Liz Frazer
soprano
Benjamin Blozan, piano
Graduate Recital
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
7:30 pm
Organ Hall, Music Building
Program
from Five Songs, Op. 37 Jean Sibelius
Mädchen kam vom Stelldichein (1865-1957)
Der Erste Kuss
War es ein Traum
Fleurs Francis Poulenc
(1899-1963)
Le Mariage des Roses César Franck
(1822-1890)
Les lilas qui avaient fleuri Lili Boulanger
(1893-1918)
Fleur des Blés Claude Debussy
(1862-1918)
Fleur jetée Gabriel Fauré
(1825-1924)
When soul is joined to soul Amy Beach
Wouldnʼt that be queer? (1867-1944)
Intermission
Songs from Letters (1989) Libby Larsen
So like your father (b. 1950)
He never misses
A man can love two women
A working woman
All I have
Cinco canciones Negras (1945) Xavier Montsalvatge
Cuba dentro de un piano (1912-2002)
Punto de Habanera
Chévere
Cancíon de cuna para dormir a un negrito
Canto negro
Liz Frazer is a student of Dr. Carla LeFevre
________
In partial fulfillment of the degree requirements for the
Doctor of Musical Arts in Performance
Jean Sibelius:
from Five Songs, Op. 37
Mädchen kam vom Stelldichein gegangen
Poem by J.L. Runeberg
Mädchen kam vom Stelldichein gegangen,
Kam mit roten Händen.
Sprach die Mutter: “Wo von hast du rote
Hände, Tochter?”
Sprach das Mädchen: “Ach, ich pflückte Rosen
und die Dornen stachen mir die Hände.”
Wieder kam vom Stelldichein das Mädchen,
kam mit roten Lippen.
Sprach die Mutter: “Wo von hast du rote
Lippen, Tochter?”
Sprach das Mädchen: “Ach, ich naschte
Himbeerʼn und der saft bemalte mir die
Lippen.”
Wieder kam vom Stelldichein das Mädchen,
kam mit bleichen Wangen.
Sprach die Mutter: “Wo von hast du bleiche
Wangen, Tochter?”
Sprach das Mädchen: “Richtʼ ein Grab, o
Mutter!”
Legʼ mich drein und setz ein Kreuz darüber,
und aufs Kreuze schreibe, was ich sage:
“Einmal kam sie heim mit roten Händen,
denn die drückten rot des Liebsten Hände.
Einmal kam sie heim mit roten Lippen,
denn die Küsten rot des Liebsten Lippen.
Endlich kam sie heim mit bleichen Wangen,
denn die färbten blecih des Liebsten Untreu!”
Der erste Kuss
Poem by J.L. Runeberg
Dem Abendstern am Silberwolkenrande,
das Mädchen leise eine Frage sandte:
“Sagʼ Abendstern, was die im Himmel denken,
wenn wir den ersten Kuss dem Liebsten
schenken?”
Des Himmels Kind gab ihr zur Antwort wieder:
“Die Engel blicken froh zur Erde nieder,
die eigne Seligkeit zu sehn sie meinen;
der Tod nur fort sein Auge kehrt zum Weinen.”
War es ein Traum?
Poem by J.J. Wecksell
War es ein Traum daß zeitenlang
Dein Herzensfreund ich war?
Ich denk mirʼs als ein Lied,
das bang verklungen Hall gebar.
The girl came from meeting her lover
The girl came from meeting her lover,
came with her hands all red.
Said her mother: “What has made your hands
so red, daughter?
Said the girl: “I was picking roses
and pricked my hands on the thorns.”
Again she came from meeting her lover,
came with her lips all red.
Said her mother: “What has made your lips so
red, daughter?”
Said the girl: “I was eating raspberries
and stained my lips with the juice.”
Again she came from meeting her lover,
came with her cheeks all pale.
Said her mother: “What has made your cheeks
so pale, daughter?”
Said the girl: “O mother, dig a grave for me,
Hide me there and set a cross above,
and on the cross write what I say:
“Once she came home with red hands,
They had turned red pressed in her loverʼs
hands.
Once she came home with red lips,
They had turned red beneath her loverʼs lips.
Finally she came home with her cheeks pale,
They had turned pale at her loverʼs
faithlessness!
The first kiss
The evening star sat on the rim of silver mist,
the quiet maiden asked her a question:
“Tell me, evening star, what do they think in
heaven when you give your first kiss to your
lover?”
