My first musical instrument was the recorder. One of my earliest musical memories, or memory of any kind, for that matter, is a recorder lesson. I remember a classroom swarming with unruly five-year-olds jumping wildly all over the school desks, screaming and squeaking their plastic instruments. The teacher and I, seated at the corner of the room, completely indifferent to the chaotic surroundings, played together from a music stand—I’m pretty sure it was Mary Had a Little Lamb—each on his own instrument, yet totally in sync. I remember knowing I played the song well.
The word recorder derives from the Latin recordārī, which means to remember, or recollect, the way one calls to mind a song learned by heart. In my piece Recorder for cello solo, commissioned by Samuel DeCaprio, I tried to call to mind my early musical memory and capture its emotional essence: the way it felt to be in that noisy room, the way it felt to make music for the first time. The melody of Mary Had a Little Lamb, the first tune I learned to play by heart, plays a central role in the piece, its circular opening motive—E, D, C, D—permeating all sections. The reference brews slowly until an inevitable moment of release, when the cellist’s voice enters, humming the tune against an arpeggiated accompaniment that presents the familiar melody in a new way.