Voices From Around The World 
featuring works by Dmitri Shostakovich, H.T. Burleigh, Joaquín Turina, and many
others.

Tevae Vontrell Shoels, tenor

with
Marissa Carlson, piano

Roxy Grove Hall

Undergraduate Voice Recital

February 58th, 2000

 Voices From Around The World
Tevae Vontrell Shoels, tenor
with
Marissa Carlson, piano

Undergraduate Recital

5 Songs Of Laurence Hope ​(1915) Harry Thacker Burleigh

Worth While (1866-1949)
The Jungle Flower
Kashmiri Song
Among The Fuchsias
Till I Wake
Set time: 14:00

5 Satires ​(1960) Dmitri Shostakovich

Критику​ (To a critique) (1906-1975)
Потомки (The descendants)
Недоразумение (A misunderstanding)

Set time: 9:00

-Intermission-

Tres Poemas ​(1933) Joaquín Turina

Olas Gigantes (1882-1949)
Tu pupila es azul
Besa el aura
Set time: 7:30
4 Vocalises

Prelude​ from 3 Vocalises ​ (1958) Ralph Vaughn Williams

(1872-1958)
Vokaliz, Op. 34, No. 14​ (1912) Sergei Rachmaninoff
(1873-1943)
Vocalise ​ (1995) André Previn
(1929-2019)
Vocalise-étude en forme de Habanera (1907) Maurice Ravel
(1875-1937)

Set time: 15:30

Total Recital Time: 47:00

 Voices From Around The World
 
5 Songs of Laurence Hope 
(Harry Thacker Burleigh) 
 
Harry T. Burleigh was born in Eerie Pennsylvania into a musical family. His grandfather was a slave who sang
on a plantation, and taught a young Harry many of his songs from the plantation. In 1892, Burleigh left his
hometown to head to New York to study at the National Conservatory of Music. His education at the
conservatory deeply impacted his work as a composer and musician and among the many influential mentors he
encountered at the conservatory, popular Czech composer Antonin Dvořák was a person that heavily influenced
Burleigh’s compositional life.

This song cycle is a set of songs set to the text of poems written by British poet and author, Adela Florence
Cory, who wrote using Laurence Hope as a pseudonym. These texts conjure vivid imagery of deep romance and
longing and use the sights and sounds of nature to convey a beautiful image of love. In this setting Burleigh
uses the words of Hope in a gorgeous musical interpretation and shows his compositional voice.
 
I. Worth While 
 
  II. The Jungle Flower
 
 

   

I asked of my desolate shipwrecked soul
“Wouldst thou rather never have met
The one whom thou lovedst beyond control
And whom thou adorest yet?”
Back from the senses, the heart, the brain,
Came the answer swiftly thrown,
“What matter the price? We would pay it again,
We have had, we have loved, we have known!”
Thou art one of the jungle flowers, strange and fierce
and fair, palest amber, perfect lines, and scented with
champa flower. Lie back and frame thy face in the
gloom of thy loosened hair; sweet thou art and loved
— ay, loved — for an hour.
But thought flies far, ah, far, to another breast,
Whose whiteness breaks to the rose of a twin pink
flower, where wind the azure veins that my lips
caressed when Fate was gentle to me for a too-brief
hour.

 
III. Kasmiri Song
 
 

Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,

Where are you now? [Who lies beneath your spell?
Whom do you lead on Rapture’s roadway, far,
Before you agonise them in farewell?

Oh, pale dispensers of my Joys and Pains,

Holding the doors of Heaven and of Hell,
How the hot blood rushed wildly through the veins
Beneath your touch, until you waved farewell.

Pale hands, pink tipped, like Lotus buds that float

On those cool waters where we used to dwell,
I would have rather felt you round my throat,
Crushing out life, then waving me farewell! 
 
