The Phoenix Concerts

ABOUT THE PROGRAM

Paul Sperry Performer's note:
A word about Tom Cipullo's Red Riding song: Alice Wirth Gray is a childhood friend of mine. When her first book of poetry was published by the Cleveland State University Press she asked me if I knew a composer who might want to set any of her poems. I thought that her quirky sense of humor would appeal to Tom Cipullo and I was right. The lithograph in question, which used to hang over her bed, now graces her dining room. I saw it recently and will have it very much in my mind as we perform the piece.

As this will be the first time I perform "Phantoms and Visitations" I won't venture to comment on it other than to say that I have greatly enjoyed learning it and hope to be able to sing it many more times.

"Tommy Kane" is the next to last song in Daron Hagen's wonderful "Songs of Madness and Sorrow." The cycle is a continuous piece and ideally shouldn't be excerpted, but it was so appropriate to this program that he gave permission.

I think Schubert's "Erlkönig" speaks eloquently for itself. — Paul Sperry

On a Nineteenth Century Color Lithograph of Red Riding Hood by the Artist J.H.

The wolf makes a funny face not to be taken seriously as evil, but as if there's something wrong with his eyes. He's old and getting cataracts or he's trying to start a conversation by winking at Riding Hood, where she stands by a cheery spread of amanita phalloides, wondering how to get back to her basket of goodies which she left on the other side of the clearing while gathering flowers, and now of course the wolf blocks her way. Some people have a crucifix over the bed: I have a wolf.

The NIGHT POLICE Interrogate Riding Hood: Nice try, kid, but daisies don't grow in that woods. Look at those trees, their trunks acid-green with moss. There's not enough light in there for an impatiens or cineraria. And that basket with the bottle of Bordeaux sticking out. Explain that. This is a German forest if ever one was: grim Grimm, blacker than Black. Don't you tell us about Perrault: for you all stories with fear in them will always be German. Your mom is sending you through these woods by yourself with a bottle of imported wine? You expect us to buy that? Save us all time. You knew that wolf. You've been encouraging him. I've always loved that picture because there's Riding Hood far left and the wolf far right and the center absolutely empty. So much space between girl and wolf that is so much more interesting than either of them. You can see into and into the woods until it's so dark you can't. You can see such a long way into the story.

What RIDING HOOD Told the Cops: Of course I talked to him, it's what the books say to do: try to keep them talking. Reason with them. Look, Mr. Wolf, sit down. We'll drink the bottle. Then we'll go on to Grandma's and redden our teeth on her. They sent me here. They must have known the way the world is.

Myself, I would like to get past all that little-girl-and-the-wolf thing into the dark beyond them both.

Honestly, I thought it must be a rite of passage. That the solution might be hidden in the basket under the white cloth. When I peeked, I found she'd sent me off in the dark without so much as a flashlight.

The Report of the NIGHT POLICE continues: We picked the girl up in the woods. Rather, what we mean to say is that's where we took her into custody. She looks like an angel, but you just can't tell. What was in the basket, we wanted to know. Was she trying to get rid of something? We asked her to explain herself, and she says her mother hung the lithograph of a wolf over her bed. A likely story. What woman would do a thing like that? There may be enough evidence to run her folks in, too.

The WOLF: For God's sake. I was lost. Can't you tell? She seemed to mistake me for someone she knew. I didn't want to frighten her. You're not going to try to hang this one on me, are you? I'd never have gone there alone. That's why we always travel in packs. I mean it's dark in there. Dangerous.

Testimony of the HUNTER: So I heard all this yelling from the old lady's cottage a female in distress I sez and I don't think twice but bust down the door gun at the ready and that kid and the wolf (that's him over there, yer honor) well, you wouldn't believe it, the amount of blood and that kid does she have a mouth on her it embarrasses me when girls talk so foul like that if she was my daughter I'd beat her till she was civil and I'd crack all the teeth in her dirty mouth and I'd take away her clothes and lock her up to sit in her own filth until she'd learned a little respect. What's that, sir? You want me to stand down? Well, sure, if you say so.

MOTHER: Of course I hung the lithograph over her bed. It's a work of art. You think something like that is going to scare that child? Anyway, I had to put it somewhere, it was a gift. And let me tell you, there was a perfectly safe path around those woods, through a public park, and well patrolled. But not her. You couldn't keep her from looking for trouble, and able to find it where there is none. My husband was no help at all: what do you expect a mother to do? Oh if only we'd been rich enough to buy her a car.

