NYFOS Next: An Evening with John Musto and Friends
OPERA America’s National Opera Center
Amy Burton, soprano
Vale Rideout, tenor
William Sharp, baritone
John Musto, piano
Nude at the Piano (Mark Campbell) 2001
Old Photograph (Archibald MacLeish) 2001
Witness (E. E. Cummings) 1992
Passacaglia (E. E. Cummings) 1992
San José Symphony Reception (Lawrence Ferlinghetti) 2001
(in flagrante delicto)
Scottish Songs 2013 (New York Premiere)
1. Spell of the bridge (Helen Lamb)
2. Atheist Lighting a Candle in Albi Cathedral (Frances Leviston)
3. Flowers (Helena Nelson)
4. Not that it’s loneliness (Chloe Morrish)
5. Langsyne, When Life Was Bonnie (Alexander Anderson)
6. Driven Home (James McGonigal)
The Brief Light (James Laughlin) 2011 (New York Premiere)
1. When you danced
2. Song
3. The Voices
4. The Brief Light
5. The Summons
6. I have drifted
Summer Stars (Carl Sandburg) 2012
Sarah’s Song (Archibald MacLeish) 2012
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Texts and Notes on the Program
Nude at the Piano was the first text by librettist Mark Campbell that I set to music. We went on to write four operas. It was written for tenor Robert White who premiered it at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in 2001.
Here I sit,
Nude at the piano,
On this cold, cold stool.
I got with me here
A bottle of beer
And I’m feeling like a fool.
And while I
Brood at the piano
You are somewhere faraway.
So I sit and I freeze
And I stare at the keys
Wishing I knew how to play.
I would jump
Off the Verrazano
But I’m really just too blue…
So I sit,
Nude at the piano,
The piano
I bought for you.
- Mark Campbell
Practically all the music of Old Photograph is based on snippets from the Debussy/Maeterlinck opera Pelléas et Mélisande. MacLeish’s wife Ada was an operatic soprano, and her forced laughter and unsmiling eyes seem to be saying to the camera lens, “Ne me touchez pas”, the first words of Melisande to Golaud in the forest. This five note motif runs through the song, as does the main tune on which Melisande sings “Mes longs cheveux descendent jusqu’au seuil de la tour.” Macleish and his wife spent most of the 1920s in France. The couple alluded to in the poem, Gerald and Sara Murphy, were wealthy arts patrons (Gerald being an accomplished painter) who lived for a time as expatriates in a chalet in Cap d’Antibes that they dubbed “Villa America”. They regularly played host to Picasso, Hemingway, John Dos Passos and his wife, the Fitzgeralds and the MacLeishes, and many other creative luminaries of the early twentieth century. The song is a solo from a larger work for SATB and piano, the Book of Uncommon Prayer.
There she is. At Antibes I’d guess
by the pines, the garden, the sea shine.
She’s laughing. Oh, she always laughed
at cameras. She’d laugh and run
before that devil in the lens could catch her.
He’s caught her this time though: look at her
eyes – her eyes aren’t laughing.
There’s no such thing as a fragrance in a photograph
but this one seems to hold a fragrance –
fresh-washed gingham in a summer wind.
Old? Oh, thirty maybe. Almost thirty.
This would have been the year I went to Persia –
they called it Persia then – Shiraz,
Bushire, the Caspian, Isfahan.
She sent me the news in envelopes lined in blue.
The children were well. The Murphys* were angels: (Gerald and Sara Murphy)
they had given her new potatoes as sweet as peas
on a white plate under the linden tree.
She was singing Melisande with Croiza* – (Claire Croiza, mezzo-soprano, 1882-1946)
“mes longs cheveux.” She was quite, quite well.
I was almost out of my mind with longing for her . . .
There she is that summer in Antibes –
laughing
with frightened eyes.
-Archibald MacLeish
The poet E. E. Cummings generally did not title his poems, but as a matter of practicality, songs must have titles, even it it’s the first line. I decided on Witness, because the scene suggested to me the practice of ‘witnessing’, i.e. relating a spiritual encounter at religious revivals. This song and the next are part of a cycle (Encounters) for tenor and orchestra written for, premiered and recorded by Paul Sperry.
no time ago
or else a life
walking in the dark
i met christ
jesus)my heart
flopped over
and lay still
while he passed(as
close as i'm to you
yes closer
made of nothing
except loneliness
- E. E. Cummings
Passacaglia is so named because of the musical form in which the poem is cast. The image of stone children singing reminded me of statuary my wife and I came across in Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris. The poet’s incantational repetition of the alliterative stone, singing, silence, struck me as eerie and unsettling. (Generally children are anything but silent.) The song is set as a passacaglia, a set of variations over a cyclical pattern, because of its sense of motion-in-stasis, like the frozen song of the children.
