Dr. Louis Pichierri

September 17, 1917 – July 12, 1972 

The following tributes to Dr. Pichierri are taken from the program for the
 1972 1973 Memorial Season – in the chorale’s 16^th year. 

Dr. Louis Pichierri, Founder and Artistic Director of the Rhode Island Civic Chorale and Orchestra, was a native of Burlington, Vermont. He founded the Rhode Island Civic Chorale and Orchestra in 1957. He earned his Ph.D. from Syracuse University. He was the author of the book, "Music in New Hampshire" 1673-1800, dealing with the fascinating beginnings of America's music. During the 1963-1964 academic year, he held a George A. and Eliza Gardner Howard fellowship for research in Italy on the sacred vocal music of Antonio Vivaldi. In connection with his Vivaldi research, several of the works brought from Italy on microfilm have been published in modern edition.

American Premiere performances of Domine, Dixit and Beatus Vir have been performed by the Chorale under his direction. Currently another Beatus Vir is in the process of being published.

The Bach Festival was established in 1963 and has brought considerable praise to the community for its achievements. The Bach Festival Chamber Orchestra and Singers were formed in 1966 and the orchestra made its debut on the Temple Beth El Artists Series. This small orchestra has been a great cultural asset to the State of Rhode Island, as it brings seldom heard exciting repertoire to college and community audiences. This group has received the finest critical reviews.

Dr. Pichierri led the Chorale through a fully staged production of Aida in March of 1972. The opera received great critical acclaim as the finest that Rhode Island has ever produced.

Dr. Pichierri was one of the original founders of Arts, Rhode Island (RI Fine Arts Council), served on the board of Holiday Festival, and was guest conductor and adjudicator of school festivals throughout New England. He was Director of Music for the Providence Public Schools. 

A Portrait of Dr. Louis Pichierri
By Patricia McKenna

You see the eyes first - dark, deep, strong, expressive, sparkling. Eyes that have seen beauty, touched it, felt it, and now keep it, not deep within, just close to the heart.

Add now an impressive, always expressive face. Not a face like anyone else's - different. A face changing every moment, not holding back on anything; sharing the expression and feeling of the second.

Now, add the hands. Hands that grasp, reach out, shake, mold, and form the expression. A clutching fist, a waving shake of the wrist, all with meaning and much feeling.

Crown the head fully with gray hair, and dress the upper lip with a shade of the same. Finish off the whole with white tie and tails, a baton, and "musical effects," and watch the image come to life. Watch the eyes grow wide, the face grow tense, the hands shake sternly, the hair wave, and see the man work, forming notes and chords into beautiful music.

Observe the total effect and you will see a talented, expressive man in love with his work, a rare quality - a man with the power to control the flow of a beautiful moment.

Retain it. Sustain it. And then, bid it farewell. This is how I remember him. We all do. No one has made a deeper impression on my life than he has. He has influenced the lives of many people, but what is more important is that he has reached hundreds of young people, inspired them, impressed them, and changed them for the better.

I am one of the many young people he reached and changed. To prove this point I will refer to an entry in my journal dated a few years ago:

While thumbing through a scrapbook of filed memories I came across a program booklet that quickly flipped my mind back to Novem­ber of this past year. Autographs on the cover, signatures of people with whom I rubbed elbows as well as greatly admired; and as I opened the cover to venture in, the lights dimmed, the audience settled in their seats, and I sat on the bleachers at Moses Brown Field House awaiting my cue.  I was not there alone, but was surrounded by familiar faces. I was one of several hun­dred high school kids sitting there, waiting. 

We were dressed in brightly colored peasant outfits. We were not part of the audience, or actors; we were performers. A gray-haired, well-dressed man advanced to the head of the orchestra, the music started, and Mascagni's Cavalleria Rusticana began. 

No longer was I, or any of the others, a high school choir member; now I was an Italian peasant living in Sicily, feeling all the emotional impulses that the story revealed. From the sweet opening chorus until the final despairing cry I was part of another world, and fully involved in my role. Who says opera has to be dull? With a conductor like Dr. Louis Pichierri, the finest soloists, and a chorus of young, spirited singers, what else could the performance be but exciting? 

From the first lift of his baton until the thrilling finale, I believe Dr. Pichierri was reliving every character in the entire score. His bright, expressive' face revealed it to us. (That is one advantage we had over the audience, we could see someone else who was truly worked up over this love story.) It was inspiring, but then this was a very special face, one whose many ways of looking at life I remember so well.

His stern look could call for silence.  Can you imagine what it sounds like to be in a relatively small room with eighty high school students right around lunch time?  Moving chairs, hands banging on the piano, voices raised. . . Dr. Pichierri enters the choir room with his usual "Hi, kids!", greets the accompanist (our faithful Mrs. Lawton), organizes his music, takes "recalled" attendance (he doesn't need a list of names, he knows who is missing by a mere glance at the choir).

Standing over the keyboard he begins the "warming up" exercises - still a little noisy, but beginning to calm down. More exercises - still voices and movement. Then he stands quiet before the eighty students and sternly glares at them – the look orders silence, and the demand is obeyed, with respect. The time for conversation is over; an hour of serious learning has begun. Learning that will prove to be beneficial - and enjoyable.

His joyful look could convey happiness. I know many people with a nice smile or a jolly laugh, but none of them actually make me feel like laughing with them. Yet when you saw Dr. Pichierri smile, your face seemed to automatically grin, almost like magic. He glowed. His eyes sparkled, his mustache curled a little, his cheeks lifted and formed an apple-red hue beneath his eyes. He was compared to a teddy bear by many admiring females - lovable.

His inspiring look could capture and hold a moment.  Sometimes, while singing a work, one can hear the beauty; however, if while performing a work one can see someone else hearing the beauty, the feeling is different. When "the doctor" got "that look," when you could see him almost grabbing out to reach the sound, pull it to himself, hold it, and then release it, you did more than sing the notes, you became part of the sound, you were the music.

The expression I always waited for was when he tilted his head slightly, made an open fist, and held it to his lips as if to say "Beautiful", closed his eyes, and gave a small nod. This was when I knew he approved, when the sound was perfect in every way.

His gentle look could touch the heart. Dr. Pichierri loved kids - all kids; to him they were the hope of the future. He received his greatest satisfaction from them - and often, they from him. He saw so much in their future.  He knew their potential and tried to uncover it to them. When close to kids, he sparkled; he was alive, and just as energetic and questioning as each of them.

When our choir traveled to Italy with him, there were many times when I caught a glimpse of that gentle look of his. In a small village outside Naples, I recall a village square with little children playing ball near a fountain. Dr. Pichierri joined in - "the epitome of youth at fifty" - and was readily accepted. Later he posed with the kids for photos. He was surrounded by children who, like myself, felt that magnetic love for him that his gentle look attracted.

His perplexed look could arouse concern. So many people loved and admired Louis that when something went wrong many people felt the blow. But I remember seeing Dr. Pichierri worried only one time, at the last Bach Festival concert he conducted.  He was ill, tired, perplexed, almost as if to say, "Where do I go from here?" I think he knew what lay ahead of him at that time, and he just wasn't sure he had lived his life fully enough, or perhaps he wasn't sure who would take up his quest after he was gone.

For myself, Dr. Pichierri and music are synonymous. When I recall him, I think of music, and when music is mentioned, he is in my thoughts. Those of us who were privileged to know music through him will not forget him, or what he taught us, or what he stood for, or what he spent his life struggling and fighting for.