It was all so complicated: who was this Riding Hood? I never liked the grandmother. Sometimes the wolf wasn't so bad: he could have eaten the girl there in the forest but he put off a present treat to eat a stringy old lady in the future. That's not the reasoning of a beast. Then, never did I doubt he liked Riding Hood more than the others did. What do you mean? What do I see in the picture? Is this some kind of Rorschach? I want to talk to my attorney. It was my mother who hung the picture over my bed. Those dark woods, beckoning, a challenge. A place to go to from the place you are. — Alice Wirth Gray *** Ghost Chapter Performer's note:

It's hard to know if the dead have relationships with the living, but it seems clear enough that the living continue to develop their relationships with the dead. "A Cold, Cold Kiss" is 25 minutes of music about experiences of crossing the gulf between those in life and those in death.

First, Anne Boleyn in the Tower of London awaits execution she's about to become a ghost herself. Tradition says she wrote the words of this 16th century English ballad while imprisoned "which nothing disproves, so far as I know," according to Arnold Dolmetsch who transcribed this version in 1912.

In Suzanne Gardinier's one hundred Mercy poems (1996), the poet is visited by the ghost of her grandmother shortly after the older woman's death, and the two of them begin to develop new ways to communicate. “Mercy #62” is from Paula M. Kimper's 1999 song cycle which sets six of the grandmother poems.

"Jimmy Whelan" is a ghost story, a confrontation between a drowned sailor and the lover he left behind. The words and tune were transcribed by Kenneth Peacock in 1960, from Mrs. Mary Ann Galpin in the Newfoundland outport town of Codroy. This piano version is based on a guitar arrangement by Paula M. Kimper and largely improvised by Jocelyn Dueck.

Over the course of decades Leonard Bernstein wrote a series of occasional short piano pieces he called "anniversaries." "In Memoriam: Helen Coates" was composed in July 1970 and published in “13 Anniversaries” (1989).

"I died seven times," announces Anne Sexton in The Death Notebooks (1974), in a poem I sometimes think is about the ghost of someone who has never been born. Gilda Lyons set three Sexton poems in her 2002 song cycle, "A Small Handful."

"To die is to awaken," sings Mona in Bandanna, the 1998 operatic retelling of the Othello story. She too, like Anne Boleyn, is awaiting her imminent death at the will and hands of her lover. She listens to the songs of the dead as she sings her own way across the gulf with music written by Daron Hagen. — Elaine Valby

A basket of songs, music chosen and braided to gather our ghosts.

O Death, Rock Me Asleep

O Death, rock me asleepe,
Bring me to quiet rest.
Let passe my weary
guiltless ghost
Out of my woefull breast.
Toll on, thou passing bell,
Ring out my dolefull knell.
Let the sounde my death tell,
For I must die,
There is no remedye,
For now I die.

Alone in prison stronge,
I wait my destinye.
Woe worth this cruel hap that I
Should taste this miserye.
Toll on, thou passing bell,
Ring out my dolefull knell.
Let the sounde my death tell,
For I must die,
There is no remedye,
For now I die.

Farewell my pleasures past,
Welcome my presnt pain.
I feel my torments
so increase
That lyfe cannot remayne.
Cease now, thou passing bell,
Rung is my doleful knell,
For the sound my death tell.
For the sound my death tell.
Sound my end dolefully,
For now I die.
—Anne Boleyn

Mercy #62

All these nights my grandmother has visited,
smelling of lily of the valley,
smoking cigarettes, forgetting them,
so I wake reminding, Your ashes, your ashes.
But tonight she arrives only in the dark leaves,
in the water when I wash my face,
in the mirror’s worn blue eyes she has lent me,
which I close to search for her.
Where have you been? I ask. We are walking
along a beach so I can understand,
but she is learning a new language,
and points to a damp dress left on the sand.
— Suzanne Gardinier

Jimmy Whelan

Slowly I rambled by the banks of a river,
Watching the sunbeams as evening drew nigh,
And as onward I rambled there I spied a fair damsel,
She was weeping and wailing with manys a sigh.

She was weeping for one that now lies a-mouldering,
Weeping for one that no mortal could save,
For the dark rolling water rolls carelessly o’er him,
And yonder it flows over young Jimmy’s grave.

