Keith Phares, baritone, Department of Music Free Concert Series by Modlin Center for the Arts

Notes on the Program

DeLoach – Four Robinson Songs

“Robinson” is the name Weldon Kees (1914-1955) gave to the protagonist of four poems he wrote in the years 1944-1949. e unsettling poems are bleak, cinematic, and evoke images of the Beat era in which they were written. Most of all, they intrigue the reader by way of their elusive leading character who always remains one step out of reach. When Kees wrote his poems, the name Robinson had been previously used by Daniel Defoe in Robinson Crusoe, Kaa in Amerika and Louis-Ferdinand Céline in Journey to the End of the Night to portray various outsiders. In the case of Kees’ “Robinson,” we experience the character’s apartment and all of his possessions, but not Robinson himself. In “Robinson at Home” we can observe him, but only asleep. In “Aspects of Robinson” we experience all of the public places Robinson inhabits, and in “Relating to Robinson,” when we fnally come face to face with him, his words, cryptic, banal, and frightening, oﬀer little explanation of his origin, purpose, or destination. Still, while withholding a full experience of his main character, Kees successfully paints the portrait of a “usual” heart passing through a “grey world,” refecting the sentiment of men in his generation.

It is hard to resist the temptation to link Kees’ own story to the Robinson poems. Born in Nebraska, he led a sporadic and frustrated artistic life producing artistic works in a number of diﬀerent genres. Aer the disintegration of his long-troubled marriage, the sexually unsatisfed Kees took a lover and lived a rampant bachelor’s life in New York before he moved out west. However, his life came to an abrupt end on July 19, 1955, when Kees’ car was found on the north side of the Golden Gate Bridge with the keys still in the ignition. His body was never found and there has been much speculation that he faked his death and relocated to Mexico, something he said he was considering. Neither theory of his disappearance has ever been proven conclusively, though it is generally accepted that he committed suicide.

In the July 4, 2005 issue of e New Yorker, in an article titled “ e Disappearing Poet: What ever happened to Weldon Kees?” Anthony Lane wrote, “Every now and then, one fnds a fellow-Keesian somebody who has picked up the scent of the mysterious fgure and followed the trail. And that trail always leads to the same place. Not to the movies, or to the paintings; not to the short stories, or to the fruitless novels; not even to

the poems, the crucible and crown of his achievement. Instead, we are led ad infnitum: to the Golden Gate, and to the empty Plymouth; to what did or did not happen next, and so to the refection, as in a rearview mirror, of all that had come before.

Marcus DeLoach

Poulenc – Chanson Villageoises

Maurice Fombeure (1906-1981) wanted to “refresh poetry and give it a new dignity – to wash it, brush it up, take it for a walk in the grass, in the wind and the woods. Let’s listen to our hearts – the head has played its part and failed – we now need a little freshness on earth, poetry made drops of water.” Poulenc was long taken with the town of Autun in the Morvan region of Burgundy. He confessed that he displayed on his mantle a photograph of the town much in the way that men display “a photo of the woman they love.” Inspired by Fombeure’s Chansons de la grand hune, Poulenc looked to the second set of this collection, Chansons de la petite terre, as the poetic material for this song cycle. ey range from non-sensical to poignant, at times comical, nostalgic, tragic and despairing, evoking the atmosphere of a town that somehow seemed to avoid Nazi occupation during World War II.

Kohn

e Old ings”

Steven Mark Kohn has worn several diﬀerent creative hats. As a composer, he has written music for a number of award-winning children’s flms for ABC, PBS, and the Disney Channel, including the Emmynominated ABC Weekend Special Runaway Ralph, starring Fred Savage and Ray Walston. He has composed and arranged commercial music for Wheaties, Arby’s, Volvo, Hickory Farms, TRW, Stanley Steamer, Matrix, and many others. His Hymn for String Orchestra has been recorded by the San Jose Chamber Orchestra and E.C. Schirmer publishes his art song catalogue. His three volumes of American Folk Song arrangements were premiered in Carnegie Hall and have since been performed around the world by hundreds of artists. Also a writer for the theatre, he is the lyricist for the musicals Happy Texas, e Quiltmaker’s Gi, and A Beautiful Place, and librettist for the Craig Bohmler opera Riders of the Purple Sage. He has written two historical song cycles, Mary Chestnut: A Civil War Diary for Jennifer Larmore, and e Trial of Susan B Anthony

