Why isn’t the miracle of the oil mentioned in the Hanukkah prayer “Al Hanissim”?

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From the website MyJewishLearning. The hard-to-read text at the bottom of the image says “Illustration in an 1880 newspaper of a Hanukkah celebration at the Young Men’s Hebrew Association at the Academy of Music in New York City. (U.S. Library of Congress)” Isn’t that, like, totally cool?

Whew. I had no idea that the story of Hanukkah was so complicated. My previous posts about this Jewish holiday have for the most part focused on the eight days that the menorah in the Temple at Jerusalem burned from a flask of oil that should have lasted only one day, with the ensuing symbolism of lights and candles, feasting and celebration. (Latkes, anyone?) But the actual Hebrew prayers, including “Al Hanissim”1 recited as part of the celebrations, say nothing about the miracle of the long-lasting oil. Why is that, and when did the oil miracle become part of the story? I will say up front that there are no completely definitive answers to be found here. It’s been fascinating, though, to dig through quite a few sources and see how the subject is handled. Here’s an overview about the holiday as a whole and also what I’ve found out about this particular prayer.

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What Shall We Give? A Christmas Question

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Image accessed via Pixabay

There’s a whole category of Christmas songs/carols that concern the bringing of gifts to the Christ child in Bethlehem. My own choir, the Cherry Creek Chorale, is singing a less-familiar one, “Son of Maria,” but more accurately “Son of the Mother” (“El Noi de la Mare“), which is also sometimes titled “Carol of the Gifts.” It is labeled as a traditional piece from Catalonia, a region of Spain that has seen its fair share of conflict over its periodic attempts to become an independent nation. I was surprised to see the number of carols (14) listed on Wikipedia as having come from this region; we are also singing the “Carol of the Birds,” which I plan to write about later on this blog. Because this is a traditional folk song, there is no “original” version. Instead, the song would have been passed down orally for generations and then finally written down, but these written lyrics vary immensely. Here’s a simple version used in a medley by the great Karl Jenkins; since it’s not being used as a stand-alone piece it needed to be fairly short. I’ll share some additional wording later in this post.

Son of Maria, Son of Maria.
What shall we give to the Son of Maria?
What can we give him that he will enjoy?
Bunches of grapes we will give to the infant,
baskets of figs for the beautiful boy.

Son of Maria.
What can we give to the Son of Maria?
What can we give to the beautiful boy?
Olives and walnuts and raisins and honey,
cherries and figs and some dates to enjoy.

Son of Maria.
Tampatam tam if the figs will not ripen,
what shall we do if the figs are still green?
Tampatam tam when our sins are forgiven,
Lovely ripe figs will at Easter be seen.
Tampatam tam when our sins are forgiven,
lovely ripe figs will at Easter be seen.

The sheet music says “English words by Carol Barratt after a translation from the Spanish”
Barratt is Karl Jenkins’ wife and a music educator in her own right.

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A Compact Masterpiece–Mozart’s Coronation Mass

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Interior of Salzburg Cathedral, where the first performance of the Coronation Mass probably took place. Image source: Image by 🌼Christel🌼 from Pixabay

Unemployment is a terrible thing—except when it leads to the composition of a masterpiece. In Mozart’s case he was only 23 years old when he wrote his Coronation Mass in 1779, having reluctantly taken up once again the position of court organist and sacred music composer in Salzburg after having failed to find anything more attractive over 16 months of traveling around Europe. He heartily disliked his birthplace Salzburg, considering it to be a backwater, and he also disliked his employer, Archbishop Hieronymous Colloredo. Mozart’s position lasted only two years, at which time the Archbishop decided he’d had enough of his court composer’s frequent absences and disrespectful behavior. Mozart describes in a letter being “kicked in the backside” by the Archbishop’s steward, an act which ended his career in Salzburg. He’d go on to (some) fame and (less) fortune in Vienna, where he would live for only ten more years.

During his time at the Archbishop’s court he wrote only two masses, one of which is rarely performed and the other is the one labeled “coronation” for reasons that remain somewhat murky. Mozart had written about a dozen masses before returning to his native city, but this would be the first one published, and it was probably first performed on Easter Sunday, April 4, in the Salzburg cathedral. He dated the mass’s completion as March 23, so the choir, soloists and orchestra had less than two weeks to prepare. Yikes! (But they were, after all, paid professionals.)

