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Program Notes: Jakub Józef Orliński

J.J. Fux
Non t’amo per il ciel from Il fonte della salute, aperto dalla grazia nel Calvario

Johann Joseph Fux was an early-18th-century Austrian court composer of the first rank, best known by musicians today for his widely studied treatise on Renaissance counterpoint entitled Gradus ad Parnassum (1725). The Hapsburg court in Vienna was the seat of the Holy Roman Emperor, secular protector-in-chief of the Roman Catholic Church, so Fux’s duties centred on writing music to be performed in the Imperial Chapel for important events in the church calendar.

Fux’s Good Friday oratorio Il fonte della salute, aperto dalla grazia nel Calvario (The font of salvation, opened by the grace of Calvary) was composed in 1716. In its first act the grateful musings of the repentant sinner are evoked in the aria Non t’amo per il ciel, with a mawkishly pious text that speaks (most curiously, to modern ears) of dutiful submission and fearful love – a state of mind and attitudinal posture no doubt heartily endorsed by the Austrian Emperor for adoption by his loyal subjects.

Proceeding at a dignified “Pachebel’s-Canon-ish” pace to depict calm unshakeable faith, it unfolds in the manner of a stately Handelian da capo aria in two verses, with lavish embellishments applied to the repeat of the first verse by the singer in the closing section.

Glorious long-held notes and melismatic extensions of vowels point to Fux’s skill in writing in the Italian style, a style that emphasizes beauty of tone colour, graceful flowing melodic lines, and loving cadential ornaments at phrase ends.


Henry Purcell
Selected songs

Henry Purcell worked in the early part of his career under the patronage of the last two Stuart kings of England, Charles I (r. 1660-1685) and James II (r. 1685-1688). But when James II was deposed in the Glorious Revolution of 1688, Purcell turned increasingly to the theatre, writing incidental music for stage plays and major musical numbers for the semi-operas popular in the period.

The semi-opera was a distinctly English genre of theatrical entertainment that flourished in England between 1670 and 1710. It responded to the English public’s distaste for Italian opera, especially its far-fetched plots, told in a foreign language, with a thick layer of musical ‘lasagna’ coating every syllable of the text from start to finish. The English preferred lighter fare. Their musical stage entertainment came in the form of adaptations of well-known plays with a spoken text performed by professional actors and musical numbers performed by professional singers, much in the way that dance numbers were inserted into early French opera.

These musical insertions, often in the form of an allegorical masque or a play-within-a-play, might allude to, or simply provide a distraction from, the main action of the drama. And Purcell was a consummate creator of such scenes, many of them composed in collaboration with the renowned Restoration poet John Dryden (1631-1700). His command of counterpoint and ability to create dancelike melodies that preserve the rhythms and energy of English prose have given these pieces a life outside the theatre and made them effective concert pieces still popular today.

Music for a while comes from John Dryden and Nathaniel Lee’s adaptation of the Sophocles tragedy Oedipus Rex, staged in 1692 with incidental music by Purcell. This luxuriantly leisurely tune would surely have provided its listeners in the audience with welcome emotional relief from the bloody doings being enacted on stage, including Oedipus’ own brooch-stabbing de-oculation in the final act. Like the famous aria When I am laid in earth from Purcell’s Dido and Aeneas (1689), this song is built on a ground bass consisting of a three-bar melodic pattern at the bottom of the texture that repeats throughout. Worthy of note is Purcell’s wonderfully speech-like setting of the first word in the text: Mu-u-u-sic.

Fairest Isle and the Cold Song both come from Purcell’s most successful semi-opera, King Arthur, performed at the Queen’s Theatre in London in 1791. Fairest Isle is sung as part of a masque conjured by the magician Merlin near the end of the work in which the future greatness of the British nation is foretold. This buoyant minuet-song with its patriotic text eventually became a national favourite to rank with Thomas Arne’s Rule Britannia of 1742.

The Cold Song is an astonishing example of the pictorial vividness with which Purcell could invest his music. It comes from the so-called Frost Scene in the third act and as its name implies, it paints the bone-chilling effects of a Winnipeg-style winter on some of the inhabitants of King Arthur’s Britain. Just like the opening of Vivaldi’s Winter from The Four Seasons, a steady pulse of 8th notes in the accompaniment paints the nippiness of the winter wind to set up the dramatic entrance of the vocal line, which quivers and shivers up and down in synch with the accompaniment, chillingly intense and relentlessly chromatic in its tonal wanderings.