for Adriana Zabala. His short story “ e Professor’s Diary” appeared in National Lampoon magazine. For the Cleveland Institute of Music, he designed and built the Electronic Music Studio, wrote the course textbook, and served on the composition faculty for 21 years. His work appears in the catalogues of E.C. Schirmer, Carl Fischer, Dramatic Publishing, Classical Vocal Reprints, Scholastic Video, Azica Records, and the Hay House. ecspublishing.com

e text of “ e Old ings” is Kohn’s adaptation of the Jesse Anderson Chase short story published in the 1916 collection Short Stories from Life. Kohn puts it simply: “I was immediately taken with how the author had poetically touched upon aging, what we care about, and in the end, what we chose to leave behind.

About the Artists

For over 20 years, in repertoire from Baroque through present day, baritone Keith Phares has appeared in leading roles with Washington National Opera, Los Angeles Opera, Seattle Opera, the New York City Opera, Metropolitan Opera, New York Philharmonic, San Francisco Symphony, Los Angeles Philharmonic, São Paolo Symphony Orchestra, Santa Fe Opera, Glimmerglass Opera, Opera eatre of Saint Louis and elsewhere; in collaboration with Hal Prince, Francesca Zambello, Frank Corsaro, Richard Hickox, Marin Alsop, Sir Colin Davis, Sir omas Allen, among others; and in recital with the Marilyn Horne Foundation, e American Modern Ensemble, WordSong, Illuminarts, LyricFest and Brooklyn Art Song Society.

Recent highlights include Paterson’s and Cote’s In Real Life with Mostly Modern Festival – e Netherlands, the premiere of Hilliard & Boresi’s monodrama Inbox Zero in a staged reading with UrbanArias, Sky Masterson in Guys and Dolls with Charlottesville Opera, and a return to Toledo Opera as Dandini in La cenerentola. is past summer he reprised the role of Sky Masterson at Utah Festival Opera and Musical eatre, and in the Spring of 2025 he returns again to Toledo Opera as Emile in South Pacifc.

In the 2021-2022 season he sang Ty in the premiere of Kuster’s and Campbell’s A ousand Acres with Des Moines Metro Opera marking the company’s 50th Anniversary season, Fredrik Egerman opposite Patricia Racette in Arizona Opera’s A Little Night Music, Robert Cohen’s Alzheimer’s Stories at Carnegie Hall, the premiere of Herschel Garfein’s King of the River with the American Modern Ensemble, and Daddy Lowell/Mr. Floyd in Borzoni’s and de los Santos’s e Copper Queen flm (premiere) with Arizona Opera.

An ardent exponent of contemporary American opera, Phares sang Kynaston on the Grammy-nominated recording of Carlisle Floyd’s Prince of Players, Charlie in the premiere and recording of Heggie’s and Scheer’s ree Decembers with Houston Grand Opera and San Francisco Opera, the Father in the premiere and recording of Spears’s and Walat’s Paul’s Case, Dr. Ludwig Binswanger in the premiere of Ricky Ian Gordon’s Ellen West, Hurstwood in the premiere of Aldridge’s and Garfein’s Sister Carrie and the title role in the premiere and live, Grammy-winning recording of Aldridge’s and Garfein’s Elmer Gantry.

Keith Phares is an Assistant Professor of Voice at Bowling Green State University.

Pianist Charles Staples’ playing has been described in the Richmond Times-Dispatch as “forceful...but unforced, as natural as breathing.” A native of Alabama and honors graduate of the Alabama School of Fine Arts, Staples won the Van Cliburn full-tuition scholarship to the Cincinnati College-Conservatory of Music, and went on to receive his master’s and doctoral degrees at Stony Brook University, training under David Bar-Illan, Martin Canin, and Bernard Greenhouse. He won prizes in the MTNA Southern Division Competition, the Bryan Young Artist Competition, the Five Towns and Sunwood competitions, and has performed on public radio in Cincinnati, New York, and Richmond.

