Larry Wolff

The New York Review of Books - - Contents - Larry Wolff

Mass by Leonard Bern­stein, per­formed by the Mostly Mozart Fes­ti­val Orches­tra

Fa­mous Fa­ther Girl: A Mem­oir of Grow­ing Up Bern­stein by Jamie Bern­stein

Leonard Bern­stein by Paul R. Laird

Mass by Leonard Bern­stein, per­formed by the Mostly Mozart Fes­ti­val Orches­tra, con­ducted by Louis Lan­grée, Lin­coln Cen­ter, New York City, July 17–18, 2018

Fa­mous Fa­ther Girl: A Mem­oir of Grow­ing Up Bern­stein by Jamie Bern­stein. Harper, 385 pp., $28.99

Leonard Bern­stein by Paul R. Laird. Lon­don: Reak­tion, 213 pp., $19.00 (pa­per)

In 1897 Gus­tav Mahler, born Jewish, con­verted to Ro­man Catholi­cism to take up the po­si­tion of mu­sic di­rec­tor of the Vi­enna Court Opera. While Mahler’s con­ver­sion is of­ten viewed as a mat­ter of pro­fes­sional con­ve­nience and con­form­ity, it is also true that Chris­tian texts and Chris­tian feel­ing were pow­er­fully im­por­tant in his mu­sic, in­clud­ing the Sec­ond, or “Res­ur­rec­tion,” Sym­phony, com­posed be­fore his con­ver­sion, and the Eighth Sym­phony, com­posed af­ter­ward, with its Chris­tian hymn “Veni Cre­ator Spir­i­tus.” Yet when asked whether he would com­pose a Catholic Mass, Mahler de­murred, in­sist­ing that he could never set the Credo.

Leonard Bern­stein, the first tri­umphantly suc­cess­ful Jewish-Amer­i­can con­duc­tor, is the mu­si­cian most re­spon­si­ble for the post­war re­dis­cov­ery of Mahler’s sym­phonies in Amer­ica and Europe. Bern­stein, un­like Mahler, never con­sid­ered con­vert­ing to Chris­tian­ity, and when his Rus­sian men­tor Serge Kous­se­vitzky (con­duc­tor of the Bos­ton Sym­phony Orches­tra and him­self a con­vert from Ju­daism) sug­gested a dis­creet change of name (“Leonard Burns”), the young mu­si­cian could not have been less in­ter­ested. Yet when Jac­que­line Kennedy Onas­sis pro­posed to Bern­stein that he com­pose a piece to in­au­gu­rate the John F. Kennedy Cen­ter for the Per­form­ing Arts in Wash­ing­ton, D.C., he wrote a Ro­man Catholic Mass for the oc­ca­sion, to honor and com­mem­o­rate Amer­ica’s first Ro­man Catholic pres­i­dent.

“I’ve al­ways had a deep in­ter­est in Catholi­cism in all its as­pects, its sim­i­lar­i­ties and dis­sim­i­lar­i­ties to Ju­daism,” Bern­stein once said. The Sec­ond Vat­i­can Coun­cil, in the early 1960s, had au­tho­rized a con­tro­ver­sial new ec­u­meni­cism, an open­ness to the re­li­gious con­cerns of other faiths, and a his­toric rec­on­cil­i­a­tion with Ju­daism in the pa­pal en­cycli­cal Nos­tra Ae­tate of 1965, which em­braced the Jews as the peo­ple of the Old Tes­ta­ment and re­jected the ac­cu­sa­tion, pre­vail­ing for cen­turies, that they were col­lec­tively re­spon­si­ble for the death of Christ. In Bern­stein’s Mass, first per­formed at the Kennedy Cen­ter in 1971 and re­cently con­ducted by Louis Lan­grée at the Lin­coln Cen­ter Mostly Mozart Fes­ti­val in honor of Bern­stein’s cen­ten­nial year, the com­poser of­fered a mu­si­cal per­spec­tive on the ques­tions of re­li­gious faith that tran­scended de­nom­i­na­tional bound­aries.