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The Text of the “Te Deum”

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Imagine yourself to have traveled back in time to around 400 A.D. You’re in the Italian city of Milan, standing in the Basilica of Saint Lawrence, at this point a Roman Catholic church but showing definite signs of its early origins in the Roman Empire. Suddenly you hear a choir of monks start to sing a hymn (I almost wrote “an ancient hymn,” but of course to them it’s brand new) starting with the words “Te Deum.” ‘Hmmm,’ you might think. ‘I’ve sung those words myself in October 2024 with the Cherry Creek Chorale, my own wonderful choir. Cool!’  This (now) ancient hymn is usually dated to around 390 and seen as possibly written by either Saint Ambrose or Saint Augustine. Or perhaps someone else, for all we know. Whoever wrote it, however, surely knew what he (or she!) was doing. Some real heavy hitters over the centuries have taken a crack at it, with one of the most famous being Franz Joseph Haydn in around 1800.

Haydn was a tremendously prolific and popular composer. His output is astonishing: this evening I scrolled through the list of his compositions on Wikipedia, and honestly–I think it probably took me longer to do that than it took Haydn to write the piece. He produced a huge range of compositions, from symphonies to oratorios to string quartets to masses to operas to folk song arrangements to everything else you can possibly imagine. (If there had been MOOG synthesizers around back then, be assured that he’d have written a concerto or two using that instrument.) The composer spent 30 years under the patronage of the Hungarian Prince Esterhazy, who was extremely jealous of Haydn’s time. The patronage was therefore both a blessing and a curse: Haydn had an assured income, but he was also limited in his ability to travel and to take on other commissions. The prince was finally persuaded, however, to allow Haydn to fulfill the request from the Austrian Empress Maria Theresa to write her a setting of the “Te Deum.”

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The Long and Winding History of “Ain’t No Grave”

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Image by person678 from Pixabay

I used to get a Sunday newsletter from a journalist named David French, and he’d always include a video of a contemporary worship song. I’m not a big fan of such music as a usual thing, finding most of it syrupy and breathy. (Sorry!) But I’d usually click on the video at least briefly, and one Sunday he’d put up a performance of “Ain’t No Grave” with a singer named Molly Skaggs. Hmmm, I thought, is she related to Ricky Skaggs, the great bluegrass performer?

Oh my! She is indeed his daughter, and a worthy representative of his musical tradition. I don’t know how many times I’ve watched/listened to that video. (It’s great for getting myself going on cleaning up the kitchen.) I love the words, and the music, and Molly standing there with her acoustic guitar and belting out the song. No glamor, no glitz—just pure talent. Later I found out that the song had been covered by many, many artists—including Johnny Cash. (After I insisted that my whole family watch the video my son said he really liked the song, and when I expressed astonishment he said, “Someone made an animation sequence to go with the Johnny Cash version.” Oh.)

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Two Bittersweet Ballads Teamed Up in a Melancholy Medley

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Source: Pixabay

As I write this post it’s only a little over a week until Labor Day, the official end of summer. Fall is my favorite time of year: I love the colors, the smells, and the crisp air. I remember so vividly how exciting it was for me as a kid to go shopping for school supplies with my mom. There was the pristine Big Chief tablet (a paper one with lines, not an iPad) and new pencils. Maybe even an unsmudged pink eraser. Everything seemed possible.

But for some autumn is a sad season, as it starts the inevitable slide toward winter with its darkness and cold. Two songs with lyrics by Johnny Mercer portray this viewpoint: “Autumn Leaves” and “When October Goes.” They’ve been put together in a lovely medley by the modern composer/arranger Paul Langford, a true powerhouse whose arrangements I’ve sung myself. Both of these songs have a fascinating backstory.

Let’s take a look first at “Autumn Leaves.” Its first iteration was as a French art song that appeared in a 1946 film. Originally titled Les Feuilles Mortes, which translates to “the dead leaves,” it caught the attention of Mercer’s co-worker at Capitol Records, Mickey Goldsen. He begged Mercer, who by this time had become an established lyricist, to put the rather nuanced and subtle French wording into English. Mercer eventually obliged, producing something much more simple and straightforward than the original and which sold very well. Mercer said later that he made more money from “Autumn Leaves” than from any other song he wrote—and that includes such mega-hits as “Moon River” and  “That Old Black Magic,” as well as many, many others. While Mercer was capable of composing melodies, he preferred writing lyrics—in particular, being given a tune and then working to find words to fit it. In “Leaves,” we’re told a very simple story in quite sparse words: there was a summer romance, but it ended with the beloved’s departure that took place (probably) in autumn, since the speaker’s sense of loss is especially strong when the leaves start falling. It doesn’t hurt that the melody is truly lovely, composed by the Hungarian-born Joseph Kosma for the original film music.