Strike the viol is from Purcell’s birthday ode to Queen Mary entitled Come Ye Sons of Art (1694). Here again Purcell uses a ground bass, eight bars in length, modulating from minor to major. In the text, a number of musical instruments are exhorted to sing and play in joyous celebration of their “patroness” (i.e. Queen Mary). Their unbounded delight in the occasion breaks out with a long melisma on the word “cheerful”.

Your awful voice I hear is from a masque inserted into a 1695 adaptation of Shakespeare’s The Tempest. This being a story of shipwrecks and miraculous sea-changes, musical numbers referencing the weather and the aquatic environment form natural musical side-panels to the main dramatic action. In this air the mythological figure Aeolus, representing the wind, sings to his lord Neptune, “brother to Jove and monarch of the sea.” While the fugal counterpoint that permeates this setting would not be unusual in a piece by Purcell, scholars have cast doubt on his authorship because of the song’s overtly Italianate style of writing.

The poem If music be the food of love, by the would-be poet Col. Henry Heveningham MP (1651-1700), borrows the first line of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night and then takes its meaning in an entirely different direction. While Shakespeare’s Duke Orsini hopes to gorge on a feast of music to sate and thus quell the yearnings of his lovesickness, randy old Col. Henry has quite the opposite intention: to spur on the lust for sexual conquest through seduction. And in typical Restoration style his poem contains many a panting phrase and ‘wink-wink-know-whadda-mean’ double entendre.

Purcell made three settings of this poem and we are gratified to know that Mr. Orliński chooses to sing the outrageously florid 3rd version of 1695, with its many contrasts of dramatic semi-recitative and pictorial melismatic melody. Purcell’s warbling word-painting on the syllables of jo-o-oy and ple-e-ea-sure represent musical peacock-preening of the first order.


Henryk Czyż
Pożegnania (Farewells)

Henryk Czyż was a Polish conductor and composer known for championing the music of his Polish contemporaries, especially Krzysztof Penderecki (1933-2020), whose St Luke Passion and The Devils from Loudun received their first performances under his baton.

His song cycle Pożegnania (Farewells), a setting of three poems by Russian poet Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837), dates from 1948 and was originally written for the bass voice. In this work Czyż uses the Scriabinesque harmonic vocabulary of late Romanticism to create dramatic settings with a direct emotional appeal, emphasizing sustained lyrical melody in the vocal line and accompaniments closely wrapped round the singer’s voice.

Pushkin, widely considered Russia’s greatest poet, displays in these poems his ability to convey powerful complex emotions that combine psychological opposites. In Kochałem Panią, a Polish translation of his famous poem Я вас любил (I loved you once), it is the opposition between a former lover’s disappointment and his generosity of spirit. In Na wzgórzach Gruzji (Over the hills of Georgia) the poet feels “both sorrowful and light-hearted.”  And in Ostatni raz (For the last time) his thoughts of love arrive “with anguished, bashful tenderness.”


Mieczysław Karłowicz
Selected songs

Mieczysław Karłowicz is often cited as a leading proponent of the ideals of the Young Poland movement (1890-1918) which sought to forge a distinctly Polish personality in the arts by assimilating new modernist trends into national traditions. As a literary movement it embraced the fin-de-siècle attraction to decadence and a generally dark view of human existence.

The songs composed by Karłowicz in his student years between 1895 and 1896 reflect well the bleakness of this worldview. Many of them are set to melancholy poetic texts by Kazimierz Przerwa-Tetmajer (1865-1940), a leading poet of the Young Poland movement.

Karłowicz’s harmonic language is an extension of that used by Chopin, whom he revered, and heavily influenced by the morose emotionalism of Tchaikovsky as represented in his ‘Pathétique’ Symphony No. 6. His attraction to the music of Wagner, especially to Tristan und Isolde, is evident in his frequent use of tonally ambiguous harmonies (German sixth chords, augmented triads) to express the kind of infinite yearning evoked in Wagner’s Tristan. This slippery chromaticism well suits the Wagnerian themes of love and death that radiate out from Przerwa-Tetmajer’s poems in lines such as: These words flowing toward me / Are like a prayer at my coffin. / And in the heart of death they make me thrill.

Dark as these poetic texts are, the luscious harmonic richness of Karłowicz’s textures allows us to enjoy a strangely ‘decadent’ pleasure when hearing them sung.


Stanisław Moniuszko
Selected songs

Stanisław Moniuszko was the leading composer of Polish opera in the 19th century. But apart from his more than 20 operas and operettas, he also wrote a good 360 songs for domestic use issued in several sets entitled Śpiewnik domowy (‘Home Songbook’) beginning in 1843.

