Andrew Garland: American Portraits
Dominating the Amazon Opera Chart at Number One for two weeks,Baritone Andrew Garland, accompanied by Donna Loewy, sings songs by some of the most important contemporary composers in America, Stephen Paulus, Jake Heggie, Lori Laitman and Tom Cipullo. This album is a must for lovers of great singing and contemporary American Art Song.
Legendary singer Marilyn Horne exclaimed, “Andrew Garland is a star singer beginning to burst forth. I am his devoted fan and supporter. Don’t miss this new recording!!!”
Andy Garland is the kind of musical champion song composers dream of finding: a true song stylist who is passionate, creative, quick, inquisitive and possesses a beautiful lyric baritone. – Jake Heggie
America 1968was composed especially for Andy Garland and Donna Loewy. Their performance – so deeply committed, virtuosic, and, above all, true – is how I dreamed the piece would sound. Andy and Donna are, quite simply, national treasures in the service of American song. – Tom Cipullo
5.0 out of 5 stars The Big Beautiful Dramatic Voice of Andrew Garland February 5, 2013
On this recording he collaborates with Donna Loewy at the piano in a lieder recital – only this time the songs are all from American composers – and hence the album’s title AMERICAN PORTRAITS. Included here are four song cycles: `A Heartland Portrait’ by Stephen Paulus, `America1968 by Tom Cipullo) composed and dedicated to Garland and Loewy), `Men with Small Heads’ by Lori Laitmen and `The Moon is a Mirror’ by Jake Heggie. Each of the composers makes a statement about their admiration for Andrew Garland: for example, Jake Heggie states `Andy Garland is the kind of musical champion song composers dream of finding: a true song stylist who is passionate, creative, quick, inquisitive and possesses a beautiful lyric baritone.’
Garland’s vocal production is secure and gleaming throughout his range: his high notes have a particular luster that sets him apart form many other baritones. The songs are easily understood as Garland’s enunciation is clear and perfect. In all this is a beautiful recording of four short song cycles that deserves wide attention. Grady Harp, February 13
L’album di Andrew Garland e’ bellissimo, complimenti e auguri– secondo me quest album entusiasma! La seguente osservazione non e’ mia ma vale la pena ripeterla quando si parla di questo album! “Credo che la cosa più importante per un musicista sia quella di trasmettere a chi lo ascolta un’immagine di tutte le cose meravigliose che sente e avverte nell’universo. Questo è ciò che la musica significa, semplicemente una possibilità, tra le molte altre, di dire che viviamo in un mondo immenso e meraviglioso, un mondo che ci è stato donato…”. Bravo, Andrew Garland, bravissimo!!
TEXT FOR SONGS
A Hearltand Portait poems by Ted Kooser
Premiered January 17, 2006, The Schubert Club, Minneapolis, MN, Thomas Hampson, baritone, Wolfram Reger, piano.
Flying at Night
Above us, stars.
Beneath us, constellations.
Five billion miles away,
a galaxy dies like a snowflake falling on water.
Below us, some farmer snaps on his yardlight,
drawing his sheds and barn
back into the little system of his care.
All night, like shimmering novas,
tug with bright streets
at lonely lights like his.
Somewhere in the night,
somewhere in the night
a dog is barking.
Somewhere in the night
a dog is barking,
starlight like beads of dew
a long his tight chain.
No one is there
beyond the dark garden,
nothing to bark at,
nothing to bark at
except the thoughts
of some old man
sending his memories
out for a midnight walk,
a rich cape woven of many loves swept recklessly
about his shoulders.
Somewhere in the night,
Somewhere in the night,
Somewhere in the night
a dog is barking.
No one is there,
no one is there
except the thoughts and memories of many loves,
many loves, many loves, of many loves, many-
An August Night
High in the trees,
a wickerwork of longing, longing.
In the shadows between two houses,
a man peers into a room through the hum of a window fan,
the fragrance of his hair oil
like distant music, far too faint
like distant music, far too faint to awaken,
to awaken the naked girl
on the clean linen of moonlight.
High in the trees cicadas weave
a wickerwork of longing, longing, longing.
Porch Swing In September
The porch swing hangs fixed in a morning sun
that bleaches its gray slats, its flowered cushion
whose flowers have faded, like those of summer,
and a small brown spider has hung out her web
on a line between porch post and chain
so that no one may swing without breaking it.
She is saying it’s time that the swinging were done with,
time that the creaking and pinging and popping
that sang through the ceiling were past,
time now for the soft vibrations of moths,
the wasp tapping each board for an entrance,
the cool dewdrops to brush from her work
every morning, one world at a time.
A Summer Night
At the end of the street
a porch light is burning,
showing the way.
