Responsibility in Action

I have often wondered what truly sets professionals apart from music students in conservatories. When you are young and still learning, you go through life with horse blinds thinking that the level of playing is the most important aspect of being a professional. But since I started college and began meeting, mingling, learning, and working with professionals, I have discovered great playing is only the beginning of success. The week that I spent with A Far Cry as their fellow in Albion was an excellent example of what it takes to be a successful professional. 

The most important thing I have learned from A Far Cry is personal responsibility. Contrary to popular belief, personal responsibility does not mean to direct your focus on yourself - it is exactly the opposite. Personal responsibility is the ability to direct your focus on your surroundings and adapt as quickly and as seamlessly as possible. I was surprised that in rehearsals, the Criers did not have arguments over interpretation. Whatever suggestion anyone offered, it was rehearsed and immediately applied. It did not matter if someone theoretically disagreed with a suggestion: they tried it anyway and played it so convincingly as though it was their own idea.

Criers trust each other in performance 100%. If someone takes a risk, everyone goes with them. It is this alertness and personal responsibility in catching others that creates an extremely meaningful artistic experience. You can rehearse something from sunrise to sunset but in the end, no two performances are ever the same. If you are too busy reading your own notes and are not present, you will not be ready to face a challenge or catch a curveball. This is something that students in conservatories still lack: to substitute their concern for their own notes and playing for presence and adaptability. It is never the environment’s fault - it is only your mistake that you were not there to witness it and catch on. 

The second important thing I learned from A Far Cry is personal responsibility in management. In order for A Far Cry to exist, everyone needs to take part in sharing, voting on decision making, leading rehearsals, and sticking to the rehearsal plans. Everyone in the group is a leader and plays a crucial role, even if it means taking turns to listen out for balance. Everyone takes on a personal responsibility to be a leader not for their own ego-boost but for the greater common goal of creating a quality product.

If there’s one huge point that conservatory students like me can take away from a week with A Far Cry is that personal responsibility means using your peripherals, understanding how you fit into a whole, and taking risks. Until now, I often translated being “responsible” as not doing anything to make others uncomfortable or not deviating from what is expected. However, being responsible as an artist means that you are a role model, inspire others to be fearless, and let them know you’ve got their backs. The only way you can inspire others to get out of their comfort zones is if you step out of that box first and be constantly ready for the unexpected. Only then a great performance like Albion can happen.

- Gergana Haralampieva 

Gergana Haralampieva is a violinist, and one of A Far Cry's Season 11 NEC Fellows

Guardians of the Groove Program Notes

Program notes by Kathryn Bacasmot, Michael Atkinson, and Sufjan Stevens, for A Far Cry's program Guardians of the Groove, this Saturday, January 27, 4pm at St. John's Church in Jamaica Plain and Sunday, January 28, 1:30pm at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.

JEAN-BAPTISTE LULLY (1632-1687) :: SUITE FROM ACIS ET GALATÉE

Lully lived a fortunate life until an unfortunate injury brought about his death at the age of fifty-five. Equipped with cleverness, humor, musical talent, physical gracefulness, and a keen sense of drama, he lifted himself from the common workman’s livelihood of his Italian childhood. He was born Giovanni Battista Lulli in Florence, and would land in the home of a member of the French royal family when he was merely fourteen years old (as an Italian language tutor). He would not return, and would die a naturalized French citizen.

Every step of the way he charmed those around him, and drew their favor in the form of artistic educational opportunities—music lessons and dance lessons—that led to his talents being noticed and rewarded with increased responsibilities around the royal household. He would eventually encounter the young Louis XIV (six years his junior), and maneuver his way to becoming Louis’ favorite musician at court. Once Louis was crowned King, Lully secured the position of surintendant de la musique de la chambre du roi, overseeing musical activities at court, as well as the King’s famous string bands. He would enjoy the King’s encouragement and support almost his entire career. 

With his talent and resources, Lully’s outstanding compositions set the bar for the French Baroque style with regal musical overtures and epic musical tragedies and comedies for the theater and the opera. One of his last operas, Acis et Galatée, a love triangle between gods and mortals, was written immediately following a falling out with Louis XIV over his disapproval of a court seduction that Lully pursued. It may, or may not, have ever been seen by the King. Its private premiere was for the entertainment of a hunting party at the château of Anet for the dauphin. It was later performed at the Paris Opéra on September 17, 1686, six months before Lully’s death.

    —Kathryn J Allwine Bacasmot

SUFJAN STEVENS (b. 1975) :: SUITE FROM RUN RABBIT RUN (ARR. MICHAEL ATKINSON)

Originally premiered by the Osso String Quartet, these four movements became a point of departure for many other projects, including an orchestration for Justin Peck and the New York City Ballet’s production of “Year of the Rabbit,” which premiered in 2012; and, in a mixed ensemble arrangement by yMusic. This expanded version is based on Atkinson’s original arrangements. In a program note for the premiere in 2007, Sufjan Stevens shared his thoughts:

“... this arrangement draws upon the material of the original suite, including colorful extended techniques and textural improvisations in tandem with more conventional sounding music. They are uncomplicated impressions of theme and variation that bring to light, through careful condensation, a project previously heavy laden with conceit… Atkinson’s scores do not, however, ignore the experiments of sound and improvisation that inspired many of the original recordings.  His arrangements paint abstract sequences, odd shapes and angular arches on the staff, open to interpretation.  The strings are forced to mimic gestures previously generated by the computer: sampled beats, digital glitches, and mechanical guffaws.  At one point, for example, the players are cued for a few bars of shushing, imitating the sound of rain.