His musical language is essentially conservative, and a strong vein of Polish nationalism runs through his work, often expressed in melodies that sound like Polish folk songs and rhythms borrowed from Polish dances such as the polonaise, mazurka and krakowiak.

Moniuszko’s gift for soulful lyrical melody is on full display in Łza (The Tear), a strophic song of lament from the last Home Songbook, published posthumously in 1876, four years after the composer’s death. Its melancholy message of loss and the pain of remembrance finds expression in the song’s falling musical lines and painful dissonances in the piano accompaniment.

Prząśniczka (The Spinning Girl) comes from the third edition of Moniuszko’s Home Songbook (1851). It paints a scene of parting between young lovers, one of whom, like Schubert’s Gretchen am Spinnrade, is busy at her spinning wheel. Highly dramatic in form, it begins with a slow introduction that sets up the entry of the whirling spinning wheel motif in the piano accompaniment. This signals a new point of view on the story, as scraps of folk-song melody ironically imply that the girl’s affections can turn as fast as her spinning wheel.


George Frideric Handel
Alleluia, Amen in D minor  HWV 269

There is a mystery concerning the two dozen or so virtuoso arias on the words “Alleluia and “Amen” that Handel wrote over a period of more than 20 years beginning in the 1720s. No one knows, you see, why he wrote them. They are far too elaborate for use in public church services, so it has been proposed that they were intended for private devotional use.

Intended as contemplative vocal meditations on personal religious faith, they are nevertheless outstanding display vehicles for the singer’s voice. Structured as a da capo aria, the Alleluia and Amen in D minor HWV 269 features long held notes to showcase the tone colour of the singer’s voice, extended melismatic passages in 16ths to display breath control, and trills aplenty in the melodic line to show off the singer’s vocal technique and agility.


Donald G. Gíslason 2022




The golden age of English lute song coincides with the public career of lutenist and composer John Dowland – and not by chance: from the publication of his First Booke of Songes in 1597 until his death in 1626, Dowland initiated, nourished, and crowned, a flowering of popular song unprecedented in the history of the English nation, to which his fellow countrymen John Danyel, Robert Johnson, and Thomas Campion made significant contributions, as well.

Popular music in England had been taking long strides in the century since 1485, when the Battle of Bosworth Field put an end to the debilitating Wars of the Roses and brought a new dynasty, the Tudors, to the throne of the Sceptred Isle. A strong impetus came from the second Tudor monarch, the pleasure-loving King Henry VIII (r.1509-1547). Henry made “regal splendour” the operant phrase of his dynasty’s mission statement, and presided over a relaxed and brilliant court of artists and musicians, being also something of a composer himself.

Demographic, societal and cultural trends played their part, as well. As cities grew larger, trade increased, and a wealthy middle class took shape, the members of which were eager to acquire the cultural graces of their societal betters, especially in the field of music. With the spread of Renaissance humanism, the number of educational institutions grew rapidly, as did musical literacy. In this regard, it is noteworthy that both Dowland and Danyel could boast of a B.Mus. degree from Oxford among their professional accomplishments.

The increase in musical literacy then created a market for printed scores, among which Italian-inspired madrigals for home entertainment featured prominently. The English middle classes could now enjoy in their own homes, on a DIY basis, the kind of rich polyphonic music that had hitherto been the preserve of the private chapels and sumptuous banqueting halls of sovereigns and wealthy aristocrats.

But if madrigal singing represented the “desktop home- computing miracle” of the age, then lute songs – works for solo voice with lute accompaniment – were the Elizabethan equivalent of its smart phones: personal, portable, and uniquely English.

The lute had arrived in Europe from Moorish Spain, spreading rapidly in the 15th century to become in the 16th the most popular instrument among courtiers and commoners alike. Henry VIII played the lute, and made sure that his three children – the future monarchs Edward VI, “Bloody” Mary, and Elizabeth I – learned it, as well.

And just as the cell phone appeared in the modern cinema as soon as it was widely adopted, so the lute song became a popular feature in late Elizabethan and early Jacobean theatre, which was enjoying its own golden age in the works of William Shakespeare and Ben Jonson.


Have you seen the bright lily grow?
Care–charming sleep
From the Famous Peak of Derby

Lutenist Robert Johnson rose to prominence through his patron, Sir George Carey, who as Lord Chamberlain from 1596 to 1603 was also patron of The King’s Men Players, regular performers at the Globe and Blackfriars Theatres. It was not long, then, before Johnson was moonlighting from his day job as court lutenist to write and play music of a much less ceremonial stamp at these bustling London theatres. Among his best-known tunes are Ariel’s apiary encomium, Where the bee sucks there suck I, and his subaquatic obituary ode, Full fathom five, both from Shakespeare’s The Tempest.

