A perfect introduction to this headstrong American voice. The composition dates take us from 1936 to 1989—not quite the whole story (as far as I know Diamond is still hard at work and Symphonies Nos. 10 and 11 are imminent), but well advanced. Begin with Psalm (1936; winner of the Juilliard Prize) and you'll agree, I think, that 'attention must be paid'. It is indeed a natural composer (only 21 years of age) who can write what he hears at the moment that he hears it. With Psalm Diamond heard a tuba—''a deep, cantorial sound like a deep Russian basso profundo''. And that's precisely how the piece was always going to begin—a lone voice from somewhere out of the depths. There's such inner-strength here: the spare granity chordings are so simple and yet so far-reaching. There's defiance, too, in the explosive cymbal clash which effectively unlocks the main body of the piece a rampant, highly charged allegro; attention must be paid to that too. Psalm prophecies a dynamic future.
So from tuba to cello as cantor. Kaddish unburdens itself most eloquently. What we have here is a tasteful Schelomo; sparer, less fulsome in its exhortations. Depending to some extent, of course, on the nature of the cellist. Yo-Yo Ma gave the premiere: according to the composer he was ''tensile and fervent''. I'm sure he was. Starker, by contrast, is very much the sage—the wise old voice on to whose every word one hangs. At best, Diamond's music has just such a quality. You go where it takes you and tend not to count the detours. But then, there are relatively few in Symphony No. 3. It's a tight and cogently argued piece. The first movement comes upon you like a train, its driving rhythmic figure passing through the orchestra, undercutting, infecting everything in its path. But the quality of the music is open and singing—lyric lines working their way in and around the motoric pulsations.
The first of the two slow movements opens with a particularly lovely sonority; three flutes flecked with harp and piano. The air is one of ancient and modern, quietly ecstatic string writing draws you into its development. And why is it that only Americans can make the trumpet sound this plaintive. The playing here is most involving. And when the scherzo bursts in attacca with fire-crackers from the side drum, Schwarz and his orchestra are girded for a stuttering, stabbing, high-octane display. The finale is a glowing benediction; prominent clarinet and oboe solos lead the piece to a kind of tranquillity.
Which leaves Romeo and Juliet—somewhere between Prokofiev and Zeffirelli's Nino Rota. No ballet, stage production, or film prompted its composition—rather the other way around. When Olivia de Havilland played Juliet on Broadway in 1951 she drew her producer's attention to the score. Diamond declined permission for its use in that show, but wrote a completely new score instead. I wonder if it even remotely compared in quality to this. Especially lovable is the ''Balcony Scene''. It's the expressive catch in the melodic line: with Diamond you tend to remember the intensity more than the shape of the leading line. Not here. Lovely, too, is the way in which solo violin and viola (the lovers, to be sure) unite in the transfigured close. Another winning Delos disc—another invaluable piece of the American jigsaw.'