Winter 2024 Concert: Pulse
Program Notes
* Denotes C4 Member
Numbers (2019) by Shruthi Rajasekar
Karen Siegel, conductor
Shruthi Rajasekar’s “Numbers” is a delightful exploration of number systems from the Babylonian 60-based system, to the contemporary decimal system and the binary system used in coding. Largely consisting of layered rhythmic patterns, it grooves and drives forward with exuberance. The composer visited one of our rehearsals and explained that “Numbers” draws on the sounds that choirs make while rehearsing, such as count-singing, as well as the embodied rhythmic patterns of Indian classical music. It also features a short section where singers are asked to compose their own parts, within given parameters, which is right up our alley! Finally, the composer notes, “For musicians, numbers are critical in the rehearsal process especially: we use them to count time, measure melodic and rhythmic distances, and position ourselves within the context around us. Creating music — indeed, living our lives — seems unimaginable without numbers; they certainly deserve their own performance.”
—Karen Siegel
Text by Shruthi Rajasekar:
Fifty-nine
One two three four five six seven eight
Nine ten ‘leven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen
One five seven
Three four two
Three four five seven six five
Three four five eight five four
Three one seven
Zero one
The Ogre (2023) by Jamie Klenetsky Fay* to a poem by Zsuzsanna Ardó
Evan Shaw Johnson, conductor
Zsuzsanna Ardó wrote The Ogre on February 24, 2022, the day Russia invaded Ukraine.
This piece is about two very human responses to war: willful ignorance and community resilience.
Throughout this work, I set the words describing war - “ogre,” “guzzler,” “prowls” - in dissonant tones that repeat every time the words come up, to reflect the ever-present nature of the war.
There’s an undercurrent of the idea of picnicking - “we picnicked,” “we picnic” - that starts as a reflection of our indifference, and ends as a call to resist.
I hope that this piece can give us a space to reflect on our reactions to the great ills of the world, and inspire us to action.
"In The Ogre, the refrain ‘we picnic’ has several interpretations. One of them is our capacity to compartmentalize what stares us in the face.‘We picnic' implies, in this context, the inclination for living a surface existence. The ‘art’ of cognitive dissonance. Ignoring The Ogre.
But the refrain, ’we picnic’, also references an actual picnic in the stormy afternoon of 19 August 1989, across the border between Austria and Hungary. This picnic acted as a tipping point in recent history. This picnic, an example of people coming together to be on the same page, is about active thinking together rather than being isolated by thoughts. Resisting The Ogre."
Italicized text © Zsuzsanna Ardó
Slayed the ogre
Slashed the Walls
And picnicked
The selfsame glutton
A greedy guzzler
The ogre
That bore
These selfsame Walls
We picnicked
Now prowls
On the go
To gorge
Again
We picnicked
Too early
To rejoice
Too early
To picnic
We picnicked
The wall
This ogre crawled from
Is going strong
Again
We picnicked
Ogre
On the go
We picnicked
To gorge
Again
We picnic
We picnic
We picnic
Oxymoron (2023) by Emma Daniels* to a poem by Zsuzsanna Ardó
Katie Kress, conductor
Hannah Cai Sobel, Cynthia Shaw, Jacob Lyon, Bryan Lin, soloists
Oxymoron represents a battle of conflicting views about women: who they are and who they should be. The choir sings the role of the voices to the far left of Zsuzsanna’s poem, while the quartet of soloists take on the role of the indented voices of objection. The piece begins with a dramatic opening, in which all characters are distressed about the possibility of strong women, whether it’s a melodramatic or comical sense of distress (on the side of the full choir), or a true sense of rejection of the idea of strong women in general (from the soloists). As the choir first sings the words, “Women of strength,” they are confident. The soloists interject with their doubts. Then, the choir, feeling somewhat bullied by these comments, begins to sing the text, “Women of strength?” with hesitancy. After another round of soloist interruptions, the choir gains a new sense of questioning and curiosity about strong women. As the final round of brutal feedback from the soloists progresses, the choir is feeling increasingly confident in their original belief in the power of women. With renewed tenacity, they interrupt the soprano soloist and proceed to hammer down their point.
Ox… Oxy… Oxym…? ©Zsuzsanna Ardó
What conundrum.
Women…
of strength.
What next?
Absurd anomaly!
Seriously funny.
Oxymoron!
Hell!
