The Orpheus Chamber Orchestra

There are moments in life when an idea, long dormant, suddenly asks to be heard. For years, I had dreamed of recording several of my works for string orchestra. At first, I considered the pragmatic route – hiring studio musicians somewhere in Eastern Europe, efficient and affordable. But as the dream grew, so did the sense that music, like all great endeavours, deserves a community that believes in it. I began to wonder: what if I approached an orchestra of real stature, a name that might carry the music beyond the confines of my own small world?

The obstacle, as ever, was cost. Dreams rarely trouble themselves with bank accounts, but bank accounts have a way of troubling us. I hesitated – not only out of concern for financial prudence but out of the hope that my wife would continue to greet me with a smile rather than with raised eyebrows.

At that time, I was facing a serious illness and enduring treatments that drained my strength. Yet somewhere within, a quiet voice insisted: Life is short. Opportunities do not return. Take the risk. Say yes. And so I did. Looking back, I thank God I found the courage.

I turned to Orpheus, one of the world’s great chamber orchestras – an ensemble renowned not only for their excellence but for their unique way of working, without a conductor, each musician taking responsibility for the whole. From the start, our communication was warm and professional, though not without its challenges.

They asked first to see the scores, wanting to know whether this was music they could, in good conscience, champion. I held my breath; they approved. Then came another matter: Orpheus is a chamber orchestra with a modest-sized string section. I longed for a fuller sound, something that would give the music breadth and depth. To their credit, they agreed to enlarge the ensemble. In the end, thirty-two musicians filled the room – a richness of sound I had scarcely dared imagine.

The more delicate issue involved my dear friend and musical partner, Israel Edelson. Because I was too unwell to travel, Israel’s presence was essential. But Orpheus, being proudly conductorless, was understandably wary of introducing a conductor – even one who promised not to conduct. I assured them that Israel is as humble as he is talented, as collaborative as he is gifted. Still, the compromise they offered was cautious: he could not sit among them in the hall but might advise from the control room above.

In the end, Providence has a way of softening hearts. Between takes, the musicians would climb the stairs to the control room, listening together, exchanging thoughts, discovering that Israel’s insights were offered not as instructions but as invitations. It was moving to see how naturally mutual respect grew.

For both of us, this recording with Orpheus became one of the great privileges of our musical lives. The musicians were consummate professionals. They played with beauty, discipline, and astonishing speed, finishing everything within the allotted time. And to hear them respond to our music – with seriousness, with enthusiasm, with sincere words of appreciation – was profoundly uplifting.

We left the experience grateful beyond words. Music at its best is a conversation of souls, and for those brief hours, ours joined theirs. As for the recording itself – well, I believe it bears witness to what can happen when talent meets devotion, and when a dream, long deferred, is finally given permission to sing.