And heavenʼs child gave her answer:
“The angels look happily down to earth
and see their own bliss reflected back;
only death turns his eyes away and weeps.”
Was it a dream?
Was it a dream that once
I was your heart?
I remember it as a song fallen silent,
of which the strains still echo.
Ich denkʼ des Zweigs, den du gereicht,
des Blicks so scheu wie Flaum,
ich denkʼ der Abschiedsträne feucht.
War all das nur ein Traum?
Ein Traum wie Veilchens Leben kurz
auf frühlingsgrüner Flur,
davon in neuer Blüten Sturz
bald welkt des Reizes Spur.
Oft nachts hörʼ ich des Liedes Lust
an bittʼrer Tränen Saum:
birg tief den Klang in deiner Brust,
es war dein schönster Traum.
Francis Poulenc:
Fleurs
Poem by Louise de Vilmorin
Fleurs promises, fleurs tenues dan tes bras,
Fleurs sorties des parentheses dʼun pas,
Qui apportait ces fleurs lʼhiver
Saupoudrées du sable des mers?
Sable de tes baisers, fleurs des amour fanées
Les beaux yeux sont de cendre et dans la
cheminée
Un coeur enrubanné de plaintes
Brûle avec ses images saintes.
Fleurs promises, fleurs tenues dan tes bras.
Qui tʼapportait ces fleurs lʼhiver
Saupoudrées du sable des mers?
Cesar Franck:
Le Mariage des Roses
Poem by Eugène David
Mignonne, sais tu comment,
Sʼépousent les roses?
Ah! cet hymen est charmant!
Quelles tendres choses
Elles disent en ouvrant
Leurs paupières closes!
Mignonne, sais tu comment
Sʼépousant les roses?
Elles disent: Aimons nous!
Si courte est la vie!
Ayons les baisers plus doux,
Lʼâme plus ravie!
Pendant que lʼhomme, à genoux,
Doute, espère, ou prie!
Ô mes soeurs, embrassons-nous
Si courte est la vie!
Crois-moi, mignonne, crois-moi,
I think of the rose you tossed,
a glance so shy and tender,
I remember the farewell tears when we parted.
Was it all a dream?
A dream is as brief as the life of a violet
in a green spring meadow,
whose blooms soon fall away
before a crowd of new flowers.
But nights I often hear the happy songs
through the edge of my bitter tears:
Bury this sound in your heart,
it was a beautiful dream!
Flowers
Flowers promised, flowers held in your arms,
Flowers from a stepʼs parentheses,
Who brought you these flowers in winter
Sprinkled with the seaʼs sand?
Sand of your kisses, flowers of faded loves
Your lovely eyes are ashes and in the hearth
A heart moan-beribboned in moans
Burns with its sacred images.
Flowers promised, flowers held in your arms.
Who brought you winter flowers
Sprinkled with sand of the sea?
The Marriage of the Roses
My dear one, do you know
how the roses marry?
Ah! this marriage is charming!
What tender things
they say by opening
their closed petals!
My dear one, do you know
how the roses marry?
They say: Let us love!
So short is life!
Let us have the sweetest kisses,
The soul more enraptured!
While the man, kneeling,
Doubts or hopes or prays!
O my sisters, let us embrace
this short life!
Believe me, my sweet, believe me,
Aimons nous commes elles,
Vois, le printemps vient à toi,
Et, des hirondelles,
Aimer est lʼunique loi
À leurs nids fidèles.
Ô ma reine, suis ton roi,
Aimons nous commes elles.
Excepté dʼavoir aimé
Quʼest-il donc sur terre?
Notre horizon est fermé,
Ombre, nuit mystère!
Un seul phare est allumé,
Lʼamour nous lʼéclaire!
Excepté dʼavoir aimé
Quʼest-il donc sur terre?
Lili Boulanger:
Les lilas qui avaient fleuri
Poem by Francis Jammes
Les lilas qui avaient fleuri lʼanée dernière
vont fleuri de nouveau dans les tristes
parterres.
Déjà le pècher grêle à jonché le ciel bleu
de ses roses, comme un enfant la Fête-Dieu.
Mon coeur devrait mourir au milieu de ses
choses
car cʼétait au milieu des vergers blancs et
roses
que jʼavais espéré je ne sais quoi de vous.
Mon âme rêve sourdement sur vos genoux.
