2007-02-02 Wells Douglass [recital program]

              Robert Wells
baritone
James Douglass
piano
Faculty Recital
Friday, February 2, 2007
7:30 pm
Recital Hall, School of Music
Program
Fêtes Galantes II Claude Debussy
Les Ingénus (1862-1918)
Le faune
Colloque sentimental
Песни и Пляски смерти (Songs and Dances of Death) Modest Mussorgsky
Колыбельная (Lullaby) (1835-1881)
Серенада (Serenade)
Трепак (Trepak)
Полководец (The Field Marshal)
brief intermission
Three Songs, Op. 45 Samuel Barber
Now have I fed and eaten up the rose (1910-1981)
A green lowland of pianos
O Boundless, boundless evening
Three Songs, Op. 10
Rain has fallen
Sleep now
I hear an army
Granadina Joaquín Nin
(1879-1949)
Aquel sombrero de monte Fernando Obradors
(1897-1945)
Canción del cucu Joaquín Rodrigo
(1901-1999)
¡Oh, que buen amor, saber yoglar! Fernando Obradors
_____
The hall is equipped with a listening assistance system.
Patrons needing such assistance should contact an usher in the lobby.
That Claude Debussy was a seminal figure in the musical culture of France at turn of the
Twentieth Century is beyond question, as was the importance of his presence in Parisian literary
and artistic circles. A composer whose works embody a strikingly unique language of melodic
style and harmonic colors – attributes that would quickly become musical hallmarks of fin-de-siècle
France – Debussy also made irrefutable contributions to the evolution of the Mélodie. His
works for voice and piano are notable for their prosody – setting poetry to reflect the rhythms and
contours of spoken text – as well as for their textures and colors – ranging from the most delicate
to richly sumptuous colors – bringing to life, often with great musical economy, the sensuality,
passion, and honesty of the texts he chose for musical setting.
For the three songs that comprise the second book of Fêtes Galantes, Debussy returned to the
poetry of Paul Verlaine, a symbolist poet whose texts would serve as the source for nearly a
quarter of Debussy’s songs. Verlaine’s collection of poems entitled, Les Fêtes Galantes was
inspired by a series of eighteenth century paintings, most notably that of Jean-Antoine Watteau,
that are imbued with a typical French atmosphere, with their elegant characters and enchanting
settings. The first song of this cycle, Les Ingénus is a recollection of past pleasures, of first
encounters, and of youthful exuberance and playful sensuality, while Le Faune makes use of the
haunting rhythm of the tambourine as a forewarning of an unhappy end to self-indulgent pleasure.
The final song, Colloque Sentimental, through it’s dialogue between two ghosts as they traverse a
cold, deserted park, evokes the cold, bitter truths that often permeate human relationships.
Claude Debussy
Fêtes Galantes II
Texts by Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)
Les Ingénus
Les hauts talons luttaient avec les longues
jupes,
En sorte que, selon le terrain et le vent,
Parfois luisaient des bas de jambes, trop
souvent
Interceptés! – et nous aimions ce jeu de
dupes.
Parfois aussi le dard d’un insecte jaloux
Inquiétait le col des belles sous les branches,
Et c’étaient des éclairs soudains de nuques
blanches,
Et ce regal complait nos jeunes yeux de fous.
Le soir tombait, un soir équivoque d’automne:
Les belles, se pendant rêveuses à nos bras,
Dirent alors des mots si spécieux, tout bas,
Que notre âme, depuis ce temps, tremble et
s’étonne.
Le faune
Un vieux faune de terre cuite
Rit au centre des boulingrins,
Présagaent sans doute une suite
Mauvaise à ces instants sereins
Qui m’ont conduit et t’ont conduite,
- Mélancoliques pélerins, -
Jusqu’à cette heure dont la fuite
Tournoie au son des tambourins.
