Sunday, December 8, 2019 - 7:30pm
Join faculty artists Eric Kean, Jen Weeks, Judy Widrig, Pat Nelson, and Erika Block for a potpourri of viola, piano, and wind music! This recital is free and begins at 7:30 PM in the PAC Concert Hall.
We are playing work by these composers: White, Bruch, Hovhaness, Koechlin, and Loeffler.
The biggest piece on the program is Charles Loeffler's Trio for Oboe, viola and piano
Charles Martin Loeffler was one of the most prominent musical figures of his generation. Born in France, Loeffler received a violin for his eighth birthday. He trained with Germans, and by age thirteen began his music career. In 1881 at age 20, he moved to the New World and joined the Boston Symphony Orchestra. He devoted his later years to creative composition. For Loeffler's entire life, he remained active in Boston's musical life. Studies of Medieval chant, mysticism and folk song influenced his style.
This featured piece is a rework of two songs Loeffler made. He made both songs from poems by Maurice Rollinat. The first is in memory of Leon Pourtau, a clarinetist in the Boston Symphony. The second was written for Georges Longy, the ensemble's renowned oboist. Loeffler translates the bleak poems into sweet, floating mystical music.
The Pool, by Maurice Rollinat
Full of old fish, stricken blind long ago, the pool, under a near sky rumbling with thunder, bares the splashing horror of its gloom between centuries-old rushes.
Over yonder, goblins light up more than one marsh that is black, sinister, unbearable; but the pool is revealed in this lonely place only by the croakings of consumptive frogs.
Now the moon, piercing at this very moment, seems to look here at herself fantastically; as though, one might say, to see her spectral face, her flat nose, the strange vacuity of her teeth – a death's-head lighted from within, about to peer into a dull mirror.
The Bagpipe, by Maurice Rollinat
His bagpipe groaned in the woods as the wind; and never has stag at bay, nor willow, nor oar, wept as that voice wept.
Those sounds of flute and oboe seemed like the death rattle of a woman. Oh! his bagpipe, near the cross-roads of the crucifix!
He is dead. But under cold skies, as soon as night weaves her mesh, down deep in my soul, there is the nook of old fears, I always hear his bagpipe groaning as of yore.
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