Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Maurerische Trauermusik (Masonic Funeral Music), K. 477 (1785)
— posted by Roger W. Smith
April 2020
Mozart, “Masonic Funeral Music”
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Category Archives: my favorite music
more music for the present moment
Samuel Barber, Adagio for Strings (1936)
— posted by Roger W. Smith
April 2020
more consolatory music for this time of pandemic
Domine Deus
from Stabat Mater, RV 589, by Antonio Vivaldi
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Domine Deus, Rex coelestis,
Deus Pater omnipotens.
— posted by Roger W. Smith
April 2020
Alan Hovhaness, “Ave Maria”
I have been looking for consoling music to listen to during this time of crisis.
Most music is too intense for me right now.
I find — and always have — the composer Alan Hovhaness’s “Ave Maria,” Opus 100, no. 1a, for women’s chorus and instrumental accompaniment, which was composed in 1955, to be a beautiful piece that is just right right now. “Ave Maria” is part of a three-part work of the composer entitled Triptych.
My father, Alan W. Smith, had a nodding acquaintance with Hovhaness when both were in their adolescence. He and Hovhaness grew up in the same town (Arlington, Massachusetts) and had the same piano teacher.
— Roger W. Smith
April 2020
“Sing on! you gray-brown bird”
“Sing on! you gray-brown bird”
movement eight from When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d: A Requiem for those we love
composed by Paul Hindemith.
text from Walt Whitman’s poem of the same name
Words and music fitting for our present time.
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Sing on, sing on you gray-brown bird,
Sing from the swamps, the recesses, pour your chant from the
bushes,
Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.
Sing on dearest brother, warble your reedy song,
Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.
O liquid and free and tender!
O wild and loose to my soul—O wondrous singer!
You only I hear—yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart,)
Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me.
Now while I sat in the day and look’d forth,
In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and
the farmers preparing their crops,
In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and
forests,
In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb’d winds and the
storms,)
Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the
voices of children and women,
The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they
sail’d,
And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy
with labor,
And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with
its meals and minutia of daily usages,
And the streets how their throbbings throbb’d, and the cities pent
—lo, then and there,
Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the
rest,
Appear’d the cloud, appear’d the long black trail,
And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of
death.
Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,
And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,
And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the
hands of companions,
I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not,
Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the
dimness,
To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still.
And the singer so shy to the rest receiv’d me,
The gray-brown bird I know receiv’d us comrades three,
And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.
From deep secluded recesses,
From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still,
Came the carol of the bird.
And the charm of the carol rapt me,
As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night,
And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.
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“I will try to remain calm. I will try to concentrate my attention on the sound of the wind and the buzzing of the bees outside my window, the scent of the hoya blossom, … and the sight of the cherry trees in bloom.” — Ella Rutledge, March 30, 2020
— posted by Roger W. Smith
April 2020
Schubert
In some British film that I was watching with my wife last night, there was a scene with a young woman playing the piano: Beethoven, Chopin, and another piece.
“I know that piece,” I said to my wife. Then, after a moment or two of concentration, I said, “It’s Schubert. One of his impromptus.”
Here it is. I find Schubert very appropriate for these incredibly sad times.
Also posted above is Liszt’s piano transcription of a song from Schubert’s song cycle Winterreise (Winter’s Journey): namely, “Wasserflut” (“Flood”).
— posted by Roger W. Smith
March 22, 2020
Beethoven/Goethe, “Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage”
Last night, I heard Beethoven’s short piece Meeresstille und glückliche Fahrt (Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage), Op. 112. performed at Carnegie Hall. It is a setting of two poems by Goethe.
The words enchanted me.
Beethoven, as in the Pastorale Symphony — and also in the Choral Fantasy and Ode To Joy — could write outstanding music (as, say, Stravinsky really couldn’t in this respect, despite the supposed primal quality of The Rite of Spring) that captures the elemental human expression of nature and human emotions.
Goethe’s beautiful words follow.
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Meerestille
Tiefe Stille herrscht im Wasser,
Ohne Regung ruht das Meer,
Und bekümmert sieht der Schiffer
Glatte Fläche ringsumher.
Keine Luft von keiner Seite!
Todesstille fürchterlich!
