Think of a music camp, and you think, first, of Tanglewood, in
the Berkshires. Think of a second one, and you may well think of
the National Music Camp, at Interlochen, Michigan.
Well, they used to call it “the National Music Camp,” for many
decades. Now, apparently, it’s “the Interlochen Arts Camp.” To
have called it the National Music Camp was no boast. Since 1928,
the camp has taught thousands upon thousands of music students,
from coast to coast, and from all over the world, too.
That, of course, is one possible explanation for the name change.
Perhaps the camp fathers didn’t like that “national,” when the
place is so clearly international. (According to Interlochen
literature, campers come from 41 different countries.) It is also
evident that someone didn’t care much for that “Music,” favoring
the broader “Arts.” True, there’s some ballet, some theater, and
even some “creative writing” at Interlochen. But the place is
mainly, gloriously, for music. To stretch the name to “Arts” is a
little like calling a Democratic bill “bipartisan,” simply
because Connie Morella, Chris Shays, and Pete King voted for it.
Interlochen is in northwestern Michigan, just below the pinkie,
if you’re using your hand (as Michiganders habitually do). It is
just south and west of Traverse City, and south of the famed
Leelanau Peninsula, home of the Sleeping Bear National Lakeshore.
The “lochen” that Interlochen is “inter” are Green Lake and Duck
Lake, or Lakes Wahbekaness and Wahbekanetta, to use Indian
language (not that anyone at Interlochen these days would say
“Indian,” without penalty). The camp is now celebrating its
seventy-fifth season. You recall seeing a photo of little Lorin
Maazel, in shorts, leading an orchestra? That was at Interlochen.
In 1962, the Interlochen Arts Academy was established on campus,
the first “independent fine-arts boarding school” in the country.
It is an ideal setting for music-making, and music-learning.
Something like 20,000 kids per summer go about their
rounds—practicing, having lessons, eating, romping, rehearsing,
practicing again—in their uniforms, which are dark blue pants
and a baby-blue button-down shirt (white on Sunday). (There are
other variations too, but a uniform is insisted upon at
Interlochen—same goes for faculty and staff.) The campus is
dotted with practice rooms, from which comes a joyous and
determined cacophony. Some of these rooms are hot cinder blocks,
resembling prison cells. But hardly anyone is unhappy to be
there.
Part of a camper’s education is the constant stream of concerts
that take place on the grounds. Some are by established stars,
who come from the outside; most are from those at the camp
itself, teachers and students. There are orchestra concerts, band
concerts, choral concerts, chamber-music concerts, instrumental
recitals, vocal recitals, master classes, a pops concert or
two—just about every kind of musical presentation there is. This is
an opportunity, rarely repeated in life, to learn vast amounts of
repertory. You may never again hear some of the music you hear at
camp—but it sticks, somehow.
The main concert venues are the Interlochen Bowl, an outdoor
facility, as the name suggests; Kresge Auditorium, a massive
structure, covered with a roof, but open at the sides; and Corson
Auditorium, a proper, winter-friendly concert hall.
On a recent, uncharacteristically hot Sunday afternoon, there
happened to be an organ recital, taking place in a chapel/recital
hall. At the top of the printed program were the words “95th
program of the 75th season.”
The organist was David Dockery, a young man who works in a church
in Detroit, and a graduate of both the camp and the academy. He
gave a neat, appetizing program, beginning with Bach’s Toccata,
Adagio, and Fugue in C Major, BWV 564. It was rather amazing to
hear it played on the organ. How can that be, this being an organ
work and all? Well, there is a famous Busoni transcription of it
for piano, favored by virtuosos for years. Evgeny Kissin, for
example, played it just last season.
Was it well played, by David Dockery? It was adequately played,
but that’s not the point. The point, really, was to absorb
Bach—to commune with Bach again—in that setting. To experience the
healing power of his C major. To be in awe once more.
The organist continued with a piece by Louis Vierne, the French
organ master. This was the “Claire de lune” from Vierne’s Pièces
de fantaisie. It doesn’t bear much relation to Debussy’s adored
“Claire de lune,” except that it makes nice use of thirds. The
most familiar “Pièce de fantaisie” is the “Westminster Carillon,”
found on “organ spectacular” albums and heard at weddings.
