Leroy Anderson: Musical Genius in Miniature

What would the Christmas season be without Sleigh Ride, the beloved orchestral chestnut by Leroy Anderson? It’s one of those festive selections endlessly piped into our ears on radio, television, and in every public marketplace, to the point of becoming a sort of seasonal wallpaper—something taken for granted. But if Sleigh Ride is a tune that seems to have existed forever in the permanent fund of Americana, this is a tribute to the natural melodic gifts of its creator. For Anderson (1908–1975) was a highly original musical genius and an impeccably trained composer who, within his precisely defined field—that of light concert music—was a consummate master.

Leroy Anderson (the first name is accented on the second syllable: Le-ROY) was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts into a Swedish immigrant family strongly oriented toward craftsmanship of all kinds. A gifted pianist as a child, he received a classical education at Cambridge Latin School and then went on to Harvard University, in those days a major center of musical culture. Anderson’s teachers at Harvard included Walter Piston and George Enescu, both of whom had studied in Europe and were among the leading lights of the burgeoning classical music scene in the U.S. The Harvard musical aesthetic emphasized thorough training in the classical craft of composition, including the elegant handling of themes and of orchestration. Anderson became a meticulous craftsman who spent time perfecting every bar of music, even though most of his pieces lasted no more than a few minutes.

Along with his musical studies, Anderson mastered all of the Scandinavian languages and seemed headed for a career in linguistics, eventually helping the U.S. Army as a translator in World War II. But in the late Thirties the Boston Pops Orchestra and their conductor, Arthur Fiedler, beckoned. Fiedler had looked over an early piece Anderson had written about his alma mater, Harvard Sketches, and liked the melodies and the orchestration. Would Anderson be interested in writing some pieces for the Pops? The result was Anderson’s first hit: Jazz Pizzicato, followed soon after by its companion, Jazz Legato.

Perhaps I should explain here that the Boston Pops, founded in 1885, was the progenitor of the entire “orchestral pops” genre of music, a lighter subset of the classical canon. You are probably familiar with the mixture of overtures, vintage popular tunes, musical theatre songs, and film music that make up a typical pops concert as heard, for example, during the Christmas holidays or Independence Day. Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue and Grofé’s Grand Canyon Suite are examples of American orchestral pops favorites.

Over the ensuing years, and largely thanks to the patronage of Fiedler and the Pops, Anderson perfected his stock-in-trade, the lighthearted orchestral miniature—almost always “about” something and encapsulating an image or mood in a few broad strokes. To this end, some pieces employed sound effects or unconventional percussion instruments (a whip, sleigh bells, and horse clop in Sleigh Ride, a typewriter in The Typewriter, woodblocks to depict The Syncopated Clock, string glissandos for The Waltzing Cat), but other times Anderson played it straight (Fiddle-Faddle, The First Day of Spring, Horse and Buggy, Promenade, A Trumpeter’s Lullaby, and many more).

Sleigh Ride was conceived, ironically enough, during a heat wave in the summer of 1946. Words were added later by Mitchell Parish, but purists like myself prefer the straight instrumental version, which is a good deal more sophisticated in its texture.

I stressed before how easy it is to underrate and take for granted these exquisite gems. They are in fact small masterpieces of craft, economy, musical pictorialism, and charm. Anderson knew his stuff as a composer, and his feeling for the shape and curve of a melody was the result of deep personal sentiment combined with his top-class Boston education. Never simplistic in technique, he occasionally shot his fluent, beautiful melodies through with precisely aimed harmonic darts or surprises. After stating his thematic material straight, he often playfully “jazzified” it, as at the end of Sleigh Ride. The music’s insouciant tunefulness is reminiscent of an era when the world sought innocent relief from the rigors of Depression and world war.

Anderson’s hits are so deeply ingrained in our culture and consciousness that they transcend the status of mere trifles. Musical worthies of the caliber of Maurice Abravanel and Leonard Slatkin have championed Anderson’s work, Slatkin in a fine series of Naxos discs with the BBC Concert Orchestra—perhaps never has Anderson been done in finer classical style.

And—what it is not always true in the world of art—Anderson knew his strengths, never striving for something too grand or pretentious, always remaining true to his inner nature. (He did, though, write a piano concerto that has gotten some circulation; but typical of the perfectionist that Anderson was, he withdrew it from his official catalog, dissatisfied with its development of themes.)

Further, Anderson taps into a Norman Rockwell or Currier and Ives style of nostalgia for the simple life and joys of the past. Such Americana has suffered a blow in recent times from iconoclasts who like to scoff at apple pie, the flag, or sentiment in general. Such art, we are told, is naïve, simplistic, overly optimistic, or what have you. But consider: might we not take a different approach and enjoy such works of culture for their craftsman-like qualities, their sheer beauty and charm, their insight into a particular time in history?

I have become increasingly fascinated by the idea of popular art as a way to reach a multitude of people with messages of goodness, truth, and beauty. Leroy Anderson was such a bridge between the “highbrow” and the “pop,” a supreme master of his chosen field of light classics. Countless young people probably got their first taste of classical music through Anderson’s work, and his pieces can still provide delight and humor-filled relief.

The critic Anthony Tommasini has written: “During our present moment of crisis, Bach provides solace, Beethoven stirs us with resolve and Brahms probes aching emotional ambiguities. But trust me: Leroy Anderson will make you feel better about things.” And what in heaven’s name is wrong with that?

*This essay was originally published at The Imaginative Conservative and is republished here with gracious permission.

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