Keith Phares, baritone, Department of Music Free Concert Series

UNIVERSITY OF RICHMOND Department of Music 2024 – 2025 Concert Series

Keith Phares, baritone Charles Staples, piano

ursday, October 24, 2024 7:30 PM Perkinson Recital Hall

music.richmond.edu

PROGRAM Four Robinson Songs (W. Kees) Robinson Robinson at Home Aspects of Robinson Relating to Robinson

Marcus DeLoach (b. 1974)

Chansons villageoises (M. Fombeure) Chanson du clair tamis Les gars qui vont à la fê te C’est le joli printemps Le mendiant Chanson de la 5ille frivole Le retour du sergent

Francis Poulenc (1899 – 1963)

e Old ings

Steve Mark Kohn (b. 1957)

Please silence cell phones before the concert.

Recording, Taping, Photographing are strictly prohibited.

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 finally 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,” reflecting 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 unsatisfied 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 finds a fellow-Keesian—somebody who has picked up the scent of the mysterious figure 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 infinitum: to the Golden Gate, and to the empty Plymouth; to what did or did not happen next, and so to the reflection, 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 films 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 Pacific.

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 film (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)

VILLAGE SONGS (trans. by Keith Phares)

Chanson du clair tamis Où le bedeau a passé Dans les papavéracées Où le bedeau a passé Passera le marguillier

Song of the clear sieve Where the beadle has gone Among the poppies Where the beadle has gone e churchwarden will go

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

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

Ils l’ont couché dans l’herbe Son grand sabre dessous Un oiseau dans les branches A crié: ‘Coucou’

He is lying in the grass His great saber underneath A bird in the branches Cries: “Cuckoo”

C’est demain dimanche C’est fête chez nous

It is Sunday tomorrow It’s the day of our fair

Au son de la clarinette Le piston par en-dessous La piquette, la musette Les plus vieux sont les plus saoûls

To the sound of the clarinet e trumpets underneath e cheap wine, the accordion e oldest are the most drunk

Grand’mère à cloche-lunettes Sur ses jambes de vingt ans Vienne le printemps mignonne Vienne le printemps

Grandmom with her spectacles Askew on her 20-year-old legs Let the springtime come, my sweet Let the springtime come

Où la grenouille a passé Sous les renonculacées Où la grenouille a passé Passera le scarabée.

Where the frog has gone Among the buttercups Where the frog has gone e beetle will pass

Les gars qui vont à la fête Les gars qui vont à la fête Ont mis la fleur au chapeau

e guys who go to the fair e guys who go to the fair Have put a flower in their hat

Pour y boire chopinette Y goûter le vin nouveau

ere they drink a pint ere they taste the new wine

Y tirer la carabine Y sucer le berlingot

ere they shoot rifles ere they suck on sweets

Les gars qui vont à la fête Ont mis la fleur au chapeau

e guys who go the fair Have put a flower in their hat

Sont rasés à la cuiller Sont raclés dessous la peau

ey have shaved close Practically scraped under the skin

Ont passé la blouse neuve Le faux-col en cellulo

ey have put on a new shirt e fake celluloid collar

Les gars qui vont à la fête Ont mis la fleur au chapeau

e guys who go to the fair Have put a flower in their hat

Y faire danser les filles Chez Julien le violoneur

ere they dance with the girls At Julien’s, the fiddler

Des polkas et des quadrilles Et le pas des patineurs

Polkas, quadrilles And the Skater’s step

Le piston la clarinette Attendrissent les costauds

e trumpet, the clarinet Soothes even the most imposing among them

Les gars qui vont à la fête Ont mis la fleur au chapeau Quand ils ont bu, se disputent Et se cognent sur la peau

e guys who go the fair Have put a flower in their hat When they get drunk, they yell at each other

Puis vont culbuter les filles Au fossé sous les ormeaux Les gars qui vont à la fête Ont mis la fleur 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 fleur au chapeau.

