Liederabend LIX
The Liederabend—literally, "evening of song"—dates back to the 1800s, when musicians and lovers of music would gather at someone's home, and one or more singers and a pianist would perform the songs of composers of the day. In the field of classical music, these songs are referred to as "art songs," and the German art songs are called "Lieder." In Germany, the great age of song came in the 19th century. German and Austrian composers had written music for voice with keyboard before this time, but it was with the flowering of German literature in the Classical and Romantic eras that composers found high inspiration in great poetry, sparking the genre known as the "Lied."
The tradition of the art song composition continues today, with composers from all corners of the world setting poetry in many languages, scored for voice and piano. The NEC Liederabend series presents songs in a variety of languages—not only German—dating from the 19th century up to the present day.
The performers on tonight's program are coached by Cameron Stowe and Tanya Blaich.
This concert can be viewed in-person and via livestream.
Watch livestream from Williams Hall:
Jesús Guridi | from Seis canciones castellanas
Allá arriba en aquella montaña
No quiero tus avellanas
Cómo quieres que adivine
Mañanita de San JuanTexts
Allá arriba en aquella montaña
Allá arriba, en aquella montaña,
yo corté una caña, yo corté un clavel.
Labrador ha de ser, labrador,
que mi amante lo es.
No le quiero molinero,
que me da con el maquilandero.
Yo le quiero labrador,
que coja las mulas y se vaya a arar
y a la medianoche me venga a rondar.
Entra labrador si vienes a verme.
Si vienes a verme ven por el corral,
sube por el naranjo, que seguro vas.
Entra labrador si vienes a verme.
No quiero tus avellanas
No quiero tus avellanas,
tampoco tus alelíes,
porque me han salido vanas
las palabras que me diste.
Las palabras que me diste yendo
por aqua a la fuente,
como eran palabras de amor
se las llevó la corriente.
Se las llevó la corriente
de las cristalinas aguas
hasta llegar a la fuente
donde me diste palabra,
Donde me diste palabra
de ser mía hasta la muerte.
Cómo quieres que adivine
Cómo quieres que adivine
si estás despierta o dormida,
¡como no baje del cielo un ángel
y me lo diga!
¿Cómo quieres que adivine?
Alegría y más alegría,
hermosa paloma cuando serás mía,
cuando serás mia, ¡cuando vas a ser,
hermosa paloma, remito laurel!
Cuando voy por leña al monte
olé ya mi niña y me meto en la espesura,
y veo la nieve blanca, ole ya mi niña,
me acuerdo de tu hermosura.
Quisiera ser por un rato anillo
de tu pendiente,
para decirte al oído
lo que mi corazón siente.
Las estrellas voy contando, ole ya mi niña,
por ver la que me persigue.
Ne persigue un lucerito, olé ya mi niña,
pequeñito pero firme,
Alegría y más alegria,
hermosa paloma cuando serás mia.
¡Cuando serás mia, cuando vas a ser,
hermosa paloma, ramito laurel!
¡Cómo quieres que adivine!
Mañanita de San Juan
Mañanita de San Juan,
levántate tempranito
y en la ventana verás
de hierbabuena un poquito.
Aquella paloma blanca
que pica en el arcipiés,
que por dónde la cogeria,
que por dónde la cogeré;
si la cojo por el pico
se me escapa por los pies.
Coge niño la enramada,
que la noche está serena
y la música resuena
en lo profundo del mar.
Anonymous - traditionalUp there on that mountain
Up there, on that mountain,
I cut some cane, I picked a carnation.
A simple farmer must he be, a simple farmer,
must my lover be.
I do not want a miller,
who treats me like the grain that powers his mill.
I want a simple farmer,
to take the mules and go to plow
and at midnight come to serenade me.
Enter, farmer, if you have come to see me.
If you come to me, come through the farmyard,
climb the orange tree, just to be safe.
Enter, farmer, if you have come to see me.
I don’t want your hazelnuts
I don’t want your hazelnuts,
nor your alhelí flowers,
because I found to be empty
the words you said to me.
The words you said to me as I went
for water at the spring,
since they were just words of love
carried away by the current.
They were carried away by the current
of the crystal-clear waters
down to the fountain
where you gave me your word,
Where you gave me your word
to be mine until death.