Ingénus
High heels struggled with long skirts,
So that, depending on contour and wind,
Glimpses of leg would sometimes gleam, too
often
Snatched from view! – and we loved these
games.
Sometimes, too, a jealous insect’s sting
Bothered pretty necks beneath the branches,
And there were sudden flashes of white napes
And this feast overwhelmed our crazed young
eyes.
Evening fell, an equivocal autumn evening:
The pretty girls, leaning dreamily on our arms,
Then murmured such fair-seeming words,
That, ever since, our startled souls have
trembled.
The faun
An ancient terracotta faun
Laughs in the middle of the lawns,
Predicting no doubt an uhappy
Sequel to these moments of calm
That have led both you and me,
- melancholy pilgrims -
To this hour that flits away,
Twirling to the sound of the tambourines.
Colloque sentimental
Dans le vieux parc solitaire et glacé,
Deux formes ont tout à l’heure passé.
Leurs yeux sont morts et leurs lèvres sont
molles,
Et l’on entend à peine leurs paroles.
Dans le vieux parc solitaire et glacé,
Deux spectres ont évoqué le passé.
- Te souvient-il de notre extase ancienne?
- Pourquoi voulez-vous donc qu’il m’en
souvienne?
-Ton coeur bat-il toujours à mon seul nom?
Toujours vois-tu mon âme en rêve? -Non.
-Ah! Les beau jours de bonheur indicible
Où nous joignions nos bouches! -C’est
possible.
-Qu’il était bleu, le ciel, et grand, l’espoir!
-L’espoir a fui, vaincu, vers le ciel noir.
Tels ils marchaient dans les avoines folles,
Et la nuit seule entendit leurs paroles.
Sentimental colloquy
In the ancient park, deserted and frozen,
Two shapes have just passed by.
Their eyes are dead and their lips are lifeless,
And their words can hardly be heard.
In the ancient park, deserted and frozen,
Two spectres were recalling the past.
- Do you remember our past rapture?
- Why would you have me remember?
- Does your heart still surge at my very name?
Do you still see my soul when you dream? -
No.
- Ah, the beautiful days of inexpressible bliss
When our lips met! - It is possible.
- How blue the sky, how hopes ran high!
- Hope has fled, vanquished, to the black sky.
So they walked on through the wild grasses,
And the night alone heard their words.
In the history of art song a tug of war has long existed regarding the use of language as an
expressive tool. Composers generally fall into two camps. Those who believe the text serves the
needs of the music and those who are convinced that music should serve the text. Modeste
Mussorgsky was a pioneer in the latter camp preceding by a generation such composers as
Debussy and Wolf who have secured a place in music history, at least in part, based on their
philosophies of text setting in song composition. In short the idea is a process of composition that
attempts the realistic setting of a language’s natural speech inflection. The goal was to bring a
sense of realism and dramatic intensity to song that the composer felt had been missing in prior
works. In Mussorgsky’s case the reaction followed a century or more of prolific song composition
within Russian culture but had rarely moved beyond the boundaries of salon or romance type
settings. This is not to say that there were no songs representing dramatic facets of life but that
the process had always been through musical gestures instead of the use of language. For
Mussorgsky this path began in his looking to Russian folk music as being representative of true
life (and certainly was a result of his having been reared in a rural atmosphere, a circumstance
that separates him from most of the urban influenced major Russian figures). This was not unique
in Russian thought at the time; Tolstoy and Pushkin were creating works that focused on the
common man and his trials. Mussorgsky was the first in the musical community to bring those
ideas to composition ultimately leading to the creation of his groundbreaking opera Boris
Godunov. In an operatic sense Mussorgsky considered songs to be miniature dramas full of life,
gestures, pain, joy, and even humor. Sometimes the song moves like a scena through a series of
emotional tableaus, monologues, or dialogues, and sometimes the entire song captures a single
expression.