How simple, how perfect it seems:
How simple. how perfect it seems:
the darkness the white house like a passage
through summer and into a snowfield.
Night after night,
the lamp comes on,
comes on at dusk,
the end of the street
stands open and white,
an old woman sits there
tending the lonely gate.
How simple, how perfect it seems.
Poems for A Heartland Portrait used by permission of Ted Kooser and the University of Pittsburgh Press from Flying at Night: Poems 1965-1985 (c) 2005 by Ted Kooser University of Pittsburgh Press.
Men With Small Heads poems by Thomas Lux
Premiered May 20, 2001, Strathmore Hall, N. Bethesda, MD, Randall Scarlata, baritone, Lori Laitman, piano
Men with Small Heads
and women with small heads
in my hometown when I was six.
Two men standing on the corner: small heads.
Small head: a woman leans to look in her mailbox.
Then there’d be some normal bodies, normal heads.
in other words, in my hometown
had small heads
but many did, enough
that I’d say to my mother, father: why
does that man have a small head?
I was glad my parents’
heads were normal-size.
They were glad I (mostly) didn’t ask
why a person with a small head
had a small head
within earshot of that person. Apparently
these small heads
did not appear so small to them.
They had my eyes checked first.
They took some x-rays of my skull.
Did I have migraines?
Did I have pinhead fears, dreams?
Perhaps it was the angle through the windshield glass?
The local Dr. leaning over me
with his penlight probing
my retina — his head was huge
and the hairs on the back of his hand
were crossed like swords. Nothing wrong
with my eyes or my brain
that he could tell
but the heads I swore were small
were not, they were just your average heads,
just your average heads,
More like a vault — you pull the handle out
and on the shelves: not a lot,
and what there is (a boiled potato
in a bag, a chicken carcass
under foil) looking dispirited,
drained, mugged. This is not
a place to go in hope or hunger.
But, just to the right of the middle
of the middle door shelf, on fire, a lit-from-within red,
heart red, sexual red, wet neon red,
shining red in their liquid, exotic,
in such company: a jar
of maraschino cherries. Three-quarters
full, fiery globes, like strippers
at a church social. Maraschino cherries, maraschino,
the only foreign word I knew. Not once
did I see these cherries employed: not
in a drink, nor on top
of a glob of ice cream,
or just pop one in your mouth. Not once.
The same jar there through an entire
childhood of dull dinners — bald meat,
pocked peas and see above,
boiled potatoes. Maybe
they came over from the old country,
family heirlooms, or were status symbols
bought with a piece of the first paycheck
from a sweatshop,
which beat the pig farm in Bohemia,
handed down from my grandparents
to my parents
to be someday mine,
then my child’s?
They were beautiful
and, if I never ate one,
it was because I knew it might be missed
or because I knew it would not be replaced
and because you do not eat
that which rips your heart with joy.
A Small Tin Parrot Pin
Next to the tiny bladeless windmill
of a salt shaker
on the black tablecloth
is my small tin parrot pin,
bought from a bin,
75 cents, cheap, not pure tin — an alloy,
some plastic toy tin?
The actual pin, the pin that pins the pin,
will fall off soon
and thus the parrot,
if I wear it, which I will,
on my lapel. I’ll look down
and it’ll be gone.
Let it be found by a child,
or someone sad, eyes
on the sidewalk, or what a prize
it would be for a pack rat’s nest.
My parrot’s paint
is vivid: his head’s red, bright yellow of breast
and belly, a strip of green,
then purple, a soft
creamy purple, then bright — you know
the color — parrot green
wing feathers. Tomorrow I think
I’ll wear it on my blue coat.
Tonight, someone whom I love
sleeps in the next room,
the room next to the room with the black tablecloth,
the salt shaker, the parrot pin.
She was very sleepy
and less impressed than I
with my parrot
with whom, with which I
am very pleased.
My friends, I hope you will not swim here:
this lake isn’t named for what it lacks.
This is not just another vacant scare.
They’re in there — knotted, cruel, and thick
with poison, some of them. Others bite
you just for fun — they love that curve
along the white soft side of your foot,
or your lower calf, or to pierce the nerves
with their needles behind your knees.
Just born, the babies bite you all the same.
They don’t care how big you are — please
do not swim here. There is no shame
in avoiding what will kill you: cool pleasure
of this water. Do not even dip your toes
in because they’ll hurt you, or worse,
carry you away on their backs — no,
not in homage, but to bite you as you sink.
Do not, my friends, swim here: I like you
living: this is what I believe, what I think.
Do not swim here — lest the many turn to few.
Poems for Men with Small Heads used by permission of Thomas Lux and Houghton Mifflin Company from NEW & SELECTED POEMS, 1975-1995 by Thomas Lux. ©1997 by Thomas Lux. All rights reserved.