How can you expect me to guess
How can you expect me to guess
if you’re awake or asleep?
An angel isn’t dropping down from heaven
to tell me!
How can you expect me to guess?
Joy and more joy,
beautiful dove, when you’re mine,
when you’re mine, when you will,
beautiful dove, honor me!
When I go for firewood, up the mountain
oh yes, my girl, and I get tangled in the thicket,
and I see the white snow, oh yes, my girl,
I remember your beauty.
I’d like to be a ring (just for awhile)
in your earring,
to whisper in your ear
what my heart feels.
The stars are counted by me, oh yes, my girl,
to see which one pursues me.
It’s not Venus, oh yes, my girl,
but a tiny one, that shines steadily,
Joy and more joy,
beautiful dove, when you’re mine,
when you’re mine, when you will,
beautiful dove, honor me!
How can you expect me to guess?
Morning on St. John’s Day
Morning on St. John’s Day,
wake up very early
and in the windowsill
a little bit of mint.
That white dove
which pecks among the leaves,
where might I catch it?
Where shall I catch it?
Even if I catch it by the beak
it can escape me by foot.
Boy, take that flowering branch,
for the night is calm
and the music resounds
deep in the sea.
Translations from Spanish (Español) to English copyright © 2016 by Laura Prichard, reprinted with permission from the LiederNet Archive, https://www.lieder.net/.Artists- Alexandra Henderson, soprano
- James Lorusso, piano
Alberto Ginastera | Cinco canciones populares argentinas
Chacarera
Triste
Zamba
Arrorró
GatoTexts
Chacarera
A mí me gustan las ñatas
Y una ñata me ha tocado
Ñato será el casamiento
Y más ñato el resultado.
Cuando canto chacareras
Me dan ganas de llorar
Porque se me representa
Catamarca y Tuoumán.
Triste
Ah!
Debajo de un limón verde
Donde el agua no corría
Entregué mi corazón
A quien no lo merecía.
Ah!
Triste es el día sin sol
Triste es la noche sin luna
Pero más triste es querer
Sin esperanza ninguna.
Ah!
Zamba
Hasta las piedras del cerro
Y las arenas del mar
Me dicen que no te quiera
Y no te puedo olvidar.
Si el corazón me has robado
El tuyo me lo has de dar
El que lleva cosa ajena
Con lo suyo ha de pagar
Ay!
Arrorró
Arrorró mi nene,
Arrorró mi sol,
Arrorró pedazo
De mi corazón.
Este nene lindo
Se quiere dormir
Y el pícaro sueño
No quiere venir.
Gato
El gato de mi casa
Es muy gauchito
Pero cuando lo bailan
Zapateadito.
Guitarrita de pino
Cuerdas de alambre.
Tanto quiero a las chicas,
Digo, como a las grandes.
Esa moza que baila
Mucho la quiero
Pero no para hermana
Que hermana tengo.
Que hermana tengo
Si, pónte al frente
Aunque no sea tu dueño,
Digo, me gusta verte.
Anonymous - traditionalChacarera
I love girls with little snub noses
and a snub-nose girl is what I've got.
Ours will be a snub-nose wedding
and snub-nosed children will be our lot.
Whenever I sing a chacarera
it makes me want to cry,
because it takes me back to
Catamarca and Tuoumán.
Triste
Ah!
Beneath a lime tree
Where no water flowed
I gave up my heart
To one who did not deserve it.
Ah!
Sad is the sunless day.
Sad is the moonless night.
But sadder still is to love
With no hope at all.
Ah!
Zamba
Even the stones on the hillside
And the sand in the sea
Tell me not to love you.
But I cannot forget you.
If you have stolen my heart
Then you must give me yours.
He who takes what is not his
Must return it in kind.
Ay!
Lullaby
Lullaby my baby;
Lullaby my sunshine;
Lullaby part
Of my heart.
This pretty baby
Wants to sleep
And that fickle sleep
Won’t come.
Gato
The cat of the house
Is most mischievous,
But when they dance,
They stamp their feet.
With pine guitars
And wire strings.
I like the small girls
As much as the big ones.
That girl dancing
Is the one for me.
Not as a sister
I have one already.
I have a sister.
Yes, come to the front.
I may not be your master
But I like to see you.