Women…
of strength?
Oxymoron?!
Ox… Oxy… Oxym…?
What’s that?
What fine mess!
Heavens!
Women…
of strength?
Contradiction in terms.
Paradox at best!
Good grief!
Beggars belief!
But YES
Women of strength!
Slowly (2022) by Trevor Weston to text by Serhiy Zhadan
Bryan Lin, conductor
Treble Chorus - Hannah Cai Sobel, Sarah Quinn, Alexa Letourneau, Jamie Klenetsky Fay, Katherine Doe Morse, Leslie Frost
Soprano Solo - Karen Siegel
Trevor Weston's Slowly received its world premiere at Carnegie Hall in December 2022 by The Choir of Trinity Wall Street, the Ukrainian children's choir Shchedryk, and soprano Janai Brugger. That concert celebrated the centennial of the North American premiere of the Ukrainian New Year's song Shchedryk, which also took place at Carnegie. Today, we know this tune as "Carol of the Bells," which adapted new lyrics for American audiences.
The poem Slowly is written by Nobel-nominated author Serhiy Zhadan, who writes about his experiences living in Ukraine since the Russian invasion on February 24, 2022. Weston's identity as a Black American plays an important role in setting Zhadan's text, citing that their heritages share this perspective of art as resistance, and reclamation of their cultures. Slowly captures the devastation of war and speaks for the people affected by it.
Weston's compositional craft is on full display here. The harmonies are complex; chords frequently overlap resulting in dense extended harmonies that are reminiscent of jazz, but the sound is distinctly influenced by the folk music of Ukraine. The music is at different times haunting, bold, and tender, seamlessly shifting between moods. Written for two choirs, C4's performance will feature a sextet of our treble voices acting as the children's chorus. – Bryan Lin
Довго-довго гаснуть вогні в порожніх домах.
Скільки на ці вогні злетиться нічних комах.
Скільки їх згорить, коли сюди долетить.
Ще одна мить, і стане порожньо, ще одна мить.
Тихо-тихо ходить ніч попід вікном.
Смерть – це дівчинка на асфальті, накрита старим полотном.
Потім все буде добре, буде все як колись.
Ти лише зараз не підіймай полотно, не дивись.
Ти лише не дивись на те, чого колись не було.
Глибоко-глибоко ріжеться сонце об бите скло.
Довго-довго будуть зшиватись його рубці.
Пам’ять – це те, що не зрадить наприкінці.
Можеш згадати літо по той бік ріки,
мІста, в якому виріс, списані сторінки.
Можеш згадати країну, яка лишалась завжди.
Можеш згадати кінець зими, початок біди.
Ми тримаємось наших міст, як рІки своїх долин.
Наш гіркий подорожник, наш придорожній полин,
наші дерева, які ростуть так само, як ми:
світ, став іще глибшим цієї зими.
Що тут стояти й дивитися на вогні.
Що тут іще можуть сказати мені?
Я би вже і пішов, мені вже все одно.
Просто ось це випалене вікно - це моє вікно
English Translation:
Slowly, slowly the lights in the empty houses fade.
How many insects fly towards them in the dark?
How many will burn when they reach their aim?
Any moment now, and emptiness will reign.
Quietly, quietly the night passes beneath the window.
Death is a girl on the road under a ragged throw.
Afterwards, all will be well, just as it was before.
But do not raise the cloth, do not look at what’s below.
Do not dare to look at what once was not there.
On the broken glass, the sun sustains deep, deep cuts.
Slowly, slowly these wounds will be sewn up.
Memory is that which, in the end, never betrays.
You can recall the summer across the river,
the densely written pages of the city of your youth,
You can recall the country that remained forever.
You can recall the end of winter, the start of the trouble.
We cling to our cities, like rivers to their valleys.
Our roadside wormwood and bitter plantain,
our trees, which grow just the same as we do:
the world has become even deeper this winter.
What use in standing here staring at the fire?
What else can they possibly say?
I would leave this place, I no longer care.
Only that burned out window – it belongs to me.