In The Songs and Dances of Death (1875-1877), one of his most significant song cycles,
Mussorgsky moves through a world of harsh reality presenting situations of anonymous humanity
confronted in pitiful or barbaric circumstances with the ultimate destiny of us all. In Lullaby, Death
lulls a dying child from a distraught mother. In the second, Serenade, he courts a young girl as a
potential lover; the third, Trepak, he dances with a drunken peasant lost in a blizzard urging him
to rest and seek safety in sleep while in the last, The Field Marshal, Death appears as a
commander ordering his troops (the dead soldiers) to parade before him. The three opening
songs were composed in the early part of 1875 at which point Mussorgsky considered the title
She (death in Russian is feminine) but in 1877 he added the fourth which shifted his perspective.
The songs are a series of dramatic types: the first as a dialogue, the second and third are
monologues directed at a specific character, and the fourth is an epic of sorts. Mussorgsky’s
piano writing in these songs represents the best work of which he was capable for the instrument.
The poet, Arseny Golenishchev-Kutuzov, was a close friend as well as artistic compatriot.
Mussorgsky was enraptured by his verses and saw in his work a simplicity devoid of affectations
as well as a love of people and history.
Modest Mussorgsky
Песни и Пляски смерти
Text by Arseny Golenishchev-Kutozov (1848-
1914)
Колыбельная
Стонет ребёнок... Свеча, нагорая,
Тускло мерцает кругом.
Целую ночь колыбельку качая,
Мать не забылася сном.
Раным-ранёхонько в дверь осторожно
Смерть сердобольная стук!
Вздрогнула мать, оглянулась тревожно...
,,Полно пугаться, мой друг!
Бледное утро уж смотрит в окошко...
Плача, тоскуя, любля,
Ты утомилась, вздремни-ка немножко,
Я посижу за тебя.
Угомонить ты дитя не сумела.
Слаще тебя я спою.`` -
,,Тише! ребёнок мой мечется, бьётся,
Душу терзая мою!``
,,Ну, да со мною он скоро уймётся.
Баюшки, баю, баю.`` -
,,Щёчки бледнеют, слабеет дыханье...
Да замолчи-же, молю!`` -
,,Доброе знаменье, стихнет страданье,
Баюшки, баю, баю.``
,,Прочь ты, проклятая!
Лаской своею сгубишь ты радость мою!``
,,Нет, мирный сон я младенцу навею.
Баюшки, баю, баю.`` -
,,Сжалься, пожди допевать хоть
мгновенье,
Страшную песню твою!``
,, Видишь, уснул он под тихое пенье.
Баюшки, баю, баю.``
Серенада
Нега волшебная, ночь голубая,
Трепетный сумрак весны.
Внемлет, поникнув головкой, больная
Шопот ночной тишины.
Сон не смыкает блестящие очи,
Жизнь к наслажденью зовёт,
А под окошком в молчаньи полночи
Смерть серенаду поёт:
Songs and Dances of Death
Lullaby
The child moans. A candle flickers dimly,
almost extinguished.
The mother, rocking the little cradle through
the night, does not give in to sleep. Very early
in the morning, compassionate death, darkens
the door and knocks. The mother, startled,
looks round anxiously…
“Don’t be frightened, my friend! Already the
pale morning light creeps over the windowsill.
You have worn yourself out with your tears,
your grieving, your love; take a little nap. I will
sit here for you awhile. You have not
succeeded in calming the child; I will sing more
sweetly than you.”
“Be quiet! My child is racked with pain. He is
struggling, and my soul is tormented with him!”
“Well, with me he will soon be still. Hush now,
child, hush-a-bye, hush.”
“How pale his cheeks are, his breathing grows
weaker. Be silent, I beg you!”
“The signs are good. His suffering will soon be
over. Hush now, child, hush-a-bye, hush.”
“Be gone, accursed visitor! Your fond
attentions will take away my treasure.”
“No. I’ll bring peaceful sleep to the little one;
hush now, child, hush-a-bye, hush.”