Ne la repoussez point. Ne la relevez pas,
de peur quʼen sʼéloignant de vous elle ne voie
combien vous êtes faible et troublée dans ses
bras.
Claude Debussy:
Fleur des Blés
Poem by André Girod
Le long des blés que la brise
Fait onduler puis défrise
En un désordre coquet,
Jʼai trouvé de bonne prise
De tʼy cueillir un bouquet.
Mets-le vite à ton corsage,
Il est fait à ton image
En même temps que pour toi…
Ton petit doigt, je le gage,
Tʼa déjà soufflé pourquoi:
Ces épis dorés, cʼest lʼonde
De ta chevelure blonde
Toute dʼor et de soleil;
Ce coquelicot qui fronde,
Let us love like them,
See, spring is coming to you,
And for tthe swallows,
Love is the only law
In their faithful nests.
O my queen, I am your king,
Let us love as they.
Except for having loved
What is there on earth?
Your future is cloaked in
Shadow, night, mystery!
A lone beacon is lit,
Love lights it for us!
Except for having loved
What is there on earth?
The lilacs which bloomed
The lilacs which bloomed last year
will flower again in their sad beds.
Already the peach has strewn the blue sky with
pinks, like a child on Corpus Christi.
My heart should have died amid these things
for it was amid the orchardʼs whites and pinks
that I had hoped, I know not what from you.
My soul dreams secretly on your lap.
Do not reject it. Do not raise it up
for fear that drawing away from, it you might
see how frail and troubled it is in his arms.
Field Flowers
Along the wheat field
That waves and unfurls in the breeze
In playful disarray,
I have found a fair patch of flowers
In which to gather a bouquet for you.
Put it quickly at your bodice,
It is made in your image
I put it together for you…
Your little finger, I would wager,
Has already whispered why:
These golden clusters are the waves
Are your blond hair,
All golden and sunny;
This poppy that sways,
Cʼest ta bouche au sang vermeil.
Et ces bluets, beau mystére!
Points dʼazur qui rien nʼaltère,
Ces bluets ce sont tes yeux,
Si bleus quʼon dirait, sur terre,
Deux éclats tombés des cieux.
Gabriel Fauré:
Fleur jetée
Poem by Armand Silvestre
Emporte ma folie
Au gré du vent.
Fleur en chantant cueillie
Et jetée en rêvant.
Emporte ma folie
Au gré du vent.
Comme la fleur fauchée,
Périt lʼamour.
La main qui tʼa touchée
Fuit ma main sans retour.
Comme la fleur fauchée,
Périt lʼamour.
Que le vent qui te sèche
O pauvre fleur,
Tout à lʼheure si fraîche
Et demain sans couleur,
Que le vent qui te sèche,
Sèche mon coeur!
Amy Beach:
When soul is joined to soul
Poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Oh, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along
in thine?
As a little stone in a running stream, it seems
to lie and pine.
Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, unfit to
plight with thine.
Oh, wilt though have my cheek, Dear, drawn
closer to thine own?
My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many
a tear run down.
Oh, must though have my soul, Dear,
commingled with thy soul?
Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand; the
part is in the whole;
Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when
soul is joined to soul.
It is your crimson lips.
And these cornflowers, beautiful mystery!
Flecks of azure that nothing can alter,
These cornflowers, they are your eyes,
So blue that one would say, on earth,
Two flashes fallen from heaven.
Discarded flower
Take my folly
At the will of the wind.
Flower which I picked while I sang
and threw away as I dreamed.
Take my folly
At the will of the wind.
Like the cut flower,
Love dies.
The hand that once touched you
Now shuns my hand forever
Like the cut flower,
Love dies.
May the wind that withers you,
Oh poor flower,
A moment ago so fresh,
And tomorrow without color.
May the wind that withers you
Wither my heart!
Wouldnʼt that be queer?
Poem by Elsie J. Cooley
If the trees knew how to run
up and down the hill,
If the cats and dogs could talk
and we had to keep still,
If the flowers all should try
like birds to sing and fly,
and the birds were always found
growing up out of the ground,
Dear, dear, wouldnʼt that be queer?
If the babies when they came
were very old and tall,
and grew down instead of up
to be quite young and small,
if the sun should shine out bright
in the middle of the night,
and the dark should come and stay
when we knew that it was day,
Dear, dear, wouldnʼt that be queer?
Libby Larsen:
Songs from Letters: Calamity Jane to her
daughter Janey, 1880-1902
**Text taken from actual letters of Calamity
Jane to her daughter
1. So Like Your Father (1880)
Janey, a letter came today
and a picture of you.