In der ungeheuern Weite
Reget keine Welle sich.
Glückliche Fahrt
Die Nebel zerreißen,
Der Himmel ist helle,
Und Äolus löset
Das ängstliche Band.
Es säuseln die Winde,
Es rührt sich der Schiffer.
Geschwinde! Geschwinde!
Es teilt sich die Welle,
Es naht sich die Ferne;
Schon seh ich das Land!
Calm Sea
Deep stillness rules the water
The sea lies motionless,
And sadly, the sailor observes
The smooth surfaces all around.
No air from any side!
Deathly, terrible stillness!
In the immense distances
not a single wave stirs.
Prosperous Voyage
The fog is torn,
The sky is bright,
And Aeolus releases
The fearful bindings.
The winds whisper,
The sailor begins to move.
Quickly, quickly!
The waves part,
The distance approaches;
Already, I see the land!
— posted by Roger W. Smith
March 6, 2019
Monteverdi, Vespers of 1610
FOR THE MOST HOLY
VIRGIN,
A MASS FOR SIX VOICES
[FOR CHURCH CHOIRS]
AND VESPERS TO BE SUNG
BY SEVERAL VOICES,
WITH SEVERAL SACRED SONGS,
SUITED FOR CHAPELS OR THE CHAMBERS OF PRINCES
THE WORK
OF CLAUDIO MONTEVERDI,
RECENTLY COMPOSED
AND DEDICATED TO THE MOST BLESSED POPE PAUL V.
Venice, by Riccianlo Amadino.
1610.
Monteverdi, Vespers – libretto
Posted here is Claudio Monteverdi’s Vespera della Beata Vergine in the version known as the Vespers of 1610. A complete libretto (Word document) is attached above.
I have known and admired the Vespers for a long time, and finally got to hear them performed live, in an outstanding performance by Tenet Vocal Artists, a Renaissance music choral group, at the Church of Saint Jean Baptiste in Manhattan on January 2, 2020.
— posted by Roger W. Smith
February 2020
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the complete work
“Ar ne kuth”
Ar ne kuthe ich sorghe non
nu ich mot imane min mon;
karful wel sore ich syche
Geltles ich sholyc muchele schame;
help God, for thin swete name,
kyng of heuene riche.
Jesu crist, sod God sod man,
louerd thu rew upon me,
of prisun thar ich in am
bring me ut and makye fre.
Ich and mine feren sume,
God wot ich ne lyghe noct,
for othre habbet misname
ben in thys prisun ibroct.
Almicti, that wel lictli,
bale is hale and bate, heuenking,
of this woning ut us bringe mote.
Foryef hem, the wykke men,
yhef it is thi wille, for wos gelt
we bed ipelt in thos prisun hille.
Ne hope non to this liue
her ne mai he biliue,
Heghe thegh he astighe
ded hym felled to grunde.
Nu had man wele and blisce,
rathe he shal thar of misse.
worldes wele midywisse
ne lasted buten on stunde.
Maiden that bare the heuen king,
bisech thin sone, that swete thing,
that he habbe of hus rewsing
and bring hus of this woning,
for his muchele milse.
He bring hus ut of this wo,
and hus tache werchen swo
in thos liue, go wusit go
that we moten ey and o
habben the eche blisse.
Previously I knew no sorrow,
now I must give voice to my grief:
full of care I and suffering. I sigh.
Guiltless, I suffer great shame:
help, God, for your sweet name,
Lord of heaven’s kingdom.
Jesus Christ, in truth God, in truth man,
Lord, have pity upon me,
from this prison that I am in
bring me out and make me free.
I and some of my companions,
(God knows that I do not lie)
for other men’s misdeeds
have into this prison been cast.
Almighty, who very easily
is remedy and cure for pain, heaven-king,
from this misery may liberate us.
Forgive them. the wicked men,
God, if it is your will. for whose guilt
we have been thrust into this evil prison.
Have no hope in this life.
for here he may not remain.
High though he ascends,
death will fell him to the ground.
Now man has wealth and bliss,
but soon he shall lose them.
The wealth of the world certainly
lasts not but a moment.
Maiden who bore the Heaven-king,
beseech your son, that sweet thing,
that he have pity on us
and bring us from this misery,
for his great mercy.
