Fremde in Geheimnis // Freunde in Heim
Fremde in Geheimnis // Freunde in Heim
graduate recital
ein Liederabend
with BJ Miller, pianoforte
6 November 2022
Salon Concert
recital presented in partial fulfillment
of the requirements for the degree of
Master of Music at Carnegie Mellon University
About the Performance
Artists in Exile
This recital was conceptualized as a response to alienation. The title can be read interchangeably as Fremde in Geheimnis (Strangers in Mystery), Freunde in Heim (Friends at Home), Freunde in Geheimnis (Friends in Mystery), and Fremde in Heim (Strangers at Home). As a queer classical musician, this is an idea that profoundly affects and moves me. I am no longer comfortable performing in my field, just as these musicians and poets were driven from their home countries and made social pariahs. I cannot speak to the experiences of everyone who suffers from alienation - from friends, family, society, home, and culture, but I hope you are able to share in the appreciation of this beautiful music with me. This collection of songs pulls at my heart strings, makes me laugh, makes me weep, and comforts me in times of despondency.
alana <3
Lieder des Abschieds, Op. 14
Songs of Farewell, 1920-1
Erich Korngold
(1897-1957)
Erich Korngold met his future wife, Luzi von Sonnenthal, in 1917. The two met at the home of her father, Alfred, who hosted soirees where Korngold frequently socialized and performed. Eventually, Korngold’s obsessive father forbade the relationship between his son and Luzi von Sonnenthal as he felt it had become too time consuming a distraction for his son’s musical career. This inspired this set of songs of farewell, originally composed for soprano (Sonnenthal was a talented soprano) and pianoforte. There is evidence that some music had been composed for these songs by 1915, but major work was completed during 1920-1. Korngold left Germany in 1934 during the rise of the Nazi regime. He moved to Hollywood at the request of director Max Reinhardt for whom he composed the score for A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1935). The composer is known also for his scores for Captain Blood (1935), Anthony Adverse (1936), and The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938), among others.
I. Sterbelied
Laß Liebster, wenn ich tot bin,
Laß du von Klagen ab.
Statt Rosen und Cypressen
Wächst Gras auf meinem Grab.
Ich schlafe still im Zwielichtschein
In schwerer Dämmernis –
Und wenn du willst, gedenke mein
Und wenn du willst, vergiß.
Ich fühle nicht den Regen,
Ich seh’ nicht, ob es tagt,
Ich höre nicht die Nachtigall,
Die in den Büschen klagt.
Vom schlaf erweckt mich keiner,
Die Erdenwelt verblich.
Vielleicht gendenk’ ich deiner,
Vielleicht vergaß ich dich.
I. Death-song
Leave, love, when I dead am,
Leave you from mourning.
Instead of roses and cypresses
Lay grass over my grave.
I sleep still in the twilight
In heavy dusk –
And when you will, think of me
And when you will, forget.
I feel not the rain,
I see not, if it is day,
I hear not the nightingale,
That in the bushes sings.
From sleep awake me not,
The earthly world fades.
Perhaps I think of you,
Perhaps I forgot you.
II. Dies eine kann mein Sehnen nimmer fassen
Dies eine kann mein Sehnen nimmer fassen,
Das nun von mir zu dir kein Weg mehr führ’,
Daß du vorübergehst an meiner Türe
In ferne, stumme, ungekannte Gassen.
Wär’ es mein Wunsch, daß mir ein Bild erbleiche,
Wie Sonnenglanz, von Nebeln aufgetrunken,
Wie einer Landschaft frohes Bild, versunken
Im glatten Spiegel abendlicher Teiche?
Der Regen fällt. Die müden Bäume triefen.
Wie welkes Laub verweh’n viel Sonnenstunden.
Noch hab’ ich in mein Los mich nicht gefunden
Und seines Dunkels uferlose Tiefen.
II. This can my longing never believe
This can my longing never believe,
That now from me to you no more path lays,
That you go past my door
In distant, mute, unknown streets.
It was my wish, that your image should fade,
Like sunlight, which mist has drunk,
Like a joyful landscape painting, sunk
In the smooth mirror of evening-lit ponds.
The rain falls. The tired trees drip.
As wilted leaves faded by many sunny hours.
Yet have I not found myself in my fate
And its shadowy limitless depth.
III. Mond, so gehst du wieder auf
Mond, so gehst du wieder auf
Über’m dunklen Tal der ungeweinten Tränen?
Lehr, so lehr’s mich doch, mich nicht nach ihr zu sehnen,
Blaß zu machen Blutes Lauf,
Dies Leid nicht zu erleiden,
Aus zweier Menschen Scheiden.
Sieh’, in Nebel hüllst du dich,
Doch verfinstern kannst du nicht den Glanz der Bilder,
Die mir weher jede Nacht erweckt und wilder.