 
 Voices From Around The World
IV. Among the Fuchsias
 
V. Till I Wake
 
   

Call me not to a secret place
when daylight dies away,
tempt me not with tine eager face
and words thou shouldst not say.
Entice me not with a child of thine,
ah, God, if such might be,
for surely a man is half divine
who adds another link to the line
whose last link none may see.
When I am dying, lean over me tenderly, softly…
Stoop, as the yellow roses droop
In the wind from the south;
So I may when I wake – if there be an awakening –
Keep what lulled me to sleep –
The touch of your lips on my mouth.

Call me not to the Lotus lake

where drooping fuchsias hide,
what if my latent youth awakes
and will not be denied?
Ah, tempt me not for I am not strong
(thy mouth is a budded kiss)

My days are empty, my nights are long;

ah,why is a thing so sweet so wrong,
why is a thing so sweet so wrong
as thy temptation is?
 
 
 
5 Satires 
(Dmitri Shostakovich) 
 
Dmitri Shostakovich is a Russian composer who is often recognized by his popular symphonies and chamber
works, which are known to express deep political ideologies about the Soviet restrictions and standards on art.
This was a dangerous and rebellious yet honorable feat to accomplish as a citizen of the soviet union. Most
politically rebellious acts such as this were punishable by serious capital punishment and even death.

This set referred to as the Satires is also popularly known as “Pictures of the Past” which is quite witty because
at the time, it was Shostakovich’s skillful way of commenting on the present. Throughout the piece
Shostakovich employs thoughtful and brilliant word play as well as musical expressions that poke fun at the
poets, musicians, and art critics of the day. Shostakovich uses his compositional voice to be honest with his
listeners and it is quite an honorable task considering the circumstances.