these children singing in stone a
silence of stone these
little children wound with stone
flowers opening for
ever these silently lit
tle children are petals
their song is a flower of
always their flowers
of stone are
silently singing
a song more silent
than silence these always
children forever
singing wreathed with singing
blossoms children of
stone with blossoming
eyes
know if a
lit tle
tree listens
forever to always children singing forever
a song made
of silent as stone silence of
song
- E. E. Cummings
Ferlinghetti’s lusty, beat hallucination, San José Symphony Reception (in flagrante delicto) can easily be a circle in a present day Inferno, its frustrated denizens forever on the make. This song is also from the Book of Uncommon Prayer.
The bald man in plaid playing the harpsichord
stopped short and sidled over
to the sideboard
and copped a piece of Moka
on a silver plate
and slid back and started playing again
some kind of Hungarian rhapsodate
while the lady in the green eyeshades
leaned over him exuding
admiration and lust
Half-notes danced & tumbled
out of his instrument
exuding a faint odor of
chocolate cake
In the corner I was taking
a course in musical destruction
from the dark lady cellist
who bent over me with her bow unsheathed
and proceeded to saw me in half
As a consequence my pants fell right off
revealing a badly bent trombone which
even the first flutist
who had perfect embouchure
couldn’t straighten out
- Lawrence Ferlinghetti*
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*The Scottish Songs were written for the birthday of Nicholas Russell, and old friend from our sojourn in Glasgow, when my wife sang with the Scottish Opera. This project gave me the opportunity to make the acquaintance of several superb poets from Scotland. Since all of them (except Alexander Anderson) are still very much with us, I’ll let them speak for themselves:
Spell of the Bridge
These words were inspired by the Faery Bridge in the small town of Dunblane, where the author grew up. The fragile footbridge arcs over the Allan Water, a fast flowing river which rises in the Ochil Hills of Perthshire and joins the River Forth near Stirling. - Helen Lamb
Hold the wish on your tongue
As you cross
What the bridge cannot hear
Cannot fall
For the river would carry
Your hopes to the sea
To the net of a stranger
To the silt bed of dreams
Hold the wish on your tongue
As you cross
And on the far side
Let the wish go first
- Helen Lamb
Atheist Lighting a Candle in Albi Cathedral *
The poem is dedicated to an acquaintance of mine, a writer, who died far too young. We did not know one another very well, and my discomfort with entering a church as a non-believer provided a parallel for the guilt I felt about mourning his death. He was also the person for whom I wished to light the candle in the first place. I'm not Catholic (though there is a sublimated streak of Catholicism in my family), but I appreciated the beauty of the cathedral, and felt attracted in the moment to the consolations on offer.
– Frances Leviston
[*The accompaniment is taken from the plainchant Salve Regina. - J.M.]
It seems to matter
I use a Zippo,
not the taper's monkish flame.
It seems to matter I choose the white
over red before asking the difference,
that I love the fresco's talented horse
though couldn't name his rider –
but what's not authentic at the Virgin's feet?
She knows I am not a bad person, just troubled.
She knows the wick is burning.
- Frances Leviston
Flowers
My father used to buy flowers for my mother after they’d had a row and he wanted to get back into her good books. The flowers made her furious. Many years later, when I was involved in a protracted sexual affair, I longed for those silly romantic symbols that so annoyed my mother. If you have an illicit relationship, the other person may not bring gifts. Gifts mean money has to be spent and someone may notice. All the same, I did want a present. I loved gardening. I suggested he bring me a plant out of his garden, something I could nurture and grow. He said he would, but he forgot. In the end, it wasn’t a cold he gave me, but another infection. I forgave everything and blamed myself. I was profoundly, pathetically and pointlessly in love. He and I were stuck in that situation for four years. But you learn. Eventually, you learn. – Helena Nelson
The affair was all coming and going
in snatched half-hours.
Not seeing the need
he never brought flowers.
Bring me a plant,
I asked – a forget-me-not
out of your garden.
He forgot
and came empty-handed,
sorry, blue-eyed.
I don't need flowers,
I said (lied).
He was always leaving.
Once he gave me his cold.
I cherished it, wishing
I had him to hold.
On balance, though
one thing was good:
he told me the truth.
I knew where I stood.
In my green courtyard
for hours, days, years
I stood where I knew,
waiting for flowers.