“These songs… have become, to my ears, more alive, more capable, more fully realized than their original recordings. It’s as if, in initially piecing them together, years ago, in the solitude of my computer, I was constructing Frankenstein’s monster, with the wit and wildness of a mad scientist. Atkinson’s arrangements distill these vulgarities in vinegar, pulling away all the ugly skin lesions, the moles, the gimmicks, the stitching, and the layers of gauze.  What is revealed is a full-grown man, with consciousness, hair parted to the side, a track suit, running shoes, a baseball cap.  It’s alive! It’s
alive! Of course this is where the analogy breaks down, for these songs are more animal than human.”

— Michael Atkinson and Sufjan Stevens

ANTONÍN DVORÁK (1841-1904) :: SERENADE FOR STRINGS, OP. 22

Dvořák found fame as a composer later in his life, spending the earlier portion of it making a living as a teacher and orchestral musician (he even played under the baton of Richard Wagner three times). It wasn’t until he was thirty-years-old that he openly revealed his true career ambition: to be a composer. 

There were a few setbacks along the way toward this goal, including being denied the opportunity to meet and study with Franz Liszt, but eventually things began to come together. Often artists have their one big break, and Dvořák’s came in 1877. Since 1874 he had applied yearly to the Austrian State Stipendium, and consistently received the honor of a financial award. In 1875, Johannes Brahms, who was the prime of his career, stepped in to replace one of the jurors. This was Dvořák’s chance to impress, and two years later when Dvořák submitted his application that included the Serenade for Strings along with the Theme with Variations for piano, and Moravské dvojzpěvy (‘Moravian Duets’), Brahms wrote to his publisher, Fritz Simrock saying, “As for the state stipendium, for several years I have enjoyed works sent in by Antonín Dvořák (pronounced Dvorschak) of Prague… Dvořák has written all manner of things: operas (Czech), symphonies, quartets, piano pieces. In any case, he is a very talented man. Moreover, he is poor! I ask you to think about it!” Brahms also mentioned to his friend, the famous violinist Joseph Joachim, mentioning the only other serenade Dvořák wrote (this time, for winds): “Take a look at Dvorák's Serenade for Wind Instruments… I hope you will enjoy it as much as I do… It would be difficult to discover a finer, more refreshing impression of really abundant and charming creative talent. Have it played to you; I feel sure the players will enjoy doing it!”

The rest, as they say, is history. With these auspicious stamps of approval Dvořák rapidly gained an audience for his music. He became a rising star, and would eventually be one of the most respected Czech composers in history. It is no wonder that the Serenade for Strings, with its luminous lyricism would help launch his career, and still be one of the most beloved works in the repertoire well over one hundred years later.

    —Kathryn J Allwine Bacasmot

Kathryn J Allwine Bacasmot is a pianist/harpsichordist, musicologist, music and cultural critic, and freelance writer. A graduate of New England Conservatory, she writes program annotations for ensembles nationwide.
 

Guardians Welcome

The following is an email sent to the musicians playing this week's Guardians of the Groove set (with shows this Saturday, January 27, 4pm at St. John's Church in Jamaica Plain and Sunday, January 28, 1:30pm at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum). We hope you enjoy this sneak peek into our process and nerdy inner goings on.
--- 

Hi all,

Grateful, as always, to be playing this set with you! I just thought I'd lay out an introduction/re-introduction to this program.

Guardians of the Groove was the result of A Far Cry's internal "Dvorak Serenade Award" which we created to give a guaranteed spot to a program with that piece after we realized we'd been avoiding it for several seasons. My own theory as to why we've steered clear is that it's maybe too sweet of a piece, but in a way that's curiously at odds with Dvorak's music in general which tends to be rhythmically driven and a bit punchy; there's almost always some crunch and acidity to balance out the sweetness. I happen to think those qualities do exist in the Serenade, they just aren't always emphasized because the gorgeous melodic lines tend to dominate the list of priorities, but I'm hoping we can bring some of the old groove back: the motoric chug of the first movement, the off-kilter syncopations in the second, the hyper skip of the third, and then a kind of combination of all three in the last, the motor, the punchy syncops, and the ecstatic undercurrent.

The format of the program, then, is a bit of a throwdown, with the first half made up of pieces that are very groove-forward to hopefully coax those qualities out of the Dvorak. The first half pieces are also neatly placed at historical bookends, with Lully at one end, the leader of the original, archetypal dance band, and a brilliant new Michael Atkinson arrangement of parts of an electronic dance music album by Sufjan Stevens at the other.

A little more detail on the Lully suite. It's from an opera, Acis et Galatée, about two young lovers making a go of it on the island guarded by the cyclops-giant Polyphemus (who'll later have his eye put out by Odysseus). Spoiler alert: Polyphemus has a thing for Galatea and so he tosses a boulder on Acis, but he comes back as a river god so s'all good. The structure of the suite is: serious intro - fun times - music about cyclops giants - serious outro.

Playlists in Spotify and YouTube formats there.