Ach! Im Tiefsten fühle ich:
Das Herz, das sich mußt’ trennen,
Wird ohne Ende brennen.
III. Moon, thus do you rise always
Moon, thus do you rise always
Over shadowy valleys of unwept tears?
Teach, so teach me still, not to long for her,
Pale my running blood,
This suffering none should suffer,
As two souls parting.
See, in mist you shroud yourself,
But darken can you not the light of her image,
That every night wakes me and poaches me.
Ach! In the deep feel I:
The heart, that must tear,
Will without end burn.
IV. Gefaßter Abschied
Weine nicht, daß ich jetzt gehe,
Heiter lass dich von mir küssen.
Blüht das Glück nicht aus der Nähe,
Von ferne wird's dich keuscher grüssen.
Nimm diese Blumen, die ich pflückte,
Monatsrosen rot und Nelken,
Laß die Trauer, die dich drückte,
Herzens Blume kann nicht welken.
Lächle nicht mit bitter'm Lächeln,
Stosse mich nicht stumm zur Seite.
Linde Luft wird bald dich wieder fächeln,
Bald ist Liebe dein Geleite!
Gib deine Hand mir ohne Zittern,
Letztem Kuß gib alle Wonne.
Bang' vor Sturm nicht: aus Gewittern
Geht strahlender auf die Sonne...
So schau zuletzt noch die schöne Linde,
’Drunter uns kein Auge je erspähte.
Glaub, o glaub, daß ich dich wiederfinde,
Denn ernten wird, wer Liebe lächelnd säte.
IV. A Calm Farewell
Weep not, that I now go,
Cheerfully leave you from my kisses.
Our happiness blooms not when we are near,
From far will you chastely be greeted.
Take these flowers, that I plucked,
Roses red and carnations,
Leave the sorrow, that oppressed you,
Heart’s blooms cannot wilt.
Smile not with better smiles,
Push me not away in silence,
A baumy breeze will soon fan you once more,
Soon love will be your escort!
Give your hand to me without trembling,
To this last kiss give all wonder.
Fear not for storms: after thunderstorms
Rises gleaming once more the sun.
So see at last then the sweet lime tree,
Thereunder no eyes have us seen.
Believe, o believe, that I will-find-you-again,
As she will reap love, whom with smiling sowed.
Paul Verlaine
In Prison
(1844-1896)
Prison
The sky above the roof
In Prison
Gabriel Fauré (1845-1924)
Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958)
Déodat de Séverac (1872-1921)
Paul Verlaine was a poet whose influence on French poetry cannot be overstated. A leader of the symbolist movement, Verlaine was a master of encapsulating soul-rending ideas with what could be poetic sketches. The poet was notorious in his lifetime; a whirlwind of emotions, he was obsessed with only poetry. A mediocre law student, a lucky escape from the bloody Paris Commune, a failed marriage. Verlaine received great criticism when his relationship with fellow poet Arthur Rimbaud was made public. The two poets fled France together, abandoning wife and son. Their relationship was tempestuous and led to Verlaine shooting his lover in the wrist, for which he was arrested. The poet spent two years, a double exile from society for his crime of violence and because of increasing homophobic persecution. This poem was composed during this time, offering a glimpse at the quiet guilt and anger of a man who was continuously at odds with his family, his lovers, society, and perhaps most importantly himself.
In Prison
Le ciel est, par-dessus le toit,
Si bleu, si calme!
Un arbre, par-dessus le toit,
Berce sa palme.
La cloche, dans le ciel qu’on voit,
Doucement tinte.
Un oiseau sur l’arbre qu’on voit
Chante sa plainte.
Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, la vie est là,
Simple et tranquille.
Cette paisible rumeur-là
Vient de la ville.
– Qu’as-tu fait, ô toi que voilà
Pleurant sans cesse,
Dis, qu’as-tu fait, toi que voilà,
De ta jeunesse?
In Prison
The sky, above the roof,
So blue, so calm!
A tree, above the roof,
Waves its palm.
The bell, in the sky we see,
Softly rings,
A bird in the tree we see
Sings its lament.
My god, my god, life is there,
Simple and tranquil,
This quiet murmur there
Coming from the town,
– What have you done, o you here
Weeping without end,
Say, what have you done, you here,
With your youth?
Vier Lieder, Op. 2
Four Songs, 1899-1900
Arnold Schönberg
Arnold Schönberg is widely known as the leader of the Second Viennese School, a movement in 20th century German expressionist music characterized by atonalism, serialization, and the twelve-tone system of composition. This set of songs, however, demonstrates the gestation of these musical ideas. Disjunct melodies, set theory, and symbolist poetry combine to create an eerie, unsettling atmosphere. Dedicated to his mentor, the profound Russian composer Alexander Zemlinsky, these songs represent the influences of Brahms and Wagner instilled upon the composer by his teacher. These songs, strictly organized in form and motivic construction, explore diametric ideas in color, love, sex, and anticipation. Schönberg, also a painter, synthesizes these ideas and sounds to paint vivid and delicate scenes and his music continues to delight and shock listeners even today with its stark otherworldliness.
