Sitting in an expansive outdoor tent at the University of South Florida-Manatee, a quarter of a mile from the breezes of the Sarasota Bay, I am joined by hundreds of devoted fans of classical music. They are here for two reasons — first, a free public rehearsal of string orchestra music featuring some of the finest young string players in the world; second, a chance to see the maestro — Itzhak Perlman.
This event — the Perlman Music Program-Suncoast (PMP) is one of the annual highlights of the winter season in Sarasota. For me, it has become a yearly reminder of some important life lessons —both in music and in Judaism.
PMP convenes young string players of the highest level from all over the world together in Sarasota for a two week intensive camp experience. Here they are part of a sun-kissed musical commune in which they take private lessons, play chamber music, attend master classes, give recitals of works-in-progress, and learn both choral and string orchestra pieces in preparation for a grand final concert at the Sarasota Opera House. For this experience they are aided by local volunteers, top-notch music faculty, and the program’s intrepid organizers, Toby & Itzhak Perlman. What is even more special is that the majority of their rehearsals and performances are free and open to the public, creating a two week “open tent” in which regular Sarasotans experience how Maestro Perlman and the faculty guide the musical wunderkinderlach in their charge.1
The deeper values behind PMP come from the vision of its architect — Toby Perlman:
“As a young violin student at Juilliard, Toby Perlman imagined an antidote to the competitive and isolating environment that exceptional young artists often grapple with in the pursuit of their craft...
Toby’s dream is based on a deceptively simple idea: meet the needs of each child, respect and trust students, and immerse them in a nurturing environment that emphasizes connection over competition. At PMP, our young musicians learn how to be in the world. They collaborate, support each other, and contribute to camp life. Our faculty look beyond the surface of technical proficiency and focus on their students’ potential to be interesting artists. We safeguard talent and individuality, and encourage kids to explore, take risks, and develop at their own pace.2
This vision is a relational tikkun (repair) of harsh realities of the professional music world. High-level specialists of all kinds — not just musicians —are subject to intense self-scrutiny, discipline, and competition in order to succeed. Such vagaries of specialization remind me of the original biblical specialists — the levites.
Levites (together with their holiest subgroup, the priests) lived a life of specialized sacred work, facilitating sacrifices and working with sacred materials, precincts, scrolls, and songs.3 These weighty responsibilities involved an almost equal focus on technical execution as on intention — it was thus rigorous as both a craft and a calling. Interestingly, levites could not own land, and were either concentrated in cities or wandered as holy men: “divided in Jacob, scattered in Israel (Gen. 49:7).” They thus were a separate class, dependent on the masses, grouped together in Torah with the orphan, the widow, and the poor. How fitting a description for the gigging musician?
Vocations focused on high-skill “performance” (like those of the levites and priests) have both positive and negative potential.4 On the one hand, more intense commitment and skill can lead to greater achievement, spiritual and otherwise. This is quintessentially expressed by the joyous Yom Kippur poem Mareh Kohein, which describes the elated splendor of the High Priest upon the successful completion of the Avodah service:
How truly glorious was the High Priest as he left the Holy of Holies, peacefully, unharmed.
As the canopy of the heavens stretched out on high, was the appearance of the High Priest.
As the glitter of light emanating from the brilliance of the Chayot, was the appearance of the High Priest.
As the beautiful [blue] thread in the fringes of the four corners of a garment, was the appearance of the High Priest.
As the rainbow in the clouds, was the appearance of the High Priest…5
Such a ritual requiring both incredibly meticulous action and deep intention in order to render the forgiveness of the sins of Israel. The sense of elation and relief in the poem is palpable. At the risk of being called an apikorus (heretic), I would even argue that it shows us religiously magnified version of the feeling that human beings have after a transcendent musical performance. One feels that one was part of something great and weighty, accomplished and witnessed in community. Yishai Ribo’s Seder Ha’Avodah well demonstrates this shared feeling of the rock concert and the ritual:
As high as the highs are, the musical specialist, like other specialists, also has their low lows, potentially isolated in their singular (if not almost monastic) commitment to their craft. This is what Toby Perlman experienced at Julliard. And her successful quest to re-infuse musical specialization with nurture and humanity is what makes PMP so special.
I say this because I’ve seen it in action. After watching four rehearsals and a final concert over the past two years, it’s clear that the Perlmans make many intentional choices that successfully facilitate this musical tikkun.
First and foremost, PMP works hard to minimize hierarchy and emphasize group unity. This is difficult to achieve in the world of classical music, where hierarchy is often implicated in the entire musical system: Composers hand down their carefully-crafted pieces to musicians; the musicians then are led by conductors who guide them towards executing their own vision of the piece.6 Even among orchestras there is hierarchy and competition, as people compare the quality of their local orchestras like sports fans compare baseball teams. And of course each chair of the orchestra (concertmaster, first chair, second chair, etc) is often used as an indicator of one’s rank on the ladder of musical excellence.