“Oh darling,” she says, “won’t you come to my arms,
Come to my arms from your cold silent grave?
You promised you would meet me this evening, dear Jimmy,
For to wander alone by the side of the stream.”

Then slowly there arose from the depths of the water
A vision of sorrow so bright as the sun,
And his robes were all crimson in the bright light around him,
And to speak to that fair one he then did begin.

Saying, “Why did you call me from the rounds of bright glory?
Back to this dark world not long can I stay,
To embrace you once more in my cold loving arms,
To guide and protect you from a cold silent grave.”

She threw herself down on her knees then before him,
Sighing and sobbing her bosom did heave,
Saying, “Take me, oh take me along with you, dear Jimmy,
For to lie by your side in your cold silent grave.”
“Oh darling,” he said, “you have asked me a favor
That no mortal man on this earth can decree,

For death is a dagger that we all must pass under,
And wide is the gulf that flows between you and me.”
“Now one more embrace, love, and then I must leave you,
One cold, cold kiss, dear, and then we must part.”
And cold were the arms he encircled around her,
And warm was the breast that she pressed to his heart.

Seven times
I died seven times in seven ways
letting death give me a sign,
letting death place his mark on my forehead,
crossed over, crossed over.

And death took root in that sleep.
In that sleep I held an ice baby
and I rocked it and was rocked by it.
Oh Madonna, hold me.
I am a small handful.
— Anne Sexton

Mona’s Prayer

To die is to awaken and come into bud
as the willow quickens in the willow mud.
We come into bud and put out a shoot.
In the willow mud we put out a root.
We put out a shoot at the moment we die.
We put out a root and we sing a lullaby.
At the moment we die the dead are sent
to sing a lullaby instead of a lament.
The dead are sent to twist, all night long,
instead of a lament a cradle song.
They twist all night long through the deep dark
a cradle song from a single spark.
And through the deep dark they pleat and plait
from a single spark a basket of light.
They pleat and plait and lay down tenderly
a basket of light by the foot of a tree.
They lay down tenderly as a body would set
by the foot of a tree a mud-spattered bassinet.
As a body would set by the river-edge
the mud-spattered bassinet of her own ribcage,
by the river-edge I beat my breast,
my own ribcage, that I may be blest.
I beat my breast since the dead hold sway.
That I may be blest I kneel to pray.
Since the dead hold sway, as some suppose,
I kneel and pray to almighty God. Who knows
if, as some suppose, we’ve been forsaken by God,
though a God who knows that to die is to awaken?
— Paul Muldoon

Phantoms and Visitations — Program note:

As I come from a family that elevates the act of storytelling to an art form, the idea of adapting a handful of ghostly tales into a song cycle for Paul Sperry seemed particularly intriguing. I first heard Paul perform live in 1997 in Middlebury, Vermont; since then, I've been captivated by his ability to conjure in an instant a character's spirit, and to shift seamlessly between moods based on the demands of those characters—qualities, among many others, that make him a gifted storyteller.

In this cycle of ghost stories, I draw mainly from two early 20th century collections (The Haunters & the Haunted, 1921; and True Irish Ghost Stories, 1914) to tell three tales: first, of a young woman's haunting by her former lover returned as an animal ("The Phantom Rat"); second, of two souls crossing at the moment of death and their visitations in each others' homes ("The Queen and the Countess ((Court Records))"); and three, of the ridiculous and unyielding annoyance inflicted upon a family by a soul whose last request was not granted by her dear ones. Snippets of text from the collections' introductory material frame the stories themselves; I imagine these snippets as being sung by one of the spirits depicted returned for the telling of its tale.

The cycle is dedicated to Paul Sperry, whose artistry and commitment to contemporary vocal music continues to dazzle and inspire. — Gilda Lyons

1. Ghostly Phenomena
"Of all species of ghostly phenomena, hauntings—by ghost, poltergeist, or animal—are most commonly reported."

2. The Phantom Rat
Many years ago, so the legend runs, a young man was making frantic and unacceptable love to a girl. But he proved unfaithful, and she turned on him crying "I'd sooner marry that rat than you."

He took her words so much to heart that he pined away and died.

But soon, by night, the girl was visited by a huge field rat scratching and eating its way through her bedpost, making its way up her nightstand where it jumped on her pillow and gave her a nasty bite, then ran away; and night after night, the rat returned.

And the poor girl called on her sister, who could do nothing.
And the poor girl called on her mother, who could do nothing.
And the poor girl called on her priest; he could do nothing.
With Holy Water and prayer, balms, and incantations,
the hauntings continued.