Have you seen the bright lily grow? is a seduction song from Ben Johnson’s The Devil is an Ass (1616), sung by the erotically earnest young Wittipol to a bemused – but still listening – Mrs. Fitzdottrell, the object of his ardour. Adopting metaphoric persuasion as his seduction strategy, the young man evokes a series of agreeable – but alas, temporary – scenes within Nature, with the hope of leading the morals of his curious but non-committal listener in an equally promising direction. The mention of “smutching” (i.e., besmirching) is clearly intended to lead to smooching.

Care-charming sleep appeared in the climactic scene of John Fletcher’s “revenge tragedy” Valentinian. “Revenge tragedy” is a dramatic genre, popular in the Renaissance, in which Person A (of sadistic temperament and low self- esteem) wantonly visits unspeakable horrors upon Person B (of blushing innocence and unblemished virtue) to the considerable consternation of Person C (of manly courage and stern resolve) who avenges the outrage – and then everyone dies. In Fletcher’s play, Roman emperor Valentinian III (the horror visit-or) lies dying, after having forced himself upon Lucina (the horror visit-ee) and been subsequently poisoned by her husband Maximus (the toxic avenger). Despite the stagey-ness of the plot, Johnson’s profusely ornamented air, in the new declamatory style of Italian monody that became fashionable in England after 1610, gives dramatic focus and emotional resonance to this long, lingering death scene.

From the Famous Peak of Derby is taken from Ben Jonson’s masque, The Gypsies Metamorphosed (1621). A masque was an elaborately staged courtly entertainment featuring music and dance with an interwoven dramatic plot. This song is Johnson’s setting of the text originally set by another composer, meaning that it must have been a kind of “hit tune” from the original work. Casting political correctness aside, it sings of the itinerant life and sketchy skill-set of the roving Gypsy.


Semper Dowland semper dolens

The “brand” identity of John Dowland’s music was its melancholy affect, a cultural pose much in vogue in England at the start of the 17th century. Hence the punning Latin title Always Dowland, always doleful, with “Dowland” pronounced to rhyme with “Poland”. This piece remains true to its title in its many falling melodic lines and emphasis on minor-mode harmony.


Mrs. M. E. her funeral tears for the death of her husband
Why canst thou not, as others do?
Can doleful notes?

Dowland’s nearest rival for the title of “finest lute song composer” was John Danyel, a lutenist at the English court best known for grave but finely crafted songs that display not only his considerable contrapuntal skill, but also his ability to create large-scale musical structures with the simplest of materials.

An excellent example is his mini-song-cycle in honour of a certain widow, “Mrs. M. E.” Each of its three sections is set to different music, but all end pointedly with the same climactic line, a virtuoso verbal crescendo of rising intensity and expressive force: Pine, fret, consume, swell, burst, and die. Danyel’s sense of word painting is evident from the very first line, with its plangent repetitions of “Grief, grief, grief”. Another fine example is the opening of the second section, with its vivid imitation of the “drop-drop-drop” and “trickle- trickle-trickle” of falling tears.

Why canst thou not? to words by court poet Samuel Daniel (the composer’s brother) reveals Danyel in a much less lugubrious vein. This coyly phrased love lament evoking her piercing eyes and his wounded heart is a perfect display vehicle for dramatic performance, with its many repetitions of Only look, but do not wound.

Can doleful notes? is a small disquisition on a burning topic in musical circles of the time: what kind of music is best for setting poetry? This three-part song answers its own question in music that is learnedly imitative, rhythmically flexible, and colourfully, flagrantly chromatic.


Mrs. Winter’s Jump (solo lute)

Here we catch Dowland in an unusually buoyant mood, writing music perfectly adapted for social dancing of the most uninhibited kind, with regularly structured phrases and predictable cadences. Among the dance genres of the time, Dowland specialist Diana Poulton suggests that this is either a coranto or a volta, and that “possibly the word ‘jump’ in the title refers to the moment in the volta when the female partner leaps into the air, assisted by the male partner’s knee under her bottom”.


Never weather-beaten sail

Commentators on the five books of songs that Thomas Campion published between 1601 and 1618 have gone cross-eyed trying to decide whether to treat him as a literary figure, a musician, or both. A master of the Latin epigram, he was “a poet of the ear” whose careful attention to the accentual patterns of words, the sounds of their vowels, and the rhythmic pacing of poetic lines identified him as a literary craftsman of the first order. And yet these very qualities are what made him a “musician’s musician” in the treatment of his own poetic texts, which seemed written for music before they were even set to it.

