![]() I immediately called up his old friend and steadfast champion, John Adams, who wrangled a commission from the Los Angeles Philharmonic. ![]() In 2016, Marshall mentioned that he would like to write something for me - a concerto, perhaps. Frankly, it’s kind of depressing not to have a major work under way on the drafting table.” “There has been nothing of substance, just a few chamber and solo pieces. On his blog, Old Man of the Woods, in 2013, he lamented the “minor little” commissions he was getting. Though he didn’t strive for fame and fortune, he certainly wished for wider acclaim. He did have an ego, of course, as one must to pursue an artistic craft so single-mindedly he just managed to keep it admirably separate from his personal interactions. People who knew him often observed that Marshall seemed to be egoless he didn’t strive, network or self-promote the way artists of my generation have been trained to do. But his default approach to life and music was one of generosity. He could be bluntly dismissive of composers he considered overly academic, technically flashy or too eager to please. That’s not to say he liked everything or was uncritical. He gave the impression that all of music was at our feet in an enormous pile, fodder for inspiration. I felt I’d found a mentor who related to music the way I wanted to: with curiosity, open-mindedness and little regard for historical period or genre. Marshall’s eclectic approach to composition appealed to me. Despite its troubled affect and a couple of jolting outbursts, it is not histrionic music it always looks inward in its search for associations, allusions and meaning. (Charles Ives, another composer who used that hymn tune, is a clear reference point Marshall and I shared adoration for our fellow New Englander, particularly his ability to combine seemingly disparate elements into a potent emotional salmagundi.) As it gathers momentum, “Kingdom Come” becomes a procession in slow motion, a chorus of mourners gathering. We land in a deep, murky F-major stew, out of which bits of “Nearer, My God, to Thee” emerge. The piece opens with a chain of A-minor chords, spiraling upward (a reference to Marshall’s beloved Sibelius) then slowly, painfully, drifts downward in an aching lament. In “ Kingdom Come” (1997), grieving becomes a kind of ritual, connecting the individual to the universal pool of human grief. Mostly, he was content to leave my music as I’d written it on certain occasions, he’d point out a passage and say, “I like that part, it could last longer.” He encouraged me to take my time, focus on my ideas, and see them through. In a lesson, we were as likely to discuss a Bergman film or the best way to cook wild mushrooms as we were to analyze whatever I was working on. His teaching style was distinctly unrigorous but discursive and all-encompassing. Our conversations broadened during my time learning with Marshall in graduate school. His musical and real-life personalities seemed directly related: unhurried, easygoing, more likely to follow a train of thought than pursue a rigorous argument, but unafraid to let the conversation become serious or philosophical. I already knew a few of his pieces, and was a bit awe-struck chatting with their creator. Benevolent and slightly spectral, he’d glide into Yale’s music library, where I had a work-study job as an undergraduate student, and I’d help him find scores and recordings. I first came to know the composer Ingram Marshall, who died on May 31 at 80, as a campus personality.
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