“Have pity; wait, if only a moment, before you
end your dreadful song!”
“Look, he’s fallen asleep to my soothing voice.
Hush now, child, hush-a-bye, hush.”
Serenade
The pale blue night holds the promise of
enchanting joy. This is the quivering dusk of
spring…
Too feeble to raise her head, the ailing one
listens to the murmurs in the dark stillness.
Sleep does not descend on her shining eyes.
The pleasures of life are calling! But, under
the little window, in the midnight silence, death
,,В мраке неволи суровой и тесной
Молодость вянет твоя;
Рыцарь неведомый, силой чудесной
Освобожу я тебя.
Встань, посмотри на себя: красотою
Лик твой прозрачный блестит,
Щёки румяны, волнистой косою
Стан твой, как тучей обвит.
Пристальных глаз голубое сиянье,
Ярче небес и огня;
Зноем полуденным веет дыханье...
Ты обольстила меня.
Слух твой пленился моей серенадой,
Рыцаря шопот твой звал,
Рыцарь пришёл за последней наградой:
Час упоенья настал.
Нежен твой стан, упоителен трепет...
О, задушу я тебя
В крепких объятьях: любовный мой лепет
Слушай!... молчи!... Ты моя!``
Трепак
Лес да поляны, безлюдье кругом.
Вьюга и плачет и стонет,
Чуется, будто во мраке ночном,
Злая, кого-то хоронит;
Глядь, так и есть! В темноте мужика
Смерть обнимает, ласкает,
С пьяненьким пляшет вдвоём трепака,
На ухо песнь напевает:
Ой, мужичок, старичок убогой,
Пьян напился, поплёлся дорогой,
А мятель-то, ведьма, поднялась, взыграла.
С поля в лес дремучий невзначай загнала.
Горем, тоской да нуждой томимый,
Ляг, прикорни, да усни, родимый!
Я тебя, голубчик мой, снежком согрею,
Вкруг тебя великую игру затею.
Взбей-ка постель, ты мятель-лебёдка!
Гей, начинай, запевай погодка!
Сказку, да такую, чтоб всю ночь тянулась,
Чтоб пьянчуге крепко под неё заснулось!
Ой, вы леса, небеса, да тучи,
Темь, ветерок, да снежок летучий!
Свейтесь пеленою, снежной, пуховою;
Ею, как младенца, старичка прикрою...
Спи, мой дружок, мужичок счастливый,
Лето пришло, расцвело!
Над нивой солнышко смеётся да серпы
ляют,
Песенка несётся, голубки летают...
Полководец
Грохочет битва, блешут брони,
Орудья жадные ревут,
Бегут полки, несутся кони
serenades her:
“In the gloom of cruel, close captivity, your
youth is fading.
I, a mysterious knight, with amazing strength
will set you free. Rise and look on your
reflection: your countenance, translucent,
shines with beauty, roses adorn your cheeks,
your wavy tresses swirl like clouds around your
waist.
The pale blue light in your eager eyes is
brighter than heaven and flame…Your breath
comes as hot as the noonday sun…You have
led me into temptation. You were captivated
by my serenade; Your whispers summoned
the knight. He has come to carry off his final
trophy; the moment of rapture is nigh.
Your waist is slender, your trembling – so
delightful.
Oh, I will smother you in my keen embrace;
hearken to my words of love…be still…you are
mine!
Trepak
Forest and glade, not a soul in sight…The
blizzard howls and moans…In the black night,
the storm, perchance an evil force, seems to
be burying someone. It does indeed – look: in
the darkness, death is tenderly embracing a
peasant, leading the drunkard in a lively dance,
her lips to his ear a she sings:
“Oh, old man, wretched creature, you’d got
blind drunk, and were tottering along the road;
the snowstorm, like a witch, began to seethe
and rage, driving you quite by chance from
field to dense forest. You’re worn out by bad
luck, grief, needs unmet; lay yourself down.
