For a composer, the world of music is divided into two hemispheres: instrumental music and vocal music. The skills and experiences that prove effective in one of these two hemispheres are generally less valuable in the other.

Most composers seem to choose one of these hemispheres as their dwelling place, occasionally visiting the other.

There is communication between the two hemispheres as, for example, when teachers of instruments tell their students to “make it sing.” Or when choral directors prod choristers to make instrumental effects, such as staccato or legato.

But the two hemispheres are separated chiefly by the presence or absence of words.

Words are the singer’s bane, a challenge of which instrumentalists know nothing. Singers must often struggle with vowels that pinch the voice and with consonants that simply cannot be sung. Try singing an “S” or a “J.” Or a word like “which.” You will quickly see the challenge and understand why listeners often find it difficult to understand a text that is being sung, which is why texts are often printed in concert programs or church bulletins.

Sung words have specific meanings which the singers must respect, express, convey. Blessed are the instrumentalists! — for they make music with no such concerns.

Of course, singers don’t have to sing words. Vocal music can be wordless. A composer can ask singers to intone no other sound than “ahhh” or “oooh.” Think of the vocalises by Rachmaninoff and Villa Lobos or the wordless women’s chorus in Debussy’s Sirènes.

Then there is the Alleluia. Four lovely vowels. An affirmation, yes, but only vaguely meaningful for most folks. What does the word mean? Well, it’s an adaptation into English of the Hebrew phrase “hallalu-ya” which means “praise ye Jehovah."

When I was at Lexington Junior High School in 1962, my 7th grade choir & general music teacher, Roderick Evans, started me composing when, having noticed me messing around on the piano before class began, coaxed me into writing a little Alleluia.

“What’s an Alleluia,” I asked. “It’s a piece of music where the choir sings that one word, ‘Alleluia,’ over and over again and then, at the end, they sing ‘Amen’ and that’s it. When you get home after school, fool around on the piano and, tomorrow, bring me four notes, one for each syllable: Al-le-lu-ia.” I did as he asked. He said my four notes were good and he suggested what should come next. Within a few weeks I had written my first real piece of music (actually, he did most of the work, as I hadn't yet mastered music notation) and Mr. Evans led our choir in the premiere performance in the school's annual spring concert. It was a big deal for me. I’ve been composing music ever since.

Years later, in 2000, I returned to the Alleluia, writing for our Mt. Auburn Presbyterian Church’s chancel choir here in Cincinnati. It’s a two-part canon, a melody sung by the combined sopranos and altos, the combined tenors and basses echoing the melody alwys a measure behind. Our director, my good friend Chris Miller, had the choir stand in a ring around the sanctuary, surrounding the seated congregation, rendering the piece ‘stereophonically.’ ‘Surround-sound’ in church! Very cool.

To hear the Cincinnati Camerata under the direction of Chris Miller singing my Alleluia, click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

Rick Sowash
Cincinnati, OH
Jan. 24, 2016

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Last week, a friend sent me an mp3 recording of the Harvard Choral Fellows singing my “Alleluia.” It’s a lovely performance and below you’ll find links to the recording and to a PDF of the score.

For a composer, the world of music is divided into two hemispheres: instrumental music and vocal music. The skills and experiences that prove effective in one of these two hemispheres are generally less valuable in the other.

There is communication between the two hemispheres as, for example, when instrumentalists are told to “make it sing.” Or when choral directors prod choristers to sing with the precision we expect from instrumentalists: staccatos, accents, legato phrasing, percussive diction.

In one hemisphere, words are of supreme importance; in the other, they hold no sway.

Vocalists struggle to sing vowels that pinch the throat and consonants that are simply un-singable. Try singing a consonant. Choose one, any one. Can’t be done. Well, I guess you could sing a “Z.” Or hum an “M.” But who wants to hear it? Try singing the word “which” as a long note. You will also understand why English-speaking audiences are often unable to understand texts sung in their own language. (Italians, I am told, do not have this problem.) When English is to be sung, it is advisable to print and distribute the text to the attendees.

