Recital: Tyler Bouque '21 BM, Baritone

NEC: Burnes Hall | Directions

255 St. Botolph St.
Boston, MA
United States

NEC's students meet one-on-one each week with a faculty artist to perfect their craft. As each one leaves NEC to make their mark in the performance world, they present a full, professional recital that is free and open to the public. It's your first look at the artists of tomorrow.

Tyler Bouque '21 BM studies Voice with MaryAnn McCormick.  He is the recipient of the Presidential Distinction Award, the Annie MacColl Scholarship and a scholarship made possible by the Lincoln and Therese Filene Voice Scholarship Fund.

Watch Live Stream from Burnes Hall

  • Tyler Bouque '21 BM, baritone
  • Jack Yarbrough, piano
  • Marie-Elise Boyer, piano
  • Jessica Shand, flute
  • Emma Burge, violin
  • Robbie Bui, cello
  • Parker Olson, percussion
  • Riley Vogel, conductor
  • MaryAnn McCormick, studio instructor
  1. Michael Finnissy | from Unknown Ground (1989-90)

    I don't think of death
    A patch of blackened earth
    I was afraid
    Our lives

    I don’t think of death
    I know it is going to happen to me –
    But I don’t live my life as if I’m going to die.
    I can’t remember the pain and suffering I’ve been through.
    The tremendous loss of self-esteem brings back certain things
    From adolescence – you’ll go through patches when you think:
    ‘No-one loves me’ or ‘I’m useless. I don’t have any purpose.’
    People telling me: ‘You’re dirty. You’ve done something wrong.
    You deserve this disease.’ Or ‘You brought it on yourself.’
    Or ‘You don’t deserve treatment –
    You don’t even deserve being listened to.’
    I feel I’ve lost my sexuality.
    I feel I can’t go with other men.
    I don’t know whether I’m denying myself the opportunity.

    If I could have a relationship with someone it would be lovely,
    It would be real, positive, constructive –
    A good driving-force in my life—
    It would create dynamism within me.
    I don’t know where to go from here—
    Whatever the future is, I don’t know—
    ‘I hope I know you for a long time’—
    That’s a lovely greeting!


    A patch of blackened earth, smelling of sweat—
    Can I neither love nor lovingly touch it?

    I walk by the bracken-tangled path to the lake,
    Past the rough brushwood shelters in the fields,
    And the reeds drowsily swaying.

    Somewhere in the distance,
    Men are singing.

    Sergei Esenin


    I was afraid of not being able to see the garden grow.
    Afraid of having to go to hospital and be pathetic…

    Like some people are.
    Why the fuck me.
    I knew that I wanted to be with guys, but I was never able to manage it…
    If you’re repressed or pent-up for twenty-five years,
    Then you get to a place like New York, you do cut loose…
    I think it’s wrong if people start rejecting everything because of AIDS—

    If we do that, they have got us where they want us—
    The sort of Establishment and Right Wing people.
    I don’t feel guilty for doing things when I didn’t even know
    That such a virus was around, or it could happen…
    And I don’t see why anyone should.


    Our lives – like oceans filled with voices –
    Flow across each traveler’s path.

    Pine trees whispering of darkness and imprisonment,
    Of the flickering stars, barely seen through a barred window,
    And of the bell tolling on a fateful journey.

    Our love began in the summer.
    Began with a red-coloured egg—
    Meaning desire and blood.

    Soon, time will recede into grey mist.
    Then give me angel’s wings, that I might
    Fly in its wake, unseen…
    That I might travel to unknown ground.

    Nicolai Kluyev


    • Emma Burge, violin
    • Robbie Bui, cello
    • Jack Yarbrough, piano
  2. J. S. Bach | "Komm, süßes Kreuz" from Matthäus-Passion, BWV 244

    Komm, süßes Kreuz

    Komm, süßes Kreuz, so will ich sagen,
    Mein Jesu, gib es immer her!
    Wird mein Leiden einst zu schwer,
    So hilfst du mir es selber tragen.


    Christian Friedrich Henrici,
    after Matthew 26-27

    Come sweet cross

    Come sweet cross – this is what I will say,
    My Jesus, give it always to me!
    If my suffering at any time becomes too heavy,
    Then you yourself helped me to bear it.

