Janna Baty, mezzo-soprano

Janna Baty mezzo-soprano

faculty artist series November 11, 2014 • Morse Recital Hall

Robert Blocker, Dean

Faculty Artist Series

Janna Baty · mezzo-soprano with daniel

hobbs • piano

Tuesday, November 11, 2014 • 7:30 pm • Morse Recital Hall Gioachino Rossini 1792–1868

Giovanna d’Arco Recitativo: È notte, e tutto addormentato è il mondo Aria: O mia madre e tu frattanto la tua figlia cercherai Recitativo: Eppur piange. Ah! repente qual luce balenò Aria: Ah, la fiamma che t’esce dal guardo già mi tocca

Francis Poulenc 1899–1963

Quatre Poèmes de Guillaume Apollinaire I. L’Anguille II. Carte Postale III. Avant le Cinéma IV. 1904

Heitor Villa-Lobos 1887–1959

Suité para canto e violin I. A Menina e a Cançao II. Quéro ser Alégre III. Sertaneja intermission

Claude Debussy 1862–1918

Proses Lyriques I. De rêve II. De grêve III. De fleurs IV. De soir

Enrique Granados 1867–1916

Colección de tonadillas (Selections) Amor y odio El tra la la y el punteado El majo emido E mirar de la maja El majo discreto

As a courtesy to the performers and audience, please silence all electronic devices.

Please do not leave the hall during selections. Photography or recording of any kind is prohibited.

Artist Profiles

Janna Baty · mezzo-soprano Praised by the Boston Globe for “a rich, viola-like tone and a rapturous, luminous lyricism,” mezzo-soprano Janna Baty enjoys an exceptionally versatile career. She has sung with Boston Symphony, Los Angeles Philharmonic, Daejeon Philharmonic, Hamburgische Staatsoper, L’Orchestre National du Capitole de Toulouse, Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, Tallahassee Symphony, Tuscaloosa Symphony, Longwood Symphony, Hartford Symphony, the Orquesta Filarmónica de Bogotá, Opera Theatre of St. Louis, Eugene Opera, Opera North, and Boston Lyric Opera. She has sung under the batons of James Levine, Seiji Ozawa, Michel Plasson, Carl Davis, Robert Spano, Steuart Bedford, Stephen Lord, Stefan Asbury, Gil Rose, David Hoose, and Shinik Hahm, among numerous others.

As a soloist, chamber musician, and recitalist, she has performed at festivals worldwide, including the Aldeburgh and Britten Festivals in England, the Varna Festival in Bulgaria, the Semanas Musicales de Frutillar Festival in Chile, and the Tanglewood, Norfolk, Monadnock, and Coastal Carolina festivals in the United States.

A noted specialist in contemporary music, Ms. Baty has worked alongside many celebrated composers, including John Harbison, Bernard Rands, Yehudi Wyner, Sydney Hodkinson, Peter Child, Reza Vali, Paul Salerni, and Paul Moravec, on performances of their music. Ms. Baty has enjoyed a long collaboration with Boston Modern Orchestra Project, and with them has recorded the critically lauded Vali: Folk Songs (sung in Persian); Lukas Foss’ opera Griffelkin; the world-premiere recording of Eric Sawyer’s

Civil War-era opera Our American Cousin; and John Harbison’s Mirabai Songs. An alumna of Oberlin College and the Yale School of Music, she joined the faculty of the Yale School of Music in 2008.

Daniel Hobbs · piano Pianist Daniel Hobbs, based in New York City, has performed as a collaborative artist in such diverse venues as Trinity Church, the New York Public Library, and Merkin Concert Hall in New York City, the National Chiang Kai-Shek Culture Center in Taipei, Taiwan, the Tanglewood Music Center, and the Library of Congress and Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C. He is especially in demand as a partner in the vocal and instrumental repertory, and regularly provides musical preparation and diction coaching for soloists, orchestras and chamber ensembles. Originally from Nebraska, Mr. Hobbs studied piano and French at Illinois Wesleyan University, and received his Master’s degree from the Manhattan School of Music.

Giovanna d’Arco / Joan of Arc (Rossini, with Ferrucci)

È notte, e tutto addormentato è il mondo...