May he bring us out of this woe,
and teach us to act
so that in this life, however it may go,
we may forever
have eternal bliss.
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I heard this medieval song performed by soprano Jolle Greenleaf (her voice is incredible and virtually indescribable) in a concert of English medieval music by Tenet Vocal Artists at the Rare Book Room of the Strand Bookstore on February 13, 2020.
Pity the prisoners incarcerated, most of them with no purpose and for no good — I would guess this is true of about ninety-five percent of the prisoners currently incarcerated — by our criminal “justice” system.
— Roger W. Smith
February 2020
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“A common thread throughout medieval English sacred music, both in Latin and in the vernacular, is a devoted love of Mary. The sweetness of so much of English polyphony seems especially appropriate for music to celebrate Christianity’s great mother.
“In ‘Arne kuth ich sorghe non’ the singer, destitute and imprisoned, first calls out to Jesus for help. Finally, in the last stanza she turns to Mary, imploring her to intercede with her son Christ: “beseech thy son to have pity on us and bring us from this great misery.”
— program notes by Robert Mealy
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See also my post
“Ar ne kuth” II
Elizabethan music (Campion, Dowland, Morley)
I am posting here the music from an LP that I treasure which I purchased in the Brandeis University bookstore around fifty years ago.
Exquisite sentiments, beautiful music for voice and lute, clothed in beautiful words.
Side 1 (the first track here) is comprised of nine songs composed by Thomas Campion, who wrote the lyrics (he was a poet and composer), from “Rosseter’s Book Of Ayres.”
Side 2 (the second track) is comprised of two songs by John Dowland (“I Saw My Lady Weep,” “Flow My Tears”) and four songs by Thomas Morley (“It was a lover and his lass,” “Mistress mine, well may you fare!” Can I forget what Reason’s force,” “Fair in a morn”) from the “First Book of Ayres”. The words to “It was a lover and his lass” are from Shakespeare’s As You Like It.
I have modernized spelling in many instances.
A final thought: I heard one of these songs being sung by a soprano on the internet today. Beautiful voice and rendition. But I feel that these songs call for being sung by a male voice (as they almost always are).
— Roger W. Smith
February 2020
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SIDE 1
Thomas Campion
nine Songs From “Rosseter’s Book Of Ayres”
“My Sweetest Lesbia”
My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love,
And though the sager sort our deeds reprove,
Let us not weigh them. Heaven’s great lamps do dive
Into their west, and straight again revive,
But soon as once set is our little light,
Then must we sleep one ever-during night.
If all would lead their lives in love like me,
Then bloody swords and armor should not be;
No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move,
Unless alarm came from the camp of love.
But fools do live, and waste their little light,
And seek with pain their ever-during night.
When timely death my life and fortune ends,
Let not my hearse be vexed with mourning friends,
But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come
And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb;
And Lesbia, close up thou my little light,
And crown with love my ever-during night.
“Though you are young”
Though you are young and I am old
Though your veins hot and my blood cold
Though youth is moist and age is dry
Yet embers live when flames do die
The tender graft is eas’ly broke
But who shall shake the sturdy oak?
You are more fresh and fair than I
Yet stubs do live when flower do die
Thou, that thy youth dost vainly boast
Know, buds are soonest nipped with frost
Think that thy fortune still doth cry:
Thou fool, to-morrow thou must die
“I Care Not for These Ladies”
I care not for these ladies,
That must be wooed and prayed:
Give me kind Amaryllis,
The wanton country maid.
Nature art disdaineth,
Her beauty is her own.
Her when we court and kiss,
She cries, “Forsooth, let go!”
But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say no.
If I love Amaryllis,
She gives me fruit and flowers:
But if we love these ladies,
We must give golden showers.
Give them gold, that sell love,
Give me the nut-brown lass,
Who, when we court and kiss,
She cries, “Forsooth, let go!”
But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say no.
These ladies must have pillows,
And beds by strangers wrought;
Give me a bower of willows,
Of moss and leaves unbought,
And fresh Amaryllis,
With milk and honey fed;
Who, when we court and kiss,
She cries, “Forsooth, let go!”
But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say no.