    Translation © Francis Browne, 2008,


    • Marie-Elise Boyer, piano
  3. Claude Debussy | Recueillement from Cinq poèmes de Charles Baudelaire


    Sois sage, ô ma Douleur, et tiens-toi plus tranquille;
    Tu réclamais le Soir: il descend; le voici :

    Une atmosphère obscure enveloppe la ville,
    Aux uns portant la paix, aux autres le souci.
    Pendant que des mortels la multitude vile,
    Sous le fouet du Plaisir, ce bourreau sans merci,
    Va cueillir des remords dans la fête servile,
    Ma Douleur, donne-moi la main ; viens par ici,
    Loin d’eux. Vois se pencher les défuntes Années,
    Sur les balcons du ciel, en robes surannées;
    Surgir du fonds des eaux le Regret souriant;
    Le Soleil moribond s’endormir sous une arche,
    Et, comme un long linceul traînant à l’Orient,
    Entends, ma chère, entends la douce Nuit qui marche.

    Charles Baudelaire


    Be good, O my Sorrow, and keep more calm.
    You longed for Evening; it is falling; now:
    A dusky atmosphere enfolds the town,
    Bringing peace to some, to others care.
    While the vile multitude of mortals,
    Lashed by Pleasure, that pitiless tormentor,
    Goes gathering remorse in abject revels,
    Give me your hand, my Sorrow; come this way,
    Far from them. See the departed Years leaning,
    In outmoded dress, from the heavens’  balustrades;
    See smiling Regret well up from the waters’ depths;
    The dying Sun fall asleep beneath an arch,
    And like a long shroud trailing in the East,Listen, my love, listen to the tread of gentle Night.

    Translation © Richard Stokes, from A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000), provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder

    • Marie-Elise Boyer, piano
  4. Arnold Schoenberg | Schenk mir deinem goldenen Kamm from Vier Lieder, op. 2

    Schenk mir deinen goldenen Kamm

    Schenk mir deinen goldenen Kamm;

    Jeder Morgen soll dich mahnen,
    Daß du mir die Haare küßtest.
    Schenk mir deinen seidenen Schwamm;
    Jeden Abend will ich ahnen,
    Wem du dich im Bade rüstest,
    O Maria!
    Schenk mir Alles, was du hast;
    Meine Seele ist nicht eitel,
    Stolz empfang ich deinen Segen.
    Schenk mir deine schwerste Last:
    Willst du nicht auf meinen Scheitel

    Auch dein Herz, dein Herz noch legen,

    Richard Dehmel

    Give me your golden comb

    Give me your golden comb;

    every morning shall remind you
    that you kissed my hair.
    Give me your silken sponge;
    every evening I want to sense
    for whom you prepared yourself in the bath -
    oh, Maria!
    Give me everything you have;
    my soul is not vain,
    proudly I receive your blessing.
    Give me your heavy burden:

    will you not lay on my head

    your heart too, your heart

    Translation © Richard Stokes, provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder

    • Marie-Elise Boyer, piano
  5. Claude Debussy | Harmonie du soir from Cinq poèmes de Charles Baudelaire

    Harmonie du Soir

    Voici venir les temps où vibrant sur sa tige

    Chaque fleur s’évapore ainsi qu’un encensoir ;
    Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir ;
    Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige !
    Chaque fleur s’évapore ainsi qu’un encensoir ;
    Le violon frémit comme un cœur qu’on afflige ;
    Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige !
    Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir.
    Le violon frémit comme un cœur qu’on afflige
    Un cœur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir !
    Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir ;
    Le soleil s’est noyé dans son sang qui se fige.
    Un cœur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir,
    Du passé lumineux recueille tout vestige !
    Le soleil s’est noyé dans son sang qui se fige ...
    Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir!

    Charles Baudelaire

    Evening Harmony

    Now comes the time when, quivering on its stem,

    Each flower sheds perfume like a censer;
    Sounds and scents turn in the evening air;
    Melancholy waltz and reeling languor!
    Each flower sheds perfume like a censer;
    The violin throbs like a wounded heart,
    Melancholy waltz and reeling languor!
    The sky is sad and beautiful like a great altar.
    The violin throbs like a wounded heart,
    A fond heart that loathes the vast black void!
    The sky is sad and beautiful like a great altar.
    The sun has drowned in its congealing blood.
    A fond heart that loathes the vast black void
    And garners in all the luminous past!
    The sun has drowned in its congealing blood...
    Your memory within me shines like a monstrance!