Staples has been soloist in concerti with the Richmond Symphony as well as the CCM Concert Orchestra, the Congress of Strings, the North Carolina Symphony, and University of Richmond Orchestra, and has been featured soloist with the Richmond Philharmonic in six concerti over the last 30 years. Staples has also performed recitals in New York’s

Town Hall and Weill Recital Hall at Carnegie Hall. He has taught on the piano faculties of VCU and the University of Richmond, and retired last year aer 32 years as Director of Music Ministries at Trinity United Methodist Church. When not traveling, he keeps himself busy working with singers and instrumentalists throughout the region. Clarke Bustard of the Richmond Times-Dispatch writes “[Staples] proved yesterday to be fully up to the technical and expressive demands of the Rachmaninoﬀ concerto ... the pianist lied more than 300 listeners out of their seats in a cheering ovation aer a performance that was both bravura and lyrically sensitized.”

Four Robinson Songs (Weldon Kees)

Robinson

The dog stops barking after Robinson has gone. His act is over. The world is a gray world, Not without violence, and he kicks under the grand piano, The nightmare chase well under way.

The mirror from Mexico, stuck to the wall, Reflects nothing at all. The glass is black. Robinson alone provides the image Robinsonian.

Which is all of the room walls, curtains, Shelves, bed, the tinted photograph of Robinson’s first wife, Rugs, vases, panatellas in a humidor. They would fill the room if Robinson came in.

The pages in the books are blank, The books that Robinson has read. That is his favorite chair, Or where the chair would be if Robinson were here.

All day the phone rings. It could be Robinson Calling. It never rings when he is here.

Outside, white buildings yellow in the sun. Outside, the birds circle continuously Where trees are actual and take no holiday.

Robinson at Home

Curtains drawn back, the door ajar. All winter long, it seemed, a darkening Began. But now the moonlight and the odors of the street Conspire and combine toward one community.

These are the rooms of Robinson.

Bleached, wan, and colorless this light, as though All the blurred daybreaks of the spring

Found an asylum here, perhaps for Robinson alone,

Who sleeps. Were there more music sifted through the floors And moonlight of a different kind, He might awake to hear the news at ten, Which will be shocking, moderately.

This sleep is from exhaustion, but his old desire To die like this has known a lessening. Now there is only this coldness that he has to wear. But not in sleep. Observant scholar, traveller,

Or uncouth bearded figure squatting in a cave, A keen-eyed sniper on the barricades, A heretic in catacombs, a famed roué, A beggar on the streets, the confidant of Popes

All these are Robinson in sleep, who mumbles as he turns, “There is something in this madhouse that I symbolize This city nightmare black ”

He wakes in sweat

To the terrible moonlight and what might be Silence. It drones like wires far beyond the roofs, And the long curtains blow into the room.

Aspects of Robinson

Robinson at cards at the Algonquin; a thin Blue light comes down once more outside the blinds. Gray men in overcoats are ghosts blown past the door. The taxis streak the avenues with yellow, orange, and red. This is Grand Central, Mr. Robinson.

Robinson on a roof above the Heights; the boats Mourn like the lost. Water is slate, far down. Through sounds of ice cubes dropped in glass, an osteopath, Dressed for the links, describes an old Intourist tour. Here’s where old Gibbons jumped from, Robinson.

Robinson walking in the Park, admiring the elephant.

Robinson buying the Tribune, Robinson buying the Times. Robinson Saying, “Hello. Yes, this is Robinson. Sunday At five? I’d love to. Pretty well. And you?”

Robinson alone at Longchamps, staring at the wall.

Robinson afraid, drunk, sobbing Robinson In bed with a Mrs. Morse. Robinson at home; Decisions: Toynbee or luminol? Where the sun Shines, Robinson in flowered trunks, eyes toward The breakers. Where the night ends, Robinson in East Side bars.

Robinson in Glen plaid jacket, Scotch-grain shoes, Black four-in-hand and oxford button-down, The jeweled and silent watch that winds itself, the briefCase, covert topcoat, clothes for spring, all covering His sad and usual heart, dry as a winter leaf.

Relating to Robinson

Somewhere in Chelsea, early summer; And, walking in the twilight toward the docks, I thought I made out Robinson ahead of me.