Bern­stein be­gins Mass tra­di­tion­ally with the text of “Kyrie Elei­son” (Lord have Mercy), as in Bach’s B-Mi­nor Mass and Beethoven’s Missa Solem­nis. Though Bach was a devout Lutheran and Beethoven a barely prac­tic­ing Catholic, nei­ther could have imag­ined Bern­stein’s ut­terly alien­at­ing set­ting of the Kyrie: pre­re­corded voices mov­ing me­chan­i­cally through res­o­lutely atonal mu­si­cal lines. Bern­stein’s cho­rus and orches­tra re­main im­pas­sive in the pres­ence of this recorded in­tro­duc­tion, and fi­nally Mass comes alive when a young man steps for­ward with a gui­tar and be­gins a sim­ple bal­lad of praise:

Sing God a sim­ple song, lauda, laudē.

Make it up as you go along, lauda, laudē.

In 1971 young men and women could be heard strum­ming gui­tars at masses across Amer­ica in the re­laxed litur­gies that fol­lowed Vat­i­can II.

Here the singer is the Cel­e­brant and dra­matic pro­tag­o­nist of Bern­stein’s Mass, and at Lin­coln Cen­ter the role was per­formed by the young bari­tone Nmon Ford, in glo­ri­ous voice, lyri­cally lift­ing up his voice to the Lord on Bern­stein’s as­cend­ing mu­si­cal line. Ford made his first ap­pear­ance in a tight white T-shirt, jeans, and yel­low sneak­ers, later to be cov­ered with flow­ing priestly robes. Only with the con­clu­sion of the Cel­e­brant’s song does the live cho­rus give voice to a new “Kyrie Elei­son,” now a ri­otous cir­cus march, marked “Al­le­gro gioioso,” and sung by a “street cho­rus” of or­di­nary lay­men. To­gether with the march­ing brass and the wind play­ers, they skipped joy­ously down the aisles of David Gef­fen Hall. Lin­coln Cen­ter of­fered a rather self­con­scious ret­ro­spec­tive stag­ing, with cos­tumes and man­ner­isms that al­most car­i­ca­tured the coun­ter­cul­tural mo­ment and a re­lent­less chore­og­ra­phy of whirling and gy­rat­ing.

Vat­i­can II moved to bring the Catholic Church closer to the laity, most no­tably by ap­prov­ing Mass in the ver­nac­u­lar, but also by turn­ing the priest at the al­tar around so that he faced his con­gre­ga­tion. Bern­stein com­posed a Mass in this post-con­cil­iar spirit, bring­ing the cel­e­bra­tion lit­er­ally into the lay pub­lic space of the con­cert hall, into the aisles and among the au­di­ence, and no­tion­ally into the streets, while of­fer­ing mu­sic in an eclec­tic and ac­ces­si­ble suc­ces­sion of ver­nac­u­lar styles, rang­ing from tonal clas­si­cal and hummable Broad­way to rock and roll. For Bern­stein Mass was not just a com­ing to terms with the prom­ise of a new and ec­u­meni­cal Ro­man Catholic Church, but also, and per­haps more im­por­tantly, a com­ing to terms, both musically and po­lit­i­cally, with the rev­o­lu­tion­ary currents of the 1960s, with a younger gen­er­a­tion that was not his gen­er­a­tion. Bern­stein him­self was the en­fant ter­ri­ble of the 1940s, turn­ing fifty in 1968. The “Glo­ria” sec­tion of Bern­stein’s Mass be­gins with bongo drums ac­com­pa­ny­ing the Cel­e­brant in 5/8 time, a chil­dren’s cho­rus then pick­ing up the meter, and fi­nally the full cho­rus join­ing for­tis­simo with an al­most ham­mer­ing rhyth­mic in­ten­sity in fast du­ple meter on a sin­gle note. The nim­ble Latin set­ting of “Glo­ria in ex­cel­sis Deo” gives way to the ver­nac­u­lar English and the most fa­mous lyrics in Mass. They fol­low the same mu­si­cal line, the same re­peated rhyth­mic note, but of­fer the op­po­site spir­i­tual sen­ti­ment: no glory at all to God in the high­est.

Half of the peo­ple are stoned and the other half are wait­ing for the next elec­tion.

Half the peo­ple are drowned and the other half are swim­ming in the wrong di­rec­tion.

The score notes, “This qua­train was a Christ­mas present from Paul Si­mon,” and Si­mon’s name gave the project some of the youth cred­i­bil­ity that Bern­stein no­tably lacked in 1971. Bern­stein once de­manded to know what Si­mon hon­estly thought of one of his ef­forts at writ­ing rock and roll. “I think it’s lousy,” said Si­mon. “It’s just generic rock and roll. Why would you be writ­ing that?”