    Translation © Richard Stokes, from A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000)

    • Marie-Elise Boyer, piano

  7. intermission

  8. Salvatore Sciarrino | Stupori (US Premiere, World Premiere of revised version)

    Domande al vento

    L’ultimo haiku di Bashō
    La nostra mente
    Silenzi leggibili


    Domande al vento

    - V'è una lingua del silenzio? Un rombo

      celato fra parole?
    Della città non restava niente. Uno gridava:
    - Ma il silenzio è vuoto, o pieno?
      È rifiuto della lingua o memoria antica?
    E gridava:
    - Cosa racconta la parola, se interrompe?
      Non sentite?
    Il vecchio sbucò dalle macerie:

    - V'è una lingua del silenzio?


    E io Giuseppe stavo camminando

         ed ecco non riuscivo a muovermi.
    Guardai in su e vidi
         che l'aria era attonita
    guardai la volta azzurra
         e vidi ch’era immobile
    gli uccelli nel cielo
         sospesi a metà.
    Guardai a terra e vidi una scodella
         e gli operai intorno
    quelli che stavano masticando
         non masticavano più
    e quelli che stavano prendendo il cibo
         non lo prendevano più
    e quelli col boccone in mano
         non lo ingoiavano più
    tutte le facce eran rivolte in alto.
    Ed ecco le pecore condotte al pascolo
         erano ferme, non andavano
    mentre il pastore alzava il bastone
         rimaneva col braccio levato.
    Guardai la corrente del fiume e vidi i capretti,
         il muso sull'acqua ma senza bere.
    Tutte le cose per un momento
         furon distratte dal loro corso.

    (Protovangelo di Giacomo, XVIII, elaborato daSciarrino)

    L'ultimo haiku di Bashō

    Malato in viaggio
    il sogno mio percorre

    pianure aride

    La nostra mente

    Di parole
    risuona ogni pensiero
    eco di fiato


    Io non mi
    mai più tanto
    Io Federi

    (su un muro della loggia, negli appartamenti ducali, a Urbino)

    Silenzi Leggibili


    (epigrafe messapica di Ugento)


    Questions to the wind

    - Is there a language of silence? A rumble

      hidden between words?
    Nothing remained of the city. One shouted:
    - But is silence empty, or full?
       Is it rejection of the language or ancient memory?   And he shouted:
    - What does the word say, if it interrupts?
       Can't you hear?
    The old man emerged from the rubble:
    - Is there a language of silence?


    And I, Joseph, was walking
         and found I could not move.
    I looked up and saw
         that the air was astonished
    I looked at that blue vault
         and I saw that it was motionless
    Birds in the sky
         were suspended in half.
    I looked down and saw a bowl
         and the workers around it
    those who were chewing
         no longer chewed
    and those who were taking food
         no longer took it
    and those with a morsel in hand
         no longer swallowed it
    all faces were turned upwards.
    And here were the sheep led to pasture
         they were still, they did not go
    while the shepherd raised his staff
         he remained with his arm raised.
    I looked at the river current and saw the kids,
         face on the water but without drinking.
    All things for a moment
         they were distracted from their course.

    (Protoevangelium of Jacob, XVIII, elaborated by Sciarrino.)


    Bashō's last haiku

    Sickly traveling
    my lucid dreams travel free
    through arid lowlands

    Our mind

    Of words
    every thought resounds
    echo of breath


    I don't
    I stopped
    never so much
    I Federigo

    (on a wall of the loggia, in the ducal apartments, in Urbino)

    Legible Silences


    (Messapian epigraph of Ugento)

    Translations by Tyler Bouque


    • Jessica Shand, flute
    • Emma Burge, violin
    • Parker Olson, percussion
    • Riley Vogel, conductor
  9. To my parents, friends, colleagues, and mentors to whom I owe my music — thank you.

    And a special thanks to Professor McCormick, who has given me a voice to sing.