(1874-1951)
I. Erwartung
Aus dem meergrünen Teiche
Neben der roten Villa
Unter der toten Eiche
Scheint der Mond.
Wo ihr dunkles Abbild
Durch das Wasser greift,
Steht ein Mann und streift
Einen Ring von seiner Hand.
Drei Opale blinken;
Durch die bleichen Steine
Schwimmen rot und grüne
Funken und versinken.
Und er küßt sie, und
Seine Augen leuchten
Wie der meergrüne Grund:
Ein Fenster tut sich auf.
Aus der roten Villa
Neben der toten Eiche
Winkt ihm eine bleiche
Frauenhand.
I. Expectation
From the sea-green pond
Next to the red villa
Beneath the dead white oak
the moon shines.
Where her dark image
In the water gleams,
A man stands and draws
A ring from his hand.
Three opals glimmer;
among the pale stones
Swim red and green
Sparks and sink.
And he kisses her, and
His eyes gleam
As the sea-green depth:
A window opens itself.
From the red villa,
Next to the dead white oak
Waves to him a pale
Woman’s hand.
II. Schenk mir deinen goldenen Kamm
Schenk mir deinen goldenen Kamm;
Jeder Morgen soll dich mahnen,
Daß du mir die Haare küstest.
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,
Magdalena?
II. Gift me your golden comb
Gift me your golden comb;
Every morning should remind you,
That you my hair once kissed.
Give me your silken sponge;
Every evening will I sense,
For whom you have bathed in preparation,
O Maria!
Gift me Everything, that you have;
Mein soul is not vain,
Proudly receive I your blessing.
Give me your heaviest burden:
Will you not rest on my head
Also your heart, your heart,
Magdalena?
III. Erhebung
Gib mir deine Hand,
Nur den Finger, dann
Seh ich diesen ganzen Erdkreis
Als mein Eigen an!
O, wie blüht mein Land!
Sieh dir’s doch nur an,
Daß es mit uns über die Wolken
In die Sonne kann!
III. Exaltation
Give me your hand,
Just your finger, then
See I the whole world
As if it is my own!
O, how my land blossoms!
Look you just upon me,
That with you we over the clouds
In the sun go!
IV. Waldsonne
In die braunen, rauschenden Nächte
Flittert ein Licht herein,
Grüngolden ein Schein.
Blumen blinken auf und Gräser
Und die singenden, springenden Waldwässerlein
Und Erinnerungen.
Die längst verklungenen:
Golden erwachen sie wieder,
All deine fröhlichen Lieder.
Und ich sehe deine goldenen Haare glänzen,
Und ich sehe deine goldenen Augen glänzen,
Aus den grünen rauenden Nächten.
Und mir ist, ich läge neben dir auf dem Rasen
Und hörte dich wieder auf der glitzeblanken Syrinx
In die blauen Himmelslüfte blasen.
In die braunen, wühlenden Nächte
Flittert ein Licht,
Ein goldener Schein.
IV. Forest-sun
In the brown, murmuring nights
Flutters a light therein,
Green-golden its shine.
Flowers gaze up and grass
And the singing, springing little-forest-brook
And memories.
The long silent ones:
Golden awake they again
All your joyful songs,
And I see your golden hair glittering,
And I see your golden eyes gleaming,
From the green teasing nights.
And I imagine, I lay next to you on the grass
And hear you once more your glittering flute
Into the blue heavens-air play.
In the brown, anxious nights
Flutters a light
A golden shine.
Cabaret Songs
Kurt Weill
Perhaps no composer strikes me as versatile in the way Kurt Weill does. Flitting between genres - lieder, cabaret, music theatre, opera, film, concert, orchestra - this composer seems to have no strict repertorial or instrumental preferences. Known best for his stage collaborations with Bertolt Brecht, Weill was a profoundly political composer. His incidental music for Brecht’s plays and their adaptation of John Gay’s The Beggar’s Opera into The Threepenny Opera (1928) are poignant and biting commentaries on political and socio-cultural life in prewar Germany. Like many Jewish composers, Weill fled from Germany. In 1933 he moved to Paris, where he continued active criticism of the Nazi party, and later to New York in 1935. There, he was pivotal in the development and rise of the American musical, composing music for such shows as Street Scene (1949, in collaboration with Elmer Rice and Langston Hughes) and The Firebrand of Florence (1945, with Ira Gershwin). Weill is remembered as a prolific songwriter, which are often - as they are here - excerpted from his stage works and performed in their own rights.