The Lully edition we're playing off of is my own, and I've made cuts to some of the material, especially the last passacaglia/chaconne, and a couple of the inner movements. We'll go with the parts for now, but things might change.

Finally, I want to open things up to start thinking about groove in general. I was recently introduced to the funk band Vulfpeck, who, as I understand it, are sort of a... historical performance group. They studied with some of the legends of funk and motown, and sometimes have them on as collaborators, with the goal of getting to the essence of groove in a very pure way, often taking the focus off songs and lyrics to hone in on that aspect. Here's a vid to contemplate. Maybe I'll send one-a-day?

Feel free to chime in here with thoughts, strategies, questions, requests, etc.

Thanks guys!

Michael

Albion Program Notes

MATTHEW LOCKE (1621-1677), HENRY PURCELL (1659-1695)

SONGS AND INCIDENTAL MUSIC

Opera as a genre is often said to have arrived at the first full expression of its creative and artistic

potential in Italy with Claudio Monteverdi’s 1607 production of L’Orfeo. It was soon all the rage

in court entertainment for the European continent, but it took a while to take hold across the

channel in England. Two reasons that are sometimes noted for this slow embrace were the

English love of the spoken word in the form of plays and dramas (Shakespeare died in 1616),

and the national turmoil of the Civil Wars that resulted in the Puritan influence of closing the

Theaters.

So what were the English doing for court entertainment? A genre called the masque was

immensely popular, as were semi-operas. The masque was a precursor of the opera, and the

semi-opera landed somewhere between. Both relied on stage machinery, songs, and dances, and

included spoken dialogue, whereas opera nixed the spoken dialogue in favor of recitative in

order to have the entire production sung.

Two of the great composers of the English royal court who were responsible for such

entertainments were Matthew Locke, and his successor, Henry Purcell. Locke studied with

members of the Gibbons family (their most famous son being Orlando), and Purcell came from a

family of musicians all associated with the chapel royal. Though Locke has, unfortunately, faded

from the public eye, during his lifetime he reached the pinnacle of success writing the coronation

music for Charles II, and as master of the King’s 24 violins. Purcell gained wider, and more

permanent, fame, and is still heralded as one of the greatest English composers to ever

live—particularly for his talent in setting the language to song (Benjamin Britten was a life-long

fan). Dr. Charles Burney, the English musicologist who penned his massive history of music just

as the American colonies were declaring independence, wrote that Purcell was “...as much the

pride of an Englishman in Music as Shakespeare in productions for the stage, Milton in epic

poetry, [John] Locke in metaphysics, or Sir Isaac Newton in philosophy and mathematics.”

RALPH VAUGHAN WILLIAMS (1872-1958)

CONCERTO GROSSO

Vaughan Williams came from a prestigious line of English families, particularly on his mother’s

side. Margaret Vaughan Williams’ maiden name was Wedgwood. She was the daughter of

Josiah Wedgwood III, grandson of the famous English potter Josiah Wedgwood, and Caroline

Darwin, older sister of Charles. Unlike some young composers who were pressured to go into the

family profession (in this case, law), Ralph was encouraged to indulge in his love for music. He

studied piano, organ, violin, and viola, but it became increasingly clear that what he liked to do

was compose. In addition to eventual studies at Cambridge University, he spent some time at the

Royal College of Music, and also went abroad to study with Max Bruch and Maurice Ravel. It

was his dissatisfaction with mimicking the style of others, as well as his love for English folk

songs and interest in the history of English music stretching back to the Renaissance that would

help him find his own musical voice—a quest he pursued alongside his friend and fellow

Englishman, Gustav Holst. The result would be some of the most beautiful, lush, music ever

written (Fantasia on Greensleeves, Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis, The Lark Ascending,

etc.)

In addition to his prolific life as a composer, Vaughan Williams was also an enthusiastic

educator. The Concerto Grosso was written for the Rural Schools Music Association, and was

premiered in 1950. In this work, the ensemble is divided into sections playing at varying

difficulty levels that are integrated within the traditional concerto grosso structure of a smaller

group called the “concertino” performing against the backdrop of the whole ensemble called the

“ripieno” or in this case, “tutti.” Vaughan Williams pairs the “advanced” music with the

concertino, the “intermediate” with the tutti and adds another grouping, “ad lib,” for the

“novice.”

BENJAMIN BRITTEN (1913-1976)

SERENADE FOR TENOR, HORN, AND STRINGS, OP. 31

In 1929 E.M. Forster, the English author best known for A Room with a View, Howard’s End,

and A Passage to India, sat down in a BBC studio to begin recording what would be a series of

broadcasts about the craft of writing. Over five thousand miles away under the golden southern

California sun, Benjamin Britten and his life partner, the vocalist Peter Pears, read an essay

entitled George Crabbe: the Poet and the Man that Forster had published in the BBC magazine,

The Listener. That was May 29, 1941.

Britten was extraordinarily musically gifted from an early age (he began composing at age five)

and had a keen interest in the world of literature and poetry that would find an outlet through his

many vocal works. Discovering the life and work of Crabbe, a fellow Englishman from Suffolk,

piqued his interest. By a stroke of fortune Pears happened to come across a collection of

Crabbe’s in a bookshop. It was the author’s vision of a small seaside town portrayed in his long

poem, The Borough, which captured the composer’s imagination. Britten and Pears had come to

the United States as pacifists distancing themselves from impending war in Europe. They lived

in New York, and then California, but it was Crabbe’s hometown of Aldeburgh, and the echoes

of seaside life Britten read in the poems that “gave such a feeling of nostalgia for Suffolk” that

called them home to England. Eager to start on the new project, Britten began writing out

sketches for an opera about one of the poem’s characters, Peter Grimes, as they packed and

started on their journey across the Atlantic.

