Silvergrass, for Cello and Chamber Ensemble
Shih-Hui Chen
Instrumentation
Flute
Clarinet in Bb/Bass Clarinet
Horn in F
Percussion
3 temple blocks, 2 suspended cymbals (large and small), chimes (2 pitches only: A4 and G5), 5 drums from high to low (ex. low bongo, high tom, djemba, low tom & bass drum), 1 suspended small tam-tam, glockenspiel and vibraphone.
3 woodblocks 2 sus cym (lg + sm) 5 drums sm. sus. tam
Piano
Cello Soloist
Violin Cello
Silvergrass, for Cello and Chamber Ensemble
I’ve been a big fan of the Taiwanese writer, Huang Chunming for more than 30 years. Most of his works focus on the working class and have an intimate, melancholy quality, the so-called “Taiwanese flavor.”
Before I was eight, I lived with my grandmother in Ba-du, a small town outside of the big city of Taipei. As Grandmother ran a small hotel by a railroad station where trains run between Taipei and the rural area, the hotel was busy and often packed with people whose lives were filled with hardship and hard work. In the midst of their difficulties, however, these Huang Chunming-story-like people took comfort in and entertained themselves with the Taiwanese operas. Before I began my Western music training, my ears were filled with these sad Taiwanese opera melodies. Although I was unaware of its influence, as I revisited Mr. Huang’s poetry recently, I reconnected with the Taiwanese opera and the long forgotten faces of people who once lived in the Ba-du hotel. I was feeling nostalgia. It also brought some heartache, as my grandmother passed away almost 20 years ago, and her hotel has not been operating for many years. The once robust Ba-du railroad station has now become desolate, with few people lingering.
Silvergrass, for Cello and Chamber Ensemble, uses four of Mr. Huang’s poems: Silvergrass, My Vegetarian and Sutra-Incanting Grandmother, Turtle Island and Guojun Is Not Coming Home to Dinner. Typical of Mr Huang’s passion in depicting working- class and mundane daily activities, all poems share a similar duty devotion: The silvergrass' dutiful annual sweeping of the sky; the grandmother’s daily chanting and vegetarian observances; a traveler whose emotion is tied to home, who changes the counting sheep chant to words about home; and the parents who keep a seat for their child who will not return. While the first three poems are cheerful, child-like, and bring back warm memories and happiness, the last poem introduces a profound sadness. It conveys Mrs. Huang’s grief at their son’s tragic death at age 30. This poem pulled me back to reality, and I empathized with the parents. I, too, am a mother. Because of the poems’ simple and direct quality, they provided me an immediate inspiration and imagination for composing abstract music. Finally, I loosely adopted the “crying melodies” from the Taiwanese opera, and it is used most apparently in the last movement.
Silver-Grass, for Cello and Chamber Ensemble is written with the generous support from the Taiwanese United Fund and is dedicated to Huang Chunming, with admiration. In addition to the chamber version, there is an orchestra version written for the National Taiwan Symphony Orchestra
Silvergrass
On this day of every year
The silvergrass never forgets to come
To sweep the sky
During daytime
The silvergrass stands by the streams
Sweeping the sky blue
It stands on tiptoes on mountaintops
Sweeping the sky high
Then it calls the sky that is swept blue and high
Autumn
At night
The silvergrass
Stands by the streams
Dusting the stars bright
It stands on tiptoes on mountaintops
Dusting the stars far
Then it calls the stars that are dusted bright and far
The Milky Way
An old farmer
Uses the sky-sweeping and star-dusting silvergrass
To make brooms
And goes to the city to hawk them
When the women surrounding him express doubt
He just tells them to take a look up
At the sky
My Vegetarian and Sutra-incanting Grandmother
Old Grandma has a Buddhist prayer hall decorated all in red
The adults say it is not a place where we kids can play
Often, the hall overflows with the humming of Grandma’s incantation of the sutras
Out wafts the hum of incantation and the sharp scent of sandalwood
Out comes the drone of incantation accompanied by the knock knock ding of the temple block and copper bell
A vegetarian, Grandma incants the sutras and performs good deeds
She says the Buddha forbids killing
The Buddha forbids this and forbids that Namo Amitabha knock knock ding Knock knock knock knock ding
Grandma has a Buddhist prayer hall decorated all in red Inside is a red table
On it sits a stack of sutras in leather covers with red and gold embossed characters
When she chants, she starts at the top of the stack with the Perfection of Wisdom Sutra And works her way down
Until she reaches the Diamond Sutra Grandma chants
Namo Amitabha knock knock ding Knock knock knock knock ding
When Grandma finishes incanting the Diamond Sutra She begins all over again, with the Perfection of Wisdom Sutra And she keeps chanting, working her way down Namo Amitabha knock knock ding
Turtle Island
Turtle Island1
Whenever this child of Lanyang takes the train to go faraway2
Whenever he gazes upon you from the distance
He can never tell whether the sadness in the air
Belongs to you or him
Turtle Island
On the days this child of Lanyang was away from his hometown
A multitude of dreams caused insomnia
He dreamt of the Turbid River 3
He dreamt of Typhoons Pamela and Beth
He dreamt of you, Turtle Island
Guishan Island, literally Turtle Mountain Island, is a small isle of 2,841 square 1 kilometers located 9.1 kilometers east of the Gengfang Fishery Harbor of Yilan. Its highest point reaches 401 meters above sea level.
2
Lanyang: an alternative name for Yilan County on the northeast coast of Taiwan.
Zhuoshui River, which literally means Turbid Water, is the longest river in Taiwan. It 3 originates in the mountains in Nantou county and flows west into the Taiwan Strait.
The doctor in the strange place that he does not call home
Taught him to count sheep
One sheep, two sheep, three sheep
Four Turbid River, five typhoon
Six Turtle Island
Ah Turtle Island
Whenever this child of Lanyang takes the train home
He can never tell whether the happiness in the air
Belongs to you or him
Guojun Is Not Coming Home to Dinner
Guojun, I know you are not coming home to dinner, so I ate first.
Your mom always says, wait a bit.
Because she ends up waiting too long, she does not want to eat.
That bag of rice is still full a great many days after we opened it. It even gained some weevils.
Since mom knows that you are not coming home to dinner, she no longer wants to cook.
She and the Tatung rice cooker have both forgotten how many cups of water go with a cup of rice.
Only now have I realized that mom was born to cook for you. Now that you do not come home to dinner, she has nothing left to do. She does not feel like doing anything, not even eating.
Guojun, it is has been a year—you have not come home to dinner.
I have stir-fried rice noodles a few times to invite your friends over.
Some of your best friends came, but Zhesheng, like you, also no longer goes home to dinner.
Since we know you are not coming home to dinner, we do not wait for you, and we do not talk about you, but we will always save a seat for you.
Translated by Tze-lan Deborah Sang