Until, following many painful visitations, she got herself a cat; and after that, so the legend runs, the girl was never haunted again.

3. Apparitions at the Moment of Passing
"That people have seen the image of a friend or relative at the moment of passing has been demonstrated beyond all reasonable doubt."

4. The Queen and the Countess (Court Records)
Queen Ulrica was dead—placed in the usual way in an open coffin, in a room hung with black; lit with candles; a company of the king's guards in the ante-room.

Dear to the queen, the countess drove up from Stockholm; the guard of honor conducted her from her carriage to the room where the dead queen lay, leaving the countess to grieve.

But at length, the officers feared some accident had befallen her; they opened the door and started back in dismay:

There before them, the dead queen was standing upright in her coffin. As she swayed gently, her gown drifted in the candlelight. She hovered, gliding towards the countess, where she ardently embraced her dear friend. The apparition became enveloped in dense smoke; the vapor rose up above the guards, above the room hung with black, vanishing.

With the vapor vanished the countess, and the queen again lay where she'd been. The guards searched in vain, finding no sign of the countess, her attendants, or her carriage.

The following morning, a message arrived from Stockholm: The countess had never left her home in the capitol; she had died in the queen's arms the night before.

5. Hauntings
"That spirits and apparitions are frequently seen is a well established fact."

6. In County Wicklow
In County Wicklow, a family lost a young daughter to fever. Before she passed, she had asked to be buried, with special blessings, by her grandmother's side—for she'd always been comforted by the old woman's songs, like the one that went: "Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra, Too-ra-loo-ra-lay".

But for some reason her family did not see fit to do so, and from that hour she gave them no peace:

She appeared to them, dancing wildly and singing:
"Too-ra-loo-ra, Too-ra-loo-ra-lay".

By lamplight, by daylight: " Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra, Too-ra-loo-ra-lay".
At the well, in the garden: " Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra, Too-ra-loo-ra-lay".
By the fireside, by the bedside: " Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra, Too-ra-loo-ra-lay".

So distracted were they that at length they got permission to exhume the remains and have them re-interred, with special blessings, by her grandmother's side.

Three Witches — Performer's note:

"The Witch's Lullaby" is an aria from Conrad Susa's 1973 opera, Transformations, based on Anne Sexton's 1971 book of poems. Sexton writes, "The speaker in this case/is a middle-aged witch, me — " and proceeds to tell her own scorching versions of sixteen classic fairy tales. When she gets to "Hansel and Gretel," she starts the tale with the words of this aria, uttered perhaps by the wicked child-eating witch. And yet who among us has not said to a yummy baby, "Oh you're just so sweet I could eat you up!"

"Song to the Witch of the Cloisters" is from John Corigliano's 1967 cycle "Four Songs of the Cloisters," with poems by William Hoffman (who, 24 years later, would be the librettist for their opera The Ghosts of Versailles). This poem is spoken, I think, partly to a witch and partly by a witch. If you've ever lost a lover to someone else, you know you would pray any dark prayer for the magic that would stop you from picturing them together.

"Susannah Fry" is one of Theodore Chanler's 1939 "Epitaphs," with texts by Walter de la Mare. Reading her epitaph, you might think Susannah Fry was just a weakheaded little woman, and maybe she was. But she loved dreaming and being alone — many have been called "witch" for less. — Elaine Valby

The Witch's Lullaby
Little plum,
said the mother to her son,
I want to bite,
I want to chew,
I will eat you up.
Little child,
little nubkin,
sweet as fudge,
you are my blintz.
I will spit on you for luck
for you are better than money.
Your neck as smooth
as a hard-boiled egg;
soft cheeks, my pears,
let me buzz you on the neck
and take a bite.
I have a pan that will fit you.
Just pull up your knees like a game hen.
Let me take your pulse
and set the oven for 350.
Come, my pretender, my fritter,
my bubbler, my chicken biddy!
Oh succulent one,
it is but one turn in the road
and I would be a cannibal!
— Anne Sexton

Song to the Witch of the Cloisters
Old lady in the herb garden,
This Sunday in the lavender,
Fat lady in the crawling leaves,
White lady in the sun,
I know by moonlight,
Sweet lady, what you are.

Granny, Granny, the lovers wake and
Oh, they sigh and fold.
White shades glow like stained glass;
Their cigarettes burn like incense.