Sola io veglio ed aspetto Che un destrier passi, Che una tromba chiami.

Ascolto e nulla sento, Se non son l'acque e il mormorar del vento.

Muta ogni cosa e afflitta Come l'ora che segue alla sconfitta.

O patria! O Re! Novella un'aita verrà.

L'Onnipossente dal gregge suscitò la pastorella.

Vadasi. O dolce mio loco natìo, Dolce famiglia, O campi, o selve, addio.

It is nighttime, and the whole world is asleep…

Alone I arise and await The sound of a passing steed’s hooves, The call of a trumpet.

I listen, and hear nothing: If it isn’t the whispering of water I hear, It must be the murmuring of the wind.

All things are as mute and grief-stricken As they were in the very hour of their defeat.

O homeland! O king! You shall see a new savior.

The Almighty has culled this shepherdess from the flock.

Go forth! O my sweet native country, my gentle family, O fields and forests, farewell.

O mia madre, e tu frattanto La tua figlia cercherai, Affannata chiamerai E nessun risponderà.

Ma fra poco d'alte imprese Verrà un suon conforto al pianto: Ogni madre, ogni francese La mia madre invidierà.

O mia madre, se frattanto La tua figlia chercherai, Se affanata chiamerai Questo suon rispondera.

O my mother, meanwhile, As you search for your daughter You will cry out to her, heartbroken, And no one will respond.

But soon my noble cause Will yield a sound to comfort your sorrow: Every mother, every Frenchman, Will be envious of my mother.

O my mother, meanwhile, As you search for your daughter If you cry out to her, heartbroken, This sound will be your reply.

Eppur piange. Ah! Repente qual luce balenò nell'oriente, Non è il sole che s'alza, Sei la mia vision, io ti conosco.

Più grande che non suole Empie il ciel fulminando e mi fa segno.

Angiol di morte, tu mi chiamo chiami, io vegno.

And yet she weeps!

What is that light that blazes in the east: It isn’t the sun rising, You are my vision, I recognize you.

Greater than can be imagined, It fills the sky with lightning and with portent.

Angel of death, you call me, and I come.

Ah, la fiamma che t'esce dal guardo Già m'ha toccà, m'investe, già m'arde.

Presto un brando, marciamo pugnando.

Viva il Re, la vittoria è con me.

Guida i forti la vergine al campo, Tra i leoni l'agnello s'avventa.

Non han scampo, il Signor li spaventa.

Corre la gioia di core in core.

Ma, queta e timida fra lo stupore, Chi se' domandano, che il Re salvò?

Ah! vinse la vergine che in Dio sperò.

The flames that shoot from your eyes Already touch me, engulf me, enflame me!

Quick, give me a sword, and let us march forth fighting.

Long live the king… victory is mine.

The Virgin warrior guides the mighty to the battlefield: The lamb hurls herself into the midst of lions.

There is no escape for them, the Lord shall demolish them.

Joy flows from heart to heart But amid these extraordinary events, All ask who the quiet, shy person is who saved the King?

Ah! The God-fearing virgin warrior was the victor.

L’anguille / The Eel (Guillaume Apollinaire) Jeanne Houhou la très gentille Est morte entre des draps très blancs Pas seule Bébert dit l'Anguille Narcisse et Hubert le merlan Près d'elle faisaient leur manille Et la crâneuse de Clichy Aux rouges yeux de dégueulade Répète "Mon eau de Vichy" Va dans le panier à salade Haha sans faire de chichi Les yeux dansant comme des anges Elle riait, Les yeux très bleus les dents très blanches Si vous saviez, Tout ce que nous ferons dimanche.

The very charming Jeanne Houhou Lies dead between two very white sheets.

Not only Bébert—otherwise known as The Eel— Narcissus and Hubert the barber Played cards right next to her.

And the lady hotshot of Clichy, Eyes bloodshot from puking, Keeps chanting “My fizzy water” And climbs into the paddy wagon—ha ha!— Without making a scene.

With eyes dancing like angels, She laughed, Very blue eyes and very white teeth.

If you only knew Everything we’re going to do this Sunday.