Words have meanings which singers strive to express. Blessed are the instrumentalists! — for they make music under no such constraints. B flats and F sharps have musical meanings, of course, but they are never ambiguous in the ways words are. Notes, tones, pitches cannot be misunderstood.

Too, let us recall concert-goers like me who “don’t hear so well anymore.”

A train pulls into a station with three elderly Englishmen on board.

One says, “This must be Wembley.”

“I thought it was Thursday.”

“So am I. Let’s get a beer.”

Of course, vocal music can be wordless. Singers may intone only an “ahhh” or an “oooh.” Think of the vocalises by Rachmaninoff and Villa Lobos or the wordless women’s chorus in Debussy’s “Sirènes.” Or the off-stage choir during the storm scene that opens Verdi’s “Otello."

Then there is the Alleluia. Not a text. Four lovely vowels, no ugly consonants. What does the word mean? An affirmation, yes, but only vaguely understood. Can you define the word?

It’s an adaptation into English of the Hebrew phrase, “hallalu-ya,” meaning “praise ye Jehovah.” But you don’t need to know that in order to relish the word. It is an incantation and the reasons to sing the word have everything to do with joyful gratitude, and but little to do with rationality.

When I was a student at Lexington Junior High School in 1962 — that’s Lexington, Ohio — my 7th grade Choir & General Music teacher, Roderick Evans noticed me messing around on the piano before class began. He asked me what I was playing.

“Oh, just some things I made up.”

“You must write an Alleluia for the choir to sing in our spring concert.

“What’s an Alleluia?”

“It’s a piece of music where the choir sings the word ‘Alleluia’ over and over again and then, at the end, they sing ‘Amen.’ When you get home from school, fool around on the piano and, tomorrow, bring me four notes, one for each syllable: Al-le-lu-ia.”

I did what he asked. It took about 45 seconds. He said he liked the four notes I had chosen and he suggested what should come next: four more notes, with the same shape, only a step higher. Then eight more notes in the same mood, after that. Boom, a phrase was born. Then another phrase, as long as the first. Then a third phrase, as long as the first two phrases combined. Boom, a composer was born.

Within a few weeks I had written my first real piece of music (Mr. Evans did most of the work, as I hadn't yet mastered music notation). As promised, our class choir sang it in the spring concert. Mr. Evans told the audience that it was “the world premiere,” a term new to me.

My parents were there. People applauded. It was a big deal.

In the next 50 years I composed 400 pieces of music .

In 2000, I returned to the challenge of writing “an Alleluia,” this time for our Mt. Auburn Presbyterian Church’s chancel choir, here in Cincinnati. It’s a two-part canon: the melody is sung by the women and echoed by the men, a beat later. When our director, my good friend Chris Miller, leads the choir in the singing of this piece, we encircle the seated congregation, alternating male and female singers, rendering the piece in ‘Surround-sound.’

To hear the Harvard Choral Fellows singing my Alleluia under the direction of my friend Carson Cooman, click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

🎶 🎶 🎶 🎶 🎶

There are two hemispheres in the world of music: instrumental music and vocal music. A composer whose skills and experiences are valuable in one of these finds them less so, even useless, in the other.

“...those that are good manners at the court
are as ridiculous in the country as the behavior
of the country is most mockable at the court.”
-- from Shakespeare’s “As You Like It”

Most composers reside in one of these hemispheres, occasionally vacationing in the other or never visiting it at all.

There is traffic between the two hemispheres as, for example, when teachers of instrumental music beg their students to “make it sing.” Or when choral directors prod choristers to make instrumental effects, such as staccatos. Choristers need that prodding. Singing ‘legato’ is their natural inclination. Most, until specifically instructed to do so, ignore those little dots under the notes.

Staccatos are important because the texture of music is almost as important as the tune or the harmonies that support the tune. Long passages without staccatos become turgid. Instrumentalists ‘get’ this more readily than choristers, who have other things to worry about. Breathing, for example. Breathing is a thing that pianists and string players do, obviously, but for them respiration is inappurtenant to musical expression.