Translations by Jacqueline Cockburn and Richard Stokes published in the The Spanish Song Companion (Gollancz, 1992), provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder (www.oxfordlieder.co.uk)Artists- Anthony León, tenor
- Pualina Lim, piano
Xavier Montsalvatge | Cinco canciones negras
Cuba dentro de un piano
Punto de Habanera
Chévere
Canción de cuna para dormir un negrito
Canto negro
Texts
Cuba dentro de un piano
Cuando mi madre llevaba un sorbete de fresa por sombrero
y el humo de los barcos aún era humo de habanero.
Mulata vueltabajera …
Cádiz se adormecía entre fandangos y habaneras
y un lorito al piano quería hacer de tenor.
… dime dónde está la flor que el hombre tanto venera.
Mi tío Antonio volvía con su aire de insurrecto.
La Cabaña y el Príncipe sonaban por los patios del Puerto.
(Ya no brilla la Perla azul del mar de las Antillas.
Ya se apagó, se nos ha muerto.)
Me encontré con la bella Trinidad …
Cuba se había perdido y ahora 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.
Rafael Alberti (1902-1999)
Punto de Habanera
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 por esta tarde.
Quisiera mandar al agua que no se escape de pronto
de la cárcel de tu falda.
Tu cuerpo encierra esta tarde
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 naranjo.
Los marineros te miran
y se te quedan mirando.
La niña criolla pasa con su miriñaque blanco.
¡Qué blanco!
Néstor Luján (1922-1995)
Chévere
Chévere del navajazo,
se vuelve él mismo navaja:
pica tajadas de luna,
mas la luna se le acaba;
pica tajadas de canto,
mas el canto se le acaba;
pica tajadas de sombra,
mas la sombra se le acaba,
y entonces pica que pica
came de su negra mala.
Nicolás Guillén (1902-1989)
Canción de cuna para dormir un negrito
Ninghe, ninghe, ninghe,
tan chiquitito,
el negrito
que no quiere dormir.
Cabeza de coco,
grano de café,
con lindas 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 ‘groom’.
Ninghe, ninghe, ninghe,
duérmete, negrito,
cabeza de coco,
grano de café.
Ildefonso Pereda Valdés (1899-1996)
Canto negro
¡Yambambó, yambambé!
Repica el congo solongo,
repica el negro bien negro.
congo solongo del Songo
baila yambó sobre un pie.
Mamatomba,
serembé cuserembá,
El negro canta y se ajuma.
el negro se ajuma y canta.
el negro canta y se va.
Acuemem e serembó
aé,
yambó
aé.
Tamba, tamba, tamba, tamba,
tamba del negro que tumba,
tamba del negro, caramba,
caramba, que el negro tumba,z
¡Yambá, yambó, yambambé!
Nicolás GuillénCuba inside a piano
When my mother wore strawberry ice for a hat
and the smoke from the boats was still Havana smoke.
Mulata from Vuelta Abajo ...
Cadiz was falling asleep to fandango and habanera
and a little parrot at the piano tried to sing tenor.
...tell me, where is the flower that a man can really respect.
My uncle Anthony would come home in his rebellious way.
The Cabaña and El Príncipe resounded in the patios of the port.
(But the blue pearl of the Caribbean shines no more.
Extinguished. For us no more.)
I met beautiful Trinidad...
Cuba was lost, this time it was true.
True
and not a lie.
A gunner on the run arrived, sang Cuban songs about it all.
Havana was lost
and money was to blame...
The gunner went silent,
fell,
But later, ah, later
they changed SÍ
to YES.
Habanera Rhythm
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
dwells the sound of opening dahlias.
Young girl, do not complain,
your ripe body
sleeps in fresh brocade,
your waist quivers
as proud as a whip,
every inch of you 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
himself becomes 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 evil black woman.
Lullaby for a little black boy
Lullay, lullay, lullay,
tiny little child,
little black boy,
who won’t 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.
You’re 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 ‘groom’.
Lullay, lullay, lullay,
sleep, little black boy,
head like a coconut,
head like a coffee bean.
Negro 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.
Mamatomba,
Serembe cuserembá.
The black man sings and gets drunk,
the black man gets drunk and sings,
the black man sings and goes away.