Translated by Uilleam Blacker
take your joy (2004) by Eve Beglarian, based on Puer natus est nobis
Perry Townsend, conductor
Eve Beglarian writes about her piece:
Take Your Joy is a piece for SATB mixed chorus (minimum 6-6-3-3 singers, but the bigger the better) and electronics. The piece is a response to an organ piece by Olivier Messiaen called Puer natus est nobis, which is part of the Livre du Saint-Sacrement. The choral part is a canon made from Messiaen’s harmonization of the traditional Christmas day introit. I have also incorporated an excerpt from John 16:21-23:
When a woman is in labor, she has pain, because her hour has come. But when her child is born, she no longer remembers the anguish because of the joy of having brought a human being into the world. So you will have pain now; but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you.
The electronic part, both the pain and the joy, is made using transformations of a recording of the olive-tree warbler (hippolais olivetorum). This birdcall appears transcribed for organ in Messiaen’s piece. The olive-tree warbler uses Palestine/Israel as a stopover in its migration between the Balkans and southern Africa.
Take Your Joy was commissioned by the Amherst College Choir, Mallorie Chernin, conductor, and written while in residence at the Atlantic Center for the Arts in New Smyrna Beach, Florida.
Text:
no
no one
no one will take your joy
nobis
no one will take from you your joy
puer natus est nobis
et filius datus est nobis
To Life - prachalit hona (2023) by Leslie Frost* to a poem by Zsuzsanna Ardó
Emma Daniels, conductor
To Life, prachalit hona is a choral setting of the poem, To Life, from Zsuzsanna Ardó’s Five Haiku Tryptychs. https://www.ardo.org/
Using compositional techniques spanning centuries, I wrote this music to comment on a relationship between fragmentation and growth. This dynamic inter-relatedness exists in the natural world; in human bodies, and within artistic languages such as poetry, art and music.
The piece opens with a polyphonic layering of three extracted ending words found in the poem: remains, prevails and lingers. Prachalit hona means “make prevalent’ or “prevail” in the Hindi language. Pulses and other fragments are swirling in a seemingly chaotic mix until they come together within a homophonic texture (all voices aligned in timing) followed by dissolution into fragments again.
Despite fragmentation, metaphorical and physical distance, and disruption; the current of growth and beauty (LIFE) will prevail.
To Life
-haiku triptych
Oceans yawn, swallow
Life yet rhythm of pulse lingers
Veins of petals howl
Wind, water outpace
Life yet rhythm of pulse remains
Arteries enlace
Light hastens, dawn breaks
Life yet rhythm of pulse prevails
Out of joint again
©Zsuzsanna Ardó
fugue —When technics becomes… (2014) by George Wright*, text by Herbert Marcuse from One Dimensional Man (1964)
Daniel Andor-Ardó, conductor
Technics is a branch of philosophy which, simply put, studies the relationship between humans and technology, and the way that technical ideas which are passed on through successive generations can shape our lives. These ideas can be anything from the first agricultural methods to the creation of the loom for making cloth to the invention of the automobile and beyond. The specific concern which Mr. Marcuse is expressing in this particular passage is that in more recent human history, especially since the industrial revolution, the study of technics has become not just a tool of philosophers and sociologists, but also of people who are engaged in industry and production; that now the same people who are attempting to enrich themselves materially by developing and marketing technology are studying and manipulating its relationship to us. In this scenario technology becomes less a tool that improves our lives, and more a means of controlling us; shaping our experience to suit the ends of people who may not be particularly well intentioned.
Text:
When technics becomes the universal form of material production, it circumscribes an entire culture; it projects a historical totality — a world.
leave (2023) by Evan Shaw Johnson*
Perry Townsend, conductor
Alexa Letourneau and Jacob Lyon, soloists
I think of leave as a “warped break-up song.” The idea came to me in August 2021, when I was facing a number of major life transitions: a move, a career change, and the end of a long-term relationship. The convergence of these forces got me thinking about the concept of leaving, and how it can be both proactive and reactive. We can leave something—a person, a place, a career, a belief system—or it can leave us. I tried to explore this duality in a short, simple poem. The first half is reactive, and is about the stories we tell ourselves to explain why someone or something has left us. The second half is proactive, and reflects the slow, painful realization that what you once loved has become something you can no longer support.
I’m fascinated by minimalism (particularly the music of Steve Reich and Louis Andriessen), and I found its systematic procedures useful in creating this abstract narrative. In the first half, I break down the phrase “don’t leave” to its essential consonant sounds—my attempt to illustrate an irrational stream of consciousness; the feeling of absorbing a sudden and momentous change. I introduce the phrase “I see you” about halfway through, and then have the choir slowly add more words that twist the meaning into something more sinister: “I see right through you.”