Carte-Postale / Postcard (Apollinaire) L’ombre de la très douce est évoquée ici, Indolente, et jouant un air dolent aussi: Nocturne ou lied mineur Qui fait pâmer son âme Dans l’ombre où ses longs doigts Font mourir une gamme Au piano qui geint comme une pauvre femme.

The shadow of that very sweet woman is conjured here, Languid and playing a plaintive melody, A nocturne, or some Lied in a minor key, That makes her soul swoon, In the dim light, where her long fingers Kill off a simple scale, Upon the piano, which wails like a forsaken woman.

Avant le Cinéma / Before the Movie (Apollinaire) Et puis ce soir on s'en ira au cinéma Les Artistes que sont-ce donc Ce ne sont plus ceux qui cultivent les Beaux-arts Ce ne sont pas ceux qui s'occupent de l'Art Art poétique ou bien musique Les Artistes ce sont les acteurs et les actrices Si nous étions des Artistes Nous ne dirions pas le cinéma Nous dirions le ciné Mais si nous étions de vieux professeurs de province Nous ne dirions ni ciné ni cinéma Mais cinématographe

And then tonight we’re going to the movies.

The “Artists”—what are they?

They’re no longer the sort who cultivate the Fine Arts.

They aren’t concerned with Art at all, The Art of poetry or even music.

Those “Artists” are actors and actresses.

If WE were “Artists” We’d never call it “le cinéma” We’d say “le ciné.”

But if we were wheezy old professors from the provinces We wouldn’t say “cinema” or “ciné,” But rather, “cinématographe.”

Aussi mon Dieu faut-il avoir du goût.

After all—good God!—one must have taste.

1904 (Apollinaire) À Strasbourg en dix-neuf-cent-quatre J’arrivai pour le lundi gras À l’hôtel m’assis devant l’âtre Près d’un chanteur de l’Opéra Qui ne parlait que de théâtre La Kellnerine rousse Avait mis sur sa tête un chapeau rose Comme Hébé qui les dieux servait N’en eut jamais. Ô belles choses Carnaval chapeau rose Ave! À Rome à Nice et à Cologne Dans les fleurs et les confetti Carnaval j’ai revu ta trogne, Ô roi plus riche et plus gentil Que Crésus Rothschild et Torlogne Je soupai d’un peu de foie gras De chevreuil tendre à la compôte De tartes flans et cetera Un peu de kirsch me ravigote

In Strasbourg in 1904.

I arrived the Monday before Lent.

At the hotel I sat by the hearth Beside an opera singer Who blathered endlessly about the theatre.

The red-headed barmaid Had perched upon her head a pink hat The likes of which even Hebe, servant to the Gods, Never had.

Ah, such lovely things, —Carnival, a pink hat, praises be!

In Rome, in Nice, and in Cologne Amid the flowers and the confetti I’ve encountered your ugly face, Carnival, O King, richer and fancier Than Cresus, the Rothschilds, or Roman noblemen.

I had a little foie gras for supper, Some tender venison with compote, Tarts and flans, etc.

A little kirsch perked me right up.

Que ne t’avais-je entre mes bras.

If only I’d had you in my arms.

A Menina e a Cançao / The Girl and the Song (Mário de Andrade) Tra li la rá ra tra ri la . . .

A menina es ga niçada, magriça, com a saia voe jando por cima dos joelhos em nó, Vinha meio dansando, cantando ao crepusculo escuro.

Batia compasso com a varinha, na poeira da calcada.

Tra ri la rá ra tra ri la . . .

De repente, voltouse para anagravelha que vinha tropegando a traz, enorme trouxa de roupa a cabeca: "Oué mi da, vó?" Nâo.

Tra li la rá ra tra ri la . . .

Tra ri la rá…

A skinny little girl with a squeaky voice, whose skirt floated high above her knobby knees, went along, half dancing and half singing in the twilight.

She beat time with a stick in the dust on the path.

Tra ri la rá…

Suddenly, she turned around to face an old woman who was stumbling along behind her, carrying an enormous bundle of clothes on her head.

“Will you let me carry it, granny?”