While busy with Peter Grimes, Britten wrote a handful of works for voice including A

Ceremony of Carols, the Hymn to St. Cecilia, and the Serenade for tenor, horn and strings. The

Serenade was written for the talented young horn player Dennis Brain, whom Britten had met

and become acquainted with soon after returning to England. Brain and Pears would give the

premiere in London’s renowned Wigmore Hall on October 15, 1943. As if displaying an

overwhelming gratefulness to be back home, the Serenade’s lyrics were selected exclusively

from British poets and folk songs. That each text reflects on the evening and night (or

metaphorical night of death) indicates Britten’s acknowledgement of the serenade genre’s

historical context as music to be performed at sunset.

—Kathryn J Allwine Bacasmot

Kathryn J Allwine Bacasmot is a pianist/harpsichordist, musicologist, music and cultural critic, and freelance writer. A graduate of New England Conservatory, she writes program annotations for ensembles nationwide.

Speaking the Serenade

Here’s an A Far Cry challenge for whoever wants to take it on! 

This Friday, we’ll be playing the magnificent Britten Serenade for Tenor, Horn, and Strings. One of the greats! Earlier this week, we were speaking about it and one of the Criers described it as one of the last iconic works for strings that we haven’t performed yet. (Of course we’ve been dreaming about playing it for years, and we’re totally totally thrilled to finally be bringing it to life with Nicholas Phan.) 

What makes the Britten so Phan-tastic? (Sorry, Nick!) 

In part, it’s the fact that Britten used six absolutely thrilling English poems - from some of the most revered poets in the language, and spanning a space of nearly six hundred years. I’ve always found English is a funny language to read out loud; as opposed to, say, French or Italian, the words don’t necessarily sit comfortably in your mouth. But as a language, it is so very very precise (more precise than beautiful, I would say) that the craft of writing poetry in English gives you a whole world of options. And these poems are rich, specific, resonant, and truly great. 

So, the challenge: Read them! Go ahead and read them out loud! 

One of the best ways to get to know a poem is to see where it leads you as you read. Certain things become so much more clear as you say them. And it’s also a wonderful way to come closer to what is happening onstage on Friday, if you yourself have said the very same words. Where do you find yourself lingering? How do you shape a certain sentence? What do you recite louder, what softer? It’s a fascinating exercise.  

So here they all are, in order, below, with a few notes from me on each (mostly just detailing some of my favorite parts.) 

Do it! Don’t be shy, no one’s listening! We believe in you! 

Here goes… 

Pastoral

The day’s grown old; the fainting sun

Has but a little way to run,

And yet his steeds, with all his skill,

Scarce lug the chariot down the hill.

The shadows now so long do grow,

That brambles like tall cedars show;

Mole hills seem mountains, and the ant

Appears a monstrous elephant.

A very little, little flock

Shades thrice the ground that it would stock;

Whilst the small stripling following them

Appears a mighty Polypheme.

And now on benches all are sat,

In the cool air to sit and chat,

Till Phoebus, dipping in the west,

Shall lead the world the way to rest.

Charles Cotton (1630–1687) “The Evening Quatrains” 

There are a few things that I adore about this nearly 400-year old poem. The beauty of the dominant image, with shadows making giants of us all at day’s end, is striking and intimate, and somehow evokes the approaching dark without making it seem ominous. I also love the colorful words sprinkled throughout. “Lug” and “chat” pop up so brightly and casually in the language - I had no idea they were even used at that time. “A very little little flock” is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in print, and the “monstrous elephant” is just damn fine. 

Nocturne

The splendour falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story:

The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory:

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

Bugle blow; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going!

O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river:

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892) “Blow bugle blow” 

First of all: the horns of Elfland?! 

Second of all, this poem feels fantastic when you recite it out loud. The words start to hum and thrum, leaping and echoing of their own accord. 

Third, I can’t get enough of the way the poem zooms closer and closer in for each stanza - the first merely descriptive, the second, addressing someone (but who?) and the last, revealing the loved one. The poem gets warmer and warmer, even as it becomes more heroic. 

Lastly: “roll from soul to soul” - so good. 

Elegy

O Rose, thou art sick!

The invisible worm,

That flies in the night

In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed

Of crimson joy:

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.

William Blake (1757–1827) “The Sick Rose” 

I find this poem unspeakably disturbing. I’m sure Blake wanted it that way. When you read it out loud, I find it makes you slow down incrementally until the last few words seem to take an agonizing lifetime to intone, and by that time you’re probably speaking in a whisper. 

Dirge

This ae nighte, this ae nighte,

Every nighte and alle,

Fire and fleet and candle‑lighte,

And Christe receive thy saule.

When thou from hence away art past,

Every nighte and alle,

To Whinny‑muir thou com’st at last;

And Christe receive thy saule.

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,

Every nighte and alle,

Sit thee down and put them on;

And Christe receive thy saule.