Bern­stein’s daugh­ter Jamie has just pub­lished a mem­oir, Fa­mous Fa­ther Girl, which of­fers some answers to Si­mon’s ques­tion; grow­ing up as a 1960s teenager, she was one of her fa­ther’s prin­ci­pal links to the youth cul­ture of the decade. “Daddy loved the Bea­tles too,” she re­ports:

When a new Bea­tles al­bum came out, I would run into his stu­dio . . . . He’d slap the record right onto his stereo sys­tem, crank up the vol­ume, and we’d sit to­gether on his couch to scru­ti­nize the lyrics while the al­bum played. “Hey, that’s a sitar!” he ex­claimed when he first heard “Nor­we­gian Wood.”

“Nor­we­gian Wood” ap­peared on the Rub­ber Soul al­bum of 1965, the year that Si­mon and Gar­funkel were work­ing on the Sounds of Si­lence al­bum, and that Bern­stein com­posed the ex­quis­ite Chich­ester Psalms, a cho­ral treat­ment of the He­brew texts from the Old Tes­ta­ment. It might have served as a model for Mass, if the times were not so rapidly chang­ing.

In 1969, the year of Wood­stock, Bern­stein stepped down as mu­sic di­rec­tor of the New York Phil­har­monic and be­gan to de­vote him­self more in­tently to Mass. Jamie started tak­ing him to the Fill­more East on Sec­ond Av­enue: “When we went to the Fill­more to see Blood, Sweat & Tears, Daddy came along,” she re­ports. “It was pretty loud for him, but he loved the ex­cite­ment of the mu­sic, the kids, the huge old vaude­ville the­ater reek­ing of pot.” The Who per­formed the rock opera Tommy at the Fill­more East in 1969. “I brought my fa­ther along yet again,” writes Jamie. “He was a big Tommy fan. Like me, he was thrilled by the sheer am­bi­tion of it: the long form, the grandios­ity. And they even used French horns.” Bern­stein con­ducted the Verdi Re­quiem and Beethoven’s Missa Solem­nis in 1969 as part of his farewell sea­son with the Phil­har­monic, so he had the op­por­tu­nity to think about the great Euro­pean tra­di­tion of re­li­gious com­po­si­tion along­side the new phe­nom­e­non of the rock opera. Mass ar­guably syn­the­sizes those gen­res, cre­at­ing a clas­si­cal re­li­gious Mass that is si­mul­ta­ne­ously a rock opera. If the Who could use French horns, then Bern­stein could use elec­tric gui­tars, and he did. As Bern­stein com­posed in a frenzy over the sum­mer of 1971 for the pre­miere in Septem­ber, he played at the pi­ano what he’d man­aged to com­pose dur­ing the day, and his two older teenage chil­dren, Jamie and Alexan­der, were sum­moned to at­tend. Jamie re­calls the “squirm­ing” awk­ward­ness of this in­volve­ment with their fa­ther’s cre­ative process:

“Lis­ten to this!” he would say, and we’d fol­low him to the pi­ano, where he’d slap the pa­per against the rack, then ac­com­pany him­self croak­ing out what­ever he’d writ­ten that after­noon. Alexan­der and I were a lit­tle un­easy with the rock mu­sic stuff . . . . Any self-re­spect­ing teenager feels un­com­fort­able when a par­ent seems to try too hard to be in-with-the-kids .... Our re­sponse al­ways needed to be “Wow, that’s great!” And we’d leave it po­litely at that.

In Jamie’s mem­oir, Bern­stein’s anx­i­eties, even in­se­cu­rity, about his own ge­nius are fully ex­plored, and in­deed con­firmed by the fam­ily mem­bers who were sup­posed to pro­vide unadul­ter­ated de­vo­tion even when they were squirm­ing. Jamie writes about Mass with a frank­ness that com­bines el­e­ments of both ten­der­ness and cru­elty:

Par­tic­u­larly em­bar­rass­ing for me was the clear re­sem­blance of the main char­ac­ter, the Cel­e­brant, to Daddy him­self. The Cel­e­brant is the charis­matic leader, the one the young peo­ple love . . . . [But] he strug­gles with his own doubts; can he come through for his flock? Does he even be­lieve in what he’s do­ing? The piece had be­come, among other things, a med­i­ta­tion on the cu­mu­la­tive ef­fects of adu­la­tion, the trap­pings of suc­cess, the mount­ing pres­sure of the pub­lic’s ever-in­creas­ing ex­pec­ta­tions. It be­comes too much for the Cel­e­brant. He fi­nally cracks up . . . and has the com­poser’s proxy ner­vous break­down.