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 flower in their hat ey drink again, they fight 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 flower in their hat

C’est le joli printemps C’est le joli printemps Qui fait sortir les filles C’est le joli printemps Qui fait briller le temps

It’s the pretty springtime It’s the pretty springtime at makes the girls come out It’s the pretty springtime at makes the time sunshiny

J’y vais à la fontaine C’est le joli printemps Trouver celle qui m’aime Celle que j’aime tant

I will go to the fountain there It’s the pretty springtime To find the one I love e one I love so much

C’est dans le mois d’avril Qu’on promet pour longtemps C’est le joli printemps Qui fait sortir les filles

It’s in the month of April at one makes promises of always It’s the pretty springtime at makes the girls come out

La fille et le galant Pour danser le quadrille C’est le joli printemps Qui fait briller le temps

e girl and the gallant Dance the quadrille It’s the pretty springtime at makes the time sunshiny

Aussi profitez-en Jeunes gens, jeunes filles C’est le joli printemps Qui fait briller le temps

Take advantage of this time Young gents, young girls It’s the pretty springtime at makes the time sunshiny

Car le joli printemps C’est le temps d’une aiguille Car le joli printemps Ne dure pas longtemps.

Because the pretty springtime Is a point in time Because the pretty springtime Does not last long

Le mendiant Jean Martin prit sa besace Vive le passant qui passe Jean Martin prit sa besace Son bâton de cornouiller

e beggar Jean Martin took his bag Long live the passer-by Jean Martin took his bag His dogwood staff

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

He took himself to the monks to beg Long live the passer-by “Beat it” said the father monk “We don’t like tramps”

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

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 firelight 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.

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

Chanson de la fille frivole Ah dit la fille frivole Que le vent y vire y vole Mes canards vont sur l’étang Belle lune de printemps

Song of the frivolous girl “Ah” said the frivolous girl “Let the wind turn there, fly there My ducks are going to the pond Beautiful spring moon”

Ah dit la fille frivole Que le vent y vire y vole Sous les vergers éclatants Belle lune de printemps

“Ah” said the frivolous girl “Let the wind turn there, fly there Under the bright orchards Beautiful spring moon”

Ah dit la fille frivole Que le vent y vire y vole Et dans les buissons chantants Belle lune de printemps

“Ah” said the frivolous girl “Let the wind turn there, fly there And under the singing bushes Beautiful spring moon”

Ah dit la fille frivole Que le vent y vire y vole Je vais trouver mes amants Sous la lune de printemps

“Ah” said the frivolous girl “Let the wind turn there, fly there I’m going to find my lovers Under the spring moon”

Ah dit la fllle frivole Que le vent y vire y vole L’âge vient trop vitement Sous la lune de printemps

“Ah” said the frivolous girl “Let the wind turn there, fly there Age comes too quickly Under the spring moon”

Ah dit la fille frivole Que le vent y vire y vole Plus tard soucis et tourments Sous la lune de Printemps Ah dit la fille frivole Que le vent y vire y vole Aujourd’hui guérissez-m’en Belle lune de printemps Ah dit la fille 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 gonflés sifflant du nez Le sergent s’en revient de guerre Entre les buissons étonnés A gagné la croix de Saint-Georges Les pieds gonflés sifflant du nez A gagné la croix de Saint-Georges Son pécule a sous son bonnet Bourre sa pipe sen terre rouge Les pieds gonflés sifflant du nez Bourre sa pipe en terre rouge Puis soudain se met à pleurer Il revoit tous ses copains morts Les pieds gonflés 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, fly there Let the worries and torments come later Under the spring moon” “Ah” said the frivolous girl “Let the wind turn there, fly there Today, heal me Beautiful spring moon” “Ah” said the frivolous girl “Let the wind turn there, fly 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 gonflés sifflant du nez Ils ne verront plus leur village Ni le calme bleu des fumées

He sees again his dead friends Swollen feet and sniffling nose He sees again his dead friends Who are rotting in the fields

Les fiancées va marche ou crève Les pieds gonflés sifflant du nez Envolées comme dans un rêve Les copains s’les sont envoyées

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

Et le sergent verse une larme Les pieds gonflés sifflant du nez Et le sergent verse une larme Le long des buissons étonnés.

eir fiancés 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

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