If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gav’st nane

Every nighte and alle,

The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane;

And Christe receive thy saule.

From Whinny‑muir when thou may’st pass,

Every nighte and alle,

To Brig o’ Dread thou com'st at last;

And Christe receive thy saule.

From Brig o’ Dread when thou may'st pass,

Every nighte and alle,

To Purgatory fire thou com'st at last;

And Christe receive thy saule.

If ever thou gavest meat or drink,

Every nighte and alle,

The fire sall never make thee shrink;

And Christe receive thy saule.

If meat or drink thou ne’er gav'st nane,

Every nighte and alle,

The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;

And Christe receive thy saule.

This ae nighte, this ae nighte,

Every nighte and alle,

Fire and fleet and candle‑lighte,

And Christe receive thy saule.

Anonymous (15th century) “Lyke-Wake Dirge” 

Another mesmerizing one to read out loud. (PS: Here’s a translation into more regular English, with some explanatory notes!) This one to me has the aspect of a story you share with a child, with each pair of stanzas detailing what happens if you did a GOOD thing, versus what happens if you did a BAD thing. Somehow, the words themselves seem to take a fierce delight in what happens if you weren’t quite good enough. Dark, creepy, but also terrifyingly just. I love the fact that the poem details both what’s happening in the journey (towards Heaven or Hell) but also brings you back, again and again, to what has happened in your own life. I honestly can’t read it without asking myself “Wait… Have I given meat or drink? Have I given hosen and soon? Will I be OK?” And I’m sure that’s the point. 

Hymn

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid to sleep,

Seated in thy silver chair

State in wonted manner keep:

Hesperus entreats thy light,

Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade

Dare itself to interpose;

Cynthia’s shining orb was made

Heav’n to clear when day did close:

Bless us then with wishèd sight,

Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal shining quiver;

Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe, how short so-ever:

Thou that mak’st a day of night,

Goddess excellently bright.

Ben Jonson (1572–1637) “Hymn to Diana” 

Try not to smile while saying “Excellently bright.” You might manage it for the first couple, but by the end of the poem… well, just see. I adore the fancy language in this one - it’s like Jonson’s breaking out the good china. It’s also such a sweet relief after the two preceding poems! 

Who rhymes “quiver” with short so-ever?” C’mon, Ben! 

Sonnet

O soft embalmer of the still midnight,

Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,

Our gloom‑pleas’d eyes, embower’d from the light,

Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:

O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,

In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes.

Or wait the “Amen” ere thy poppy throws

Around my bed its lulling charities.

Then save me, or the passèd day will shine

Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,

Save me from curious conscience, that still lords

Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;

Turn the key deftly in the oilèd wards,

And seal the hushèd casket of my Soul.

John Keats (1795–1821) “To Sleep” 

Extra credit if you yawn in the middle of this one. Props to Keats for writing a poem in which he basically begs the god of Sleep to send him off to dreamland “in midst of this thine hymn” - before he even finishes the poem. It reminds me for no good reason of a limerick a friend of mine wrote once: 

“The secret to writing a limerick

Is always to have a good gimmick.

If your rhymer is sore

You can end on line 4…” 

But Sleep doesn’t oblige Keats right away, and then the poem takes a darker turn as we become aware of what he is trying to flee, in his search for sweet oblivion. Amazing, how you can still feel the distressed spirit of a poet hundreds of years after his death, trying to do what we all sometimes try to do - just drift off and escape it all, for just a little while. 

I love the last two lines, where he describes that moment he knows will eventually come; Sleep like a methodical night watchman, tiptoeing through the rooms, shutting them one by one with skill and care. The words are hushed and perfect, and saying (or whispering) each one of them out loud is a pleasure. 

- 

Hey, there! 

You’re still here!

Did you read any of ‘em out loud? 

You can do it any time you want!

The challenge holds - until Friday, or after! 

Cheers, 

Sarah Darling - for A Far Cry

Giving

The process of building a career in music is often centered on “getting.” In any major city, there's a network of musicians deep in the daily toil and hustle to get every note, opportunity, concert, review, grant... the list goes on.

Of course, the Criers haven't been immune to this mentality. We couldn't have grown into an internationally acclaimed touring ensemble, become a significant concert presenter in Boston, created a Grammy-nominated label, or founded a thriving non-profit organization in ten years without a hungry sense of ambition – and a lot of sweat and tears.  

These days though, the tone of our conversations has shifted. These days, we're talking a lot less about getting and a whole lot more about giving.

During the early years, we'd walk onstage holding our breath. Did anyone come? Will they like the program? Will they think we played well? Now, when we walk onstage, we're flooded by the realization that A Far Cry has become so much bigger than us. I look into the audience and see a community of hundreds who’ve come to know our concerts as a safe space to turn off their phones, be still in their own humanity, experience beauty, and feel genuine human connection. In the maddeningly manic, disaster-strewn, noisy times in which we live, this hour of connection and contemplation takes on a sacred significance. We aren't playing to get approval. We're playing to give something – something far deeper and more worthwhile.    

This group-focus on giving has also energized our commitment to education. In our work with students on college campuses, in youth orchestras, and schools across the country, we're inviting them to listen radically, trust their colleagues, trust themselves, and fall deeply in love with music.