From an uncurtained second-story room, a radio Was playing There’s a Small Hotel; a kite Twisted above dark rooftops and slow drifting birds.

We were alone there, he and I, Inhabiting the empty street.

Under a sign for Natural Bloom Cigars,

While lights clicked softly in the dusk from red to green, He stopped and gazed into a window

Where a plaster Venus, modeling a truss, Looked out at Eastbound traffic. (But Robinson, I knew, was out of town: he summers at a place in Maine, Sometimes on Fire Island, sometimes the Cape, Leaves town in June and comes back after Labor Day.) And yet, I almost called out, “Robinson!”

There was no chance. Just as I passed, Turning my head to search his face, His own head turned with mine And fixed me with dilated, terrifying eyes That stopped my blood. His voice Came at me like an echo in the dark.

“I thought I saw the whirlpool opening. Kicked all night at a bolted door. You must have followed me from Astor Place. An empty paper floats down at the last. And then a day as huge as yesterday in pairs

Unrolled its horror on my face

Until it blocked ” Running in sweat

To reach the docks, I turned back For a second glance. I had no certainty, There in the dark, that it was Robinson Or someone else.

The block was bare. The Venus, Bathed in blue fluorescent light, Stared toward the river. As I hurried West, The lights across the bay were coming on. The boats moved silently and the low whistles blew.

CHANSON VILLAGEOISES

(M. Fombeure)

Chanson du clair tamis

Où le bedeau a passé

Dans les papavéracées

Où le bedeau a passé

Passera le marguillier

Notre vidame est mort

Les jolis yeux l’ont tué

Pleurons son heureux sort

En terre et enterré

Et la croix de Lorraine

Sur son pourpoint doré

Ils l’ont couché dans l’herbe

Son grand sabre dessous

Un oiseau dans les branches

A crié: ‘Coucou’

C’est demain dimanche

C’est fête chez nous

Au son de la clarinette

Le piston par en-dessous

La piquette, la musette

Les plus vieux sont les plus saoûls

Grand’mère à cloche-lunettes

Sur ses jambes de vingt ans

Vienne le printemps mignonne

Vienne le printemps

Où la grenouille a passé

Sous les renonculacées

Où la grenouille a passé

Passera le scarabée.

VILLAGE SONGS (trans. by Keith Phares)

Song of the clear sieve

Where the beadle has gone

Among the poppies

Where the beadle has gone

e churchwarden will go

Our vidam is dead

e pretty eyes killed him

Let us cry over his happy fate

In the ground and buried

And the Cross of Lorraine

On his gilded doublet

He is lying in the grass

His great saber underneath

A bird in the branches

Cries: “Cuckoo”