Then came Mendelssohn’s Sonata in C Minor, Op. 65, No. 2, an
arresting piece, relatively little known. Its Adagio puts one in
mind of the composer’s famous Songs without Words. Its Allegro
maestoso makes you sit up and pay attention, pulsing with
nobility. The Fuga, of course, is Bachian, a reminder of
Mendelssohn’s great affinity with that master, and of all he did
to revive his music.
Last came a piece by Jehan Alain, who lived only from 1911 to
1940. He was the brother of the renowned organist Marie-Claire
Alain. His “Litanies,” perhaps needless to say, is an intensely
religious work, persistent, suppliant. David Dockery played it
with true sympathy and understanding. The students present may
indeed never hear Alain’s “Litanies” again, or anything else by
that tragic composer: but they should remember it.
So, this was a way to ennoble a Sunday afternoon. And at 45
minutes, the recital was the sort of thing that really hits the
spot. A recital need not be longer than that to be utterly
filling.
At 8 o’clock, there was a concert of the World Youth Symphony
Orchestra, composed of the best of the campers. The program said
“97th program of the 75th season.” Something must have happened
between this and the organ recital.
The concert was held in Kresge Auditorium, which has a motto
emblazoned in huge letters at the back of the stage: “Dedicated
to the Promotion of World Friendship Through the Universal
Language of the Arts.” This is a harmless bit of PC; it may even,
in some sense, be true.
The kids warmed up excitedly, with some brass whooping through
the famous motif from Die Walküre. The large audience was made
up of fellow campers (the bulk of the crowd) and faculty and
staff, along with locals, parents, tourists, and assorted others.
At exactly five minutes to 8, a great shushing came from the
campers. Then, for the next five minutes, there was near-total
silence. At the stroke of 8, the conductor, a Briton named David
Lockington, walked out. Remarkable.
The orchestra struck up the Star-Spangled Banner, as the audience
stood and sang. It carried extra meaning, in wartime. Maestro
Lockington chose to play it in A flat, rather than the customary
B flat, which was perhaps too bad, as the low notes are awfully
low, and not necessarily worth the easier time one has on the
high(ish) E flat, rather than the F.
The orchestra then played Britten’s Sea-Interludes from Peter
Grimes, well. It must be a thrill for each of these players to
be playing with other good players. Each is probably the best in
his home orchestra, or home section; the experience of this sort
of camp is elevating for him.
Then—without an intermission—came the Symphony No. 4 of
Brahms, a work of the fully mature—indeed, the
twilight—Brahms, played by people near the beginning of their musical
lives. The kids played with admirable maturity. Some of the
woodwind players seemed as though they could step right into a
professional orchestra. The first hornist, an excellent player,
boldly flubbed an important entrance—just like the first
hornists in the best orchestras everywhere!
After the final notes, and the rapturous cheering of the campers,
the conductor handed the baton to the concertmaster, in keeping
with an Interlochen tradition. This tradition has the young man
(or woman) leading the orchestra in the Interlochen Theme, which
is a lovely, haunting snatch from Howard Hanson’s Symphony No. 2.
(Hanson was affiliated with the camp.) There is to be no applause
afterward; indeed, as the Theme nears its end, the audience
lights come on, and the stage lights dim. Yet some inevitably
attempt to applaud, and the campers shush them down
viciously—rather spoiling the effect, actually. Better to allow the
smattering of unknowing, sincere applause.
Music in the woods, by the lake, has a long history. Composers
such as Beethoven, Brahms, and Mahler loved it. The countryside,
the forest, the mountains, have always summoned composers and
other musicians, especially in summertime, when some of the best
composers got some of their best work done. One thinks of the
MacDowell Colony here in the U.S. It hasn’t produced much
enduring music lately—but the idea’s nice.
If I may end with a personal memory. It is of the playing of
Dvorák’s “New World” Symphony in the Bowl. It is a warm-cool
summer evening, with the breeze singing through the trees, and
the occasional bird joining in. Beyond the orchestra shell, one
can see the forests, Green Lake—the “New World” itself, being
expressed in that music (though, to be sure, Czechified). It is
one of those perfect moments, perhaps unrecapturable.
And afterward, as the (legitimate) applause swells, a little kid
in front of me—he’s maybe eleven—turns around, points to his
watch, and exclaims, “That was a really long song!”