His songs are tailor-fitted to the English language and are marked by an easy melodic flow, straightforward rhythms, and a characteristic “lightness” of gait, derived in large part from his preference for monosyllables. They stand diametrically opposed to the thick “treacle-y” textures of the contemporary madrigal, with its throat-gargling fits of word painting and OCD-afflicted spasms of text repetition.

When such devices are used, they therefore stand in higher relief. Never weather-beaten sail, from Campion’s Two Bookes of Ayres (1613) provides a telling example. While its surface text professes a high degree of religious fervour for the afterlife, the breathlessly repeated refrain, O come quickly, O come quickly, reveals a soul more erotically earth- bound than it is letting on.


Old Bones  (2013) – Commissioned by Wigmore Hall

Gravesite commemoration is where hero worship begins. When a great king dies, a tombstone is the spot where his place in history is anchored, the ground zero from which his legend spreads. But Richard III was different: we had the legend, but not the body. Cut down at the Battle of Bosworth Field in 1485, Shakespeare’s villainous hunchback monarch was hastily buried, and his grave soon forgotten in the hurly-burly of England under its new Tudor king, Henry VII.

So the discovery of skeletal remains buried under a parking lot in Leicester in 2012 caught the world unawares. The find released latent feelings of morbid curiosity, wistful nostalgia, and even of sympathy for the last English monarch to die in battle, the king who, in Shakespeare’s telling, had cried My kingdom for a horse!  Richard III was a person we thought we knew, each of us in our own way.

Nico Muhly’s Old Bones for countertenor and lute, which premiered at Wigmore Hall in London last year, presents the testimony of three stakeholders in the memory we have of this famous king. Drawing on recent British media reports and old Welsh poetry, it presents a musical triptych of voices echoing off the walls of the mental tomb we have created in our minds—and are still creating—of this once-mighty prince.

First to the podium comes academic researcher Richard Buckley from the University of Leicester, whose formal statement to the press, as reported in Times Higher Education (“Richard III is found,” 4 February 2013), begins the work.

Next is Phillipa Langley, a British screenwriter, creator of the Looking for Richard project, who is quoted from an article in The Guardian (“It’s like Richard wanted to be found,” 5 February 2013). Her intense personal reaction to the discovery, her feeling of communing directly with this cult figure over the centuries, almost became a media story in itself, with some commentators musing aloud that she wanted to “jump his bones.”

The voice of Welsh poet Guto’r Glyn supervenes in a section from his commemorative poem Moliant i Syr Rhys ap Tomas o Abermarlais (1485-86) written in honour of Sir Rhys ap Thomas, the Welsh knight from Carmarthen reputed to have struck the fatal blow that ended the reign of the House of York, and with it the decades-long Wars of the Roses.

The last word goes to Phillipa Langley, whose lonely devotion to this fallen king is itself a strangely sad spectacle, a touching reminder of how history, and its memory, can move the human heart.

Nico Muhly is a potent voice in American musical culture whose early experiences as a choirboy singing English Renaissance choral music have remained a foundation stone for his creative work as a composer. “I take comfort in those choral works now,” he says, “and look for moments when my music can connect with people in the same subtle and urgent ways.”

He is nonetheless a member of that generation of musicians (pianist Gabriel Kahane and violinist Owen Pallett are others) who consider impeccable academic credentials no impediment to full-immersion participation in contemporary popular culture. A graduate of both Columbia University and the Juilliard School, his musical activities have ranged from writing an opera for the Metropolitan in New York (Two Boys, 2011) to arranging scores for Björk, Jónsi, and Anthony & the Johnsons. He is also the composer of the film score for The Reader, nominated for an Academy Award in the Best Film category in 2009. No matter how large the work undertaken, however, he remains a focused miniaturist at heart.

I am most comfortable creating tiny, obsessive narratives inside a simple structure rather than working on top of a story. I am happier when a piece has a climax for everybody: a little endearing detail here, a little nudge there, rather than an agreed-upon moment.

Noticing the skillful setting of text and frequent touches of word painting in Old Bones, I mentioned to the composer that I was getting a ‘Dowlandish’ feel out of the work, to which he replied tartly: “Dowland is everywhere in this piece.”


Lachrimae (solo lute)

Paul McCartney´s Michelle, ma belle is one of the most frequently heard pieces of public music. You can hear it in suburban shopping malls, on subway platforms, in elevators, and on planes awaiting takeoff virtually everywhere in the Western world.