Acuemem e 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 man's tumbling!
¡Yambá, yambó, yambambé!
Translations by Jacqueline Cockburn and Richard Stokes published in the The Spanish Song Companion (Gollancz, 1992), provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder (www.oxfordlieder.co.uk)Artists- Chihiro Asano, mezzo-soprano
- Michael Banwarth, piano
Franz Schubert
Ganymed
Nachtviolon
Der MusensohnTexts
Ganymed
Wie im Morgenglanze
Du rings mich anglühst,
Frühling, Geliebter!
Mit tausendfacher Liebeswonne
Sich an mein Herz drängt
Deiner ewigen Wärme
Heilig Gefühl,
Unendliche Schöne!
Dass ich dich fassen möcht’
In diesen Arm!
Ach, an deinem Busen
Lieg’ ich, schmachte,
Und deine Blumen, dein Gras
Drängen sich an mein Herz.
Du kühlst den brennenden
Durst meines Busens,
Lieblicher Morgenwind!
Ruft drein die Nachtigall
Liebend mach mir aus dem Nebeltal.
Ich komm’, ich komme!
Wohin? Ach wohin?
Hinauf! Hinauf strebt’s.
Es schweben die Wolken
Abwärts, die Wolken
Neigen sich der sehnenden Liebe.
Mir! Mir!
In euerm Schosse
Aufwärts!
Umfangend umfangen!
Aufwärts an deinen Busen,
Alliebender Vater!
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832)
Nachtviolen
Nachtviolen, Nachtviolen,
Dunkle Augen, seelenvolle,
Selig ist es, sich versenken
In dem samtnen Blau.
Grüne Blätter streben freudig,
Euch zu hellen, euch zu schmücken;
Doch ihr blicket ernst und schweigend
In die laue Frühlingsluft.
Mit erhabnen Wehmutsstrahlen
Trafet ihr mein treues Herz,
Und nun blüht in stummen Nächten,
Fort die heilige Verbindung.
Johann Mayrhofer (1787-1836)
Der Musensohn
Durch Feld und Wald zu schweifen,
Mein Liedchen weg zu pfeifen,
So geht’s von Ort zu Ort!
Und nach dem Takte reget,
Und nach dem Mass beweget
Sich alles an mir fort.
Ich kann sie kaum erwarten,
Die erste Blum’ im Garten,
Die erste Blüt’ am Baum.
Sie grüssen meine Lieder,
Und kommt der Winter wieder,
Sing’ ich noch jenen Traum.
Ich sing’ ihn in der Weite,
Auf Eises Läng’ und Breite,
Da blüht der Winter schön!
Auch diese Blüte schwindet,
Und neue Freude findet
Sich auf bebauten Höhn.
Denn wie ich bei der Linde
Das junge Völkchen finde,
Sogleich erreg’ ich sie.
Der stumpfe Bursche bläht sich,
Das steife Mädchen dreht sich
Nach meiner Melodie.
Ihr gebt den Sohlen Flügel
Und treibt, durch Tal und Hügel,
Den Liebling weit von Haus.
Ihr lieben, holden Musen,
Wann ruh’ ich ihr am Busen
Auch endlich wieder aus?
Johann Wolfgang von GoetheGanymede
How your glow envelops me
In the morning radiance,
Spring, my beloved!
With love’s thousandfold joy
The hallowed sensation
Of your eternal warmth
Floods my heart,
Infinite beauty!
O that I might clasp you
In my arms!
Ah, on your breast
I lie languishing,
And your flowers, your grass
Press close to my heart.
You cool the burning
Thirst within my breast,
Sweet morning breeze,
As the nightingale calls
Tenderly to me from the misty valley.
I come, I come!
But whither? Ah, whither?
Upwards! Strive upwards!
The clouds drift
Down, yielding
To yearning love,
To me, to me!
In your lap,
Upwards,
Embracing and embraced!
Upwards to your bosom,
All-loving Father!
Translations © Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder, published by Faber, provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder (www.oxfordlieder.co.uk)
Dame's Violets
Dame’s violets,
Dark, soulful eyes,
It is blissful to immerse myself
In your velvety blue.
Green leaves strive joyously
To brighten you, to adorn you;
But you gaze, solemn and silent,
Into the mild spring air.