“Follow Thy Fair Sun”
Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow,
Though thou be black as night
And she made all of light,
Yet follow thy fair sun unhappy shadow.
Follow her whose light thy light depriveth,
Though here thou liv’st disgraced,
And she in heaven is placed,
Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth.
Follow those pure beams whose beauty burneth,
That so have scorched thee,
As thou still black must be,
Till Her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.
Follow her while yet her glory shineth,
There comes a luckless night,
That will dim all her light,
And this the black unhappy shade divineth.
Follow still since so thy fates ordained,
The Sun must have his shade,
Till both at once do fade,
The Sun still proved, the shadow still disdained.
My love hath vowed he will forsake mee,
And I am already sped.
Far other promise he did make me
When he had my maidenhead.
If such danger be in playing,
And sport must to earnest turn,
I will go no more a-maying.
Had I foreseen what is ensued,
And what now with pain I prove,
Unhappy then I had eschewed
This unkind event of love:
Maids foreknow their own undoing,
But fear naught till all is done,
When a man alone is wooing.
Dissembling wretch, to gain thy pleasure,
What didst thou not vow and swear?
So didst thou rob me of the treasure,
Which so long I held so dear,
Now thou prov’st to me a stranger,
Such is the vile guise of men
When a woman is in danger.
That heart is nearest to misfortune
That will trust a fained tongue,
When flattering men our loves importune,
They intend us deepest wrong,
If this shame of loves betraying
But this once I cleanly shun,
I will go no more a-maying.
“When to Her Lute Corinna Sings”
When to her lute Corinna sings,
Her voice revives the leaden strings,
And doth in highest notes appear
As any challenged echo clear;
But when she doth of mourning speak,
Ev’n with her sighs the strings do break.
And as her lute doth live or die,
Let by her passion, so must I:
For when of pleasure she doth sing,
My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring,
But if she doth of sorrow speak,
Ev’n from my heart the strings do break.
“Turn Back, You Wanton Flyer”
Turn back, you wanton flyer,
And answer my desire
With mutual greeting,
Yet bend a little nearer,
True beauty still shines clearer
In closer meeting.
Harts with harts delighted
Should strive to be united,
Either others arms with arms enchaining:
Harts with a thought,
Rosy lips with a kiss still entertaining.
What harvest half so sweet is
As still to reap the kisses
Grown ripe in sowing,
And straight to be receiver
Of that which thou art giver,
Rich in bestowing?
There’s no strict observing
Of times or seasons swerving,
There is ever one fresh spring abiding;
Then what we sow,
With our lips let vs reap, loves gains dividing.
“It fell on a summers day”
It fell on a summers day,
While sweet Bessie sleeping lay
In her bower, on her bed,
Light with curtains shadowed,
Jamy came: she him spies,
Opening half her heavy eyes.
Jamy stole in through the door,
She lay slumbering as before;
Softly to her he drew near,
She heard him, yet would not hear,
Bessie vow’d not to speak,
He resolved that dump to break.
First a soft kiss he doth take,
She lay still, and would not wake;
Then his hands learn’d to woo,
She dream’t not what he would do,
But still slept, while he smiled
To see love by sleep beguiled.
Jamy then began to play,
Bessie as one buried lay,
Gladly still through this sleight
Deceiv’d in her own deceit,
And since this trance begun,
She sleeps ev’rie afternoon.
“Follow Your Saint”
Follow your Saint, follow with accents sweet,
Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet;
There wrapt in cloud of sorrow, pity move,
And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love,
But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,
Then burst with sighing in her sight, and ne’er return again.
All that I song still to her praise did tend,
Still she was first, still she my songs did end.
Yet she my love and Musicke both doeth fly,
The Musicke that her Echo is, and beauties sympathy;
Then let my Notes pursue her scornful flight:
It shall suffice that they were breath’d and died, for her delight.
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SIDE TWO
John Dowland, songs from the “Second Book of Songs or Ayres”
Dowland, “I saw my Lady weep”
I saw my Lady weep,
And sorrow proud to be advanced so
In those fair eyes, where all perfections keep;
Her face was full of woe,
But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts
Than mirth can do, with her enticing parts.