It is Sunday tomorrow

It’s the day of our fair

To the sound of the clarinet

e trumpets underneath

e cheap wine, the accordion

e oldest are the most drunk

Grandmom with her spectacles

Askew on her 20-year-old legs

Let the springtime come, my sweet

Let the springtime come

Where the frog has gone

Among the buttercups

Where the frog has gone

e beetle will pass

Les gars qui vont à la fête

Ont mis la feur au chapeau

Pour y boire chopinette

Y goûter le vin nouveau

Y tirer la carabine

Y sucer le berlingot

Les gars qui vont à la fête

Ont mis la feur au chapeau

Sont rasés à la cuiller

Sont raclés dessous la peau

Ont passé la blouse neuve

Le faux-col en cellulo

Les gars qui vont à la fête

Ont mis la feur au chapeau

Y faire danser les flles

Chez Julien le violoneur

Des polkas et des quadrilles

Et le pas des patineurs

Le piston la clarinette

Attendrissent les costauds

Les gars qui vont à la fête

Ont mis la feur au chapeau

Quand ils ont bu, se disputent

Et se cognent sur la peau

e guys who go to the fair

Have put a fower in their hat

ere they drink a pint

ere they taste the new wine

ere they shoot rifes

ere they suck on sweets

e guys who go the fair

Have put a fower in their hat

ey have shaved close

Practically scraped under the skin

ey have put on a new shirt

e fake celluloid collar

e guys who go to the fair

Have put a fower in their hat

ere they dance with the girls

At Julien’s, the fddler

Polkas, quadrilles

And the Skater’s step

e trumpet, the clarinet

Soothes even the most imposing among them

e guys who go the fair

Have put a fower in their hat

When they get drunk, they yell at each other

Puis vont culbuter les flles

Au fossé sous les ormeaux

Les gars qui vont à la fête

Ont mis la feur au chapeau

Reboivent puis se rebattent

Jusqu’au chant du premier jô

Le lendemain on en trouve

Sont couchés dans le ruisseau

Les gars qui vont à la fête

Ont mis la feur au chapeau.

C’est le joli printemps

Qui fait sortir les flles

C’est le joli printemps

Qui fait briller le temps

J’y vais à la fontaine

C’est le joli printemps

Trouver celle qui m’aime

Celle que j’aime tant

C’est dans le mois d’avril

Qu’on promet pour longtemps

C’est le joli printemps

Qui fait sortir les flles

La flle et le galant

Pour danser le quadrille

C’est le joli printemps

Qui fait briller le temps

And go at each other

en they go for a tumble with the girls

Underneath the elms

e guys who go to the fair

Have put a fower in their hat

ey drink again, they fght again

Until the song of early morning

e next day they are found

Sleeping in a ditch

e guys who go to the fair

Have put a fower in their hat

It’s the pretty springtime

at makes the girls come out

It’s the pretty springtime

at makes the time sunshiny

I will go to the fountain there

It’s the pretty springtime

To fnd the one I love

e one I love so much

It’s in the month of April

at one makes promises of always

It’s the pretty springtime

at makes the girls come out

e girl and the gallant

Dance the quadrille

It’s the pretty springtime

at makes the time sunshiny

Aussi proftez-en

Jeunes gens, jeunes flles

C’est le joli printemps

Qui fait briller le temps

Car le joli printemps

C’est le temps d’une aiguille

Car le joli printemps

Ne dure pas longtemps.

Le mendiant

Jean Martin prit sa besace

Vive le passant qui passe

Jean Martin prit sa besace

Son bâton de cornouiller

S’en fut au moutier mendier

Vive le passant qui passe

Va’t-en dit le père moine

N'aimons pas les va-nu-pieds

S’en fut en ville mendier

Vive le passant qui passe

Epiciers et taverniers

Qui mangez la soupe grasse

Et qui vous chauﬀez les pieds

Puis couchez près de vos femmes

Au clair feu de la veillée

Jean Martin l’avez chassé

Vive le passant qui passe

On l’a trouvé sur la glace

Jean Martin a trépassé

Tremblez les gros et les moines

Vive le passant qui passe

Tremblez ah! maudite race

Qui n’avez point de pitié

Take advantage of this time

Young gents, young girls

It’s the pretty springtime

at makes the time sunshiny

Because the pretty springtime

Is a point in time

Because the pretty springtime

Does not last long

e beggar

Jean Martin took his bag

Long live the passer-by

Jean Martin took his bag

His dogwood staﬀ

He took himself to the monks to beg

Long live the passer-by

“Beat it” said the father monk

“We don’t like tramps”

He took himself into town to beg

Long live the passer-by

You grocers and shopkeepers

Who eat rich soup

And you who warm your feet

en sleep near your wives

By the frelight

You have driven Jean Martin away

Long love the passer-by

He was found on the ice

Jean Martin has died

Be afraid, you over-fed and monks

Long live the passer-by

Be afraid Ah! You damned race,

Un jour prenez garde ô race

Les Jean Martin seront en masse

Aux bâtons de cornouiller

Il vous crè’ront la paillasse

Puis ils violeront vos garces

Et chausseront vos souliers

Jean Martin prends ta besace

Ton bâton de cornouiller.