(1900-1950)
Je ne t’aime pas
Retire ta main, je ne t’aime pas,
Car tu l’as voulu, tu n’es qu’un amie.
Pour d’autre sont fait le creux de tes bras
Et ton cher baiser, ta tête endormie.
Ne me parle pas, lorsque c’est le soir,
Trop intimement, à voix basse même.
Ne me donne pas surtout ton mouchoir:
Il renferme trop le parfum que j’aime.
Dis-moi tes amour, je ne t’aime pas,
Quelle heure te fut la plus enivrant?
Et s’il t’aimait bien, ou s’elle fut ingrat,
En me le disant, ne sois pas charmant.
Je n’ai pas pleuré, je n’ai pas souffert,
Ce n’était qu’un rêve et qu’une folie.
Il me suffira que tes yeux soient clair,
Sans regret du soir, ni mélancholie.
Il me suffira de voir ton bonheur.
Il me suffira de voir ton sourire.
Conte-moi comment elle a pris ton cœur
Et même dis-moi ce qu’on ne peut dire.
Non, tais-toi plutôt! Je suis à genoux…
Le feu s’est éteint, la porte est fermée.
Ne demande rien, je pleure… C’est tout.
Je ne t’aime pas, ô ma bien-aimée.
Paris, 1935
I do not love you
Withdraw your hand, I do not love you,
Like you have asked, you are but a friend.
For others are meant the crook of your arms
And your precious kiss, your slumbering head.
Do not speak to me, when it is evening,
Too intimate, in voices so hushed.
Do not give me above-all your handkerchief:
It reminds me too much of the perfume I love.
Tell me of your loves, I do not love you,
What hour were you most intoxicated?
And if he loves you, or if she is unfaithful,
In telling me, you need not be charming.
I have not wept, I have not suffered,
It was but a dream and but a folly.
It is enough to see your eyes so clear,
Without regret of the night, without melancholy.
It is enough to me to see your joy.
It is enough to see your smile.
Tell me how she won your heart
And tell me that which we cannot say.
No, stay you silent! I am on my knees…
The fire is out, the door is closed.
I demand nothing, I cry… That is all.
I do not love you, o my love.
Das Moritat von Mackie Messer
aus Der Dreigroschenoper
Und der Haifisch, der hat Zähne
Und die trägt er im Gesicht
Und MacHeath, der hat ein Messer
Doch das Messer sieht man nicht.
An ‘nem schönen blauen Sonntag
Liegt ein toter Mann am Strand,
Und ein Mensch geht um die Ecke,
Den man Mackie Messer nennt.
Und Schul Meier bleibt verschwunden,
Und so mancher reiche Mann,
Und sein Geld hat Mackie Messer,
Dem man nichts beweisen kann.
Jenny Towler war gefunden
Mit ‘nem Messer in der Brust,
Und am Kai geht Mackie Messer,
Der von allem nichts gewußt.
Und die minderjähr’ge Witwe,
Deren Namen jeder weiß,
Wachte auf und war geschändet.
Mackie welches war dein Preis?
Und die Einen sind im Dunkeln,
Und die Andern sind im Licht;
Doch man sieht nur die im Lichte,
Die im Dunkeln sieht man nicht.
Berlin, 1928
The Ballad of Mack the Knife
from The Threepenny Opera
And the shark, he has teeth
And he wears them on his face
And MacHeath, he has a knife
But the knife none can see.
On a beautiful blue Sunday
Lies a man on the beach,
An a man goes around the corner,
The one they call Mack the Knife.
And Schul Meier remains missing,
And many a rich man,
And their money is Mack the Knife’s,
But no one knows a thing.
Jenny Towler was found
With a knife in her breast,
And on the wharf goes Mack the Knife,
Who will plead the fifth.
And the young widow,
Whose name everybody knows,
Woke up and was violated.
Mackie, what was your price?
And some are in the darkness,
And others are in the light;
But you only see those in the light,
Those in the dark, none can see.
Thanks so much for joining me for this recital. It means the world to me. I would like to give vielen vielen Danke to my pianist BJ Miller, who has rehearsed with me for countless hours and who has explored and experiments and collaborated, and above all suffered through some of this music with me. It’s a doozy. I’d like to thank all my mentors at Carnegie Mellon - Dan Teadt, Jocelyn Dueck, and Sari Gruber among others. They have taught me a grace and delicacy and exacting accuracy which I feel has made my music-making fair more considered and idiomatic to language and genre than it has ever been. I would also like to thank my dog, Rocky, who has suffered through lots of screaming and screeching trying to get these songs in the body and in the heart. To my friends and family, I love you dearly - thank you for your support and time and love.
alana <3