to Clio's delight, launches into a recital of the exploits of his favorite Saxons. When he is finished, Clio has forgotten the name she wished to ask him about.

Scene Three—"Publicist to the Rescue"

Emma explains her problems to The Publicist, who advises her to approach William of Malmesbury—whose influence on Clio is known to all. He also recom­ mends obtaining the aid of The Hypnotist, who can embolden Æthelred and make him a more effective advocate for his cause.

Scenes Four and Five (simultaneous)— "Emma & Dithering William vs. Our Hero at the Hypnotist"

Emma attempts to ingratiate herself with William of Malmesbury, who again gets carried away on the subject of Saxon kings. She can scarcely get his attention. Meanwhile, The Hypnotist is putting Æthelred into a trance. He provides him with three mystic words which, when used together in a sentence, make him bold and decisive. But this effect will be thwarted should he speak the forbidden word. Emma gives up on William, departs, and Clio appears. She has remembered Æthelred's name. It prompts only the dimmest of William's recollections.

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At one of the many Thanksgiving dinners we attended together, Charles Botstein attempted to help me understand the cause of the ringing I was then experiencing in my ears. After his extended and to­me impenetrable explanation, he admitted, with a wry smile, that he was now hearing the ringing in his ears too. He was a great doctor; but he could also be very funny. I met him first in the fall of 1960. I was then pretending to be a pre­medical student, a charade he saw through immediately as he quizzed me on various points of anatomy. He should not be blamed for my having gone into music, but he may be thanked for coaxing me out of medicine.

During the past twenty years I have seen him regularly and with great pleasure at the many concerts and other events at Bard and in New York. He seemed to grow more and more sage­­but no less formidable. He died on May 2, 1994.

Charles Botstein was a Polish­speaking Jew raised in Lodz. In his memory I have made a setting of four poems translated from the Polish by Czeslaw Milosz. Three are by Leopold Staff (1878­1957)­­ ”Foundations”, The Bridge”, and “Three Towns”­­and the fourth is by Mieczyslaw Jastrun (1903­)­­”Beyond Time.” The set­ tings are imbedded in a continuous orches­ tral movement. They are for mezzo­sopra­ no soloist. The title, Pamietam (“I remem­ ber”) was chosen by Charles’ widow, Anne, herself a distinguished physician.

V VOICE OICE AND AND

O ORCHESTRA RCHESTRA

In 1996 I set to music five poems by pre­ Elizabethan poet John Skelton (c.1460­ 1529). These were given their premiere performance at Vassar College by Karen Holvik, soprano, and Brian Suits, piano on November 24, 1996. On the occassion of the retirement from Vassar of Luis Garcia­ Renart, a friend and colleague for more than thirty­five years, I orchestrated the first four songs for his wife, Karen.

C CHILDREN

HILDREN ’ ’S S

CONCERT CONCERT

A Child’s London originally consisted of six short piano pieces composed during my family?s sabbatical year in London (1983­ 84) for my daugher Katherine, then aged 8, who was having piano lessons with our neighbor, Ricci Horenstein. It was at Ms. Horenstein?s suggestion that I wrote a suite of pieces suitable for Katherine’s use.

In January, 1997, during another visit to London, I expanded the first and last of the pieces, added a prelude and a seventh piece (Tact and Diplomacy), constructed a narra­ tive to create a relationship among the pieces, and then orchestrated the results.

Luis Garcia­Renart played the premiere of my Music for Violin and Cello in 1969. He has remained a friend and colleague ever since.

“London Bus”

Little Katherine was lost. She found London very confusing. Left in the lurch by her absent­minded father, she stumbled along a crowded road when a great, reddouble­decker bus appeared and stopped. Katherine reached into her pocket and pulled out some coins. She decided to take the plunge. She boarded the bus.

“Primrose Hill Park”

As the bus advanced along Prince Albert Road there was suddenly a loud report. A tire had exploded. The bus tipped precariously to one side. Poor Katherine. She jumped off and hurried down the road, which ran along Primrose Hill.

“On Regents Canal”

What Katherine had always wanted was to ride one of the paddle boats on Regent’s Canal. Was this to be her great chance? She summoned up all her courage and spoke to the boatman. “Even though I am only eight, I am precocious and intrepid. May I ride a boat all by myself?” The boatman was dubious­­but he agreed.

“Mrs. Orang­Outang”

Katherine piloted the paddle boat with a wonderful sureness of touch. It glided gently along the canal safely clear of the other boats. As she came along side the London Zoo, she felt a great desire to stop and visit the Orang­outang cage. She had once met Mrs. Orang­outang through a mutual friend of her father’s. She thought it would be fun to see her again and catch up on the family.

“Costumes at the Victoria and Albert”

Mrs. Orang­outang was vexed. An exhibit of costumes at the Victoria and Albert Museum, recently put on display, had falsely represented certain of her relatives as apes and gorillas. She was considering taking legal action. Katherine advised quiet negotiations. She would visit the exhibition herself and see what could be done. She then hailed a taxi and rode to South Kensington.

“Tact and Diplomacy”

The museum director was initially cranky and intractable. But Katherine applied her wizardly charm and he became unexpect­ edly amenable.