Be comfortable, sleep, my friend. I will keep
you warm with snow, my dear. I will weave a
great game around you.
Whip up a bed for him, swan-lady of the
snowstorm! You, elements, let the game
commence, begin a dance that will last all
night, to make the toper slumber soundly. And
you forests, firmament and clouds, darkness,
wind and driving snow, make a shroud from
the soft, white mantle, and I will swathe the old
man in it, like a babe.
Sleep, my dear fellow, fortunate little man,
summer has come, in her blooming glory! The
good old sun smiles down on the cornfield, the
sickles are out, a simple song carries on the
air, and doves are on the wing…”
The Field-Marshall
Amid the thunder of battle and the flash of
armour, cold weaponry rends the air,
regiments move swiftly, horses gallop, rivers
И реки красные текут.
Пылает полдень, люди бьются;
Склонилось солнце, бой сильней;
Закат бледнеет, но дерутся
Враги все яростней и злей.
И пала ночь на поле брани.
Дружины в мраке разошлись...
Всё стихло, и в ночном тумане
Стенанья к небу поднялись.
Тогда, озарена луною,
На боевом своём коне,
Костей сверкая белизною,
Явилась смерть; и в тишине,
Внимая вопли и молитвы,
Довольства гордого полна,
Как полководец место битвы
Кругом объехала она.
На холм поднявшись, оглянулась,
Остановилась, улыбнулась...
И над равниной боевой
Раздался голос роковой:
,,Кончена битва! я всех победила!
Все предо мной вы смирились, бойцы!
Жизнь вас поссорила, я помирила!
Дружно вставайте на смотр, мертвецы!
Маршем торжественным мимо пройдите,
Войско моё я хочу сосчитать;
В землю потом свои кости сложите,
Сладко от жизни в земле отдыхать!
Годы незримо пройдут за годами,
В людях исчезнет и память о вас.
Я не забуду и громко над вами
Пир буду править в полуночный час!
Пляской тяжёлою землю сырую
Я притопчу, чтобы сень гробовую
Кости покинуть вовек не могли,
Чтоб никогда вам не встать из земли!``
flow red. In the noon brightness, men are
locked in combat! As the sun sinks, the pitch
of battle rises! Twilight colours fade, but the
fury of the fight blazes more fiercely! And night
falls on the field of combat. Soldiers disperse
in the gloom…
Silence descends, and in the dark mist the
groans drift up to the heavens. And then,
riding her warhorse, and bathed in the light of
the moon, with its white bones gleaming, death
herself appears. And, in the stillness, listening
with pride and pleasure to the cries and
prayers, like a Field Marshall, she makes tour
of inspection of the battlefield. Climbing onto
a mound, she halts, looks about her and gives
a smile…
And over the war-torn plain, the fatal words
ring out:
“The battle is over! Victory is mine! You have
all surrendered to me, brave warriors! Life
threw you into conflict, and death has
reconciled you! Stand at attention for review,
men of the dead! I order you to commence a
solemn march past; I wish to count my troops.
Then let the earth receive your bones, after the
toils of life, what sweet repose lies in the soil!
Imperceptibly, the years will pass; the memory
of you will be gone from the minds of men. I
will not forget! With great ceremony, I’ll host a
midnight banquet above you! In the throes of a
grim dance, I will trample down the damp
earth, so that your remains can never leave the
shadow of the grave, so that you shall never
rise from the earth!”
An intense love of literature and poetry provided the American composer, Samuel Barber, with a
wealth of texts for potential musical setting. In addition to his intense passion for Celtic poetry,
including the writings of James Joyce and William Butler Yeats, Barber possessed tremendous
interest in contemporary poetry in German and French, both in their original languages as well as
in translation, and he delighted in his studies of the works of Dante and Goethe. Despite this
breadth of literature, or perhaps because of it, Barber was very selective in the texts he chose to
set to music, frequently discarding poems as unsuitable for musical composition because of their
length or emotional reticence. Ultimately, Barber would approve fewer than forty songs for
publication. (Subsequent to his death, a small group of songs were published under the
supervision of the Library of Congress, in consultation with scholars and Barber’s friend and
collaborator, Gian Carlo Menotti. Nearly sixty songs, housed at the Library of Congress, remain
unpublished.)