“No.” Tra ri la rá…

Quéro ser Alégre / I want to be happy (vocalise)

Sertaneja / Country Girl (Mário de Andrade) La la la ly ah!

Paou!

Pa ra pá tá ra pa ta Espingarda, Pá!

Faca de ponta! tá!

La, la, la, yô!

La la la la…

Kapow!

Pa ra pa ta ra pa ta Shotgun! Pow! Pow! Knife point! Slash! Slash!

La la la la…

De Rêve / Dream (Claude Achille Debussy) La nuit a des douceurs de femme, Et les vieux arbres, sous la lune d'or, Songent a celle qui vient de passer, La tête emperlée, Maintenant navrée, à jamais navrée, Ils n'ont pas su lui faire signe...

Toutes! Elles ont passé: Les Frêles, les Folles, Semant leur rire au gazon grêle, Aux brises frôleuses la caresse charmeuse des hanches fleurissantes.

Hélas! de tout ceci, plus rien qu'un blanc frisson...

Les vieux arbres sous la lune d'or Pleurent leurs belles feuilles d'or!

Nul ne leur dédiera Plus la fierté des casques d'or, Maintenant ternis, à jamais ternis: Les chevaliers sont morts Sur le chemin du Grâal!

La nuit a des douceurs de femme, Des mains semblent frôler les âmes, Mains si folles, si frêles, Au temps où les épées chantaient pour Elles!

D'étranges soupirs s'élèvent sous les arbres: Mon âme c'est du rêve ancien Qui t'étreint!

The night has a womanly sweetness, And the old trees, beneath the golden moon, Dream of she who just passed by, Her head strewn with pearls Now heartbroken, forever heartbroken.

They couldn’t give her a sign…

All of them, they have passed: The frail, the foolish, Sowing their laughter on sparsely grassy meadows Amid the fluttering breezes, the silky caress Of their blossoming hips.

Alas… of all this, nothing remains but a white shiver…

The old trees beneath the golden moon Weep their beautiful gilded leaves!

No longer will anyone dedicate Proud gold helmets Now tarnished, forever tarnished.

The knights of old died Upon the path of the Holy Grail.

The night has a womanly sweetness, Hands seem to gently brush against souls, Hands so foolish, hands so frail, In a time when swords sang for them!

Strange sighs arise beneath the trees: My soul is a very part of the ancient dream that embraces you.

De Grève / Seashore Sur la mer les crépuscules tombent, Soie blanche effilée.

Les vagues comme de petites folles jasent, petites filles sortant de l'école Parmi les froufrous de leur robe, Soie verte irisée!

Les nuages, graves voyageurs, Se concertent sur le prochain orage, Et c'est un fond vraiment trop grave A cette anglaise aquarelle.

Les vagues, les petites vagues, Ne savent plus où se mettre, Car voici la méchante averse, Froufrous de jupes envolées, Soie verte affolée.

Mais la lune, compatissante à tous, Vient apaiser ce gris conflit, Et caresse lentement ses petites amies, Qui s'offrent, comme lèvres aimantes, A ce tiède et blanc baiser.

Puis, plus rien...

Plus que les cloches attardées des flottantes églises, Angelus des vagues, Soie blanche apaisée!

Twilight falls upon the sea, White, raw silk.

The waves chatter like tiny madwomen, Little girls dashing out of school The ruffles of their dresses flying, Green, iridescent silk.

The clouds, somber voyagers, Confer about the next storm, And they create a background really too dark For this English watercolor painting.

The waves, the little waves, Run frantically to and fro, For here is the brutal downpour, The flying ruffles of a skirt, Green, panicked silk!

But the moon, compassionate to all, Comes to calm this gray conflict, And slowly caresses her little friends, Who offer themselves, like loving lips, To her warm, white kiss.

And then, nothing more…

Nothing more than the echoing bells of floating churches, The Angelus of the waves, White and appeased silk!

De Fleurs / Flowers Dans l'ennui si désolément vert De la serre de douleur, Les fleurs enlacent mon coeur De leurs tiges méchantes.

Ah! quand reviendront autour de ma tête Les chères mains si tendrement désenlaceuses?