Sorrow was there made fair,
And Passion, wise; Tears, a delightful thing;
Silence, beyond all speech, a wisdom rare;
She made her sighs to sing,
And all things with so sweet a sadness move;
As made my heart both grieve and love.
O Fairer than aught else
The world can shew, leave off, in time, to grieve,
Enough, enough! Your joyful look excels;
Tears kill the heart, believe,
O strive not to be excellent in woe,
Which only breeds your beauty’s overthrow.
Dowland, “Flow, my tears”
Flow, my tears, fall from your springs!
Exiled for ever, let me mourn;
Where night’s black bird her sad infamy sings,
There let me live forlorn.
Down vain lights, shine you no more!
No nights are dark enough for those
That in despair their last fortunes deplore.
Light doth but shame disclose.
Never may my woes be relieved,
Since pity is fled;
And tears and sighs and groans my weary days, my weary days
Of all joys have deprived.
From the highest spire of contentment
My fortune is thrown;
And fear and grief and pain for my deserts, for my deserts
Are my hopes, since hope is gone.
Hark! you shadows that in darkness dwell,
Learn to contemn light
Happy, happy they that in hell
Feel not the world’s despite.
Thomas Morley. songs from the “First Book of Ayres”
Morley, “It was a lover and his lass”
It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o’er the green cornfield did pass,
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the rye,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
Those pretty country folks would lie,
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
This carol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that a life was but a flower
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
For love is crownèd with the prime
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
— from William Shakespeare’s As You Like It
Morley, “Mistress mine, well may you fare”
Mistress mine, well may you fare!
Kind be your thoughts and void of care,
Sweet Saint Venus be your speed
That you may in love proceed.
Coll me and clip and kiss me too,
So so so so so so true love should do.
This fair morning, sunny bright,
That gives life to love’s delight,
Every heart with heat inflames,
And our cold affection blames.
Coll me and clip and kiss me too,
So so so so so so true love should do.
In these woods are none but birds,
They can speak but silent words;
They are pretty harmless things,
They will shade us with their wings.
Coll me and clip and kiss me too,
So so so so so so true love should do.
Never strive nor make no noise,
‘Tis for foolish girls and boys;
Every childish thing can say
‘ Go to, how now, pray away! ‘
Coll me and clip and kiss me too,
So so so so so so true love should do.
Morley, “Can I forget what Reason’s force”
Can I forget what Reason’s force
Imprinted in my heart?
Can I unthink these restless thoughts
When first I felt Love’s dart?
Shall tongue recall what Thoughts and Love
by Reason once did speak?
No, no, all things save death wants force
That faithful band to break.
For now I prove no life to love
Where Fancy breeds Content.
True love’s reward with wise regard
Is never to repent;
It yields delight that feeds the sight
Whilst distance doth them part.
Such food fed me when I did see
In mine another heart.
Another heart I spied, combined
Within my breast so fast,
As to a stranger I seem’d strange,
But Love forced love at last.
Yet was I not as then I seemed,
Bur rathe wish to see
If in so full a harbour Love
Might constant lodged be.
So Cupid plays oft now a days
And makes the fool seem fair;
He dims the sight, breeding delight
Where we seem to despair.
So in our heart he makes them sport
And laughs at them that love.
Who for their pain gets this again
Their love no liking move.
Morley, “Fair in a morn”
Fair in a morn, O fairest morn,
was ever morn so fair?
When as the sun, but not the same
that shineth in the air,
But of the earth, no earthly sun,
and yet no earthly creature,
There shone a face, was never face
that carried such a feature.
And on a hill, O fairest hill;
was never hill so blessed,
there stood a man, was never man
for no man so distressed.
This man had hap, O happy man;
no man so happed as he,
For none had hap to see the hap
that he had happed to see.
As he beheld, this man beheld,
he saw so fair a face,
The which would daunt the fairest here
and stain the bravest grace.
Pity, he cried, and Pity came,
and pitied for his pain,
That dying would not let him die,
but gave him life again.
For joy whereof he made such mirth
that all the world did ring,
And Pan with all his nymphs came forth
to hear the shepherds sing.
But such a song sung never was,
nor ne’er will be again,
Of Phillida the shepherd’s queen,
and Corydon the swain.