Stylistically, Barber’s music for voice is representative not only of his love of literature, but also of
his studies in voice, piano, and composition, at the Curtis Institute, of influential composers,
including Menotti and his uncle, composer Sidney Homer, and of his association with great
singers, Leontyne Price, Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, and Eleanor Steber among them, for whom he
composed many of his songs. Barber’s music for voice is notable for its lyricism, highly crafted
polyphonic writing, demanding, but idiomatic piano accompaniments, and a richness of harmony
that incorporates chromaticism, dissonance, and tonal ambiguity, often with an economy of
musical material. The Three Songs to Poems from “Chamber Music” by James Joyce, Op.
10 (composed 1935-1936) reveal the composer’s maturing compositional style and the influence
his studies in Europe, while the Three Songs, Op. 45 (composed 1972), his final compositions
for voice and piano, reflect a musical sophistication and economy that belies their complexity.
Samuel Barber
Three Songs, Op. 45
Now have I fed and eaten up the Rose
Text by James Joyce (1882-1941), translated
from the German of Gottfried Keller
Now have I fed and eaten up the rose
Which then she laid within my stiffcold hand.
That I should ever feed upon a rose
I never had believed in liveman’s land.
Only I wonder was it white or red
The flower that in the dark my food has been.
Give us, and if Thou give, thy daily bread,
Deliver us from evil, Lord, Amen.
A Green Lowland of Pianos
Text by Czeslaw Milosz (1911-2004),
translated from the Polish of Jerzy
Harasymowicz
in the evening
as far as the eye can see
herds
of black pianos
up to their knees
in the mire
they listen to the frogs
they gurgle in water
with chords of rapture
they are entranced
by froggish, moonish spontaneity
after the vacation
they cause scandals
in a concert hall
during the artistic milking
suddenly they lie down
like cows
looking with indifference
at the white flowers
of the audience
at the gesticulating
of the ushers.
O boundless, boundless evening
Text by Christopher Middleton (b. 1926),
translated from the German of George Heym
O boundless, boundless evening. Soon the
glow
Of long hills on the skyline will be gone,
Like clear dream country now, rich-hued by
sun.
O boundless, evening where the cornfields
throw
The scattered daylight back in an aureole.
Swallows high up are singing, very small.
On every meadow glitters their swift flight,
In woods of rushes and where tall masts stand
In brilliant bays. Yet in ravines beyond
Between the hills already nests the night.
Three Songs, Op. 10
Texts from Chamber Music by James Joyce
Rain has fallen
Rain has fallen all the day.
O come among the laden trees:
The leaves lie thick upon the way of mem’ries.
Staying a little by the way
Of mem’ries shall we depart.
Come, my beloved,
Where I may speak to your heart.
Sleep now
Sleep now,
O sleep now,
O you unquiet heart!
A voice crying “Sleep now,”
Is heard in my heart.
The voice of the winter is heard at the door.
O sleep, for the winter is crying
“Sleep no more.”
My kiss will give peace now
And quiet to your heart.
Sleep on in peace now, o you unquiet heart.
I hear an army
I hear an army charging upon the land,
And the thunder of horses plunging,
Foam about their knees.
Arrogant in black armor, behind them stand,
Disdaining the reins, with flutt’ring whips,
The charioteers.
They cry unto the night their battlename:
I moan in sleep
When I hear afar their whirling laughter.
They cleave the gloom of dreams,
A blinding flame.
Clanging, clanging upon the heart
As upon an anvil.