In 2016, we began a partnership with Project STEP, an inspiring organization in Boston committed to providing top-notch classical music training to students from underrepresented backgrounds. Criers are coaching STEP chamber groups every Saturday, and leading monthly workshops. In May, the STEP Honors Quartet, coached all year by criers, will perform on the Jordan Hall stage as part of our "Next Generation" program, and a student from the quartet will join our ranks onstage. We are so proud to be part of this growing movement to invest in our community – especially youth – through the life-changing power of music.  

Today I ask you to empower us to do more of this work. Our greatest desire for the next year is to give of ourselves, more fervently and completely, to our audiences and to every student we encounter.  Your support is the crucial fuel that can make that desire into a reality.

With gratitude,

Miki-Sophia Cloud
Violinist
A Far Cry

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TO MAKE A GIFT...

BY CHECK:

Make your check payable to “A Far Cry,” and mail it to:

A Far Cry
146A South Street
Jamaica Plain, MA 02130

BY CREDIT CARD:

Online gifts are accepted via A Far Cry’s website at afarcry.org/fundraising.

BY STOCK:

Stock can be gifted to A Far Cry via direct transfer or stock certification. To donate stock, please contact Bridget at 617-533-4887 or at bridget@afarcry.org.

BY IRA CHARITABLE ROLLOVER:

Federal legislation in December 2015 made the IRA charitable rollover permanent.

Donors age 70 ½ and older can make a qualified distribution of up to $100,000 from their IRA, and it will not be treated as taxable income. An IRA charitable rollover is a great way to make a tax-wise gift to A Far Cry! Contact Bridget at 617-553-4887 or bridget@afarcry.org for more information.

Ouch my ears, pt. 3

The sham public disturbance trials are nearing their conclusion, with final arguments to be presented tonight, December 7 at 7pm, when The AFC Challenge comes to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. Wholesale acquittals are expected.

In “Ouch my ears, pt. 2” we introduced the topic of dissonance, and we won’t be looking back on that front. Interestingly, though, we will be returning, philosophically, to the ideas raised relating to the first piece on the program, Philip Glass’s tonal and lovely Echorus  (see “Ouch my ears, pt. 1”): music that depicts functional systems rather narrative tension and conflict. Here, again, in works by Ligeti, Usui, and Xenakis, the music relates to concepts and sounds encountered in the real world, like the sound of a beehive, of our stomach growling, or of the wind hitting a ship’s sail.

Where these pieces are exceptional are in the ways they use dissonance to create music that is felt in an almost tactile way, and, in that, they make a fine triptych, each relating to a different state of matter: the Ligeti as vapor, the Usui as liquid, the Xenakis as solid.

György Ligeti: Ramifications

Accused of: what is that?

Defense:

Ligeti’s Ramifications is a cloud in sound and, in that, a remarkable and complex achievement. There have been pieces dating back centuries that have depicted scenes in various states of cloudiness, Beethoven’s “Pastoral” Symphony for instance, but these never get past the bluff called out in René Magritte’s The Treachery of Images (“Ceci n’est pas une pipe”), that these are mere depictions or interpretations. Ramifications comes as close to debunking this as one can and maybe even succeeds, at least achieving the definition of a cloud that is “an indistinct or billowing mass.” So, when someone asks what you did Thursday night, you can tell them “I heard a cloud,” and you wouldn’t be lying.

And if, to accomplish that, Ligeti has to tune one half of the ensemble a quarter tone sharp, or abandon all tonality and pitch center, or utilize dense, complex, offset rhythms; we should grant him that.

Shiori Usui: In Digestion

Accused of: what IS that??

Defense:

Next we get to say: “I went inside a stomach!” And to those not familiar with the animated children’s television series The Magic School Bus (specifically Season 1, Episode 2, in which the class is shrunk down and travels inside Arnold’s digestive system), this may not seem like the coolest thing ever, but it is.

Among composer Shiori Usui’s inspirations in her work are “the sounds of the human body, the deep sea, and many other weird and wonderful organisms living on Earth.” In Digestion, then, is her artful transcription of the sounds of eating and digesting food. Looping back to the earlier comparison, that the final three works of The AFC Challenge represent vaporous, liquid, and solid states (this work being liquid), the context presented is perhaps a bit grotesque, and might even elicit a groan. We need, though, to swallow those preconceptions and, again, approach this with a beginner’s mind and a spirit of fun. The spirit behind this piece truly is one of curiosity and playfulness, the childlike glee of reveling in gross things. It's not as forbidding as it sounds; despite the chomping sound effects, it won’t bite.

Iannis Xenakis: Voile

Accused of: WHAT IS THAT???

Defense:

Here we reach the max: music both dissonant and loud, that can almost be felt physically, as a solid object. This might possibly be traced to Xenakis’s roots as an architect, when he was a partner of Le Corbusier, one of the pioneers of “modern architecture.” In his music, then, alongside the physicality of sound, is a clarity of structure and texture that ought to dispel notions that his music is at all “random,” and might even help reframe the apparent harshness as something cutting, clear, and invigorating.

With Voile, once again, is also a sort of glee in misbehaving, in the spirit of the “enfant terrible.” There are hints of popular tunes (highly discordant, of course: 2:29 in the video below), as well as classical tropes, like the final chords, reminiscent of grand Beethovenian ending (4:44).