With the reprise of the opening theme comes the acceptance of leaving as inevitable, and the recognition that something will always be left behind, prompting the question: what will you leave?
Text:
Don’t leave
Why leave now?
You found home
Home is burning
and your home’s not mine
I see you
I see through you
I see truth
I see right through you
Leave
What will you leave?
Genesis (2009) by Hendrik Hofmeyr based on the Genesis I
Jacob Lyon, conductor
Genesis was commissioned by Leon Starker for Pro Cantu in 2009. From Hofmeyr this challenging work employs several extended techniques including overtone singing, whispering and aleatoric clouds of sound to depict the creation of the world as described in Genesis 1.
Genesis 1: 1-4
In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
And the earth was without form, and void;
and darkness was upon the face of the deep.
And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
And God said, let there be light, and there was light.
And God saw the light, that it was good.
Tuttarana (2016) by Reena Esmail
Katherine Doe Morse, conductor
Alexa Letourneau, soloist
The title of this piece is a conglomeration of two words: the Italian word ‘tutti’, means ‘all’ or ‘everyone’, and the term ‘tarana’ designates a specific Hindustani (North Indian) musical form, whose closest Western counterpart is the ‘scat’ in jazz. Made up of rhythmic syllables, a tarana is the singer’s chance to display agility and dexterity. While a Hindustani tarana is a solo form, I wanted to bring the tarana into an ensemble setting.
Tuttarana was commissioned by the Mount Holyoke College Glee Club for their 2014-15 season, and has since been performed across the US, also in arrangements for SATB and brass quintet.
An addendum: Three years after I wrote this piece, the #metoo movement, created by Tarana Burke broke on social media. It occurred to me that the title of this piece, if read a different way, literally means “We are all Tarana.” I couldn’t believe the incredible coincidence that this work, a powerful 3-minute tidal wave of sound, written for an all-female ensemble from the oldest women’s college in the country, bore this name. I’m so grateful for what this movement has done to move the discussion forward about the horrors we face as women, and how we can begin to change and heal our society. - Reena Esmail
Text:
The text of this piece is comprised of onomatopoeic syllables based in the Hindi language — it has no specific words.
Numbers (2019) by Shruthi Rajasekar
Karen Siegel, conductor
Shruthi Rajasekar’s “Numbers” is a delightful exploration of number systems from the Babylonian 60-based system, to the contemporary decimal system and the binary system used in coding. Largely consisting of layered rhythmic patterns, it grooves and drives forward with exuberance. The composer visited one of our rehearsals and explained that “Numbers” draws on the sounds that choirs make while rehearsing, such as count-singing, as well as the embodied rhythmic patterns of Indian classical music. It also features a short section where singers are asked to compose their own parts, within given parameters, which is right up our alley! Finally, the composer notes, “For musicians, numbers are critical in the rehearsal process especially: we use them to count time, measure melodic and rhythmic distances, and position ourselves within the context around us. Creating music — indeed, living our lives — seems unimaginable without numbers; they certainly deserve their own performance.”
—Karen Siegel
Text by Shruthi Rajasekar:
Fifty-nine
One two three four five six seven eight
Nine ten ‘leven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen
One five seven
Three four two
Three four five seven six five
Three four five eight five four
Three one seven
Zero one
The Ogre (2023) by Jamie Klenetsky Fay* to a poem by Zsuzsanna Ardó
Evan Shaw Johnson, conductor
Zsuzsanna Ardó wrote The Ogre on February 24, 2022, the day Russia invaded Ukraine.
This piece is about two very human responses to war: willful ignorance and community resilience.
Throughout this work, I set the words describing war - “ogre,” “guzzler,” “prowls” - in dissonant tones that repeat every time the words come up, to reflect the ever-present nature of the war.
There’s an undercurrent of the idea of picnicking - “we picnicked,” “we picnic” - that starts as a reflection of our indifference, and ends as a call to resist.
I hope that this piece can give us a space to reflect on our reactions to the great ills of the world, and inspire us to action.
"In The Ogre, the refrain ‘we picnic’ has several interpretations. One of them is our capacity to compartmentalize what stares us in the face.‘We picnic' implies, in this context, the inclination for living a surface existence. The ‘art’ of cognitive dissonance. Ignoring The Ogre.