“Roundabout”

He agreed to alter the exhibition to suit Mrs. Orang­outang wishes. Feeling that her diplomacy had paid off, Katherine rewarded herself with a visit to Battersea Amusement Park where she whiled away the evening riding the Merry Go Round.

C CHAMBER HAMBER

ORCHESTRA

ORCH

ESTRA

These names are largely self­evident. However the seventh—”Prelude”—may appear to be out of order. This title arises out of the tribute that movement pays to the opening of Tristan and Isolde rather than its function within the set.

For the May 13, 2001 performance in Merkin Hall, New York City, I completely re­scored the opera, reducing it from clas­ sical­sized orchestra to an ensemble of six players, and the seventh scene extensively re­written. .

Selected Discography:

Symphony No. 1 New Zealand Symphony: James

Sedares, conductor Koch 3­7483­2 HI

Piano Concerto Blanca Uribe, piano; Pro Arte

Chamber Orchestra of Boston: Leon Botstein, conductor

CRI CD 618

Bassoon Concerto Robert Wagner, bassoon; ProArte

Chamber Orchestra of Boston: Leon Botstein, conductor

CRI CD 575

Suite for Small Orchestra Pro Arte Chamber Orchestra of Boston: Leon Botstein, conductor

CRI CD 575

Æthelred the Unready (chamber version)

Æthelred Players: Richard Wilson, conductor

Albany Troy 512

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In 1979 I composed a set of eight short pieces for piano inspired by the curative and magical properties of herbs. Intended asteaching material for moderately advanced—but youthful—piano students, this work was published under the title Sour Flowers.

In the summer of 1988, I scored this music for the same orchestration as my bassoon concerto. I have dropped the herbal subti­ tles and inscriptions but retained the char­ acter designations present in the original for each movement.

THE COMPLETE WORKS FOR ORCHESTRA BY RICHARD WILSON:

ÆTHELRED THE UNREADY: AN OPERA IN ONE ACT (1994) 75:00 2 S, M, 2 T, BAR, B; 2(PIC)­2(EH)­2(A, B CL)­2(CBN); 2­2­0­0; 2 PERC­PF/CEL/HPSD; STR

ÆTHELRED THE UNREADY: AN OPERA IN ONE ACT (CHAMBER VERSION) (2001) 75:00 2 S, M, 2 T, BAR, B; CL, VN, VC, PERC, MARIMBA, PF.

AGITATIONS (1994) 12:00 3(A FL, PIC)­2, EH­2, B CL­3(CBN); 4­2­3­1; TIMP­3 PERC­PF­CEL­HARP; STR

ARTICULATIONS (1991) 30:00 3(PIC, A FL)­3(EH)­3(E FLAT, B CL)­3(CBN); 4­4­3­1; TIMP­PF­CEL­HP; STR

BASSOON CONCERTO (1983) 19:30 BN SOLO; 1(PIC)­1(EH)­1(B CL)­0­CBN; 2­2­1­0; MAR­HP; STR

FOUR LOVE SONGS FOR SOPRANO AND ORCHESTRA (2004) 11:00 SOPRANO; 2­2­2­2; 2­0­0­0; STR

INITIATION (1970) 13:00 3(PIC)­3(EH)­3(E FLAT)­3(CBN); 4­3­3­1; TIMP­PERC­PF; STR

INTIMATIONS FOR PIANO AND ORCHESTRA (1999) 10:00 PF SOLO; 2­2­2­2; 2­2­0­0; TIMP­PERC; STR

PAMIETAM FOR MEZZO SOPRANO AND ORCHESTRA (1995) 20:00 SOLO MEZZO; 2(PIC,A FL)­2(EH)­2(B CL)­2(CBN); 2­2­0­0; TIMP­3 PERC; STR

PEREGRINATIONS FOR VIOLA AND ORCHESTRA (2003) 14:00 VA SOLO; 2­2(EH)­2(B CL)­2(CBN); 2­2­0­0; TIMP­2 PERC­HP; STR

PIANO CONCERTO (1991) 30:00 PIANO SOLO; 2­2(EH)­2(B CL)­2(CBN); 2­2­0­0; TIMP­2 PERC­HP; STR

SILHOUETTE WITH REVELRY (2003) 13:00 2­2­2­2; 4­2­3­0; TIMP; STR

SUITE FOR SMALL ORCHESTRA (1988) 12:30 1(PIC)­1(EH)­1(B CL)­0­CBN; 2­2­1­0; MAR­HP; STR

SYMPHONY NO. 1 (1984) 26:00 3(PIC)­2,EH­2,B CL­2,CBN;4­2­3­1; HP­TIMP­3 PERC; STR

SYMPHONY NO. 2 (1986) 28:00 2(PIC)­2­2­2; 4­2­0­0; TIMP, PERC; STR

TRIPLE CONCERTO (1994) 30:00 HN, B CL, MAR SOLI; 3(PIC)­3(EH)­3(E­FLAT, A)­3; 4­3­3­1; TIMP­4 PERC; STR

VIOLIN CONCERTO (1979) 15:00 VIOLIN SOLO; 2(PIC)­2­2­2; 4­2­0­0; TIMP, PERC; STR

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