Beyond the structure and humor, though, is also a good deal of anguish, and in this one may find it helpful to approach Xenakis’s music with a degree of compassion. As you can see in his photo, his face is scarred, and he was also blind in one eye, stemming from an injury sustained from a tank blast as a member of the Greek resistance during World War II. He was able to escape, and lived in exile from the right-wing regime that was installed following the war for over 20 years. It’s this subtext that might help us to transform Xenakis from a forbidding figure to one that's misunderstood.

We’ll leave you with a quote from John Cage, who said: “I think that people are wonderful, and I think this because there are instances of people changing their minds.” Here, then, with music that might that might not be in our usual rotation, the key is being open to that, to listen with fresh ears, with curiosity, and good humor.

(Full playlist of The AFC Challenge here.)

Ouch my ears, pt. 2

This is part two in a three-part miniseries previewing The AFC Challenge, a concert at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum this Thursday, December 7 at 7pm. The program promises to be an invigorating course of immersion therapy for those wary of the avant-garde in music (and a fun survey for those who love it).

(Read "Ouch my ears, pt. 1 here.)

Christopher Hossfeld: “…AND ZOMBIES” from concerto GROSSO

Accused of: an 18-part fugue is not a thing!

Defense:

With Christopher Hossfeld’s “…AND ZOMBIES” we’re now getting into the meat of the program (or should we say: the “braaaaiiiiiins”), so it’s probably time to talk a little about dissonance.

The first three pieces on The AFC Challenge (by Glass, Cage, and Shostakovich) still operate within the classic dichotomy of dissonance vs. consonance, creating that familiar feeling of harmonic tension and release we're accustomed to. From this point on, though, we’ll be looking at composers who embrace dissonance, to varying degrees and ends.

“…AND ZOMBIES” embraces dissonance because it’s fun; like blowing raspberries or teasing a friend or doing a touchdown dance, it takes great glee in misbehaving. To do this, Hossfeld employs one of the most learned and advanced techniques in Western music, the fugue, to comic effect.

In a typical fugue, like those of J.S. Bach, the appeal lies in the attainment of improbable order: three, four, five, even six independent voices somehow coexisting harmoniously. It’s not only a powerful artistic statement, but a philosophical one as well, suggesting that peaceful coexistence is achievable, despite the odds.

Here then, too, coexistence is achieved... in a manner of speaking... through an eighteen-voice fugue... about zombies. 

Highly recommend, also, to listen to the full piece (approx. 20 mins.), which, apart from this light-hearted interlude, is an incredibly touching work, ending with a gorgeous, extended passacaglia. Click here to view.

Anton Webern: 5 movements, Op. 5

Accused of: expressio-bitionism!

Defense:

“A cinquain for Anton Webern”

A.Dubs.: 
Succint, profound.
A poet versed in sound.
Novels in the blink of an eye;
A sigh.

It’s tempting to leave Webern’s "defense" on that cryptic note, but we’ll expound a bit. The cinquain (like a haiku but 2-4-6-8-2) above references a quote from Webern’s mentor Arnold Schoenberg, who said of his Bagatelles: “think of the concision which expression in such a brief form demands! Every glance is a poem, every sigh a novel in a single gesture.” This is Webern’s music in a nutshell, short in minutes, dense in content, like the famous six-word story attributed to Hemingway: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

In that spirit, too, the dissonance in Webern’s 5 Movements is serious, coming as it does from 1909 and a Europe headed towards World War I. Here it’s useful to compare the music to currents in visual art. Both Webern and Schoenberg began their careers composing tonal music in an intense and highly Romantic style (pieces like Transfigured Night and Langsamer Satz), a style akin to expressionist artists like Klimt, Munch, and Kokoschka. It doesn’t take long, though, for them to move to composing in atonal and “12-tone” styles, reflecting the work of more abstract artists like Klee, Miró, and Kandinsky. Like those artists, Webern’s music is still this side of fully abstract (not yet Pollock or Rothko): there are still recognizable forms, dance types, expressive gestures, and nods to conventional harmonies, but the lines are very obscured.

Coming, as it does, pre-loaded with the reputation for being concise and dense, it might actually be advisable not to “stare” too hard at Webern’s music. Be present, rely on your trusty musician(s), and focus on the afterglow; are you left feeling disconcerted, rapt, pondering, blue? Then Webern got you.

Listen to rest of the Webern, and hear more music from The AFC Challenge here.

Ouch my ears, pt. 1

The AFC Challenge, happening this Thursday, December 7, 7pm at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, seeks to present and demystify gnarly, difficult, dissonant music that we adore nevertheless. So, in this blog series we’re going to ring these pieces up on public disturbance charges, then get them off on technicalities...

Philip Glass: Echorus

Accused of: so much the same notes!

Defense:

It’s easy to grow accustomed to music that’s either functional or narrative, which is to say dance music or music that tells a story (or both). We might not even realize it, but that’s 99% of what’s out there; even if we think of purely instrumental music as abstract, a Beethoven string quartet still tells a story by virtue of its structure, built on contrasting themes and their eventual resolution, like the rising and falling action of a play.