- Helena Nelson
Not that it’s loneliness
Not that it's loneliness was written during a year I spent in a damp farm cottage looking out to sea. It sat just above a string of little rocky beaches and exposed coastal path a few miles out of St Andrews on the East Coast of Scotland. I was studying for a Masters in Creative Writing (Poetry) at the University there. My brother, Adam, two years younger than me, had died just before I moved there and, although it was a magical year of reading and writing with inspiring poets and tutors, it was a very sad time too and I hope this poem has that detached feeling of watching the world but not being part of it.
I wanted to describe a listless kind of loneliness, where time goes by slowly and anything can be stared at for minutes or hours, it doesn't matter which. But really, I hope this poem (which is really a series of linked haiku) speaks for itself. - Chloe Morrish
not that it's loneliness
just one black bird
in the blue-grey sky
not that it's loneliness
just standing in the garden
waiting for snow
not that it's loneliness
just the sound of a jet
behind everything
not that it's loneliness
just sitting on the wall
between clouds and sea
not that it's loneliness
just a hole in the door frame
where the mouse went
- Chloe Morrish
Langsyne, when life was bonnie
[Alexander Anderson (1845-1909) was born in Kirkconnel, a small town in southwestern Scotland. As a teenager, he became a surfaceman, maintaining the roadbeds of the railway. In his few leisure hours, he studied French, German, Italian and Spanish in order to read the great literary works of those languages. He eventually obtained the post of Chief Librarian at the University of Edinburgh.]
Langsyne*, when life was bonnie, (long ago)
An' a' the skies were blue,
When ilka* thocht took blossom, (every thought)
An' hung its heid* wi' dew, (head)
When winter wasna' winter,
Though snaws cam' happin doon*, (covering down)
Langsyne, when life was bonnie,
Spring gaed a twalmonth* roun’. (went a twelvemonth)
Langsyne, when life was bonnie,
An' a' the days were lang;
When through them ran the music
That comes to us in sang,
We never wearied liltin' * (singing sweetly)
The auld love-laden tune;
Langsyne when life was bonnie,
Love gaed a twalmonth roun'.
Langsyne, when life was bonnie,
An' a' the warld* was fair, (world)
The leaves were green wi' simmer*, (summer)
For autumn wasna there.
But listen hoo* they rustle, (how)
Wi' an eerie, weary soun',
For noo*, alas, 'tis winter (now)
That gangs* a twalmonth roun'. (goes)
- Alexander Anderson
Driven Home
I was driving a friend and fellow-editor back home to Glasgow from Edinburgh, along the M8 motorway or freeway. The publishers we had just met in Edinburgh had been unimpressed by our idea for an anthology of contemporary ‘Scots-Irish writing’ by descendants of poor Irish migrants who had originally come to work in Scotland’s coal, iron and engineering industries. Those descendants had, over the generations, become Scottish novelists, dramatists and poets. We talked over our disappointment as we drove.
After a while I noticed that my friend had fallen asleep. The motorway winds through the industrial landscape where my father’s family lived and worked. In fact, my grandfather was killed in a mining accident in 1932, in a pit only a mile south of the speeding traffic. Now the road is landscaped with trees, but I remember how black and bleak it looked when I was young. The names of the villages in the poem evoke memories of that now vanished scene, and of those who labored there to make their children’s future brighter than their own. What might they think now about what we have done with the life that they gave? - James McGonigal
I am the angel charged to take you home.
I have nothing to look forward to. You have.
You think you nodded off for forty winks:
big boy, you have been dozing for a hundred years.
And here we are on Purgatory’s M8* (motorway connecting Glasgow and Edinburgh)
blinking awake by floodlit Kirk o’Shotts* (a church along the M8)
where rusted tv masts*and riding lights (Kirk o’Shotts transmitting station is nearby)
pitch above Central Scotland’s forest’s waves.
Here’s Holytown and Newhouse. Sing the one
about your father’s many mansions. Hope it’s true.
They’re gathered at the door so see you in.
Loosen your seatbelt. There’s our Maker – no,
that bloke with silver stubble on his chin
and five scenes from your famous childhood
tattooed on each forearm. On you go.
- James McGonigal
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James Laughlin was advised to give up writing poetry by his one-time mentor Ezra Pound.
Happily, not only did he persevere and leave a significant volume of collected poems, he
also founded New Directions publishing, which disseminated the work of Pound, Bishop,
Williams, Stevens and a host of other mid-century poets.
