"Well You Needn't" - A Tale of Two Charles' Part I

From “Sospiri Di Roma.” III. The White Peacock
William Sharp (1855–1905)
HERE where the sunlight
Floodeth the garden,
Where the pomegranate
Reareth its glory
Of gorgeous blossom;	5
Where the oleanders
Dream through the noontides;
And, like surf o’ the sea
Round cliffs of basalt,
The thick magnolias	10
In billowy masses
Front the sombre green of the ilexes:
Here where the heat lies
Pale blue in the hollows,
Where blue are the shadows	15
On the fronds of the cactus,
Where pale blue the gleaming
Of fir and cypress,
With the cones upon them
Amber or glowing	20
With virgin gold:
Here where the honey-flower
Makes the heat fragrant,
As though from the gardens
Of Gulistân,	25
Where the bulbul singeth
Though a mist of roses,
A breath were borne:
Here where the dream-flowers,
The cream-white poppies	30
Silently waver,
And where the Scirocco,
Faint in the hollows,
Foldeth his soft white wings in the sunlight,
And lieth sleeping	35
Deep in the heart of
A sea of white violets:
Here, as the breath, as the soul of this beauty
Moveth in silence, and dreamlike, and slowly,
White as a snow-drift in mountain valleys	40
When softly upon it the gold light lingers:
White as the foam o’ the sea that is driven
O’er billows of azure agleam with sun-yellow:
Cream-white and soft as the breasts of a girl,
Moves the White Peacock, as though through the noon-tide	45
A dream of the moonlight were real for a moment.
Dim on the beautiful fan that he spreadeth,
Foldeth and spreadeth abroad in the sunlight,
Dim on the cream-white are blue adumbrations,
Shadows so pale in their delicate blueness	50
That visions they seem as of vanishing violets,
The fragrant white violets veinéd with azure,
Pale, pale as the breath of blue smoke in far woodlands.
Here, as the breath, as the soul of this beauty,
White as a cloud through the heats of the noontide	55
Moves the White Peacock.
If you've ever wondered what a poem  as beautiful as  The White Peacock  might sound like, you're in luck.  One of my favorite composers,  a composer whose works we do not hear  enough of,  set this stunning piece to music  in 1915. Charles Tomlinson Griffes' works make me think of a dreamy  American Impressionism.  His settings of William Sharp's The Roman Sketches The White Peacock Nightfall The Fountains of the Acqua Paola Clouds could not be more beautiful.  Sadly, they are rarely performed. James Tocco's performances of Griffes' works are wonderful. As I consider the upcoming concert season I am thrilled that there's Mahler, Messiaen, and more... but I do wish that we'd have  the opportunity to hear Mompou, Sorabji, Griffes, and the other Charles once in a while. Stay tuned for Part II.

Old Friends, New Friends - Z and Iran Today

With "Iran On The Brink"

how sadly topical

watching the new Criterion Collection edition of

Z

was.

I first saw Costa-Gavras's powerful political thriller

when I was a kid.

I watched the recently released

Criterion Collection DVD last night.

How tragic

that the world hasn't learned

in the years since then.

If you haven't seen this great film

you really must see it.

If you have seen it,

you'll probably want to see this meaningful film again.

You won't want to miss the fine performances by

Yves Montand  &  Jean-Louis Trintignant.

SYNOPSIS

A pulse-pounding political thriller, Greek expatriate director Costa-Gavras’s Z was one of the cinematic sensations of the late sixties, and remains among the most vital dispatches from that hallowed era of filmmaking. This Academy Award winner—loosely based on the 1963 assassination of Greek left-wing activist Gregoris Lambrakis—stars Yves Montand as a prominent politician and doctor whose public murder amid a violent demonstration is covered up by military and government officials; Jean-Louis Trintignant is the tenacious magistrate who’s determined not to let them get away with it. Featuring kinetic, rhythmic editing, Raoul Coutard’s expressive vérité photography, and Mikis Theodorakis’s unforgettable, propulsive score, Z is a technically audacious and emotionally gripping masterpiece.

And here's a sadly similar view of Iran today:

In stark contrast to what you've just seen,
 experience this very special piece of music.

In describing composer Kaikhosru Sorabji's intoxicating
Gulistan (The Rose Garden),
Frank Holliday, the original dedicatee said:

"in a flowing panorama of dreamlike beauty,
we behold and are thoroughly immersed in all the exotic magic of Iran:
the Shah Mosque of Isfahan,
the poetry,
 the incredibly lovely works of porcelain, silver, and gold,
its exquisitely carved works of ivory and wood,
 and, of course,
the scented loveliness of the roses of Shiraz.
This work evokes in a masterly fashion delicious
and at times almost overpowering
whiffs of
Iran's "sweet rose-haunted walks,"".


 I hope this breathtaking vision of Iran
 survives
the tragedy of today.

Volume 17. Buried Treasure

Welcome back Dear Readers.

So nice to be with you again.

As many of you may recall, a few weeks ago my hard drive went and my Music Library was desimated. Since then I have gone through three new hard drives.

The first two were too small, as it turns out.

The third one, which I installed myself saving $125, is 500 GB and should allow for continued growth.

The installation was a piece of cake.

Restoring things, that is transferring everything from one computer to the next, was a bit trickier, but I got it done.

As I write this, I have completely restored and even added to my beloved Music Library.

What a relief!

And yes, I did learn my lesson...

BE SURE TO BACK YOUR COMPUTER UP DAILY.

In recreating my library I refamiliarized myself with many recordings.

I even discovered some CDs that I'd never opened.

The Malipiero recording at the top of the page is one such example.

And too bad for me!

What beautiful music poured forth from that recording.

What beautiful music I'd been depriving myself of.

Dreamy, perfumed meanderings reminded me of Sorabji.

There were pastoral moments that sounded like John Ireland or like Vaughan Williams' The Lake In The Mountains.

There were shimmery cascades of sound that brought Debussy to mind, and Messiaen - like bird calls.

All this had been sitting there waiting for me, neglected for years he said sheepishly.

How silly that I had missed this.

And if truth be told, there were others.

But let's save them for another rainy day.