Choral Authority

Dale Warland has gone from 'college choral man' to international leader in the vocal field 

by MATT PEIKEN

St. Paul Pioneer Press; October 25, 2001©

Dale Warland doesn't recall dates very well or remember how long ago he did this or that. He never had surgery on the herniated disc in his back, so he walks with a limp and can't stand up for long without pain. He comes across as the classic American grandfather -- the warm smile, the fine gravel in his speaking voice, the bifocals, the chestnut button-down sweater.

It's because of substance, not style, that Warland is among the most influential choral directors of his generation.

The Dale Warland Singers, opening their 29th season this weekend, have developed such a signature sound that choirs throughout America and beyond look to their 23 recordings as artistic references. By commissioning and premiering more than 200 new works, small and large, Warland has expanded the choral repertory more than any American contemporary. The McKnight Foundation named Warland its 2001 Distinguished Artist, its highest singular honor.

Warland and those around him attribute it all to his ear and attention to detail -- he knows what he wants to hear from his 36 singers and, to the tweaking of single breaths in a lyrical line, how to achieve it.

"I don't really talk about it and I can't even really tell you how I do it," Warland says. "I'm very fussy about details and sensitive to vocal technique, but I like to just let the music take over."

Warland, who grew up with his younger brother on a farm near Fort Dodge, Iowa, never had the sort of ambitions that lead to grand accomplishments and accolades. He earned his doctorate in choral music so he could become, in his words, a "college choral man." And that he did, leading the women's chorus at a college in upstate New York for two years before heading the choral department at St. Paul's Macalester College.

During the early '70s, such local arts groups as the Schubert Club, Center Opera and Walker Art Center regularly called on Warland to form choral groups for their productions, inspiring Warland to establish a professional choir under his own name. He left Macalester for good in 1985 to dedicate his full attention to the Dale Warland Singers.

Warland turns 70 next April, and though the board of his organization is planning now for his eventual retirement, Warland can't even inspire himself to take a vacation.

"Rather than burning out on it, music has come to mean more to me now than ever before," he says. "I'm saddened when people don't have access to it or avail themselves to it. Especially in times like these, dealing with sadness or fear, music can go further than words."

CONSISTENT TECHNIQUE

Warland is half-standing, half-sitting on a stool at the body of a grand piano, using the top as a podium while leading his singers through another rehearsal in a choral room at Augsburg College.

He conducts with a simplicity -- four simple arm motions, one for every beat, forming a cross without a hint of flourish -- rarely found outside elementary-school music halls. His technique is so consistent he once tore his rotator cuff, an injury more commonly associated with pitching a baseball, from what he suspects was the repetitive stress of conducting.

Laced into his motions are subtle changes of pace and hand gestures that sculpt the voices into what choral insiders regard as the Dale Warland sound. There are no rough or sharp edges, no whiplash dynamic changes, no vibrato the director hasn't specifically requested. What's left are smooth highs and lows, and crescendos so uniform across the four vocal sections, it's as if Warland controls them with one master volume switch.

During rehearsal, Warland will ask each section to sing a passage on its own and then in tandem.

"Get to the vowel right away," he says at one point. Later on, he wants to hear the "H" harder in the word "holy." In another piece, he tells his singers he doesn't want to hear as much "ft" in the word left and "st" in the word lost. His instructions seem more like suggestions than commands. Warland's choir sounds much the same to someone sitting near the basses and sopranos as it does to someone seated near the tenors and altos, or in the middle -- a trait all choirs strive for.

Several of the singers have been with Warland for 15, 20 years and longer, but many were barely in grade school when the group formed. They say they're here for more than the love of singing, to also sing within the Warland tradition. This isn't a full-time job for any singer, but some moved here to join this choir.

"You can listen to recordings 20 years ago, and they sound like we do today," says Brian Steele of Minneapolis, who has sung bass with Warland since 1994.

David Nordli, 58, sang with Warland during much of the '70s, dropped out of the group for more than two decades and returned last season. Little about Warland has changed, he says.

"He was the first choral director in town who treated singers like musicians, which was astonishing," Nordli recalls of his early years with Warland. "He places a lot of responsibility for interpreting the music on his singers, not just himself."

That's not all by design, Warland says.

"Some conductors are very good about articulating the meaning of the music to the singers, and I've never been very good at that," he says. "I wish I were better at that. I try to do it in more subtle ways, but I also try leaving it up to the singers to find the meaning for themselves."

CHORAL RENAISSANCE

The Dale Warland Singers emerged during what would prove a renaissance for choral music in the Twin Cities. The Minnesota Chorale and Plymouth Music Series were also born during the late '60s and early '70s, and so was the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra, which gave work to these groups. Warland wasn't conscious of his place or contribution to the larger picture.

Early in his career, he looked to choral legends Robert Shaw, Roger Wagner and Norman Luboff for guidance, then "sorted out the truth" from them to frame what he wanted from his own choirs. Warland also had a fierce interest in 20th-century music and performing new works, and he had no models for that.

"I suppose that was counter to what was going on in instrumental and choral music, which at the time was really taken with early music, especially the Baroque," he says. "I supposed I could go in a different direction, and I sensed there was the talent here to go there with me."

Warland has supported scores of composers at all stages of their careers, but none with more commitment and personal interaction than Stephen Paulus. Warland gave Paulus his first commission and has since premiered dozens of his compositions. Paulus, who lives in St. Paul, now has a thriving international career but considers writing for Warland among his greatest professional honors and pleasures. Warland is premiering another Paulus work this weekend.

"My things work well with other choirs, but I think they're more at home with Dale," Paulus says. "You can be spoiled by that, by hearing your stuff done well and hearing gorgeous sounds. There are many wonderful groups out there, but intuitive musicians like Dale know exactly what they can get out of the music."

Warland makes little distinction between secular and religious music -- "to me, all great music is sacred," he says. He has divided this weekend's program into the themes "American Mavericks," folk songs, spirituals and "Shearing Meets Shakespeare."

Warland's work with each piece begins in the Mac-Groveland home he and his wife, Ruth, have shared for nearly 35 years. There, in the living room that serves as his office, he works in front of a Steinway grand with scuffed brown paint and lacquer, reading through the music and imagining how his choir will sound.

"I look for great craftsmanship, a beautiful text, a great spirituality that only comes from great composers," Warland says.

Not long ago, Warland says, the board of the Dale Warland Singers spoke with him about "the whole succession business" -- the group's future without Warland at the helm. Warland understood the logic -- he won't be around forever -- but didn't appreciate the thrust of the conversation. They reached a loose agreement on a retirement age for him, 75, when Warland would give up the everyday direction.

He would likely continue working for the group in another capacity, Warland says, and his health could push the departure backward or forward. He might pick up photography again or his watercolor paints. Regardless, he says, he won't ever retire in the traditional sense.

"We have a cabin in Wisconsin, but I'm not a very good vacationer," he says. "In one place or another, I'm going to be conducting until I drop."