Laughlin’s poetry speaks of love and lust (sometimes quite voyeuristically), of things remembered, and, at times, the frustrated obsession of an older man for a much younger woman. The Brief Light was written for baritone Patrick Mason and guitarist David Starobin for their Crazy Jane recording. The title is taken from Catullus:
...cum semel occidit brevis lux, nox est perpetua una dormienda.
...once the brief light sets, night is an endless sleeping.
When You Danced
For me those steps of flamenco
There was no music but you clap-
ped your hands and arched your
back & stomped with your heels
& your skirts flew and a smile
of radiant delight was on your
face and my thoughts went back
to Tarragona so many years ago
when I joined the ring of dan-
cers with Cynthia in the square
oh she is long gone I know not
where but you brought her back
to me for a moment & gave me
yourself even more beautiful.
Song
O lovely lovely so lovely
just fresh from a night of
it lovely oh I saw you at
nine in the morning coming
home in the street with no
hat and your coat clutched
tight but not hiding your
evening dress lovely and
fresh from a night of it
lovely you stopped at the
curb for the light & your
eye caught mine lovely so
lovely and you knew that
I knew and you knew that
I wanted you too so fresh
from a night of it lovely.
The Voices
It is sin it is sin it is a
Deadly sin whines the tired
old voice in
The back of his head you’ll
Take her love but you can’t
give yourself
It will end in misery & end
In remorse it is sin whines
the tired old
voice it is love it is love
sings the voice in the heart
you will bring
her a happiness she has never
known before you’ll bring her
to life and
she’ll burn with love’s won-
derful fire but it’s sin no
it’s love cry
the voices together and sadly
and happily madly he enters
again the soft
and delectable
battle of Love.
Occidit brevis lux
(The brief light sets)
Is it the end of the world to
Indulge an old man who adores
you for you are young & lovely
and have the excitement of a
dozen who knows perhaps even a
score of lovers before you but
for him the stars are waning and
he feels the sadness even the ter-
ror of the long night that is com-
ing on he knows that nox est una
perpetua dormienda that longest
night when he’ll see you no more.
The Summons
He went out to their glorious
War & went down in it and his
Last belief was
Her love as he breathed flame
In the waves and sank burning
Now I lie under
His picture in the dark room
In the wife’s bed and partake
Of his unknown
Life does he see does he stand
In the room does he feel does
He burn again
Later I wake in the night while
She sleeps and call out to him
Wanderer come
Return to this bed & embody the
Love that was yours and is hers
And is mine
And endures.
I have drifted
off to sea from you but
you were not abandoned
Ariadne we were playing
in the sand like child-
ren we waded in the sea
a current carried me a-
way but left you on the
shore your life is yours
again I cannot will not
harm you more your eyes
were soft & sad I loved
you as I never loved be-
fore but now the ancient
sea has carried me away.
- James Laughlin
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Summer Stars (the poem by plain-spoken, populist Chicago bard Carl Sandburg) was written for the Opera America Songbook, and was premiered and recorded by Amy Burton in 2012.
Bend low again, night of summer stars.
So near you are, sky of summer stars,
So near, a long-arm man can pick off stars,
Pick off what he wants in the sky bowl,
So near you are, summer stars,
So near, strumming, strumming,
So lazy and hum-strumming.
- Carl Sandburg
“To face the truth of the passing away of the world and make song of it, make beauty of it, is not to solve the riddle of our mortal lives, but perhaps to accomplish something more.” (MacLeish: Poetry and Experience)
Sarah’s Song was written for the 20th anniversary of the AIDS Quilt Songbook and the text is taken from MacLeish’s play J. B. - the story of a modern day Job. At the end of the play, when his all alone, his world in shambles, his wife Sarah returns to him, holding a twig of forsythia. A redaction of their conversation before her final soliloquy is worth quoting:
J.B. He (God) does not love. He
Is.
Sarah: But we do. That’s the wonder.
J.B. It’s too dark to see.
Sarah: Then blow on the coal of the heart, my
darling.
J. B. The coal of the heart...
Sarah’s Song was premiered by Amy Burton at the Cooper Union auditorium in December 2012.
Blow on the coal of the heart... It’s all the light now.
Blow on the coal of the heart. The candles in churches are out.
The lights have gone out in the sky.
Blow on the coal of the heart And we’ll see by and by... We’ll see where we are.
Cry for justice and the stars Will stare until your eyes sting. Weep,
Enormous winds will thrash the water.
Cry in sleep for your lost children,
Snow will fall...
Snow will fall.
Blow on the coal of the heart... It’s all the light now.
The wit won’t burn and the wet soul smoulders.
Blow on the coal of the heart and we’ll know...
We’ll know...
We’ll see where we are.
- Archibald MacLeish