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“Swifter than Flame”–Elaine Hagenberg Hits Another One Out of the Park and Up into the Stars

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Image by carloyuen from Pixabay

This latest piece (as of June 2024) from Elaine Hagenberg perfectly embodies her style: the use of an unfamiliar and enigmatic text and dramatic, sweeping musical lines: “Swifter than Flame,” for SATB chorus with the text from a poet by Carl John Bostelmann, who wrote primarily in the 1920’s and 30’s. I don’t do musical analysis in these posts  and so will simply say that she manages harmonic sweetness that never topples over into syrupiness. There’s an edge there, a drive. My own choir, the Cherry Creek Chorale, has sung a number of her pieces and also participated in the commissioning consortium for her first major-length work, Illuminare, with Hagenberg herself participating in one of our rehearsals during concert week. Those of us who were privileged to be present that evening will never forget it.

I was very intrigued by the lyrics and wanted first of all to know more about the author, Carl John Bostelmann. He is perhaps best known as having written a behind-the-scenes look at John D. Rockefeller, Neighbor John, in cooperation with the photographer Curt E. Engelbrecht, who was allowed unusual access to the usually camera-shy Rockefeller. Bostelmann was also involved with various historical survey projects. For my purposes here, though, I’ve found that he published at least four volumes of poetry, a couple of which are available on Google Books, and that his work appeared during his lifetime in a number of poetry magazines. “Swifter than Flame,” however, doesn’t show up in any of these available sources.

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Welcome, Subscribers! And a Plan for the Rest of the Summer

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Image by Schorsch from Pixabay

I’ve been very pleased over the past few months to see a steady trickle of new subscribers to this blog, with very few unsubscribes. All this in spite of the fact that I haven’t written much new here for awhile. This gap isn’t at all because I’m losing interest; it’s just that most of my material stems from concerts that my beloved community choir, the Cherry Creek Chorale, is in process of rehearsing. Because I didn’t sing in the May concert I sort of lost that connection. But now I’m back, and looking forward very much to our 2024-25 season. You’ll be seeing lots of material about that concert in upcoming posts, with a multi-part post on the biggie we’re performing in October, Mozart’s Coronation Mass. I can hardly wait!

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Which Came First, the Symphony or the Song? (Or Is It a Spiritual?)

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(Note: The Cherry Creek Chorale in the Denver area will be performing this lovely piece in its “American Songbook V” concerts on May 17 and 18, 2024. If you live in the area, make your plans to attend! Tickets may be purchased on this page or at the door.)

Haven’t you vaguely always understood that the second movement of Dvořák’s “New World” symphony was based on an American folk tune? I sure have. Turns out that, like most vague understandings, it’s not true. Dvořák wrote the tune himself; he said to one inquiring conductor that ““I tried to write only in the spirit of those national American melodies.”1 You can assign some kind of folksy charm to the horn solo in Movement #2, but it’s not necessarily American charm:

It has been said that Dvořák’s themes in his symphony were inspired by American folk melodies, especially Afro-American. But his themes are just as similar to Czech or Bohemian folk music and probably came from his own country’s music tradition.2

So all of that is well and good, but my focus in this post is on the words to the song that were written using that horn solo theme in the “Largo” movement. Such a reputable outlet as National Public Radio says that the words were written by Harry Burleigh, a Black composer whom Dvořák befriended while in New York. But they were actually written by another American protégé of Dvořák, a student of his named William Arms Fisher, who was White but who chose to write the lyrics in what he perceived to be some sort of African-American dialect. (Note my somewhat skeptical tone here.) So it’s “jes” instead of “just” and “’spectin’” rather than “expectin’” or “expecting.” And “goin’” is written as “gwine.”

As the song became more popular and mainstream, the dialect was considerably softened or omitted. In fact, although I haven’t been able to find a reproduction of the full original sheet music, I did find an image of the first page, which says at the bottom: “When desired the text may be sung without dialect.”

Here’s what Fisher himself had to say about African-American spirituals in general, in an introduction to an anthology of spirituals that he produced:

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Just How Hallmark Card-y Are the Lyrics to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”?

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Image by Albrecht Fietz from Pixabay

(Note: My choir, the Cherry Creek Chorale, is singing a medley of Harold Arlen songs for their May 2024 concert, including “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Make plans to attend if you live in the area! The following post deals only with the lyrics by Yip Harburg.)

Not at all. I don’t have space to deal with the lyrics as a whole, so let me start with the opening phrase and go on from there. The lyricist himself, a son of Jewish immigrants who had taken the name of “Yip” Harburg, had been writing as a sideline while running a successful business which tanked in 1929. He said, “The capitalists saved me in 1929, just as we were worth, oh, about a quarter of a million dollars. Bang! The whole thing blew up. I was left with a pencil and finally had to write for a living… what the Depression was for most people was for me a lifesaver!”

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