But the refrain, ’we picnic’, also references an actual picnic in the stormy afternoon of 19 August 1989, across the border between Austria and Hungary. This picnic acted as a tipping point in recent history. This picnic, an example of people coming together to be on the same page, is about active thinking together rather than being isolated by thoughts. Resisting The Ogre."
Italicized text © Zsuzsanna Ardó
Slayed the ogre
Slashed the Walls
And picnicked
The selfsame glutton
A greedy guzzler
The ogre
That bore
These selfsame Walls
We picnicked
Now prowls
On the go
To gorge
Again
We picnicked
Too early
To rejoice
Too early
To picnic
We picnicked
The wall
This ogre crawled from
Is going strong
Again
We picnicked
Ogre
On the go
We picnicked
To gorge
Again
We picnic
We picnic
We picnic
Oxymoron (2023) by Emma Daniels* to a poem by Zsuzsanna Ardó
Katie Kress, conductor
Hannah Cai Sobel, Cynthia Shaw, Jacob Lyon, Bryan Lin, soloists
Oxymoron represents a battle of conflicting views about women: who they are and who they should be. The choir sings the role of the voices to the far left of Zsuzsanna’s poem, while the quartet of soloists take on the role of the indented voices of objection. The piece begins with a dramatic opening, in which all characters are distressed about the possibility of strong women, whether it’s a melodramatic or comical sense of distress (on the side of the full choir), or a true sense of rejection of the idea of strong women in general (from the soloists). As the choir first sings the words, “Women of strength,” they are confident. The soloists interject with their doubts. Then, the choir, feeling somewhat bullied by these comments, begins to sing the text, “Women of strength?” with hesitancy. After another round of soloist interruptions, the choir gains a new sense of questioning and curiosity about strong women. As the final round of brutal feedback from the soloists progresses, the choir is feeling increasingly confident in their original belief in the power of women. With renewed tenacity, they interrupt the soprano soloist and proceed to hammer down their point.
Ox… Oxy… Oxym…? ©Zsuzsanna Ardó
What conundrum.
Women…
of strength.
What next?
Absurd anomaly!
Seriously funny.
Oxymoron!
Hell!
Women…
of strength?
Oxymoron?!
Ox… Oxy… Oxym…?
What’s that?
What fine mess!
Heavens!
Women…
of strength?
Contradiction in terms.
Paradox at best!
Good grief!
Beggars belief!
But YES
Women of strength!
Slowly (2022) by Trevor Weston to text by Serhiy Zhadan
Bryan Lin, conductor
Treble Chorus - Hannah Cai Sobel, Sarah Quinn, Alexa Letourneau, Jamie Klenetsky Fay, Katherine Doe Morse, Leslie Frost
Soprano Solo - Karen Siegel
Trevor Weston's Slowly received its world premiere at Carnegie Hall in December 2022 by The Choir of Trinity Wall Street, the Ukrainian children's choir Shchedryk, and soprano Janai Brugger. That concert celebrated the centennial of the North American premiere of the Ukrainian New Year's song Shchedryk, which also took place at Carnegie. Today, we know this tune as "Carol of the Bells," which adapted new lyrics for American audiences.
The poem Slowly is written by Nobel-nominated author Serhiy Zhadan, who writes about his experiences living in Ukraine since the Russian invasion on February 24, 2022. Weston's identity as a Black American plays an important role in setting Zhadan's text, citing that their heritages share this perspective of art as resistance, and reclamation of their cultures. Slowly captures the devastation of war and speaks for the people affected by it.
Weston's compositional craft is on full display here. The harmonies are complex; chords frequently overlap resulting in dense extended harmonies that are reminiscent of jazz, but the sound is distinctly influenced by the folk music of Ukraine. The music is at different times haunting, bold, and tender, seamlessly shifting between moods. Written for two choirs, C4's performance will feature a sextet of our treble voices acting as the children's chorus. – Bryan Lin
Довго-довго гаснуть вогні в порожніх домах.
Скільки на ці вогні злетиться нічних комах.
Скільки їх згорить, коли сюди долетить.
Ще одна мить, і стане порожньо, ще одна мить.
Тихо-тихо ходить ніч попід вікном.
Смерть – це дівчинка на асфальті, накрита старим полотном.
Потім все буде добре, буде все як колись.
Ти лише зараз не підіймай полотно, не дивись.