With sublime shafts of melancholy
You have pierced my faithful heart,
And now, in silent nights,
Our sacred union blossoms.
The son of the muses
Roaming through field and wood,
Whistling my song,
Thus I go from place to place!
And all keep time with me,
And all move
In measure with me.
I can scarcely wait for them,
The first flower in the garden,
The first blossom on the tree.
They greet my songs,
And when winter returns
I am still singing my dream of them.
I sing it far and wide,
The length and breadth of the ice.
Then winter blooms in beauty!
This blossom, too, vanishes,
And new joys are found
On the cultivated hillsides.
For when, by the linden tree,
I come upon young folk,
I at once stir them.
The dull lad puffs himself up,
The demure girl whirls
In time to my tune.
You give my feet wings,
And drive your favourite over hill and dale,
Far from home.
Dear, gracious Muses,
When shall I at last find rest again
On her bosom?
Translation © Richard Wigmore, author of Schubert:The Complete Song Texts, published by Schirmer Books, provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder (www.oxfordlieder.co.uk).Artists- Ilhee Lee, tenor
- Kyunga Lee, piano
William Walton | Three Façade Settings (Three Songs after Edith Sitwell)
Daphne
Through Gilded Trellises
Old Sir FaulkTexts
Daphne
When green as a river was the barley,
Green as a river the rye,
I waded deep and began to parley
With a youth whom I heard sigh.
'I seek', said he, 'a lovely lady,
A nymph as bright as a queen,
Like a tree that drips with pearls her shady
Locks of hair were seen;
And all the rivers became her flocks
Though their wool you cannot shear,
Because of the love of her flowing locks,
The kingly sun like a swain came strong,
Unheeding of her scorn,
Wading in deeps where she has lain,
Sleeping upon her riven lawn
And chasing her starry satyr train.
She fled, and changed into a tree,
That lovely fair-haired lady...
And now I seek through the sere summer
Where no trees are shady!’Through Gilded Trellises
Through gilded trellises of the heat,
Dolores, Inez, Manuccia, Isabel, Lucia,
Mock Time that flies.
‘Lovely bird, will you stay and sing,
Flirting your sheenéd wing,
Peck with your beak, and cling to our balconies?’
They flirt their fans, flaunting
‘O silence enchanting as music!
Then slanting their eyes,
Like gilded or emerald grapes,
They make mantillas, capes,
Hiding their simian shapes.
Sighs each lady, ‘Our spadille’s done.’
‘Dance the quadrille from Hell's towers to Seville;
Surprise their siesta,’ Dolores said.
Through gilded trellises or heat,
Spangles pelt down through the tangles of bell flowers;
Each dangles her castanets,
Shutters fall while the heat mutters,
With sounds like a mandoline or tinkled tambourine...
Ladies, Time dies!
Old Sir FaulkOld
Sir
Faulk,
Tall as a stork,
Before the honeyed fruits of dawn were ripe, would walk,
And stalk with a gun
The reynard-coloured sun,
Among the pheasant-feathered corn
The unicorn has torn, forlorn
the
Smock-faced sheep
Sit
and
sleep;
Periwigged as William and Mary, weep...
‘Sally, Mary, Mattie, what's the matter, why cry?’
The huntsman and the reynard-coloured sun and I sigh;
‘Oh, the nursery-maid Meg
With a leg like a peg
Chased the feathered dreams like
Hens, And when they laid an egg
In the sheepskin
Meadows
Where,
The serene King James would steer,
Horse and hounds, then he
From the shade of a tree
Picked it up as spoil to boil for nursery tea", said the mourners.
In the
Corn, towers strain,
Feathered tall as a crane,
And whistling down the feathered rain, Old Noah goes again -
An old dull mome
With a head like a pome,
Seeing the world as a bare egg,
Laid by the feathered air: Meg
Would beg three of these
For the nursery teas
Of Japhet, Shem and Ham, she gave it
Underneath the trees,
Where the boiling
Water,
Hissed,
Like the goose-king's feathered daughter-kissed,
Pot and pan and copper kettle
Put upon their proper mettle,
Lest the Flood - the Flood -
The Flood begin again through these!
Edith Sitwell (1887-1964)Artists- Loren Graziano, soprano
- Thomas Burrill, piano