Les grands Iris violets Violèrent méchamment tes yeux, En semblant les refléter, Eux, qui furent l'eau du songe Où plongèrent mes rêves si doucement, Enclos en leur couleur; Et les lys, blancs jets d'eau de pistils embaumés, Ont perdu leur grâce blanche, Et ne sont plus que pauvres malades sans soleil!

Soleil! ami des fleurs mauvaises, Tueur de rêves: Tueur d'illusions, Ce pain béni des âmes misérables!

Venez! Venez! Les mains salvatrices!

Brisez les vitres de mensonge, Brisez les vitres de maléfice, Mon âme meurt de trop de soleil!

Mirages! Plus ne refleurira la joie de mes yeux, Et mes mains sont lasses de prier, Mes yeux sont las de pleurer!

Eternellement ce bruit fou Des pétales noirs de l'ennui, Tombant goutte à goutte sur ma tête, Dans le vert de la serre de douleur!

In the melancholy, so desolately green, Of the greenhouse of my pain, Flowers entwine around my heart With their malevolent stems.

Ah! When will my head be cradled again By the dear hands who can tenderly untwine them?

The towering purple irises Viciously violated your eyes While seeming to reflect them, Those eyes that were the water of my dreams Into which my fantasies were sweetly submerged, To be enveloped in their color; And the lilies, white fountains of pistils wafting fragrantly, Have lost their alabaster grace, And are now nothing more than poor invalids in darkness.

Sun! The accomplice of these wicked flowers, Killer of dreams: Killer of illusions, That blessed bread of miserable souls!

Come to me! Come to me, hands of salvation!

Shatter the windowpanes of lies, Shatter the windowpanes of evil spells!

My soul is dying from too much sun!

Mirages! Joy will never again blossom in my eyes.

And my hands are exhausted from praying, My eyes are weary of crying!

Only the eternal, maddening sound Of black petals of melancholy Falling over and over upon my head, Here in the verdant greenhouse of my pain.

De Soir / Evening Dimanche sur les villes, Dimanche dans les coeurs!

Dimanche chez let petites filles, Chantant d'une voix informée, Des rondes obstinées, Ou de bonnes tours N'en ont plus que pour quelques jours!

Dimanche, les gares sont folles!

Tout le monde appareille Pour des banlieues d'aventure, En se disant adieu Avec des gestes éperdus!

Dimanche les trains vont vite, Dévorés par d'insatiables tunnels; Et les bons signaux des routes Echangent d'un oeil unique, Des impressions toutes mécaniques.

Dimanche, dans le bleu de mes rêves, Où mes pensées tristes de feux d'artifices manqués Ne veulent plus quitter le deuil De vieux Dimanches trépassés.

Et la nuit, à pas de velours, Vient endormir le beau ciel fatigué, Et c'est Dimanche dans les avenues d'étoiles; La Vierge or sur argent Laisse tomber les fleurs de sommeil!

Vite, les petits anges, Dépassez les hirondelles Afin de vous coucher Forts d'absolution!

Prenez pitié des villes, Prenez pitié des coeurs, Vous, la Vierge or sur argent!

Sunday over the cities, Sunday in the hearts!

Sunday among the little girls, Who sing with childish voices Never-ending rhymes, In which good towers Will only last a few days longer!

On Sunday, the train stations are mad!

Everyone goes dashing off To suburban adventures, Waving goodbye to one another With frantic gesticulations!

On Sunday, the trains go fast, Devoured by insatiable tunnels; And the sturdy signal lights, with a single eye, conduct their entirely mechanical impressions.

Sunday, in the blue of my dreams, Where my sad thoughts Of failed fireworks Cannot cease mourning those long-gone Sundays.

And the night, with velvet steps, Comes to put the beautiful, drowsy sky to sleep.

And it’s Sunday on the avenues of stars; The Virgin, gold upon silver, Lets the flowers of sleep tumble down!

Quickly, little angels, Fly faster than the swallows So you may go to sleep Strengthened by absolution Have pity on the cities, Have pity on our hearts, You, the Virgin, gold upon silver.

Amor y Odio / Love and Hate (Fernando Periquet) Pensé que yo sabria ocultar la pena mía que por estar en lo profundo no alcanzara a ver el mundo: este amor callado que un majo malvado en mi alma encendió.