There’s also music that’s descriptive, like Vivaldi’s Four Seasons or Debussy’s La Mer. There, too, though, is a narrative (and a good bit of dance, too), in the same way that a nature documentary will still emphasize dramatic plotlines. This is where Philip Glass’s music, and a piece like Echorus, flips the script, foregoing the dramatic to instead reflect stable, harmonious systems. These kinds of systems exist in real life, only they’re often overlooked, because they work: the orbits of planets, the river’s flow, the systems of the human body, even mechanical systems like the device you’re using to read this. Nevertheless, these can still be fascinating to consider, even if they are stable, because they, too, are ever-changing, if only in subtle ways. Hence you get the repetition found in “minimalism.” It’s this contemplative, meditative state of observation, that Glass’s Echorus evokes.

John Cage: “Quietly Flowing Along” from String Quartet in Four Parts

Accused of: randomness!

Defense:

Glass’s Echorus takes a step outside typically narrative music; Cage’s String Quartet in Four Parts takes a step further, not only forgoing thematic opposition, but also intentional emotiveness. Of Echorus, Glass writes “the music is inspired by thoughts of compassion and is meant to evoke feelings of serenity and peace;” Cage, by contrast, was interested in writing music that would “sober and quiet the mind,” a subtle distinction, but an important one; while Glass is attempting to create a feeling in the listener, Cage is not.

To do this, Cage intentionally restricted himself, giving each instrument an extremely limited number of sonorities that he could employ, so a cello, which has thousands of different note + articulation + dynamic combinations, is whittled down to a handful. This was done to limit the “ego,” the will, of the composer, to force himself away from being able to formulate the complex combinations of sounds that form emotions in music, to make sonority the point of departure, rather than intention.

One might expect that this would create a bland result, but, in fact, it’s quite the opposite. Cage’s quartet is often very impactful, only the feelings are our own, not the composer’s. It might be useful to think of this quartet as a sonic temple: a respite, and in our world an especially precious one, from the constant onslaught of outside influences that affect us and that seek to cause an emotional reaction. To be gifted this delicate, serene, sonic space, then, is incredibly special.

Dmitri Shostakovich: “Scherzo” from Two Pieces for String Octet, Op. 11

Accused of: creepy crawlies!

Defense:

Yes, but so cool! Also rock n’ roll.

Listen!

Full playlist for The AFC Challenge here

Thoughts on The Blue Hour

How do you measure a life?

It's not a new question for us. Ever since humans, ever since art, ever since memory, we've been wrestling with this one. 

How does it move? How does it grow? Is it linear? Circular? Does it have one trajectory? Does it have one meaning? What are the forces that lie behind any one specific moment? Are they the same as the ones that rise to inform the next? And what about memory? What does it conceal? What does it reveal?

"now appears to us in a mysterious light"

is the first line of a gigantic poem by Carolyn Forché that tackles these questions in a profoundly comprehensive and courageous way. Forché's "On Earth" takes a good look at a life that is ending, and explodes it into the million individual images and instances that make it real; the flashes that you see before death. Reading this poem, you swim through a chaos of experiences and visions, each one bound up in just one sentence. And rather than string a narrative through, Forché instead uses a distinctive ordering system of her own: the alphabet itself. There's an exactly ordered place for everything written - but, much as within the synaptic chaos of our own minds, that place makes no linear sense. Stripped of context, it becomes more vibrant, more real. 

the early summer's green plums
the empty wet shirts on the line waving
the endless, unbroken lines
the evacuation of ghosts
the flautist's breath in a stairwell
the flumes of white phosphorous marking the city

This was the jumping-off point for A Far Cry, and for five composers we love - in order, from above, Angélica Negron, Rachel Grimes, Sarah Kirkland Snider, Caroline Shaw, and Shara Nova. Over a year ago, a group of us sat down together on Sarah's porch in New Jersey to talk about turning this poem into an evening-long collaborative composition. We sat and talked, sharing ideas and simply taking each other in. At a certain point, the composers kicked the Criers out and went to work. 

between here and there
between hidden points in the soul
between hidden points in the soul born from nothing
between saying and said
between what one has oneself done

We started receiving musical numbers - one by one, large and small. Some dealing with a single image... 

a syllable a dove

... others with a whole flowing group of them. Five different composers, five different means of expression, further ignited by the text itself. We read them, sending back impressions, ideas, and cool bow tricks. 

The nature of the collaboration was at once frustrating and thrilling. We had to build something in three dimensions. The composers had to figure out how to devise systems to allow them to work creatively as individuals while finding a way to keep all eyes on the whole structure - that kept slowly coming more and more into being.

languid at the edge of the sea
lays itself open to immensity
leaf-cutter ants bearing yellow trumpet flowers along the road
left everything left all usual words behind
library, lilac, linens, litany

Thousands of distinct images, brought to life by a poet, brought into music by five composers, workshopped and rehearsed by eighteen musicians and one radiant singer.  At any point along the way, that process could have broken down. There were countless opportunities. But if a work that's so dependent on every single individual involved does not break down - if it survives - then it becomes truly formidable. 

When I think of The Blue Hour, I always think of a sphere. I imagine us constructing it, climbing here and there, balancing on stepladders, looking across distances, tossing materials back and forth, thinking about balance. And then suddenly the sphere is complete, supported from every angle - and from the center comes its own gravity. 

This is a beautiful thing. And yet, I think what I love most of all about The Blue Hour is that we decided, together to collaborate on a work where every image has equal resonance. This poem, this composition, defies the easy hierarchy of narrative. It offers up another way of seeing this world that we're moving through. 

What else is art for? 

-Sarah Darling