Translations courtesy of The LiederNet Archive

 Voices From Around The World
I. ​Критику  I. To a critic
Когда поэт, описивая даму, начнёт:
Я шла по улице. В боко впился корсет
десь я не понимал конечно
прямо что, мол, под дамою скривается поэт.
Я истину тебе по-друшески открою:
поэт мужчина и даже с бородою.
III.​ ​Потомки
Наши предки лезли в клети
И шептались там не раз:
"Туго, братцы...видно, дети
Будут жить вольготней нас".
Дети выросли. И эти
Лезли в клети в грозный час
И вздыхали "Наши дети
Встретят солнце после нас".
Нынче так же, как вовеки,
Утешение одно:
Наши дети будут в Мекке,
Если нам не суждено.
Даже сроки предсказали:
Кто - лет двести, кто - пятьсот,
А пока лежи в печали
И мычи, как идиот.
Разукрашенные дули,
Мир умыт, причёсан, мил...
Лет чрез двести? Чёрта в стуле!
Разве я Мафусаил?
Я, как филин, на обломках
Переломанных богов.
В неродившихся потомках
Нет мне братьев и врагов.
Я хочу немножко света
Для себя, пока я жив,
От портного до поэта -
Всем понятен мой призыв...
А потомки... Пусть потомки,
Исполняя жребий свой
И кляня свои потёмки,
A poet was describing a lady. I cite:
I thought my corset as I walked did not feel
right."
The "I" should not of course be taken literally,
nor does the lady hide the poet from the light.
The poet is in fact, if truth you would be steer'd
to,
a man – and further, he even has a beard too!
III. The descendants 
Our predecessors, rattling
in their cages, often said:
"Truly, brothers, our children
will be freer when we're dead."
And their children grew, and lived
in cages still more terrible.
And they whispered: "To our children,
sunlight will be visible."
Now for our children there's one
consolation that must do:
They will surely get to Mecca,
though we shall not get there too.
Length of days now seems predestined:
Two hundred, five hundred years,
Who will bellow like a fool,
and who will melt away in tears.
Everything will soon be combed
and cleaned. The time is not too far.
Maybe just two hundred years?
Like hell! Am I Methuselah?
Like an owl, I stand among
the idols broken long ago.
In descendants not yet born
I have no brother, friend or foe.
I would like a little light
just for myself, while I'm still here.
From the tailor to the poet –
let them hear me, loud and clear.
Ah, descendants! Let them come
and meet the fate that comes to all.
Let them learn to curse the dark,
 Voices From Around The World
Лупят в стенку головой!
IV. ​Недоразумение  
Она была поэтесса,
поэтесса Бальзаковских лет.
А он был просто повеса,
курчавый и пылкий брюнет.
Повеса пришёл к поэтесе;
в полумраке дышали духи,
на софе, как в торжественой мессе,
поэтесса гнусила стихи:
О, сумей огнедышащей лаской,
всколыхнуть мою сонную страсть,
к пене бедер за алой подвыазкой
ты не бойся устами припасть.
Я свежа, как дыханье левкоя...
о сплетем ж истомноститель!``
Продолжене было такое,
что чурчави брюнет покраснел.
Покраснел, но оправился быстро
и подумал: была не была!
Здесь не думские речи министра,
не слова здесь нужны, а дела.
С несдержанною силой Кентавра
Поэтесу повеса привлёк,
но визгливо вулгарное: ,,Мавра, Мавра, Мавра,
Мавра!``
Охладило кипучий поток.
,,Простите!`` вскочил он. ,,Вы сами...``
Но в глазах её холод и честь.
,,Вы смели к порядочной даме,
как дворник, с объятьями лезть!
Вот чинная Мавра!`` И задом
уходит испуганный гость,
в передней растерянным взглядом
он долго искал свою трость.
С лицом белее магнезии
шёл с лестницы пылкий брюнет.
Не понял он новой поэзии
and beat their heads against a wall!
IV. A misunderstanding
She was a famous writer,
And a poet of a certain age,
While he was only a playboy
With hair that was all the rage.
Inhaling the perfume of twilight,
The rake to the poetess goes.
Like the solemnest mass, on the sofa,
She sits, and declaims through her nose:
"Let your fi'ry caresses embrace me
And awaken my passions from sleep.
Do not hold back your lips, but come kiss me.
Loose my thighs from their garter so deep!
I am fresh as a breath of white lilies.
Let us criss cross our bodies in bed!"
In this manner her verses continue
'Til the playboy is blushing bright red.
Yes, he blushes, but quickly recovers,
And reflects: "Now or never, it seems.
It's not time for officialese discourse
But for action – fulfillment of dreams!"
With unrestrain'd pow'r like a centaur's
To the poet the playboy's unspool'd,
But a shrill cry for help screeches: "Mavra!
Mavra! Mavra! Mavra!"
And the rake's boiling ardor is cool'd.
"I'm sorry!" He jumps up. "But I thought..."
In her eyes there is nothing but cold.
"Sir, I'm a respectable lady.
You boor! How could you be so bold!?"
And now here comes Mavra. The guest is
So scared, he won't be back again.
Confused, he retreats to the lobby,
A long while he looks for his cane.
His face now white as magnesium,
Descending the stairs in a rage,
He just doesn't understand poetry,
Or at least not of a certain age.
 Voices From Around The World
и поэтесси Бальзаковских лет.  He does not, he cannot, understand.... 

Tres Poemas 
(Jaoquín Turina) 
 
 

Spanish composer, Jaoquin Turina had a love for music at the very beginning of his life. He loved to play his
accordian, which he had acquired at a very young age and then later moved to piano. After some success in his
teens as a pianist, he moved to Madrid to study at the Madrid Conservatory where he met and befriended
Manual de Falla. After his time at the conservatory, Turina had a stint in Paris where he met- Claude Debussy
and Maurice Ravel- who were prominent french composers of his day. He later returned to Madrid to teach
composition at the conservatory where he previously studied.
In this set, Turina beautifully sets the gorgeous text of these 3 spanish poemas. He accompanies them with
guitar-like rhythmic figures and harmonies, which is an important and unique compositional technique of
Spanish Art Song composers. Turina employs these elements of Spanish folk music to give a little flare of his
own personal touch and culture to his music. The way he uses his cultural voice in this set of songs takes the
listener to the spanish countryside and helps emulate the voice of the imagery set by the authors of these texts.