They come, shaking in triumph
Their long, green hair.
They come out of the sea,
And run shouting by the shore.
My heart, have you no wisdom thus to
despair?
My love, why have you left me alone?
When the late nineteenth century movement known as Nationalism swept through the western
musical world Spain was not exempt from its effects. Under the influence of the Catalan
composer and teacher, Felipe Pedrell, a new era was ushered in with the works of his students
Albèniz, Granados, and Falla. While it is tempting to blend our concept of Spanish song into a
single homogeneous sound, the song repertory of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century
is actually a vibrant kaleidoscope of regional differences and contributions. Some composers
drew more directly from the characteristics of their native region by turning to dance and folk
song, while others composed in a more universal language yet retaining an unmistakable Spanish
color.
Joaquín Nin, Cuban by birth, was trained in Barcelona and traveled the world as a concert
pianist specializing in Bach and early Spanish composers. While not personally from southern
Spain he drew from that region in his setting of “Granadina,” evoking the cante jondo (“deep
song”) of the Andalusian region. In this setting the singer laments intensely about the torments
brought by love as he is likely experiencing the loss of love. Nin typically used existing vocal lines
with very little alteration and added elaborate, muscular piano parts. Fernando Obradors
continues to have one of the more popular profiles yet very little is written about him. He was born
and trained in Barcelona and developed into a prolific composer and active local musical figure.
His songs tend towards a neo-classicism in their elegance and texture; here charming, elsewhere
exciting. While most well-known songs of Obradors’ come from the first volume of his series
Cancíones clásicas españolas, there are three more containing some of the most unjustly
neglected repertoire in Spanish Song. “Aquel sombrero de monte” comes from one of the later
volumes in the series and depicts a young man bemoaning his lost hat in the river. Obradors
gives us the impression that, while verbally upset, the young man seems hardly in a rush to
retrieve it. As in practically every other art song repertoire it is likely that the hat represents
another lost element in this young man’s life – love of one sort or another.
In “Canción del cucu” we hear one of Joaquín Rodrigo’s signature musical motifs: the cuckoo
call. Based on a text written by his versatile and gifted wife, Victoria Kamhi, we hear the gentle,
yet deeply felt, ruminations of one as he considers the direction of his life and the possibility of
found love. Lastly, Obradors set a fifteenth century text from the Golden Age of Spanish literature
in which the singer declares the virtues of playing various instruments. However, he makes it
clear that the benefit is not in the music-making but in the pursuit of love-making showing just how
old is the adage, “the musician always gets the girl.”
Joaquín Nin
Granadina
From Viente cantos populares españoles
Las fatigas del querer
Son las fatigas más grandes,
Porque se lloran cantando,
Y las lágrimas no salen.
Dame con ese puñal,
Y dirás que yo me maté,
Y en el color de la sangre
Verás se bien te quiero.
Fernando Obradors
Aquel sombrero de monte
Aquel sombrero de monte,
hecho con hojas de palma,
¡ay! que me le lleva el río,
¡ay! que me le lleva el agua.
Lo siento por una cinta
que le puse colorada.
No he de tner más mi huerta
a la ribera cercana.
Se va yendo poco a poco
y ya no me queda nada.
¡Ay! que me le lleva el río,
¡Ay! que me le lleva el agua.
Joaquín Rodrigo
Cancion del cucu
Text by Victoria Kamhi
Cuclillo, cuclillo canta,
Días son de cantar,
Pronto el duro cierzo
Corre por el pinar.
Díme si otros bosques
Un día yo veré,
Si la lejana tierra
Muy pronto hallaré.
Dí si por estos mundos
Vagando siempre iré
O si mi vida errante
Muy pronto acabaré.
Pájaro, buen pajarillo,
Díme se es verdad:
¡Ella dice que siempre,
Siempre me seguirá!...
From Granada
From Twenty popular Spanish Songs
The torments of love
Are the greatest torments,
For they are lamented in song
And the tears do not come.