Ти лише не дивись на те, чого колись не було.
Глибоко-глибоко ріжеться сонце об бите скло.
Довго-довго будуть зшиватись його рубці.
Пам’ять – це те, що не зрадить наприкінці.
Можеш згадати літо по той бік ріки,
мІста, в якому виріс, списані сторінки.
Можеш згадати країну, яка лишалась завжди.
Можеш згадати кінець зими, початок біди.
Ми тримаємось наших міст, як рІки своїх долин.
Наш гіркий подорожник, наш придорожній полин,
наші дерева, які ростуть так само, як ми:
світ, став іще глибшим цієї зими.
Що тут стояти й дивитися на вогні.
Що тут іще можуть сказати мені?
Я би вже і пішов, мені вже все одно.
Просто ось це випалене вікно - це моє вікно
English Translation:
Slowly, slowly the lights in the empty houses fade.
How many insects fly towards them in the dark?
How many will burn when they reach their aim?
Any moment now, and emptiness will reign.
Quietly, quietly the night passes beneath the window.
Death is a girl on the road under a ragged throw.
Afterwards, all will be well, just as it was before.
But do not raise the cloth, do not look at what’s below.
Do not dare to look at what once was not there.
On the broken glass, the sun sustains deep, deep cuts.
Slowly, slowly these wounds will be sewn up.
Memory is that which, in the end, never betrays.
You can recall the summer across the river,
the densely written pages of the city of your youth,
You can recall the country that remained forever.
You can recall the end of winter, the start of the trouble.
We cling to our cities, like rivers to their valleys.
Our roadside wormwood and bitter plantain,
our trees, which grow just the same as we do:
the world has become even deeper this winter.
What use in standing here staring at the fire?
What else can they possibly say?
I would leave this place, I no longer care.
Only that burned out window – it belongs to me.
Translated by Uilleam Blacker
take your joy (2004) by Eve Beglarian, based on Puer natus est nobis
Perry Townsend, conductor
Eve Beglarian writes about her piece:
Take Your Joy is a piece for SATB mixed chorus (minimum 6-6-3-3 singers, but the bigger the better) and electronics. The piece is a response to an organ piece by Olivier Messiaen called Puer natus est nobis, which is part of the Livre du Saint-Sacrement. The choral part is a canon made from Messiaen’s harmonization of the traditional Christmas day introit. I have also incorporated an excerpt from John 16:21-23:
When a woman is in labor, she has pain, because her hour has come. But when her child is born, she no longer remembers the anguish because of the joy of having brought a human being into the world. So you will have pain now; but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you.
The electronic part, both the pain and the joy, is made using transformations of a recording of the olive-tree warbler (hippolais olivetorum). This birdcall appears transcribed for organ in Messiaen’s piece. The olive-tree warbler uses Palestine/Israel as a stopover in its migration between the Balkans and southern Africa.
Take Your Joy was commissioned by the Amherst College Choir, Mallorie Chernin, conductor, and written while in residence at the Atlantic Center for the Arts in New Smyrna Beach, Florida.
Text:
no
no one
no one will take your joy
nobis
no one will take from you your joy
puer natus est nobis
et filius datus est nobis
To Life - prachalit hona (2023) by Leslie Frost* to a poem by Zsuzsanna Ardó
Emma Daniels, conductor
To Life, prachalit hona is a choral setting of the poem, To Life, from Zsuzsanna Ardó’s Five Haiku Tryptychs. https://www.ardo.org/
Using compositional techniques spanning centuries, I wrote this music to comment on a relationship between fragmentation and growth. This dynamic inter-relatedness exists in the natural world; in human bodies, and within artistic languages such as poetry, art and music.
The piece opens with a polyphonic layering of three extracted ending words found in the poem: remains, prevails and lingers. Prachalit hona means “make prevalent’ or “prevail” in the Hindi language. Pulses and other fragments are swirling in a seemingly chaotic mix until they come together within a homophonic texture (all voices aligned in timing) followed by dissolution into fragments again.
Despite fragmentation, metaphorical and physical distance, and disruption; the current of growth and beauty (LIFE) will prevail.