Yet PMP succeeded at effacing hierarchy at every turn: Students rotate their seats between pieces and event in between movements, indicating their equal standing in an orchestra of peers (or, at least minimally, acknowledging the reality that every one of these young musicians could be a first chair-level player). PMP participants also rehearse and perform as a choir (with a faculty conductor). This further shattered whatever perceived hierarchies of ability existed between each player; as choral singers, they were out of their element and on more equal footing with one another. Most notably, Toby & Maestro Itzhak Perlman themselves sang with the choir in both rehearsal and performance, emphasizing their presence as fellow musicians rather than as leaders.
The choice of orchestral repertoire was also meant to create a sense of togetherness. At the final concert I attended last winter, Maestro Perlman described the orchestral selections as not virtuosic, but rather as “sweet” and “emotional.” At the technical level, the pieces chosen by the Maestro all tested the unity of the orchestra across dynamic, timbres, tempi, and emotion. This feeling of unity was also baked into the residential model of the whole program. Musicians and faculty stayed in town and built deep relationships across the weeks of music making. This, a PMP alum recalled at the final concert, was one of the key features that made the program so very memorable. As was the Maestro’s precise and nurturing manner.
Photographs and videos are not permitted at PMP rehearsals, but one professional videorecording was made in prior to the pandemic, which I have reproduced below. As it happens, Dvorak’s Serenade for Strings, which is rehearsed in this video, was also featured this year.
I believe that the PMP approach has wisdom beyond the orchestra. Non-profits of all types, after all, have similar strengths and challenges to orchestras when it comes to issues of hierarchy. Many synagogues have inspiring and knowledgeable staff and the ability to execute interesting programs and inspiring worship. Yet I’ve noticed that hierarchy can often drain the energy of an organization, as much work is done determining who has positional authority to make decisions. On the other end, synagogue activities are often attended to in a similar way to how we attend the symphony. People even compare synagogues in the same way they would orchestras, often lamentably focusing on the power of charisma of their leadership (i.e. conductor) and the magnificence of their programming rather than the unity, shared purpose, and mutual caretaking that exists between their members.
So I ask myself — what would a PMP of synagogues look like?
Recently, one solution was offered by organizational consultants Alison Kur and Daniel Langenthal, together with Jewish musician and niggun specialist, Joey Weisenberg. Their new book, “Attuning Leadership: Musical-Spiritual Exercises for Organizational Development,” seeks to “tune up” leadership teams to work together effectively and compassionately using communal singing and reflection exercises. Based on the principle that sensitive singing leads to sensitive people, these exercises contribute to “expanding people’s comfort zones”, “engaging with diverse perspectives in a group”, “understanding different processing styles”, “holding space with confidence”, and “listening actively” The book, incidentally, is available for free online at daniellangenthal.com.
As a cantor and a lifelong orchestral and choral singer, I will always appreciate the power of hierarchy in music. Like a sports team, an army, or a nation, there are certain levels of musical beauty, complexity, and spirituality that require hierarchical forms to thrive. Yet experiences like PMP remind me that for those musical hierarchies to work well, they must be led with a simultaneous focus on compassion, shared responsibility, and unity.
These values are baked into traditional Jewish prayer as well. “Davening,” as we call it, is founded on the equal value of the sounds, murmurings, and songs of every person in the synagogue. The cantor or choir are facilitators, and even a conveners of great moments of beauty. But the hum of individuals praying, together with the swell of communal singing, affirms that these are the prayers of those who share responsibility and share life.
May each of us seek to find compassion and unity, both in music and with each other. No matter whether we feel like the concertmaster or the last chair of the orchestra, our melodies all weave together before the One who hears prayer.
Firstly, this year’s public-facing program only ran one full week; typical years involve two weeks of public events.
Quoted from the Perlman Music Program website: https://www.perlmanmusicprogram.org/about-pmp. The Suncoast program is an extension of this broader initiative by the Perlmans, based in New York.
For a wonderful Yehuda HaLevi quote on the levitical specialty in music, see my recent essay, “The Torah of the Choir.”
On performance more generally: The dynamics of such a word,are worthy of critical analysis. Performing mitzvot (commandments) is seen as piety. Performing music is seen as potentially suspect. Both employ the same word, yet in only one context is it perceived as negative. Short of writing an entire article, I will only offer that there is a lot of performance in the world, yet often little awareness of what is being performed. I remember well a rabbi / professor who scandalized his rabbinical students for attempting to describe prayer as “performance” — a word reeking to them of inauthenticity. Yet attending some religious services, one recognizes all too soon how much even the most lay-style service, largely untrammeled by musical aspiration, is a performance of many things — religiosity, cultural commitments, and especially competence within one’s tradition. No liturgical prayer style is exempt from the religious mandate to unite the exterior with the interior, the words of prayer with the heart of the leader. See, among many sources, Shulchan Aruch, Orach Hayyim, 5:1.
The idea of the composer as revealer of musical commandments is largely a construction of the Romantic era. This is perhaps why I prefer the Renaissance and Baroque era these days — although performers could be unbridled, composers were not yet idolized as the new gods of culture and musical improvisation was the norm. It is no mistake that chazonus was born in this era.
Thanks for another superb post Matt!!