In the early 1600s, the equivalent tune was John Dowland’s Lachrimae, a work that was included in virtually all the important manuscript collections of lute music, both in England and on the Continent. It was so popular that it appeared in countless pirate editions, as well, even with “divisions” (i.e., variations in faster note values) written by other composers—the ultimate compliment.

Its opening four notes, the so-called “falling tear” motive (heard everywhere in the piece) were as identifiable to the musician’s ear as the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth are to us today, and were often used in “tribute quotations” by other composers. Dowland himself couldn’t keep his hands off it. He arranged it twice more, in versions for voice and lute, and for instrumental consort.

Like most of Dowland’s music for solo lute, it is based on a dance genre, the pavan, a slow procession dance popular during the Renaissance. But it is not just functional music for dancing. Its slightly irregular phrase patterning and contrapuntal character point the way to more abstract incarnations of the dance that would take hold later in the century.


Come again, sweet love doth now invite
In darkness let me dwell

Dowland’s gift for expressive text setting is everywhere evident in these two songs. Come again, sweet love doth now invite from The First Booke of Songes or Ayres (1597) creates a crescendo of excitement in its panting refrain that renders palpable the pangs of new-found love. Along with Cherubino’s Non so più cosa son from Mozart’s Le Nozze di Figaro, it stands as a cautionary tale of how erotic anticipation can produce pathologically irregular respiratory patterns in the romantically afflicted.

By contrast, the deeply affecting In darkness let me dwell, from the collection, A Musicall Banquet (1610), lives in a place remote from hope, at the dull dark heart of human anguish. Completely through-composed, its grinding dissonances, its free-floating metre conveying free-floating pain, its final line that just … stops, as if cut off, mid- phrase, by Death itself – this is unfathomable greatness in art, utterly beyond words.


The King of Denmark’s Galliard

A vogue for “battle pieces” swept through Europe in the first part of the 16th century, with contributions by composers such as Jannequin, among others, that featured onomatopoeic imitations of the sounds of conflict written into the score. We see here Dowland in the role of the adaptor of others’ works, creating an instrumental piece derived from compositions of a past era – and thus with a slightly “antique” feel – but reworked in his own style so as to appeal to a contemporary audience.


Can she excuse my wrongs?
Flow, my tears, fall from your springs
Now, O Now My Needs Must Part & The Frog Galliard

Can she excuse my wrongs is a tantalizing mystery piece, which many believe to be by, or about, Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, the on-again-off-again love interest of England’s “Virgin” Queen. Adding to the speculation that the work relates to one of their many spats is the fact that Dowland himself labelled the piece The Earl of Essex, his galliard, in an instrumental version which he published in 1604, after both Elizabeth and Essex were dead. The galliard was an athletic dance genre of the Renaissance that involved leaping, hopping and all manner of what would later be called “aerobic” maneuvers. It was one of Elizabeth I’s favourite dances and is notable for its sprightly mix of 3/4 and 6/8 metres.

Flow, my tears, fall from your springs is based on Dowland’s “signature tune”, the pavan, Lachrimae, but written afterwards, so its words were most likely composed especially to fit the music. (The modern equivalent would be writing a novel based on a hit movie). While the author of the text is not known – some think it to be Dowland himself – the text setting is very sensitive to the music already in place, with a word such as infamy in the third line set exactly as it would be spoken.

In similar fashion, Now, O now my needs must part and The Frog Galliard share the same music, but which came first is not known. The frequent changes in metre are typical of the galliard, but the slightly melancholy, or at least wistful, tone marks it as atypical for the genre. As for the naming of The Frog Galliard, this is also a mystery, but wagging tongues are quick to note that Elizabeth I frequently referred to one of her most persistent and ardent suitors, the Duc d’Alençon, as her “frog”.

Notes by Donald G. Gíslason, Ph.D.



Program Notes: A letter from Anthony Roth Costanzo


Program Notes: A letter from Anthony Roth Costanzo

As I enter my 20th year of professional performance, I have been reflecting on the most resonant musical moments throughout my development as a singer. From my beginning as a Broadway baby to my now daily dances with Handel, I have realized that there is a lot of music in between those two poles which has shaped me. This program is a collection of personal parcels, each one having a distinct and meaningful place in my trajectory.

As an eager 16 year old planning my first-ever recital, I was immediately taken by the beauty and depth of Henri Duparc’s songs and was simultaneously fascinated by his systematic destruction of his entire oeuvre, apart from a small handful of remaining works. I have chosen to start this recital with the same three songs that began my first recital as a budding countertenor.