Strike me with that dagger,
And you will say I killed myself,
And by the color of the blood
You shall see if I love you truly.
That Mountain hat
That mountain hat
made of palm leaves,
ah! the river snatched it from me,
ah! the water snatched it from me.
I grieve for a colored band
I put on it.
No longer must I keep my field
by the river bank.
Little by little it was going,
and now no more is left me.
Ah! the river snatched it from me.
Ah! the water snatched it from me.
Song of the cuckoo
Cuckoo, sing, my little cuckoo.
‘Tis time to sing,
Soon the harsh North Wind
Will run through the pines.
Tell me if one day
I shall see other woods,
If very soon I shall find
The distant land.
Tell me if I’ll always
Wander through the world,
Or if very soon I’ll cease
My wandering life.
Bird, sweet little bird,
Tell me if it’s true:
She says that always,
Always she’ll follow me!...
Fernando Obradors
¡Oh, que buen amor, saber yoglar!
Tema popolar del Siglo XV
¡Oh, que buen amor, saber yoglar!
Saber yoglar a la tambora,
Ran ra-ta-plan de la tambora saber yoglar!
Claca tacla de la clarinetta,
Rau, rau de la guitarra,
Rin, rin del violin, saber yoglar!
Saber yoglar de la zamfoña,
La-ra-lay-lá de la samfoña,
Cedar e viola de tono sotil,
Ta-ca-ta-ta-ca del tamboril,
Tin, tin, rin tin de anafil e clarin, saber yoglar!
Oh, for good loving, I know how to play!
Text from the 15th Century
Oh, for good loving I know how to play!
I know how to play the drum,
Ran ra-ta-plan of the drum I know how to play!
The claca of the clarinet,
The rau of the guitar,
The rin of the violin, I know how to play!
I know how to play the hurdy-gurdy,
The la-ra-lay of the hurdy-gurdy,
The wooden viola of soft tone,
The ta-ca-ta-ta of the tambourine,
The tin rin tin of trumpet and bugle I know how
to play!
The UNCG School of Music has been recognized for years as one of the elite
music institutions in the United States. Fully accredited by the National
Association of Schools of Music since 1938, the School offers the only
comprehensive music program from undergraduate through doctoral study in
both performance and music education in North Carolina. From a total
population of approximately 16,000 university students, the UNCG School of
Music serves over 600 music majors with a full-time faculty and staff of more than
sixty. As such, the UNCG School of Music ranks among the largest Schools of
Music in the South.
The UNCG School of Music now occupies a new 26-million-dollar music building,
which is among the finest music facilities in the nation. In fact, the new music
building is the second-largest academic building on the UNCG Campus. A large
music library with state-of-the-art playback, study and research facilities houses
all music reference materials. Greatly expanded classroom, studio, practice
room, and rehearsal hall spaces are key components of the new structure. Two
new recital halls, a large computer lab, a psychoacoustics lab, electronic music
labs, and recording studio space are additional features of the new facility. In
addition, an enclosed multi-level parking deck is adjacent to the new music
building to serve students, faculty and concert patrons.
Living in the artistically thriving Greensboro—Winston-Salem—High Point “Triad”
area, students enjoy regular opportunities to attend and perform in concerts
sponsored by such organizations as the Greensboro Symphony Orchestra, the
Greensboro Opera Company, and the Eastern Music Festival. In addition,
UNCG students interact first-hand with some of the world’s major artists who
frequently schedule informal discussions, open rehearsals, and master classes at
UNCG.
Costs of attending public universities in North Carolina, both for in-state and out-of-
state students, represent a truly exceptional value in higher education.
For information regarding music as a major or minor field of study, please write:
Dr. John J. Deal, Dean
UNCG School of Music
P.O. Box 26170
Greensboro, North Carolina 27402-6170
(336) 334-5789
On the Web: www.uncg.edu/mus/