Your expression so like your fatherʼs
brought back all the years.
2. He Never Misses (1880)
I met your father ʻWild Bill Hicockʼ near
Abilene.
A bunch of outlaws were trying to kill him.
I crawled through the brush to warn him.
Bill killed them all.
Iʼll never forget…
Blood running down his face
while he used two guns.
He never aimed and he was never known to
miss.
3. A Man Can Love Two Women (1880)
Donʼt let jealousy get you, Janey.
It kills love and all nice things,
It drove your father from me.
I lost everything I loved, except for you.
A man can love two women at a time.
He loved her and he still loved me.
He loved me because of you, Janey.
4. A Working Woman (1882-1883)
Your mother works for a living.
One day I have chickens, and the next day
feathers.
These days Iʼm driving a stagecoach.
For a while, I worked in Russellʼs saloon
but when I worked there all the virtuous women
planned to run me out of town,
so these days, Iʼm driving a stagecoach.
Iʼll be leaving soon to join Bill Codyʼs Wild West
Show.
Iʼll ride a horse bare-back,
standing up, shoot my old Stetson hat twice
—throwing it into the air—
and landing on my head.
These are hectic days—like hell let out for
noon.
I mind my own business, but remember
the one thing the world hates is a woman
who minds her own business.
All the virtuous women
have bastards and shot-gun weddings.
I have nursed them through childbirth and
my only pay is a kick in the pants when my
back is turned.
These other women are pot bellied, hairy
legged
and look like something the cat dragged in.
I wish I had the power to damn their souls to
hell!
Your mother works for a living.
5. All I Have (1902)
I am going blind.
All hope of seeing you again is dead, Janey.
What have I ever done except one blunder
after another?
All I have left are these pictures of you and
your father.
Donʼt pity me, Janey,
forgive my faults and all the wrong I did you.
Good night, little girl,
And may God keep you from harm.
Xavier Montsalvatge:
Cinco Canciones Negras
Cuba dentro de un piano
Poem by Rafael Alberti
Cuando mi madre lleva baun sorbete de fresa
por sombrero
y el humo del los barcos aún era humo de
habanero.
Mulata vuelta abajera.
Cádiz se adormecía entre fandangos y
habaneras
y un lorito al piano quería hacer de tenor.
…dime donde está la flor quel el hombre tanto
venera.
Mi tio Antonio volvía con su aire de
insurrecto.
La Cabaña y el Principe sonaban por los
patios del Puerto.
(Ya no brilla la Perla azul del mar de las
Antillas.
Ya se apagò, se nos ha muerto.)
Me encontré con la bella Trinidad…
Cuba se había perdido y a hora era verdad,
Era verdad,
no era mentira.
Un cañonero huido llegó cantándolo en
guajira.
La Habana ya se perdió.
Tuvo la culpa el dinero…
Calló,
cayó el cañonero.
Pero después, Pero, ¡ah! después
fue cuando al “SÍ”
lo hicieron “YES.”
Punto de Habanera (Siglo XVIII)
Poem by Nestor Luján
La niña criolla pasa con su miriñaque blanco.
¡qué blanco!
Hola crespón de tu espuma;
¡marineros, contempladla!
Va mojadita de lunas
que le hacen su piel mulata.
Niña, no te quejes,
tan solo per esta tarde.
Quisiera mandar algua
que no se esacpe de pronto
de la cárcel de tu falda.
Tu cuerpo encierra esta tarde
Five Black Songs
Cuba in a piano
When my mother wore strawberry sherbet for a
hat,
and the smoke from the ships was still smoke
from cigars,
from dark Vuelta Abajo* leaves,
Cadiz went to sleep between fandangos and
habaneras,
and a little parrot at the piano tried to sing
tenor.
…tell me, where is the flower that a man can
truly respect.
My uncle Antonio returned with his air of
rebellion.
The Cabaña and Principe** resounded through
the patios near the harbor.
(No more shines the blue pearl of the Antillean
sea.
Extinguished. For us no more.)
I met the beautiful Trinidad…
Cuba had been lost and this time it was true,
It was true,
it was no lie.
A gunner on the run arrived, sang Cuban
songs all about it.
Havana was already lost.
Money was to blame…
The gunner went silent,
fell.
But later, but, ah, later
they took “SÍ”
and changed it to “YES.”