Before I could even fathom the idea of vocal recital, at 13, I was asked to do my first role in opera: Miles in Benjamin Britten’s The Turn of the Screw. After years of musical theater, I found the challenge and the emotional complexity of Britten’s work exhilarating. As I entered into Britten’s universe, I discovered classical music’s ability to plumb the depths of human experience with uncanny expression, and it was this discovery that sent me down the road to becoming a classical singer. Britten not only holds a special place in my artistic journey, but also in the history of countertenors as he is the first composer ever to have written an operatic role specifically for countertenor as opposed to castrato — that of Oberon in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. His transcriptions of old English folk songs showcase his agility in wafting between subtly ironic, flat out silly, and poignant.

One thing I’ve learned about being half southern Italian and half Hungarian-Jewish is that while I may know how to eat well, I have a lot of guilt with which to contend. Luckily, both of my parents are psychologists, so I was able to focus mainly on the food. I realized recently that apart from the occasional chicken paprikash, the only connection to my Hungarian heritage I can remember is a miniature bust of Liszt that made its way onto the dresser in my childhood bedroom. When I learned about Liszt’s lore in college, his emotionally virtuosic playing and its palpable effects, I was intrigued. Since then I’ve been trying to put together a group of his songs that felt natural to me as a performer, and it wasn’t until now that I concocted this felicitous combination of his German settings. Connected, but not entirely the same as this Hungarian sense of romanticism, is the characteristically Italian state of impetuosity. Though none of the three Italian arias I am presenting was actually written by an Italian, they were all written for and performed by Italian castrati. These physically altered superstars of their era gave the art of opera wings, and along the way generated a body of work which never ceases to entrance me. Both Mozart and Handel offer endless opportunities to dig into characters with harmonic shifts, textual delineation and of course ornamentation carefully cooked-up by the singers themselves. These three arias represent the foundation of my work as a singer: executing the highest of technical demands while simultaneously rendering emotional arcs tangible.

At six years old I was no good at reading sheet music. My unusually creative piano teacher, Pei-Fen Liu, thought that perhaps instead of trying to play the notes, I’d have an easier time taking my fingers out of the equation. So I began to sing, and though I’m not sure my sight-reading improved, I quickly realized how much I enjoyed singing. After humming notes and singing solfège scales, Pei-Fen decided it was time for the next step. She pulled out a book of Gershwin songs, and away we went. I became so enthusiastic about Gershwin that I used to sit in my room and listen to any recordings I could find. When I discovered Ella Fitzgerald, I wanted so badly to understand how she wove her magic that I remember spending hours trying to copy down each syllable of scat that she added to the tunes she was singing. By the time I was eight, I told my parents that I was ready to give this a go in public. Wonderfully supportive as they were, they helped me to find an audition at a community theater. Filled with anticipation, and a joy of music, I walked into the audition room with a Gershwin tune prepared. Little did I know that I was about to embark upon a life of music and a craft which challenges and moves me every day. As I opened my mouth to sing the first few bars of “Summertime” that day, I couldn’t have imagined that it would close a recital like this one with the VRS.

-Anthony Roth Costanzo

Program Notes: Anthony Roth Costanzo




Henri Duparc was, with Berlioz and Fauré, among the pioneers of la mélodie (the French art song, as distinguished from folk song). His career was remarkable in that although he lived for 85 years, his reputation rests on barely more than a dozen songs. “Chanson triste” was Duparc’s first song, written at the age of twenty and published with four others as his Op. 2 in 1868.  It displays the quintessentially Gallic qualities of elegance, charm, sensitivity and polish. It also engages our imagination in a melancholic, yearning clair de lune setting of a text by the Symbolist poet Jean Lahor. “L’Invitation au voyage” takes for its text the famous Baudelaire poem of the same title. The poet’s dream world steeped in drugs, the atmosphere suffused with orientalism, and the imaginary voyage of the mind, were captured to perfection by Duparc in this masterpiece of ambiguous harmonies, unstable rhythms, sensuous imagery and vague meaning. In “Phidylé” Wagnerian chromaticism is much in evidence, as is the continuous development of melodic cells, the atmosphere of vague longing, an almost Tristanesque sensuality and rise to an ecstatic climax.

Few composers have captured in music the spirit and essence of their homeland with the vividness and poignancy as has Benjamin Britten. One of the many manifestations of Britten’s “English-ness” is found in settings of his country’s folksongs. “The Ploughboy,” in Britten’s arrangement of a tune by the English composer William Shield (1748-1829), takes a humorous, even cynical view of social advancement in the late eighteenth century. The text of “The ash grove” is a reflection on meetings with a deceased beloved, set to a well-known Welsh tune. “The foggy, foggy dew” exists in numerous versions, and has acquired something of a reputation for its bawdy text. Burl Ives was jailed for singing it in public in Utah, and the BBC had restrictions on broadcasting it. And just what is the “foggy, foggy dew”? That’s open to interpretation!