Bern­stein as a con­duc­tor could iden­tify with the bur­dens of the Cel­e­brant’s sac­er­do­tal lead­er­ship.

Nmon Ford at Lin­coln Cen­ter cap­tured the role’s many mu­si­cal and dra­matic nu­ances: from the plain­tive faith of the open­ing bal­lad, to the bongo-driven cel­e­bra­tion of the “Glo­ria,” to the waltz­ing de­fi­ance of “The Word of the Lord” in 9/8 time, to the an­guished lyri­cism of Bern­stein’s beau­ti­ful set­ting of the Lord’s Prayer. Ford’s sweet­est note was the pi­anis­simo high F on “lead”—“lead us not into temp­ta­tion”—and he man­aged to sug­gest the ways that sex­ual charisma, which Bern­stein him­self cer­tainly pos­sessed, might in­ter­sect with cult as­cen­dancy. There are mo­ments in Mass that seem to al­lude to the Amer­i­can mytho­type of Elmer Gantry: the need for adu­la­tion that could lead the Cel­e­brant into the temp­ta­tion of char­la­tanism. Jamie Bern­stein has no doubt that Mass is au­to­bi­o­graph­i­cal: “Mass, with all its flaws, its grandios­ity, its dar­ing, and its tremen­dous, bro­ken heart—it sim­ply was Daddy.”

The con­duc­tor John Mauceri, who worked closely with Bern­stein, brought his own bril­liant Yale Sym­phony Orches­tra pro­duc­tion of Mass to Vi­enna in 1973. Mauceri told me that the one thing Bern­stein would not tol­er­ate was the cast­ing of the Cel­e­brant as an older man close to his own age. In 1973, Bern­stein met and fell in love with a man in his early twen­ties named Tom Cothran, wreak­ing havoc in the com­poser’s fam­ily life, and in­au­gu­rat­ing a pe­riod in which he would pur­sue youth des­per­ately, even self-de­struc­tively.

For the Bern­stein cen­ten­nial, mu­si­col­o­gist Paul Laird has pro­duced a short “crit­i­cal life” that sums up its sub­ject in less than two hun­dred pages of text, a spare treat­ment for a fig­ure of such Ra­belaisian di­men­sions, and cer­tainly this new bi­og­ra­phy does not re­place Humphrey Bur­ton’s much fuller work, which has also been reis­sued for the cen­ten­nial.* Laird’s con­cise for­mat, how­ever, has the ad­van­tage of lay­ing bare the chrono­log­i­cal struc­ture of Bern­stein’s ca­reer. In ninety pages you quickly see how much he ac­com­plished in the first forty years of his life. Be­fore he grad­u­ated from Har­vard he had es­tab­lished close (and in part ro­man­tic) re­la­tion­ships with the com­poser Aaron Co­p­land and the con­duc­tor Dim­itri Mitropou­los. While still in his twen­ties he be­came the pro­tégé of Kous­se­vitzky, made his break­through broad­cast con­duct­ing de­but with the New York Phil­har­monic (re­plac­ing the in­dis­posed Bruno Wal­ter), com­posed his first sym­phony, “Jeremiah,” and had stage tri­umphs with the bal­let Fancy Free and the re­lated mu­si­cal On the Town. Be­fore he turned forty, he had com­posed his sec­ond sym­phony (“The Age of Anx­i­ety”) and his vi­o­lin con­certo (“Ser­e­nade af­ter Plato’s Sym­po­sium”), his mar­velous one-act opera Trou­ble in Tahiti, as well as the mu­si­cals West Side Story, Can­dide, and Won­der­ful Town. In 1951 he mar­ried the Chilean-born ac­tress Feli­cia Mon­teale­gre and em­barked upon fam­ily life. He be­came a Jewish-Amer­i­can sen­sa­tion in Is­rael, as Feli­cia ob­served: “Lenny is their God, his name is magic ev­ery­where.” In 1957—the year West Side Story opened on Broad­way and Bern­stein ap­peared on the cover of Time—he turned thirty-nine, the age at which Chopin died, and if he had died in 1957 he would be re­mem­bered as a man of as­ton­ish­ingly pro­duc­tive and mul­ti­far­i­ous ge­nius across a short but charmed life.