To Life
-haiku triptych
Oceans yawn, swallow
Life yet rhythm of pulse lingers
Veins of petals howl
Wind, water outpace
Life yet rhythm of pulse remains
Arteries enlace
Light hastens, dawn breaks
Life yet rhythm of pulse prevails
Out of joint again
©Zsuzsanna Ardó
fugue —When technics becomes… (2014) by George Wright*, text by Herbert Marcuse from One Dimensional Man (1964)
Daniel Andor-Ardó, conductor
Technics is a branch of philosophy which, simply put, studies the relationship between humans and technology, and the way that technical ideas which are passed on through successive generations can shape our lives. These ideas can be anything from the first agricultural methods to the creation of the loom for making cloth to the invention of the automobile and beyond. The specific concern which Mr. Marcuse is expressing in this particular passage is that in more recent human history, especially since the industrial revolution, the study of technics has become not just a tool of philosophers and sociologists, but also of people who are engaged in industry and production; that now the same people who are attempting to enrich themselves materially by developing and marketing technology are studying and manipulating its relationship to us. In this scenario technology becomes less a tool that improves our lives, and more a means of controlling us; shaping our experience to suit the ends of people who may not be particularly well intentioned.
Text:
When technics becomes the universal form of material production, it circumscribes an entire culture; it projects a historical totality — a world.
leave (2023) by Evan Shaw Johnson*
Perry Townsend, conductor
Alexa Letourneau and Jacob Lyon, soloists
I think of leave as a “warped break-up song.” The idea came to me in August 2021, when I was facing a number of major life transitions: a move, a career change, and the end of a long-term relationship. The convergence of these forces got me thinking about the concept of leaving, and how it can be both proactive and reactive. We can leave something—a person, a place, a career, a belief system—or it can leave us. I tried to explore this duality in a short, simple poem. The first half is reactive, and is about the stories we tell ourselves to explain why someone or something has left us. The second half is proactive, and reflects the slow, painful realization that what you once loved has become something you can no longer support.
I’m fascinated by minimalism (particularly the music of Steve Reich and Louis Andriessen), and I found its systematic procedures useful in creating this abstract narrative. In the first half, I break down the phrase “don’t leave” to its essential consonant sounds—my attempt to illustrate an irrational stream of consciousness; the feeling of absorbing a sudden and momentous change. I introduce the phrase “I see you” about halfway through, and then have the choir slowly add more words that twist the meaning into something more sinister: “I see right through you.”
With the reprise of the opening theme comes the acceptance of leaving as inevitable, and the recognition that something will always be left behind, prompting the question: what will you leave?
Text:
Don’t leave
Why leave now?
You found home
Home is burning
and your home’s not mine
I see you
I see through you
I see truth
I see right through you
Leave
What will you leave?
Genesis (2009) by Hendrik Hofmeyr based on the Genesis I
Jacob Lyon, conductor
Genesis was commissioned by Leon Starker for Pro Cantu in 2009. From Hofmeyr this challenging work employs several extended techniques including overtone singing, whispering and aleatoric clouds of sound to depict the creation of the world as described in Genesis 1.
Genesis 1: 1-4
In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
And the earth was without form, and void;
and darkness was upon the face of the deep.
And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
And God said, let there be light, and there was light.
And God saw the light, that it was good.
Tuttarana (2016) by Reena Esmail
Katherine Doe Morse, conductor
Alexa Letourneau, soloist
The title of this piece is a conglomeration of two words: the Italian word ‘tutti’, means ‘all’ or ‘everyone’, and the term ‘tarana’ designates a specific Hindustani (North Indian) musical form, whose closest Western counterpart is the ‘scat’ in jazz. Made up of rhythmic syllables, a tarana is the singer’s chance to display agility and dexterity. While a Hindustani tarana is a solo form, I wanted to bring the tarana into an ensemble setting.
Tuttarana was commissioned by the Mount Holyoke College Glee Club for their 2014-15 season, and has since been performed across the US, also in arrangements for SATB and brass quintet.
An addendum: Three years after I wrote this piece, the #metoo movement, created by Tarana Burke broke on social media. It occurred to me that the title of this piece, if read a different way, literally means “We are all Tarana.” I couldn’t believe the incredible coincidence that this work, a powerful 3-minute tidal wave of sound, written for an all-female ensemble from the oldest women’s college in the country, bore this name. I’m so grateful for what this movement has done to move the discussion forward about the horrors we face as women, and how we can begin to change and heal our society. - Reena Esmail
Text:
The text of this piece is comprised of onomatopoeic syllables based in the Hindi language — it has no specific words.
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