Translations courtesy of The LiederNet Archive

I. Olas Gigantes
 
I. Gigantic Waves
 
 

   

Olas gigantes que os rompéis bramando Gigantic waves who throw yourselves roaring
En las playas desiertas y remotas, Onto the remote deserted beaches
Envuelto entre las sábanas de espuma, Enveloped among blankets of foam,
¡Llevadme con vosotras! Take me with you!

Ráfagas de huracán, que arrebatáis Gusts of hurricane

Del alto bosque las marchitas hojas, that snatch from the high woods the shriveled leaves
Arrastrando en el ciego torbellino, blowing them away in the blind whirlwind,
¡Llevadme con vosotras! Take me with you!

Nubes de tempestad que rompe el rayo Storm clouds that break through the light
Y en fuego ornáis las desprendidas orlas, And adorn in fire the unfastened waves
Arrebatado entre la niebla oscura, Snatched from the dark mist,
¡Llevadme con vosotras! Take me with you!

Llevadme, por piedad, adonde el vértigo Take me away, for pity's sake, to where vertigo
Con la razón me arranque la memoria. with my reason can tear out my memory.
¡Por piedad! ... ¡Tengo miedo de quedarme For pity's sake!.. I am afraid to remain
Con mi dolor a solas, con mi dolor a solas! with my pain all alone.
 
 Voices From Around The World

II. Tu Pupila es Azul

 
  II. Your Eye is Blue
 
 

   

Tu pupila es azul y cuando ríes, Your eye is blue, and when you laugh
Su claridad suave me recuerda its soft brightness reminds me
El trémulo fulgor de la mañana Of the shimmering glint of morning
Que en el mar se refleja. that is reflected in the sea.

Te pupila es azul, y cuando lloras, Your eye is blue, and when you cry,
Las transparentes lágrimas en ella the transparent tears in it
Se me figuran gotas de rocío seem to me drops of dew
Sobre una violeta. upon a violet.

Tu pupila es azul, y si en su fondo Your eye is blue, and if in its depths

Como un punto de luz radia una idea, like a point of light an idea radiates,
Me parece en el cielo de la tarde it seems to me a
¡Una perdida estrella! lost star in the evening sky!
 

III. Besa el Aura

 
  III. The Gentle Breeze
 
   

Besa el aura que gime blandamente
las leves ondas que jugando riza;
el sol besa a la nube en occidente
y de púrpura y oro la matiza;
la llama en derredor del tronco ardiente
por besar a otra llama se desliza;
y hasta el sauce, inclinándose a su peso,
al río que le besa vuelve un beso.
4 Vocalises 
(Ralph Vaughn Williams; Sergei Rachmaninoff; André Previn; Maurice Ravel)
The gentle breeze that moans gently kisses
the light waves that ripple playing;
the sun kisses the cloud in the west
and tinges it in purple and gold;
the flame around the burning trunk,
in order to kiss another flame,
glides until the willow, bending under its weight
to the river that kisses it, returning a kiss.
 

Vocalises are a “modern” and quite unique approach to setting text. Oftentimes in the world of classical Art
Song, a composer sets the music to a text based on the overall tone of the text or vis-a-versa. But what happens
when there is no specific text? And how can a composer convey a mood or tone without the help of language? It
is vocal music after all.
This set demonstrates the idea that for a speaker's voice to be heard, perhaps there is a much deeper and spiritual
understanding that must occur first. How can a speaker make their heart known without saying in bold text what
they wish to say? Well, it’s similar to how a composer shares their voice. They let the music speak. These
vocalises allow the music to speak. And the voice is just an instrument to amplify the deeply spiritual and
emotional mood of the music.