Chanson de la flle frivole

Ah dit la flle frivole

Que le vent y vire y vole

Mes canards vont sur l’étang

Belle lune de printemps

Ah dit la flle frivole

Que le vent y vire y vole

Sous les vergers éclatants

Belle lune de printemps

Ah dit la flle frivole

Que le vent y vire y vole

Et dans les buissons chantants

Belle lune de printemps

Ah dit la flle frivole

Que le vent y vire y vole

Je vais trouver mes amants

Sous la lune de printemps

Ah dit la flle frivole

Que le vent y vire y vole

L’âge vient trop vitement

Sous la lune de printemps

You who have no pity

One day, be careful you people

Jean Martins will come en masse

With their dogwood staﬀs

ey will rip you to pieces

en they will ravage your women

en they will wear your shoes

Jean Martin take your bag

Your dogwood staﬀ

Song of the frivolous girl

“Ah” said the frivolous girl

“Let the wind turn there, fy there

My ducks are going to the pond

Beautiful spring moon”

“Ah” said the frivolous girl

“Let the wind turn there, fy there

Under the bright orchards

Beautiful spring moon”

“Ah” said the frivolous girl

“Let the wind turn there, fy there

And under the singing bushes

Beautiful spring moon”

“Ah” said the frivolous girl

“Let the wind turn there, fy there

I’m going to fnd my lovers

Under the spring moon”

“Ah” said the frivolous girl

“Let the wind turn there, fy there

Age comes too quickly

Under the spring moon”

Ah dit la flle frivole

Que le vent y vire y vole

Plus tard soucis et tourments

Sous la lune de Printemps

Ah dit la flle frivole

Que le vent y vire y vole

Aujourd’hui guérissez-m’en

Belle lune de printemps

Ah dit la flle frivole

Que le vent y vire y vole

Baisez moi bien tendrement

Sous la lune de printemps.

Le retour du sergent

Le sergent s’en revient de guerre

Les pieds gonfés siﬄant du nez

Le sergent s’en revient de guerre

Entre les buissons étonnés

A gagné la croix de Saint-Georges

Les pieds gonfés siﬄant du nez

A gagné la croix de Saint-Georges

Son pécule a sous son bonnet

Bourre sa pipe sen terre rouge

Les pieds gonfés siﬄant du nez

Bourre sa pipe en terre rouge

Puis soudain se met à pleurer

Il revoit tous ses copains morts

Les pieds gonfés siﬄant du nez

Il revoit tous ses copains morts

Qui sont pourris dans les guérets

“Ah” said the frivolous girl

“Let the wind turn there, fy there

Let the worries and torments

come later

Under the spring moon”

“Ah” said the frivolous girl

“Let the wind turn there, fy there

Today, heal me

Beautiful spring moon”

“Ah” said the frivolous girl

“Let the wind turn there, fy there

Kiss me tenderly

Under the spring moon”

e return of the sergeant

e sergeant has returned from war

Swollen feet and sniﬄing nose

e sergeant has returned from war

Between the astonished bushes

He has one the Cross of SaintGeorges

Swollen feet and sniﬄing nose

He has one the Cross of SaintGeorges

His nest-egg under his cap

Fills up his red clay pipe

Swollen feet and sniﬄing nose

Fills up his red clay pipe

en suddenly he starts to weep

Ils ne verront plus leur village

Les pieds gonfés siﬄant du nez

Ils ne verront plus leur village

Ni le calme bleu des fumées

Les fancées va marche ou crève

Les pieds gonfés siﬄant du nez

Envolées comme dans un rêve

Les copains s’les sont envoyées

Et le sergent verse une larme

Les pieds gonfés siﬄant du nez

Et le sergent verse une larme

Le long des buissons étonnés.

He sees again his dead friends

Swollen feet and sniﬄing nose

He sees again his dead friends

Who are rotting in the felds

ey will no longer see their village

Swollen feet and sniﬄing nose

ey will no longer see their village

Nor the calm blue smoke of the chimneys

eir fancés march on or die

Swollen feet and sniﬄing nose

Fly as if in a dream

eir friends have ravaged them

And the sergeant sheds a tear

Swollen feet and sniﬄing nose

And the sergeant sheds a tear

Along the astonished bushes

Keith Phares, baritone, Department of Music Free Concert Series

PROGRAM

Notes on the Program

DeLoach – Four Robinson Songs

Poulenc – Chanson Villageoises

About the Artists

Four Robinson Songs (Weldon Kees)

Aspects of Robinson

Relating to Robinson

CHANSON VILLAGEOISES