Mistress who rules coriander
And curbs scents without mercy,
In whose palace grows the woven pomegranate,
Help me stop that stirring,
Without me willing,
Their kissing, their sleeping, their soaring.

My lady of the Cloisters
Where Mary is forever weeping,
The holy baby never wakes,
And Christ lies unresurrected,
Before the moon moves
And is laced gently by leaves,
Make the lovers be still.
— William Hoffman

Susannah Fry
Here sleep I,
Susannah Fry,
No one near me,
No one nigh:
Alone, alone,
Under my stone,
Dreaming on,
Still dreaming on.
Grass for my valance
And coverlid,
Dreaming on
As I always did.
‘Weak in the head’?
Maybe. Who knows?
Susannah Fry
Under the rose.
— Walter de la Mare

Tommy Kane
Queer stories are afloat concerning a mysterious apparition near St. Cloud. A boy who is known for his veracity — Tommy Kane — tells the story of his dealings with the ghost:

On Sunday evening I started out to repair the switch on the water tank. I’d gone some distance when I first noticed a man approaching me. At first I didn’t think anything about him as he drew nearer. The strange man was dressed all in white. And then it seemed to me he wasn’t walking. Instead, he glided along the rails. I asked him who he was and where he was bound and he vanished into the lively air.
— Wisconsin State Journal, 4 August 1898

Der Erlkönig
Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?
Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind;
Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,
Er fasst ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm.

"Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?"
"Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht?
Den Erlenkönig mit Kron und Schweif?"
"Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif."

"Du liebes Kind, komm, geh mit mir!
Gar schöne Spiele spiel' ich mit dir;
Manch' bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand,
Meine Mutter hat manch gülden Gewand."

"Mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht,
Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht?"
"Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind;
In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind."

"Willst, feiner Knabe, du mit mir gehn?
Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön;
Meine Töchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn,
Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein."

"Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort
Erlkönigs Töchter am düstern Ort?"
"Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh es genau:
Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau."

"Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt;
Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt."
"Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt fasst er mich an!
Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan!"

Dem Vater grauset's, er reitet geschwind,
Er hält in Armen das ächzende Kind,
Erreicht den Hof mit Müh' und Not;
In seinen Armen das Kind war tot.
— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

ABOUT THE PERFORMERS

PAUL SPERRY (www.paulsperry.net), tenor, has degrees from Harvard University and the Sorbonne. He considers his major musical influences to be Pierre Bernac, Jennie Tourel, and Paul Ulanowsky. He has performed with the New York and Los Angeles Philharmonics, the Boston and San Francisco Symphony Orchestras as well as the Amsterdam Concertgebauw and the Moscow Philharmonic; his repertoire includes hundreds of songs, cycles, oratories and chamber works in more than a dozen languages and a host of musical idioms. Many leading composers including Robert Beaser, William Bolcom, Tom Cipullo, Daron Hagen, Richard Hundley, Libby Larsen, Harold Meltzer, John Musto, Stephen Paulus, Robert Rodriguez, Louise Talma have written especially for him. He sang the starring role of Michael in the world premiere of Karlheinz Stockhausen's opera Donnerstag aus Licht at Milan's La Scala and premiered Jacob Druckman's "Animus IV" for the opening of the Pompidou Center in Paris. With the New York Philharmonic he gave the premiere performance of Bernard Rands' "Pulitzer Prize winning "Canti del Sole" which he has recorded for CRI. He has edited collections of American songs for G. Schirmer, Peer-Southern, Boosey & Hawkes, Dover Publications, Carl Fischer, and the Oxford University Press. Mr. Sperry is on the faculty of the Juilliard School, the Manhattan School of Music, and Brooklyn College and Conservatory. He taught at the Aspen Music Festival and School from 1978-2002, and from 1991-97 was Director of the Vocal Program at the Pacific Music Festival in Sapporo, Japan. In 2004 he joined the faculty of the International Vocal Arts Institute in Tel Aviv, Isreal. Since 1987 he has served as the Director of Joy In Singing, an organization dedicated to helping young singers, American composers and fostering the art song.

Jocelyn Dueck is a member of the Phoenix Players. To read her biography, please click [here].

Gilda Lyons is a member of the Phoenix Players. To read her biography, please click [here].

Elaine Valby is a member of the Phoenix Players. To read her biography, please click [here].

Daron Hagen is a member of the Phoenix Players. To read his biography, please click [here].

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