*Cuban cigars
**Colonial fortresses guarding Havanna Harbor
Habanera Strain (18th Century)
The Creole girl goes by in her white crinoline,
How white!
The billowing spray of your crepe skirt!
Sailors, look at her!
She passes gleaming in the moonlight
which darkens her skin.
Young girl, do not complain,
only for tonight
do I wish the water
not to suddenly escape
the prison of your skirt.
In your body this evening
rumor de abrirse de dalia.
Niña, no te quejes,
tu cuerpo de fruta está
dormido en fresco brocado.
Tu cintura vibra fina
con la nobleza de un látigo.
Toda tu piel huele
alegre
a limonal y a naranjo.
Los marineros te miran
y se te quedan mirando.
La niña criolla pasa
con su miriñaque blanco.
¡qué blanco!
Chévere
Poem by Nicolás Guillén
Chévere del navajozo,
se vuelve él mismo navaja:
Pica tajadas de luna,
más la luna se le acaba;
pica tajadas de sombra,
más la sombra le acaba;
pica tajada de canto,
más el canto se le acaba,
¡y entonces, pica que pica
carne de su negra mala!
Canción de cuna para dormir a un negrito
Poem by Idelfonso Pereda Valdés
Ninghe, ninghe, ninghe,
tan chiquitito,
el negrito
que no quiere dormir.
Cabeza de coco,
grano de café,
con linda motitas,
con ojos grandotes
como dos ventanas
que miran al mar.
Cierra los ojitos,
negrito asustado;
el mandinga blanco
te puede comer.
¡Ya no eres esclavo!
Y si duermes mucho
el señor de casa
promete comprar
traje con botones
para ser un ʻgroom.ʼ
Ninghe, ninghe, ninghe,
duérmete, negrito,
cabeza de coco,
grano de café.
dwells the sound of opening dahlias.
Little girl, donʼt fret, your body is fruit asleep in
your ripe body
sleeps in fresh brocade,
your waist quivers
as proud as a whip,
every inch of your skin is gloriously
fragrant
with orange- and lemon trees.
The sailors look at you
and feast their eyes on you.
The Creole girl goes by
in her white crinoline.
How white!
The dandy
The dandy of the knife
thrust turns himself into a knife:
He cuts slices of the moon,
but the moon is fading on him;
he cuts slices of shadow,
but the shadow is fading on him;
he cuts slices of song,
but the song is fading on him,
and then he cuts up, cuts up
the flesh of his bad black woman!
Cradle song for a little black boy
Ninghe, ninghe, ninghe,
tiny little child,
little black boy
who wonʼt go to sleep.
Head like a coconut,
head like a coffee bean,
with pretty freckles
and wide eyes
like two windows
looking out to sea.
Close your tiny eyes,
frightened little boy,
or the white devil
will eat you up.
Youʼre no longer a slave!
And if you sleep soundly,
the master of the house
promises to buy
a suit with buttons
to make you a ʻgroom.ʼ
Ninghe, ninghe, ninghe,
sleep, little black boy,
head like a coconut,
head like a coffee bean.
Canto Negro
Poem by Nicolás Guillén
¡Yambambó, yambambé!
Repica el congo solongo,
repica el negro bien
negro.
congo solongo del Songo
baila yambó sobre un pié.
¡Yambambó, yambambé!
Mamatomba,
serembé cuserembá,
El negro canta y se ajuma,
el negro se ajuma y canta,
el negro canta y se va..
Acuememe serembó
aé;
yambó,
aé.
Tamba, tamba, tamba, tamba,
tamba del negro que tumba;
tamba del negro, caramba,
caramba, que el negro tumba:
¡Yambá, yambó!
¡Yambambé, yambambó, yambambé!
¡Baila yambó sobre un pié!
Black song
¡Yambambó, yambambé!
The congo solongo is ringing,
the black man, the real black man is
ringing.
congo solongo from the Songo
is dancing the yambó on one foot.
¡Yambambó, yambambé!
Mamatomba,
serembé cuserembá.
The black man sings and gets drunk.
the black man gets drunk and sings,
the black man sings and goes away.
Acuememe serembó
aé;
yambó,
aé.
Bam, bam, bam, bam,
bam of the black man who tumbles;
drum of the black man, wow,
wow, how the black manʼs tumbling.
¡Yambá, yambó!
¡Yambambé, yambambó, yambambé!
is dancing the yambó on one foot.