Too, instrumentalists are never troubled by the singer’s bane: words. The vocalist’s struggle to sing pinched vowels like the soft “i” (as in “with”) is unknown to wind, string and brass players. Likewise the consonants that simply cannot be sung. Try singing an “S” or a “J” or a “TH.” In English, one of the words we use most frequently in both speaking and writing is “which.” Singing this indispensable, frequently used little word (for which there are no synonyms) is nearly impossible. That is why you will never find the word “which” in the lyrics printed in your program at a concert of vocal music. Oscar Hammerstein avoided it like the plague.

Singing with good diction is essential if the words are to be understood by the listeners. But singers must consider much more than the mere sounds of the words; they must also convey the meanings of the words they intone, singing them accordingly. This is called ‘tone painting,’ an element of serious music-making forever beyond the purview of tootle-ers, bow-scrapers and drum pounders.

Blessed are you, instrumentalists! — when you make music, you needn’t concern yourself with the meanings of words.

All you have to worry about is playing in tune, playing loud or soft, fast or slow, and staying together,

Piece of cake!

(just teasing)

Occasionally, the voice can be, in effect, an instrumental -- as when the vocal parts are wordless, asking singers only to hum or to sing “ahhh” or “oooh.” Think of the vocalises by Rachmaninoff and Villa Lobos or the wordless women’s chorus in Debussy’s “Sirènes” or Holst’s “Neptune, the Mystic.” Or the offstage chorus that opens Verdi’s “Otello.”

Then there is the ‘Alleluia’ genre. Just four lovely vowels that are delightful to sing -- “al - le - lu - ia” -- and readily understood by listeners.

We instinctively FEEL the meaning of the word “Alleluiah,” but could you define it? I’s an adaptation into English of the Hebrew phrase “hallalu-ya” meaning “praise Jehovah." It’s joyful, which is why it’s not sung in church services during the sombre Lenten season but sung exuberantly when Easter arrives, most often in Handel’s best-known piece, his ”Hallelujah Chorus.”

My first piece of music was a modest little “Alleluia.” In 1962, when I was a 7th grader at Lexington Junior High School in Lexington, Ohio, our music teacher, Roderick Evans, having heard me messing around on the piano before class began, coaxed me into writing a little Alleluia.

“What’s an Alleluia?” I asked when he suggested the idea.

“It’s a piece of music in which the choir sings only that one word ‘Alleluia’ over and over again and then, at the end, they sing ‘Amen’ and that’s it. When you get home, fool around at the piano and, tomorrow, bring me four notes, one for each syllable: Al-le-lu-ia.”

I did as he asked. He said my four notes were good and he suggested what should come next and what might follow. He and I, working together, pushed the tune forward and he showed me how to notate it as we went along. Within a few weeks I had written my first real piece of music. I could not have done it without Mr. Evans guiding me but the ideas really were my own. Mr. Evans led our 7th grade choir in the ‘world premiere’ (a term new to me) during the school's annual spring concert. It was a big deal for me. My parents were in the audience and Mr. Evans had me take a bow. I think it was the first time I had ever bowed before an audience. I was excited and inspired: I’ve composed music ever since.

Later, Mr. Evans directed our high school choir’s singing of Randall Thompson’s “Alleluia,” which I thought, at the time, was the most beautiful piece of music I’d ever encountered. I still think it’s ‘right up there.’

Years later, in 2000, I returned to the genre, writing an Alleluia for our Mt. Auburn Presbyterian Church’s chancel choir here in Cincinnati. It’s a two-part canon, a melody sung by the combined sopranos and altos, the combined tenors and basses echoing them, a measure behind. Later in the piece, the roles are reversed. Our director, my good friend Chris Miller, had the choir encircle the sanctuary, surrounding the congregants seated in the pews. ‘Surround-sound’ in church! Happy Easter!

To hear the Harvard University Choir singing my Alleluia, click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.