Monet’s Water Lilies
Today as the news from Selma and Saigon
poisons the air like fallout,
I come again to see
the serene, great picture that I love.
Here space and time exist in light
the eye like the eye of faith believes.
The seen, the known
dissolve in iridescence, become
illusive flesh of light
that was not, was, forever is.
O light beheld as through refracting tears.
Here is the aura of that world
each of us has lost.
Here is the shadow of its joy
Hey Nonny No
in flaming clothes
sing hey nonny no
shriek of bloody class
sing wrathful sing vengeful
sing hey nonny no
and laughing sniper on tower
I am I am
sing hey nonny no
sing burn baby burn
Land’s end. And sound and river come
together, flowing to the sea.
Wild swans, the first I’ve ever seen,
cross the Point in translucent flight.
On lowtide rocks terns gather;
sunbathers gather on the lambent shore.
All for a moment seems inscribed
on brightness, as on sunlit
bronze and stone, here at land’s end,
praise for dead patriots of Stonington;
we are for an instant held in shining
like memories in the mind of God.
The old woman across the way
is whipping the boy again
and shouting to the neighborhood
her goodness and his wrongs.
Wildly he crashes through elephant ears,
pleads in dusty zinnias,
while she in spite of crippling fat
pursues and corners him.
She strikes and strikes the shrilly circling
boy till the stick breaks
in her hand. His tears are rainy weather
to woundlike memories:
My head gripped in bony vise
of knees, the writhing struggle
to wrench free, the blows, the fear
worse than blows that hateful
Words could bring, the face that I
no longer knew or loved . . .
Well, it is over now, it is over,
and the boy sobs in his room,
And the woman leans muttering against
a tree, exhausted, purged–
avenged in part for lifelong hidings
she has had to bear.
Those Winter Sundays
Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
When it is finally ours, this freedom, this liberty, this beautiful
and terrible thing, needful to man as air,
usable as earth; when it belongs at last to all,
when it is truly instinct, brain matter, diastole, systole,
reflex action; when it is finally won; when it is more
than the gaudy mumbo jumbo of politicians:
this man, this Douglass, this former slave, this Negro
beaten to his knees, exiled, visioning a world
where none is lonely, none hunted, alien,
this man, superb in love and logic, this man
shall be remembered. Oh, not with statues’ rhetoric,
not with legends and poems and wreaths of bronze alone,
but with the lives grown out of his life, the lives
fleshing his dream of the beautiful, needful thing.
“Monet’s Waterlilies,” IV from Words in the Mourning Time,” “The Point,” “The Whipping,” “Those Winter Sundays,” and “Frederick Douglass” from COLLECTED POEMS OF ROBERT HAYDEN by Robert Hayden, edited by Frederick Glaysher. Copyright 1962, 1966, 70. Copyright c 1985 by Emma Hayden. Used by permission of Liveright Publishing Corporation.
The Moon is a Mirror music by Jake Heggie poems by Vachel Lindsay
1. The Strength of the Lonely (What the Mendicant Said)
The moon’s a monk unmated
Who walks his cell the sky
His strength is that of Heaven-vowed men
Who all life’s flames defy.
They turn to stars and shadows,
They go like snow or dew
Leaving behind no sorrow
Only the arching blue.
2. What the Miner in the Desert Said
The Moon’s a brass-hooped water keg
A wondrous water feast.
If I could climb the ridge and drink
And give drink to my beast
If I could drain that keg the flies
Would not be biting so
My burning feet be spry again.
My mule no longer slow
And I could rise and dig for ore
And reach my father land
And not be food for ants and hawks
And perish in the sand.
3. The Old Horse and the City
The moon’s a peck of corn it lies
Heaped up for me to eat.
I wish that I might climb the path
And taste that supper sweet.
Men feed me straw and scanty grain
And beat me till I’m sore.
Someday I’ll break the halter rope
And smash the stable door.
Run down the street and mount the hill
Just as the corn appears.
I’ve seen it rise at certain times
For years and years and years.
4. What the Forrester Said
The moon is but a candle glow
That flickers through the gloom
The starry space, a castle hall
And earth the children’s room
Where all night long the old trees stand
To watch the streams asleep:
Grandmothers guarding trundle beds
Good shepherds guarding sheep.
5. What the Snowman Said
The moon’s a snowball see the drifts
Of white that cross the sphere.
The moon’s a snowball melted down
A dozen times a year.
Yet rolled again in hot July
When all my days are done
And cool to greet the weary eye
After the scorching sun.
The moon’s a piece of Winter fair
Renewed the year around.
Behold it deathless and unstained
Above the grimy ground!
It rolls on high so brave and white
Where the cold air rivers flow,
Proclaiming Christmas all the time
And the glory of the snow!