In 1958, Bern­stein be­gan a decade as mu­si­cal di­rec­tor of the New York Phil­har­monic and be­came one of the most cel­e­brated con­duc­tors in the world, as he reached out from the con­cert hall to a far broader au­di­ence with his record­ings for Co­lum­bia and with his tele­vised Young Peo­ple’s Con­certs, pre­sent­ing clas­si­cal mu­sic to his chil­dren’s gen­er­a­tion. Bern­stein seized upon the Mahler cen­ten­nial in 1960 to fur­ther the re­vival cam­paign at the Phil­har­monic, where Mahler him­self had presided as prin­ci­pal con­duc­tor dur­ing the last years of his life, from 1909 to 1911. Mahler’s wi­dow, Alma, at­tended Bern­stein’s Mahler re­hearsals in New York and sup­pos­edly, at eighty, was still flirt­ing with the con­duc­tor. “With works by Mahler I seem to be play­ing some of my own,” com­mented Bern­stein, who was de­ter­mined to di­vide his life rig­or­ously, as Mahler had, be­tween con­duct­ing and com­po­si­tion. Af­ter those very pro­duc­tive youth­ful decades, how­ever, his ten­ure at the Phil­har­monic in the 1960s yielded rel­a­tively lit­tle new work of his own, and the post-Phil­har­monic pe­riod in Bern­stein’s life, the 1970s and 1980s, was lit­tered with un­fin­ished, un­suc­cess­ful, and im­plau­si­ble projects—an opera of Lolita with Di­et­rich Fis­cher-Dieskau as Hum­bert Hum­bert, an opera about the Holo­caust in col­lab­o­ra­tion with Woody Allen. These later years were fu­eled by what Jamie de­scribes as “prodi­gious quan­ti­ties of up­pers, down­ers, and al­co­hol,” to say noth­ing of cig­a­rettes. Mass, twenty years be­fore his death, was al­ready one of Bern­stein’s last ma­jor state­ments as a com­poser.

When Mass had its pre­miere in 1971, J. Edgar Hoover at the FBI warned Pres­i­dent Nixon to stay away from the open­ing of the Kennedy Cen­ter be­cause the work was a protest against the Viet­nam War. At the same time, the New York Times mu­sic critic Harold Schon­berg, never a Bern­stein fan, re­ported sar­don­ically that its po­lit­i­cal mes­sage made Bern­stein’s Mass “a very chic af­fair.” Schon­berg re­garded Mass as an ex­pres­sion of mod­ish 1960s lib­er­al­ism that pro­vided ide­o­log­i­cal cover for medi­ocre mu­sic: “At times the Mass is lit­tle more than fash­ion­able kitsch. It is a pseudo-se­ri­ous ef­fort at re­think­ing the Mass that ba­si­cally is, I think, cheap and vul­gar. It is a show-biz Mass, the work of a mu­si­cian who des­per­ately wants to be with it.” Op­po­nents of the war in Viet­nam em­braced Bern­stein’s Mass, which in­cluded text re­cited from a draft re­sister’s let­ter, while the Cel­e­brant sings out, “You can not im­prison the word of the Lord.” The re­li­gious writer and ex­priest James Car­roll re­calls that Mass was re­ceived by young priests like him­self as en­dors­ing the an­ti­war po­si­tion of the Ber­ri­gan brothers: “Those of us in the Ber­ri­gan wing of the Catholic left felt un­der­stood, af­firmed, even cel­e­brated by Bern­stein—as­tounded, re­ally, that he dared to so as­so­ciate with us . . . . I owned the al­bum, of­ten used it in my own litur­gies at BU, where I was Catholic Chap­lain. It ac­com­pa­nied me through the rest of my priest­hood.” The LP dou­ble al­bum of Mass sold an as­ton­ish­ing 200,000 copies, but Bern­stein called Mass a “the­atri­cal piece,” and record­ings can hardly do it jus­tice. Bern­stein him­self was al­ways a the­atri­cal event when he con­ducted an orches­tra, a man in fren­zied move­ment, leap­ing, sway­ing, thrust­ing, while his face evinced a range of ex­pres­sions from agony to bliss. He ex­er­cised a strik­ing sex­ual mys­tique from the podium, and was in some ways com­pa­ra­ble to other erotic icons of the 1950s such as Mar­lon Brando (the star of On the Wa­ter­front, for which Bern­stein wrote the mu­sic in 1954). When con­tem­plat­ing a pos­si­ble per­for­mance of Mahler’s in­com­plete Tenth Sym­phony, Bern­stein asked: “Will it give me an or­gasm?”

