Pomp and Circumstance
It’s that time of year again. Finals are over, juries are but a distant memory, recital season has come to a close, and all that remains is the pinnacle event of the school year: commencement. Of course, commencement time does not merely entail the usual ceremony with its stuffy gowns, flashing cameras, and a speech that almost always includes the sentence, “Commencement, after all, means beginning, not ending.” The weeks preceding the big day are filled with all sorts of events: celebratory dinners, special award ceremonies, galas, dances, and parties, all of which are documented in real time on social media (I think I’ve received more photo tags in the past two weeks than in my entire Eastman career). Emotions run high, and even the most mundane of locales may become the source of considerable nostalgia.
With my own commencement approaching this Sunday, I’ve not escaped the tug of sentimentality, frequently marveling at the fact that two years have elapsed since I last donned a cap and gown at my graduation from the New England Conservatory. It was a truly wonderful day; Boston was warm and radiant, the ceremonial speeches were engaging and inspiring (although the stereotypical “Commencement is a beginning, not an ending” line did find its way into the verbiage), and I successfully managed to avoid tripping over my gown as I crossed the stage to receive my diploma (I can be quite clumsy sometimes). What I remember most about that day, however, was the music. Waiting to enter the hall, my fellow graduates and I wondered who would be playing for the event; after all, none of us were available! It turned out some brass-playing graduates had agreed to play as a quintet while the rest of us marched in, performing one of those watered-down “Pomp and Circumstance” arrangements that appropriately spends about one minute on the opening and the rest on the famous trio. In fact, they had already reached it by the time I entered the hall, even though I was at the front of my line. The sound hit me like a force field as I emerged into the packed venue–the boisterous strains of the brass, coupled with the enthusiastic cheering of the audience, was almost disorientating. Us graduates filed in and took our seats, nodding in appreciation of our colleagues’ efforts and speculating as to whether or not they would modulate as the tune started for the umpteenth time (they didn’t).
As I reflected on that day, an intriguing thought occurred to me: what would graduations be like without “Pomp and Circumstance”? My curiosity grew when some quick online research revealed that the origins of its use in commencement ceremonies was a literal matter of, well, circumstance. Elgar was in the U.S. to receive an honorary doctorate from Yale in 1905, and so, appropriately, a couple of his recently-composed marches were selected to be performed at the ceremony. Interestingly, P&C was not used for the processional, but for the recessional (which, incidentally, remains the custom at Yale today)–it was the Ruy Blas overture of Mendelssohn that was performed as the class of 1905 traipsed down the aisle. Elgar’s piece apparently struck a more nostalgic chord than Mendelssohn’s (literally and figuratively), as other schools quickly adopted it for their own ceremonies. Within decades, it had become the standard graduation march for most American educational institutions.
What I found particularly interesting about this history was the seemingly universal consensus that this was the tune for commencement ceremonies. What about it is so engaging, so memorable, and so evocative that it’s come to be synonymous with graduation? A primary reason might very well be the wide range of emotions it conveys: nostalgia and sentimentality balanced delicately with triumph and celebration. It’s grand without being overly boisterous, and endearing without succumbing to saccharine. And like many famous melodies, its beauty lies in its simplicity. It is not a complicated tune, nor is it a complex arrangement of harmonies. Yet, try to write one better suited for a commencement ceremony and you’ve got the compositional equivalent of climbing Mount Everest.
Putting aside P&C’s intrinsic emotional appeal, however, I think its real significance lies in the fact that it is one of those rare classical music pieces that occupies an immortal place in popular culture. The average American probably won’t know of Elgar, but they’ll know “The Graduation Song.” I recall one episode of the popular sitcom, Friends, in which two of the lead characters, Monica and Chandler, spontaneously decide to get married in Las Vegas. While the couple waits outside the chapel, Chandler starts to hum P&C, and a confused Monica asks him what he’s doing.
“Oh, that’s the wedding march,” Chandler explains. “Does–does that freak you out?”
“No,” she responds, “only because it’s the graduation song.”
It might seem like just another good joke, but I think it’s fascinating to contemplate that an English march written in 1901 found its way into an American sitcom in 1999. Granted, the interpretation of Matthew Perry (who plays Chandler) was probably not what Elgar had in mind, but nonetheless, it’s there.
Ultimately, the popularity of “Pomp and Circumstance” is an excellent example of the fact that people can like classical music however unknowingly. There seems to be this common notion that somehow culture has stopped liking or enjoying classical music, but that’s obviously not the case. The reality is that people often don’t know how they’re supposed to like and enjoy it, and the task of revealing the beauties of the genre to audiences lies squarely with myself and my fellow graduates. With “Pomp and Circumstance,” however, no pre-concert lecture is necessary. It’s a timeless melody that rejoices and reflects, lamenting the ending of one chapter while embracing the beginning of another–and commencement, after all, is a beginning, not an ending.
Oops. I used it.