The enormously prolific and versatile Franz Liszt, though best known for his orchestral and piano music, also wrote more than eighty songs in six languages. Freedom of form and advanced harmony are commonly found in these songs, many of which he revised two, three or even four times, sometimes turning them into keyboard transcriptions as well. Although Liszt is usually billed as a Hungarian, he never spoke this language well, and the language he set most often in songs was German.

Liszt’s original setting of Heine’s poem “Im Rhein, im schönen Strome” (In the Rhine, the beauteous stream) depicted a river bursting with energy. The revised, commonly heard version is more subtle, portraying a gently flowing body of water. “In Liebeslust” (In love’s delight), set to a poem by Liszt’s close friend Hoffmann von Fallersleben, is a song so taken with love that the immortal words “Ich liebe dich” are emphatically sung nine times in three groups in three different manners. “Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh” (Peace reigns on every peak) is a setting of one of Goethe’s most famous poems (“Wandrers Nachtlied II”), one that has inspired dozens of composers, including Schubert and Schumann. Liszt’s song presents a picture of almost unearthly stillness. The lovely song about religious love, “Hohe Liebe” (Exalted love), to a text by Ludwig Uhland, also exists in a more extended version as the first of the three Liebesträume for solo piano. “Ihr Glocken von Marling” (Ye Bells of Marling) is a late song (1874). The bells of Emil Kuh’s poem are evoked in impressionistic, almost mystical terms in Liszt’s gently pulsing music.

Just after the fourteen-year-old Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart arrived in Milan in February of 1770, he was commissioned to write his first full-length opera seria, which was premiered that December. Mitridate, rè di Ponto was a great success, receiving 22 consecutive performances, but then dropped from sight until it was revived in Salzburg in 1971.The plot focuses on the love triangle between Aspasia, betrothed to King Mithradates of Pontus (a region on the Black Sea, now part of Turkey) and his two sons Sifare and Farnace. In his first aria of the opera, Farnace resolves to back the Roman contingent in the city and to challenge his father’s political position. It is a thrilling aria of substantial dimensions (over seven minutes in length), shot through with fortitude and steely determination.

Georg Friedrich Handel composed an enormous amount of music, including more than forty operas. With each of these productions containing an average of 25 arias, simple arithmetic gives us the astounding figure of well over 1,000 arias just for this body of music alone. Giulio Cesare (1724) was enormously successful and, along with Rinaldo, remains Handel’s most frequently performed opera today. The story takes place in Egypt in 48 B.C. at the time of the Roman campaign led by Caesar. By the beginning of Act III, Caesar is presumed drowned, but miraculously he survives. Drawing himself up on the shore, he bemoans his fate, the disappearance of his troops and the loss of his beloved Cleopatra in an aria of touching simplicity. The plot of Flavio (1723) deftly combines elements of the comic and the tragic. Guido’s Act II rage aria, “Rompo i lacci”, written for the famed castrato Senesino, races along at a breathless pace and features a number of melismas, two of which go on for an extraordinary 49 notes (a melisma is a string of notes sung to a single syllable). The plot of Amadigi (1715) involves a complicated love quadrangle. The men Amadigi and Dardano are both in love with Oriana (who loves only Amadigi), while the sorceress Melissa is also in love with Amadigi. In Act II, Dardano (a castrato role), despairing of ever winning Melissa for himself, sings his magnificent aria “Pena tiranna” to the sarabande rhythm (long-long, [breath], short long-long, [breath], etc.)

It is surely symbolic that George Gershwin was born on one shore of America (Brooklyn) and died on the other (Hollywood), for his music has been played, embraced, loved and cherished as has that of virtually no other composer the United States has ever produced. His output of over 500 songs, many of them written to lyrics by his older brother Ira, nearly equals Schubert’s in size. “I Got Rhythm” and “Sam and Delilah” both come from the musical comedy Girl Crazy (1930), whose story takes place in America’s Wild West. What made audiences crazy about Girl Crazy was a young newcomer in the cast, Ethel Merman, an actress “whose personality swept through the theater like a tropical cyclone,” as one critic put it. These two songs belonged to her. “Embraceable You” is one of Gershwin’s most irresistibly seductive songs, but probably the one that more people know than any other is “Summertime”, the languorous lullaby Clara sings to her infant shortly after the curtain goes up on the opera Porgy and Bess (1935).


Program notes by Robert Markow, 2012.