In 1980 Bern­stein wrote hor­ta­tory lyrics for Jamie’s twenty-eighth birth­day and set them to a re­cently com­posed waltz tune:

Shit-a-brick, time is run­ning out on me;

I must get mov­ing fast un­doubt­edly.

Suck-a-dick, I am sick in heart and soul,

Got to get mov­ing fast to reach my goal.

It was ob­vi­ously his song for him­self at sixty-two, time run­ning out as he em­barked upon his fi­nal decade. There were spec­tac­u­lar mo­ments in the 1980s for Bern­stein as cel­e­brant and con­duc­tor, com­bin­ing mu­sic, pol­i­tics, and spir­i­tual com­mit­ment: the 1985 con­cert for nu­clear dis­ar­ma­ment at Hiroshima, the 1987 Carnegie Hall ben­e­fit “Con­cert for Life” in the mid­dle of the AIDS epi­demic (Tom Cothran was a vic­tim), and the fa­mous per­for­mance of Beethoven’s Ninth in Ber­lin to cel­e­brate the fall of the Ber­lin Wall in 1989, the year be­fore Bern­stein’s death.

Mass makes it pos­si­ble to un­der­stand that Bern­stein was fun­da­men­tally a re­li­gious com­poser, from the “Jeremiah” Sym­phony to the “Kad­dish” Sym­phony (ded­i­cated to JFK af­ter the as­sas­si­na­tion), from the He­brew set­tings of the Chich­ester Psalms to the Latin frame­work of Mass. The stun­ningly beau­ti­ful first or­ches­tral “Med­i­ta­tion” of Mass, marked “Lento as­sai,” with its high vi­olins and in­tense cel­los, has mo­ments that seem to al­lude to the spir­i­tual long­ing of “There’s a Place for Us” from West Side Story. It’s in­ter­est­ing to re­call that West Side Story was orig­i­nally con­ceived (un­der the ti­tle East Side Story) as the tale of Jewish and Catholic star-crossed lovers dur­ing the sea­son of Easter and Passover. West Side Story was sup­posed to be a Pas­sion play. In Mass the “Mea Culpa” is

set to a fin­ger-snap­ping cho­rus that im­me­di­ately re­calls “When You’re a Jet.” The Cel­e­brant’s ner­vous break­down on stage of­fers an ex­tended mad scene that Ford sang with ex­cep­tional beauty at Lin­coln Cen­ter. With guid­ance from the or­gan, he in­tones, “dirge-like,” a lyric that gave ex­pres­sion to Bern­stein’s own deep­est self-doubts in ris­ing and fall­ing phrases:

I feel ev­ery psalm that I’ve ever sung

Turn to worm­wood, worm­wood on my tongue.

And I won­der, Oh I won­der, Was I ever re­ally young?

Fol­low­ing the Cel­e­brant’s col­lapse, the flautist from the orches­tra steps for­ward and takes charge of the per­for­mance with a pas­sage of bird­song, even­tu­ally call­ing forth the crys­talline voice of the boy so­prano on the other side of the stage, Ten­zin Gund-Mor­row at Lin­coln Cen­ter, who takes up the sim­ple song of praise that will con­clude the mass. He joins hands with the Cel­e­brant in “the touch of peace”—as spec­i­fied in the score—though Bern­stein him­self is sup­posed to have fa­vored a “holy kiss of peace.” Bern­stein, who never con­verted, never changed his name, never tamed his larger-than-life per­sona, showed in Mass that he could en­gage rock and roll, the 1960s, the sex­ual rev­o­lu­tion, the Euro­pean cul­tural tra­di­tion, and even the Ro­man Catholic Church, on his own splen­didly, sub­ver­sively, out­ra­geously all-em­brac­ing mu­si­cal terms.

Leonard Bern­stein con­duct­ing the New York Phil­har­monic at Carnegie Hall, 1960; pho­to­graph by Henri Cartier-Bres­son

Leonard Bern­stein and his daugh­ter Jamie, New York City, 1967; pho­to­graph by Do­minique Nabokov

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from USA

© PressReader. All rights reserved.