Y no fue así porque él vislumbró el pesar oculto en mí.

Pero fue en vano que vislumbrara pues el villano no mostrose ajeno de que le amara.

Y esta es la pena que sufro ahora: sentir mi alma llena de amor por quien me olvida, sin que una luz alentadora surja en las sombras de mi vida.

I always thought I’d know how to hide my pain, how to keep it deep inside me, where the eyes of the world could never reach: this silent love, that a wicked man kindled in my heart.

And I clearly couldn’t do it, because he still saw the heaviness hidden in me.

But it didn’t matter anyhow since the scoundrel pretended he never loved me at all.

And that is the pain I now suffer: to feel my soul full of love for someone who has forgotten me, without the slightest glimmer of hope to illuminate shadows of my life.

El tra la la y el Punteado / The “tra la la” and the End of the Conversation Es en balde, majo mio, que sigas hablando Porqué hay cosas que contesto yo siempre cantando. Tra la la…

Por más que preguntes tanto (tra la la) En mi no causas quebranto Ni yo he de salir de mi canto (tra la la).

My love, it’s pointless for you to keep on talking Because there are certain questions I only answer by singing. (Tra la la) No matter how much you ask me (tra la la), You can neither annoy me, nor make me stop singing. (Tra la la)

El Majo Timido / The Timid Lover Llega a mi reja y me mira por la noche un majo que, cuando me ve suspira, se va calle abajo. ¡Ay qué tío más tardío! ¡Si así se pasa la vida estoy divertida!

Every night a man comes to my gate to gaze at me, And when he sees me, he sighs and meanders off down the street.

God, what a useless idiot!

If that’s how he wants to spend his life, then I’m amused.

Si hoy también pasa y me mira Y no se entusiasma, Pués después de su saludo, adios al fantasma… ¡Ay qué tío más tardío!

Por estar enamorado, las rejas calladas.

If he comes again today to look at me And still can’t muster up his courage, And if after his greeting he vanishes like a ghost…

God, what a fool!

He may be in love, but my gate is staying closed.

El Mirar de la Maja / The Woman’s Gaze ¿Por qué es en mis ojos tan hondo el mirar que al fin de cortar desdenes y enojos lo suelo entornar?

Qué fuego dentro llevarán que si acaso con calor los clavo en mi amor sonrojo me dan.

Por eso el chispero a quien mi alma dí al verse ante mí me tira el sombrero y díceme así: “Mi Maja, no me mires más que tus ojos rayos son y ardiendo en pasión la muerte me dan.”

Why is there such a profound depth in my gaze, that I am forced to turn my eyes towards the ground, simply to avoid others’ disdain and anger?

There is such fire in them that were my eyes to pierce the eyes of my lover, I would blush uncontrollably.

And so, this firebrand to whom I have given my soul, whenever he comes near he pulls the brim of my hat down and says this to me: “My love, stop looking at me, for your eyes are lightning bolts and, blazing with passion, they are killing me.”

El Majo Discreto / The Discreet Lover Dicen que mi majo es feo.

Es posible que sí que lo sea, que amor es deseo que ciega y marea.

Ha tiempo que sé que quien ama no ve.

Mas si no es mi majo un hombre que por lindo descuelle y asombre, en cambio es discreto y guarda un secreto que yo posé en él sabiendo que es fiel. ¿Cuál es el secreto que el majo guardó?

Sería indiscreto contarlo yo.

No poco trabajo costara saber secretos de un majo con una mujer.

Nació en Lavapiés. ¡Eh, ¡eh! ¡Es un majo, un majo es!

They say my lover is ugly.

That’s entirely possible, since I know that love is a desire that blinds and confuses.

I’ve known a long time that he who loves can’t see.

But though my lover may not be a man known for astonishing people with his good looks, on the other hand, he is discreet and he protects a secret that I told him, knowing he would keep it.

So what is the secret my lover is guarding?

It would be indiscreet of me to tell you.

It’s no small task to uncover the secrets kept between a man and a woman!

He was born in Lavapiés.

Hey! He’s a real man!

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